A Belated Bride (8 page)

“Are you through gazing at yourself?”

Arabella hastily replaced the pan and pulled a handker- chief from her pocket. “At least
I
don’t have a mangled cravat knotted about my throat! If you decide to leave the house, pray tie a napkin over that hideous thing. It has two lumps on one side while the middle stares out like a hideous eye.”

He laughed, the tired lines on his face easing. “I may well have to do that: Aunt Jane has a burning desire to visit town. I suppose I shall have to accompany her.”

“I daresay she also asked that I sit with our injured guest while she was gone.”

Robert’s lips twitched. “I believe she did.”

Arabella wiped her cheek one last time, then balled up the handkerchief and threw it at him. “Oh, yes, make light of my suffering! Just don’t come crying to me when you find yourself the victim of her odious matchmak- ing.”

His wan smile faded. “That will never happen.” “Don’t be too sure. Once I marry the village smithy just

to escape her hideous schemes, she will turn her evil eye on you.”

His eyes flashed and he said vehemently, “What woman would ever want
me
?”

The despair in his voice stabbed through her like a knife. She refused to believe he would not awaken one day and be back to his old self, healed as quickly as he’d become ill. But she could see from the darkness in his eyes that he did not have such high hopes: Robert believed he would never walk again.

Arabella bit her lip. She tried to take care of her family, to overcome all of the hardships that faced them. Yet she could not do this one thing—the most important thing of all. She was no better of a provider than Father.

Desperately seeking to comfort them both, she swal- lowed her tears. “The doctor believes your paralysis is due to nervous tension. In time, when the memories—”

“No.” His voice dropped into a cracked whisper. “Every night I see it all—again and again and again.” He closed his eyes and pressed his fists to the closed lids. “I see it until I would rather die than fall asleep.”

Arabella reached out a hand. “Robert, don’t—”

“I cannot help it!”
The cry was torn from him. He dropped his fists to his lap and lifted haunted eyes to her. “The memories are with me all the time; I will never for- get.”

She pulled back her hand and clutched the folds of her skirts to keep herself still. He would reject her sympathy and withdraw from her as he did from so many people. The wound was too new, too raw to be so directly addressed. She pasted a tremulous smile on her face and said with a confidence she did not feel, “Give it time, Robert. It has only been two months.”

His mouth twisted. “I am going to find Wilson.” Arabella watched as he pushed the chair out the door,

his dark head bowed. Her heart ached, as if it had swollen too large and pressed into her breastbone.

The back door opened and Ned stomped in, Cook jab- bering as she followed. “The damper has gone and rusted closed, if ye ask me. Ye’ll have to shake it loose.”

Ned nodded wisely. “Can’t let the dook go without his dinner.” Without another word, he went straight to work on the damper as if it were of vast importance.

Cook watched Ned intently, saying over her shoulder, “Oh, Missus. I almost fergot to tell ye. Mr. Francot stopped by earlier and said he had some papers for ye. He said he would come back this afternoon.” Cook scrunched her nose. “I don’t like that man.”

“Mr. Francot? Why not?”

“He’s dishonest. I can see it in his eyes. Lady Melwin don’t like him, either.”

“Aunt Jane dislikes everyone who is not a member of our household or who is not an eligible bachelor with an income of at least two thousand pounds a year. Mr. Fran- cot has assisted us more times than I can count, and he refuses to take so much as a shilling in payment.” In fact, now that Arabella thought about it, Mr. Francot was much more worthy of her servants’ attention than a wastrel duke.

“Hmph,” Cook said. “The only reason that sniveling whelp hasn’t seen fit to give ye a bill is because he has his sights set on ye.”

“Nonsense!” she said, astounded. “Why, he is almost fifteen years older than I!” Arabella untied the broad apron and carefully removed it from her dress. Despite her best efforts to protect her gown, soot dotted the right side of the skirt. She brushed at the spots and only succeeded in making them larger. “Lovely. Now I shall have to go upstairs and change.”

“If ye’re doin’ that fer Mr. Francot, ye’re wastin’ yer time. He would think ye looked like a princess even if ye wore sackcloth and ashes.”

“He is being kind and nothing more,” Arabella said with great certainty, deciding suddenly not to change her dress after all.

Mr. Francot’s continued attendance was due solely to the fact that he felt an obligation to Father, who had helped him establish his practice when he’d first arrived in Yorkshire. “If you don’t need me in the kitchen, I am going up to my room to wash.”

Cook shooed her on her way, her attention now focused on Ned’s formidable efforts to loosen the damper.

Arabella mumbled under her breath as she went. She had half a mind to march into Lucien’s room and demand to know what he was doing here in Yorkshire. But that would only put her at the disadvantage, for it would mean she had to see him—and she didn’t think her shaken com- posure was quite up to such a thing.

She reached the top step and turned the corner, still lost in thought, when the door to her aunts’ sitting room opened. Arabella came to an abrupt halt. There, standing in the doorway, his bare chest only partially covered by a bandage and a makeshift sling, stood Lucien. The sunlight from the room outlined his muscular body in vivid relief.

Arabella took in the expanse of broad chest that tapered to a firm, flat stomach. A tantalizing line of hair dusted his chest and then narrowed to a thin line that drew her gaze to the snug waistband of black breeches that clung lovingly to his hips and powerful thighs.

Her heart thudded an extra beat, and her mouth watered as if she were looking at a plate full of Cook’s famous apple tarts.

His gaze flickered over her, resting on her face and traveling down the front of her dress. A sudden crease appeared between his eyes. “What in the hell have you been doing? You are covered in soot.”

Lovely. Facing a half-naked Lucien had made her for- get all about her fight with the damper. She clenched her hands into fists and resisted the urge to lift the hem of her skirt and scrub her face. “I was assisting Cook in the kitchen.”

“How? By climbing into the fireplace to stir a pot?”

There was nothing more lowering than meeting the man of one’s dreams while looking as raggedy as a chim- ney sweep. “Never mind how I look; you shouldn’t be in the hallway without proper clothing.”

He leaned one hand against the doorframe, a faint hint of amusement sparkling in his eyes. “You are fortunate I had on my breeches. Until Hastings arrived, I was com- pletely nude.” He lowered his voice to an intimate level. “A pity you didn’t visit me then.”

“I’ve been busy,” she replied shortly, wondering if he could tell how wildly her heart was beating against her ribs. She remembered how he looked without his clothing all too well—every detail was etched in her mind in indelible ink, from the hard plane of his stomach to the bronze of his skin.

It was just one of many memories she fought every night. But those hot, scorching reminiscences were noth- ing compared to the relentless reality of the man who stood before her.

Arabella pressed her damp palms against her skirt. “I’m glad to see you are so well. Shall I have Wilson sad- dle your horse? I’m sure you are anxious to be on your way.”

His gaze narrowed a moment before he took a step for- ward, his legs brushing against her. “Your Aunt Emma says Rosemont is renowned for its hospitality.”

“You lost your rights to our hospitality ten years ago.”

He flinched as if she’d slapped him, but Arabella knew him too well to believe she had hurt him. He was a con- summate actor, able to breathe words of passion and deliver hot, ardent looks with an air of sincerity that many a player would kill to possess.

“Bella, we need to talk about what happened—” “What happened ten years ago belongs where it is—in

the past. Leave it there.”

His face darkened. “But I want to explain. It wasn’t—” She turned on her heel and marched to her room, painfully aware that his dark gaze followed her every step

of the way. She had no desire to revisit the mistakes of her past. At sixteen, she’d been a bit wild, the product of being left to her own devices after the death of her mother. Father had rarely been home, always off chasing a dream, and leaving her to care for Robert and watch after affairs at Rosemont. The responsibility had been onerous until Lucien had freed her. For one brief summer, she had left her inhibitions behind and been young and careless. And she had regretted it every day since.

Once she reached the safety of her own room, Arabella closed the door behind her, turned the key in the lock, and sank onto the edge of her bed. Her knees quivered, her heart pounded in her throat.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not stop the way her body reacted to his. It was a weakness, an illness she could not overcome.

Fortunately, whatever mischievous imp of fate had brought Lucien Devereaux back to Rosemont would soon spirit him away. And this time Arabella was determined to watch him leave with her chin held high, her pride intact. Taking a deep breath, she crossed to the washstand and caught a glimpse of her ash-covered face. She grimaced at the sight. For one day, just one simple day, she wished her life would be easy. Sighing, she plunged her hands into

the icy water and began to scrub her face clean.

nm

Chapter 6

“B

loody hell,” Lucien choked. “What’s this?”

Hastings paused in the middle of unpacking a valise to regard the glass Lucien held at arm’s length. “I believe it is a restorative beverage of some sort. Lady Mel- win brought it early this morning while you were still abed.”

Lucien gingerly sniffed the contents, then snarled a curse.
“Cinnamon.”

“Ah,” said Hastings, as if that explained everything. “Cinnamon
is
the devil’s own spice, is it not, Your Grace?”

“You don’t know what’s in this potion.” Lucien set the glass onto the nightstand so hard that liquid sloshed over the sides. “Take it away.”

The valet picked up the glass and carried it to a tray by the door. “I suppose I should return the plate of tea bis- cuits to the kitchen as well. They seem to have been fla- vored with . . .” he took a cautious sniff, then shuddered.
“Nutmeg.”

66

“Very funny,” Lucien said.

Hastings bowed. “I try my best, Your Grace.”

“You wouldn’t laugh if you had been under the care of those two harpies. Trust me, Hastings—have nothing to do with anything either Lady Melwin or Lady Durham prepares for you.”

Hastings’s mobile face folded into a frown, all traces of humor gone. “Are you suggesting they are attempting to poison you?”

“Those dainty old ladies kept me drugged for two days. I missed meeting my contact, and now I don’t know a damn thing about the jewels.” Not to mention the unpleas- ant side effects: Aunt Jane’s tonic had left him so taut with desire that he could barely think.

And he’d let that unrelenting desire ruin his one chance to speak with Arabella. This morning, he’d been on his way to find Hastings to move his things to the guest room, when Arabella had suddenly appeared in the hallway. She’d been dressed in a worn frock, the thin material clinging to her curves in a familiar, loving way. Soot was streaked across her creamy skin and made her eyes appear that much darker. She looked flushed, hot, and utterly desirable.

But then, she always had.

Hastings held up a dressing jacket. “Your Grace, if you will lift your arm, I believe I can get this over your band- age.”

Lucien allowed his valet to assist him, then simply knotted a cravat about his throat, unable to create a more fashionable arrangement without the use of his hurt arm. It didn’t really matter if he had the chance to speak with Arabella; it wouldn’t change things. And she was right: He had worn out his welcome at Rosemont ten years ago. The best course was to finish what he had come to do

and leave as quickly as possible. He’d already sent one report to the Home Office telling them of his accident and his failure to meet the contact. Now all he had to do was reschedule the meeting, discover the extent of the opera- tion, and report back to London. The Home Office would handle everything from there.

Lucien absently rubbed his shoulder. A pity he hadn’t made it to his meeting before being run down by Ara- bella’s carriage. “Hastings, have you seen to Satan?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I fear he has made himself quite at home. In fact, he challenged the horse in the next stall to a fight. Fortunately, that stalwart equine specimen was too well bred to accept.”

Lucien chuckled. Like Hastings, Satan was full of blus- ter and had a deplorable tendency to puff off. However, when the chips were down, Lucien could not think of a better, more reliable mount—nor a more trustworthy, though irritating, valet.

Truthfully, Hastings possessed a large number of unusual skills. Lucien wasn’t quite sure of the details of the man’s past. Several years ago, Viscountess Hunter- ston, a reformer and the wife of Lucien’s closest friend, had begun a servant referral service wherein she gathered slum dwellers and prostitutes of London’s lowest streets and trained them for respectable positions. Once they had completed their training, Julia then foisted them onto hap- less members of the ton.

Somewhere along the way, Hastings had become one of the viscountess’s special projects. To Lucien’s chagrin, Julia had decided that her newest project merited the household of a duke. By then, he was the only duke who did not run in the opposite direction whenever he saw her coming, mainly because she was married to Alec.

Lucien had had his doubts as to whether Hastings

would make a proper valet, but these misgivings were soon put to rest—the man had an amazing ability to blend in with any surroundings. It was one of a wide variety of unusual skills the valet possessed.