Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02] (2 page)

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Authors: The Duke Next Door

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02]
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God, she was lovely. Calder had somehow managed to put that fact out of his mind once he’d become engaged to Phoebe—who was very pretty herself, of course, though that hadn’t been the primary attraction.
Miss Deirdre Cantor, on the other hand, wasn’t pretty at all. She was stunning, sensational, an outrageously beautiful concoction of golden hair, sapphire eyes, milky skin and symmetrical features—not to mention a figure that would leave no man wanting.
Beauty is as beauty does
. Her own stepmother, Lady Tessa, was a beauty—a ferocious viper, yet still very lovely.
Nonetheless, although he’d never observed Deirdre in anything but the semiformal setting of being his guest, he could not help the feeling that she had depths yet unplumbed.
Oh, damn. What an unfortunate metaphor. Now he was thinking about warm wet depths. More specifically, the intimate depths of the perfectly respectable woman who stood before him.
It had been much, much too long.
She approached him to halt just out of arm’s reach,
quite proper and yet still just a bit … wary? Bloody hell, had she already read that atrocious newssheet rot?
“Are you afraid of me, Miss Cantor?”
She gazed at him for a long moment. “I am not.”
“But you wanted to ask something of me, did you not?”
Her eyes flashed over his face with such intensity that he nearly exclaimed. Then it was gone and she was as serene as ever. She took a breath. “I came to ask for your hand in marriage, my lord.”
He leaned back at that, the panels of the door pressing into his shoulder blades. “Ah.” She was not the first to wish it, but she was the first to state her request so baldly. How refreshing. However, he had not the fortitude for this today. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Ah, Miss Cantor, marriage is not really a topic I’m fond of at the moment.”
“Why, because they’re calling you the Beast?”
Here it was still, even within the safety of Brook House. He straightened, smoothing his waistcoat with a tug. “A flattering offer, I’m sure, but perhaps now is not the best time—”
She stepped forward quickly. “Now is precisely the best time, my lord. You cannot allow them to run free with such rot.”
He was a bit stunned, really. A woman who could dismiss such deliciously scandalous gossip was not often found, at least not in Society. Either panting to repeat it or desperate to avoid it was more the norm. “How do you know that?”
That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask her, but now he found he truly wanted to know.
She folded her arms—really, what a stunning bosom—and gazed at him with one brow raised. “I hardly think that the same man who so kindly arranged to have his fiancée marry another man, simply to make her happy, is the sort of fellow to plot murder or wreak vengeance.”
Yet, that is where you are entirely wrong.
On the other hand, it was quite diverting to be held in a heroic light. Oh, he’d been pitied and he’d been respected and he was now experiencing a fresh bout of notoriety, but never in his life had he been considered gallant. Not he, the somber elder brother, with his sometimes jarring directness and his lack of social banter. He was rich and respectable and important, but those qualities apparently did not a hero make.
She continued to gaze at him with absolute certainty. “You are no beast.”
Oh, but I am.
Still, it seemed he was looking at the only woman in London who didn’t think so. He tilted his head to gaze at her thoughtfully. “You wish to be my marchioness.”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed easily. “Who wouldn’t?”
Melinda, for one. Phoebe for another.
“Can it be denied that all his wealth and rank have never been enough?”
“Miss Cantor, I—”
She gazed into his eyes, not flinching, nor yet beseeching. “I am not Melinda. I am not a spoiled, sheltered child. Neither am I Phoebe, dutiful but unsure. I know precisely who and what I am—and I know I would make you an admirable wife.” Her expression became wry. “You could hardly do worse than you already have.”
Well, that was true enough. “The gossips would have it the other way around.”
Her eyes flashed with something that might have been fury. “Some people have nothing better to do but make up tales.”
“How can you be sure?” He was the Beast, was he not? Terror of the Ton, Besmircher of Quivering Brides? Operating on some impulse he couldn’t define, he moved toward her, pinning her with the intensity of his gaze. “Do you frighten easily, Miss Cantor?”
She did not drop her gaze or step back. “I wouldn’t know.”
He moved in close, too close, but by God she was lovely and he had had a very trying day. “How can you not know?” He bent his head until his words were nothing but a breath in her ear. “Everyone has fears.”
She turned her head then, meeting his gaze with her own deep blue one. “I don’t get frightened,” she stated, her voice entirely calm. “I take vengeance.”
He was almost startled into laughter. No fainting flower, she. He stayed where he was, challenging her.
See me. Do not underestimate me.
“You’re stalling,” she said softly, her breath warm on his face. “I want to know … will you marry me? Yes, or no?”
Enough of this game. Enough of the lot of them. He opened his mouth, prepared to send her on her way, packed off with her hellion stepmother, never to darken his door again. All he wanted was to be left alone, always, forever alone in this great, empty, rattling house—
“Yes.”
What? Had he said that out loud? The surprise in her eyes told him yes, he had.
Bloody hell! “I—” He couldn’t form words with his suddenly dry mouth. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I—”
“You said yes.” Triumph flashed in her face. “I heard you.”
Damn. “Miss Cantor, I—”
She leaned in close, her lips lifted nearly to his. “You said yes,” she whispered. “I fully intend to hold you to it, Lord Brookhaven.”
Holding. What a brilliant idea. He swayed closer. An embrace would not be entirely out of order, seeing as they were now engaged—
Oh God. What had he done?
She slipped away in that moment, her face alight with triumph, and practically danced her way to the door. “I’ll tell Tessa immediately. I suppose we ought to hold the ceremony as soon as possible if we want to quiet all those gossips!”
The gossips. Oh, hell, what would they make of this? Wedding the cousin of the girl who’s left him at the altar?
After this morning’s theatrics? It’ll hardly make a splash.
She was not suitable.
She is entirely suitable. Her connections are impeccable, her reputation lily white, her beauty undeniable, and by God you’ll be the envy of every man in London.
She was too young.
She is young, but not naive—and she was quite correct about Melinda. Astute and intelligent.
He blinked, surprised at the turn of his thoughts. Was he actually considering going through with this?
Why not? It was time he married again. This was a
logical, efficient move, for he had no time to go through yet another wife hunt.
Reassured and comfortably convinced that he’d merely been decisive, not impulsive, he put away the already fading memory of his outbreak of desolation with brisk dispatch.
Yes, she would do perfectly well. Furthermore, there was something about her. In a very secret, never-to-be-admitted way, he liked the way she looked at him, as if he wasn’t a Beast at all.
Two weeks later, on her wedding day, Deirdre longed for her former confidence as she walked down the aisle. She came to a halt before the altar and dipped her curtsy to the powerful figure awaiting her there—her new husband, the Marquis of Brookhaven.
Good-bye, Tessa. Good-bye, painful past.
Hello, Marquis of Brookhaven. Hello, uncertain future.
She was scarcely aware of the vows she spoke or the ones uttered in Brookhaven’s deep tones. She was here at last, standing by his side, his bride, his lady.
And soon, his lover …
It was all she had dreamed of for these years alone under Tessa’s rule. This man was her destiny. This man, though he knew it not, was meant to be hers.
When the moment came to lift the veil, she turned shakily to him, ready to share her feelings at last. When the gossamer curtain rose to leave nothing between them, she broke her formality with an uncertain smile and closed her eyes as he bent to kiss her.
She’d thought it would be wonderful. She’d dreamed it would be astonishing.
She’d had no idea.
His warm mouth touched hers, his lips pressing firmly, even—dared she think it?—possessively. The powerful jolt traveled directly from her sensitive lips to a place deep in her belly, then radiated brilliantly outward like a stone flung into a shimmering pool.
She nearly dropped her bouquet.
Oh, sweet heaven
. All this from a simple, chaste kiss at the altar?
Her wedding night was going to be the death of her!
Their lips parted and her breath left her in a soft involuntary sigh. Reassured at last, she opened her eyes with a small startled laugh, expecting to see an answering gleam in his eyes. After all, it wasn’t possible that he’d not felt it, too—
His dark gaze was quite removed, however. In fact, he gazed at her with no more feeling than if she’d been hired to carry his shoes. Chill dismay flooded her, washing away that rush of heat with icy totality. He’d felt nothing, nothing at all.
For the first time, a bit too late to be sure, it occurred to Deirdre that he might never come to care for her. For the first time, she was given a glimpse of a future she’d blindly refused to consider—that she had contracted a cold, bloodless union for herself, with a man best known for having driven away the only other woman who’d ever attempted it.
Suddenly the beautiful ceremony seemed austere, the stylish now shown to be heartless: an event meant to impress, not to celebrate.
Deirdre, Lady Brookhaven, gazed up at her new lord as he walked her back down the aisle on his arm with all due formality. Tall and imposing, proud and
rigid, he walked by her side and never glanced down at her once.
If this is everything I ever wanted, then why does it suddenly seem so hollow?
AMONG THE GUESTS, two men sat in the back pew of the bride’s side. They were of little account socially—one handsome, somewhat dissipated fellow who hung on the fringes of Society by the merest permission, and one completely unknown, small and bookish.
“Well, she’s done it.” The handsome one was a bit too loud, or perhaps a bit too drunk, considering that the sun had not yet passed noon, but no one noticed.
The smaller man’s face was wreathed in smiles, his spectacles fogging a bit in his gusto. “She’ll never need to touch a penny, not with a husband like Brookhaven to provide for her!”
Wolfe seemed very nearly overcome with emotion at the thought of all that lovely Pickering gold sitting safely in their hands for all time. Stickley murmured soothingly and handed over his handkerchief. “Such a wonderful day,” he sighed. “A wonderful,
magical
day!”
Wolfe was not so pleased about such an arrangement. The woman could change her mind at any time.
Unfortunately he hadn’t heard about the wedding until too late.
“If you hadn’t taken yourself on a three-week bender after we successfully kept Miss Phoebe from wedding the marquis, perhaps you would have been in time to offer an opinion,” Stickley had stiffly informed him when he’d finally wandered into the office this morning. “I for one am very happy with our result. Lady
Brookhaven has agreed to leave her inheritance in our hands for many years to come. That is, after all, what we intended in the first place, is it not?”
But that wasn’t what Wolfe needed. He had debts, big ones, to people who didn’t want piecemeal payment, unless that meant pieces of his flesh and bone. This wasn’t just about greed and rich living, this was about his life! He would die if he did not pay his debts. He gazed at Stickley with pure hatred. It occurred to him that if he didn’t have a partner anymore, he wouldn’t have to share the retainer.
Still, the old Stick had his uses. Wolfe certainly didn’t want to be the one counting pennies and adding figures. Win the day against the enemy first. There would always be time to deal with his friends after.
AS CALDER WALKED his bride back down the aisle, he scarcely listened to the congratulations coming from all sides. He’d done it. He was once again a married man.
More to the point, he was once again a man with a very beautiful wife.
Perhaps a bit too beautiful. Recall what happened last time?
The hell of it was, she seemed to be getting more lovely by the moment. By God, that smile she’d given him when he’d lifted the veil—as if she
loved
him!
Alas, he knew all too well what a smile from a beautiful woman meant. Very little. She was obviously happy to be wed to a marquis. She’d made no secret of her appreciation of his wealth—or at least she’d made free use of it to produce this admittedly status-appropriate wedding ceremony. It was good that she was content
with the arrangement, yet that still did not explain the kiss.
He’d been shocked to his boot heels by the power of that brief contact. Never before had his breath left his body so quickly. His pulse had tripped over itself and his fingers twitched with the compulsion to touch her. Astonishing.
What was there to be so affected by? It was only an instant of soft lips and willing female. After all, he was no callow youth. He’d kissed a few women—perhaps not as many as Rafe had, but more than enough to know that such a reaction was quite uncommon.
Then she had laughed as their lips parted, bringing him back to his senses in a flash. The moment had meant nothing to her, other than perhaps relief that the deed was at last done and that all her careful preparations had succeeded.
He must remember that she was a practical sort. Her proposal had been emotionless and direct. She’d been quite correct that this marriage was to both their advantages. He had a well-bred wife, trained to take her place as duchess someday, who would be mother to his children and mistress to Brookmoor. She had all the wealth and status any woman could want and freedom from her hideous stepmother to boot.
Yes, she would do. The fact that she was stunning enough to make his pulse pound should simply be a delightful side effect.
After that kiss, he now wished he’d waited to launch his little surprise upon her. It would have been quite nice to have more time alone with her … .
Deirdre stepped into the daylight to where Brookhaven’s
driver waited with the grandest carriage in the stables. The intricate Brookhaven crest gleamed gold on the black lacquer door.
Her carriage. Her crest.
From behind her came the voices of some of Tessa’s acquaintances.
“What a beautiful wedding,” one woman said grudgingly. “’Tis almost enough to make me wish I were the one to wed the Beast.”
The woman next to her tittered. “
Almost
.”
The Beast. Deirdre was sick unto death of hearing it, always in voices just a bit too loud for real secrecy. The man who’d once had Society’s pity now apparently had more entertainment value as a villain.
“
My
Beast,” she whispered. Her husband bowed as she approached, then straightened head and proud shoulders above the other men.
Her Brookhaven, her very own, to keep forever.
Dear God, she hoped she hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

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