A Belated Bride (34 page)

Lucien gave Arabella’s hand one last squeeze, and then he followed Aunt Jane into the morning room. Arabella started to follow, but Cook appeared, complaining about Wilson’s refusal to go to town at her bidding. By the time Arabella returned to the foyer, Lucien had already left.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, with Aunt Jane or Aunt Emma always hovering just around the corner, keep- ing her busy with seemingly useless tasks. Arabella thought that if she stayed occupied it would ease her mind, but everything reminded her of Lucien and the awful predicament their untoward passion had placed them in. She could only hope he would not come to regret the hasty events of this day.

The sun sank lower on the horizon behind a bank of

thick black clouds that rumbled louder as night approached. Arabella found herself starting at every noise, imagining that Lucien had returned, but each time it was one of the servants passing through the hallway, or the wind rattling the shutters. With each disappointment, her uncertainty grew.

Dinner only made things worse. Lucien’s sister seemed disposed to glare until Arabella felt acutely uncomfort- able. Even Robert was in a strange mood, making cutting remarks to Liza and then laughing whenever she retali- ated.

Their bickering quickly became more than Arabella could bear, and she pleaded a headache and escaped to her room. There, she fought against a looming sense of failure as she paced the floor, her thoughts as depressed as the driving rain that pelted the countryside.

After an hour of relentless examination, one undeni- able fact remained—she could not marry Lucien. While there were innumerable benefits for her, he gained nothing in the bargain. She would find a way to deal with her own difficulties—she always had.

The ugly truth was that there was nothing to keep Lucien at Rosemont. He didn’t care about her—he’d made that fact abundantly clear when he’d listed all of the rea- sons why they should wed. Not one had anything to do with love.

Her eyes watered and she was forced to find a handker- chief before she could resume her pacing. It was better this way. No declarations of love, no pretense at emotions, just a calm, orderly arrangement—rather like a business deal. Strangely, the thought made her heart sink even lower.

Night crept in and the clock ticked away the passing minutes. Arabella was finally too tired to pace any longer,

so she sat before the dying fire, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her hands damp and quaking.
God, what am I doing?

Outside, the rain increased in tempo, beating against the house as if desperate to gain entry, but Arabella didn’t hear it—she was too busy trying to decide how to tell Lucien that there would be no wedding.

The rain sheeted across the inn yard, rivulets of muddy water sluicing into the road. Standing under the dripping eaves, Lucien stared grimly at the rain and clenched his jaw.
Bloody hell, will this torrent ever end?

His greatcoat was soaked, his boots crusted with mud, and his temper frayed. Gritting his teeth against his impa- tience, he took off his hat and shook it. A shower of fat, cold droplets sprinkled across the mud-smeared threshold. It had taken two hours to locate the bishop’s place, only to discover that the man was not home and wasn’t expected anytime soon. After kicking his heels for the bet- ter part of an hour waiting for the blasted man to return, Lucien had finally set out after him, locating the rotund clergyman at his sister’s house. It had taken an earnest plea and two gold sovereigns before the bishop could be persuaded to drive his cart back to York to issue the

license.

Then, mission completed, Lucien had set out for Rose- mont, only to be halted by the storm. Lucien replaced his hat and pulled the brim low, thinking of Arabella’s pale face as she stood in the vestibule this afternoon. There was no mistaking the doubt lurking in her eyes. But Lucien knew there was a way to chase away her haunted look. He remembered her after they had made love, her smile soft- ened with pleasure, her eyes glowing with happiness. He moved impatiently.
Bloody hell, I have to get home.

The thought held him. Since when had he considered Rosemont home? The leaky old manor house was special only because it was where Arabella lived. Maybe that was it—it wasn’t the house, but his Bella. Lucien pulled a che- root out of his pocket and lit it, liking the thought of call- ing Rosemont home, of calling Arabella wife.

A carriage pulled into the muddy yard and came to a splashing halt. A heavily wrapped coachman jumped down and trudged through the rain to open the door. Amid a flurry of preparation, the occupant of the coach stepped out. Lucien noted absently that the man’s greatcoat pos- sessed such a preposterous number of capes that the owner appeared to be every bit as wide as he was tall.

“Blasted rain,” the young man muttered as he hopped his way through a maze of puddles toward the door where Lucien stood. Once he reached the safety of the overhang, he carefully examined every inch of his clothing for addi- tional mud, removing his wide-brimmed beaver hat so that the dull light from the window fell on a head of mussed golden curls. “Demme! Ruined my new boots, too, blasted rain. That’s the last time I ever come to York- shire. Never saw such a plaguey, wet place in all my—” He glanced at Lucien and broke off. “Luce? Is that you?” Lucien straightened in surprise. Edmund Valmont was one of the few people he considered a friend. Though the younger man was naive and possessed far less common sense than he needed, his heart was every bit as soft as his head. “What brings you here, halfling? Is there a race

about?”

The plump young peer grabbed his hand and shook it with enthusiasm. “Lud, no! I came looking for you. I’ve got a message from your aunt and I was determined to locate you and—” Edmund tilted his head to squint up at the swaying inn sign, the rain from his caped greatcoat

dripping onto Lucien’s boots. “Is this Rosemont? My footman said this was a posting house.”

“Your footman is correct. Rosemont is located on the coast just north of here.”

Edmund’s brow cleared. “Couldn’t imagine you would stay at a common posting inn. A duke should—” He broke off, a look of concern crossing his face. “Luce, you aren’t on your way to London to see Liza, are you? I mean, if you are, you should know that . . . well, she isn’t pre- cisely. . . .” He stopped and drew himself together, eyeing Lucien with a suddenly wild expression. “Luce, I don’t know how to tell you this, but—”

“Liza arrived at Rosemont this morning.”

Edmund almost sagged with relief. “Thank goodness. Deuced uncomfortable business, having to tell you your sister had disappeared, even though we all know she is more than capable of taking care of herself, and I—” He frowned. “I say, if you aren’t going to London, what are you doing here?”

“I had an errand,” Lucien said succinctly. “I was returning to Rosemont when the rain began and I didn’t wish to risk Satan slipping in all this mud.”

“Oh! Well, if you mind waiting until Dotson has the horses changed, I would be glad to take you to Rosemont in my carriage. You can send a man after Satan tomorrow morning.”

Lucien looked toward the stables. “How quickly can he get it done?”

“Oh, Lud, he’ll be out in the wink of an eye, see if he don’t. I told him to make haste—wanted to reach you as soon as possible.”

True to his word, the carriage returned a remarkably short time later and, after exchanging a few words with

the innkeeper about Satan, Lucien climbed into the car- riage behind Edmund.

“Lud, but I’m glad I found you.” Edmund settled into his corner of the coach, withdrew a handkerchief, and began wiping the mud from his boots. “Poor Bottle will be in the sulks for weeks if I ruin these.”

“Bottle?”

“My new valet. Won him in a card game from Chambers. The fool bet his whole allowance and Bottle’s services that he could shoot a cigar out of someone’s mouth. He missed and put a bullet right through the window at White’s.”

“Chambers is not as much a fool as the person who held the cigar for him. Who was the idiot?”

A flush touched Edmund’s plump cheeks and he said defensively, “We’d been dipping rather deep, and I . . . well, it don’t signify. Bottle was worth getting shot at. I tell you, Luce, I’ve never had such a correct valet. Almost as bad as being married, only he doesn’t cry.” Edmund stuffed his muddy handkerchief under his seat and straightened with a relieved sigh. “There, that’s the dandy. I tell you, Luce, I’m deuced glad Liza made it here with- out mishap. Your aunt was in quite a taking when I left.”

“I’m not surprised; Aunt Lavinia has a tendency for melodrama. I should have written her as soon as Liza arrived, but I was distracted. I am indebted to you for coming such a distance.”

“Don’t be. I had other reasons for leaving town, you know.”

“Oh? The watch after you again?”

“No. Something worse.” Edmund shook his head sadly, his round face puckered in a frown. “
Much
worse.”

“Ah. A woman, no doubt. With an angry husband, per- haps?”

“Worse. It’s Aunt Maddie; she’s lost her mind and I’m to be made to pay for it.”

Lucien hid a grin. Edmund’s Aunt Maddie was a bewigged harridan who loved nothing more than to shock those who loved her most. “What’s Mad Maddie done this time? Embarked on a torrid affair with the Prince Regent?”

Edmund shuddered. “Lud, Luce! Don’t even suggest it.” He raked a hand through his hair, mussing the golden curls until they made a halo about his head. “My aunt’s decided it is time I was married.”

“So you are on the fly, eh?”

“You know what Aunt Maddie is, Luce. I had no choice. It was either that or marry some fudby-faced female with a mustache.”

“Surely not!”

“I ain’t lying, Luce. She wanted me to court Marie Hal- ford. Kept thrusting her in my face till I was afraid to leave my lodgings. When it wasn’t the Halford chit, she was forever inviting Margaret Yarrow to sit in the carriage with us, and you know what she is.”

“I cannot seem to place . . . Oh, wait. A rather rotund female, if I remember, with brassy yellow hair.”

“That’s her,” Edmund said glumly. “And she has a gap between her front teeth that gives me the shudders.”

“Why on earth would Aunt Maddie want you to marry her?”

Edmund flushed. “It ain’t polite, but you’re almost family, so I’ll tell you—m’aunt thinks the Yarrow chit has broad hips and would breed well.”

“And often, most likely.”

“Not with me for a husband, she wouldn’t. Lord, Luce, I’d rather put an end to my existence than have to look at that face across the breakfast table every morning. I tried

to reason with Aunt Maddie, she just kept making remarks about how I was getting older. . . .” Edmund turned an anxious face toward Lucien. “I am
not
getting older.”

“Of course not. You look exactly the same now as you did five years ago when I met you.”

That seemed to satisfy Edmund, for he subsided, only grumbling now and then. As they neared the long coastal road that led to Rosemont, he turned to Lucien. “I say, Luce, come with me to Bath. Aunt Maddie will never think to look for me there.”

“As promising as Bath in the winter sounds, I cannot leave right now. I’ve plans for the next few weeks.” And the years following that. A strange desire to smile gripped Lucien, and all of his earlier impatience returned.

Edmund looked at him and frowned. “Luce, been meaning to ask you, what brought you to Yorkshire?”

“I came to look into a purchase.” “What? More land?”

“No, a gem.”

“I should have known. Only a sparkler could send you running out into the countryside. Did you find anything worthwhile?”

“The trip has been most productive.” More than Edmund could imagine. Lucien glanced at his friend. Perhaps now was the time to announce his marriage. He intended to send a notice to the
Gazette
by the end of the week, but it would make Arabella’s entry into society smoother if the worst of the gossip died out before they arrived.

Fortunately, there was no quicker way to spread word throughout the ton than to admit a secret to a Valmont; the whole family was known for their inability to keep a secret. Smiling to himself, Lucien said, “Edmund, I have found a wife.”

Edmund’s jaw dropped. “But who—why didn’t you— where did you—I can’t believe—”

“In fact,” Lucien continued in an inexorable tone, “I’ve just returned from procuring the license.”

“License? When are you getting married?” “Tomorrow.”

“
This
tomorrow?”

Lucien stifled a sigh. “I am to marry Miss Arabella Hadley tomorrow at ten.”

Edmund leaned forward to grip Lucien’s arm. “Don’t do it, Luce! Ride with me to Bath. They won’t even know you are gone until—”

Lucien shook off Edmund’s grip. “I have no wish to run away.”

Edmund sagged against the squabs. “I would never have credited that you, of all people, would get caught in the parson’s trap. It’s almost enough to send a man to the brink.”

“I was not
caught
in anything. It is simply time that I marry.”

Edmund nodded wisely. “Being chivalrous, are you? Daresay you don’t want it breezed about that your wife caught you on the downside. But never fear, I won’t say a word to anyone, though this does remind me of poor Haversham. His wife—well, it wasn’t his wife then, but Lucinda Truckle. You remember her, don’t you? Red hair, sadly freckled? Bit of a squint in one eye? Well, she invited Haversham on a picnic to Faulk Downs and then lured him into the maze and pretended to twist her ankle. He had to carry her for miles and got blisters because he’d had on his good riding boots. Then, when he finally stag- gered to her carriage, there stood her father, looking like a thundercloud and ready to slap the wedding shackles on

him. Poor Haversham was so knocked up by the whole episode that he stayed in bed a week. We all feared he might put a period to his existence, but once he was wed, he rallied quite well and now he’s got a pretty little lady- bird who can—”

“Damn it, Edmund,” Lucien burst out. “You cannot go about telling such tales. This case is entirely different. In fact, if anyone has been tricked, it is Arabella, because I—” A look of astonishment dawned on Edmund’s face.