Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01] (13 page)

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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

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By the next morning the invitations had already begun pouring in. Phoebe sat at the table with Deirdre and Sophie in the comfortable breakfast room at Brook House, sifting through the vast pile. “I don’t even know most of these people.”
“Well, the Marchioness of Brookhaven will.” Deirdre didn’t bother to hide her peevishness. “Did you think things would remain the same?”
“Not that I’d mind,” Sophie interjected slowly, “but I think Tessa would dislike it if you accepted invitations that did not include all of us.”
Deirdre snorted into her teacup. “I think Tessa would have kittens, but don’t let that stop you.” She put down her cup and leaned forward. “Or accept none of them. Brookhaven won’t care. He despises social events.”
Phoebe blinked. “He does? How do you know?”
Deirdre stared at her. “How do you not? It is obvious the man would rather tot accounts than dance a step.”
What a relief, if that were true. Then again, why not behave as if it were until proven otherwise? Phoebe smiled and nodded at her cousins. “Thank you. I will take your advice. After all, Tessa can hardly feel slighted if I decline them all.”
Deirdre leaned back in her chair and shook her head, a
dry smile on her lips. “Never underestimate Tessa’s ability to take offense. She’s quite expert.”
Sophie glanced at Deirdre nervously, then back at Phoebe. “There’s something else.”
Phoebe smiled. “What did I miss?”
Deirdre heaved a sigh. “You won’t like it. I would, but you’re not the sort to appreciate it.”
Phoebe looked from Deirdre to Sophie. “What is this? Tell me.”
Sophie drew a folded newssheet from behind her back. She hesitantly handed it across the table to Phoebe.
Laughing, Phoebe picked it up. “Look at your faces! What could possibly be so—”
There she was, on the front page of the newssheet. The drawing was spare and hurriedly done, as if someone had only a moment to catch her likeness as she paused, but it was most definitely her. Next to her image was one of Brookhaven, although his was more finished, making her seem wispy and insubstantial next to him.
She and Brookhaven, on the front page of the most popular newssheet in London—her face sent out all over the city and beyond—her face handed out by newsboys on every street corner. She closed her eyes in horror, then opened them again, unable to look away.
“Brookhaven Chooses a Bride! Vicar’s daughter snatches up London’s premier bachelor before the Season is fully under way! Mary Mouse and the Marquis!”
If the headlines were bad, the text was worse.
“Your Voice of Society has discovered that Miss Phoebe Millbury has only been in town for a week, yet she has managed to do what three Seasons of London’s loveliest young ladies have failed to accomplish
—
she has caught the eye and the betrothal of one of England’s most desirable men, the dashing Brookhaven! Moreover, she did it in last year’s sprigged muslin with puffed sleeves, if you can believe it!”
Phoebe felt her belly tremble. She carefully put the gossip sheet on the table and cleared her throat. “Mary Mouse?”
Deirdre popped a bite of sausage into her mouth. “The country mouse. From the story.”
Phoebe inhaled and exhaled, but it didn’t ease the tightness in her chest. Her face began to go numb. Sophie jumped up in alarm.
“Dee, she’s going to faint!”
Sophie and Deirdre made it to her just in time. They eased her back into her chair and made her lean forward until her head hung in front of her knees.
“Just breathe,” Deirdre urged, her voice not unkind. “You’ll get used to all this soon enough, I imagine. After all, as the Duchess of Brookmoor, you’ll be in the papers every time you sneeze.”
Phoebe whimpered.
“Dee, you aren’t helping,” Sophie hissed.
“No.” Phoebe straightened, one hand pressed to her breast bone to make sure her lungs were still in working order. “No, she’s quite right. I just never thought about it like that—”
And I thought I’d be facing it with Marbrook instead.
Every eye upon her, every move she might make watched by all of Society and beyond …
So, let them stare. You’ll be a duchess.
A rich duchess, wealthy in her own right. Immune.
Yes, she must not forget that word.
Immune
.
Her breathing steadied and she could feel her color rise once more. She smiled up at her cousins. “Thank you. I’m all right now.”
Deirdre snorted as she returned to her chair. “I should hope so. You’re the luckiest woman in London and yet you faint over a little gossip. Milksop.”
Phoebe smile wryly. Apparently Deirdre had a very
shallow well of concern in her soul. Probably best not to tap it too deeply. “You’re right. Besides, who really reads these things, anyway?”
Both cousins stared at her blankly. “Everyone,” Sophie said. Deirdre nodded, chewing.
“Oh.” Well, no matter. It was all such a lot of nonsense. She would not be ruled either way by it.
Soon, she would be immune.
SOPHIE FOUND THE family parlor empty and sighed with relief. The library was not nearly as pleasant as this sunny room, especially now in early afternoon—not that the murmuring presence of the vicar would stop her if it were the only place she could be alone.
Of course, Brook House was far superior to the previous small house in that respect. Wherever she had turned there had been a cousin or an aunt or a dratted servant wishing her to
do
something. She was accustomed to rattling about in an old, large manor house where servants were rarely spotted and easily avoided. Only the bell pulled from her mother’s bedside drew her away from her studies and the quiet days stretched on and on.
Here in London, however, life moved at a much faster pace—one which Sophie enjoyed as long as she was left alone to observe it, not participate in it.
And why should she? The competition for the Pickering fortune mattered nothing to her, for she had no chance of winning against elegant, stylish Deirdre or pretty, buxom Phoebe. The only reason she’d come was to escape Acton and her eternal servitude there.
Seating herself at the card table, Sophie spread out her notes on the folklore collection she was translating from the original German. Such entrancing stories …
Phoebe was hiding from Tessa, who was on a riotous tear about something—last night’s sweeping defeat at the hands of Marbrook, probably, although Tessa would never admit to it—so the wise choice seemed to be tactful retreat.
The attractively shabby—although still very fine—family parlor was empty but for Sophie’s stories spread out on the game table. Phoebe wandered over to peer at them without disturbing them.
Deirdre appeared in the doorway. “Oh.” She looked reluctant to enter, but then, after casting a glance over her shoulder, she joined Phoebe in the parlor and shut the doors.
Phoebe had been hiding from people in general, but Deirdre was high on the list of “in particular.” She bit back a sigh. “So who are
you
hiding from, Dee?”
Deirdre tossed her head and smiled confidently. “Why, no one! What a silly question.” Still, she flung herself down onto the settee and lounged rather more horizontally than was proper. Flinging one arm over her eyes, she let out the sigh that Phoebe hadn’t allowed herself.
Phoebe eyed the door, although to be honest, she didn’t want to brave the tigress. Tessa didn’t actually want to see her and Phoebe didn’t actually want to cross the path of her vision, so it was for their mutual benefit that Phoebe stay put.
She sat in one of the chairs at the card table and smoothed
her skirts. She would have loved to lounge the way Deirdre was doing, but she felt the weight of “your ladyship” on her shoulders. Instead, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
The door burst open and Sophie darted into the room. She shut it behind her as if pursued by a pack of wolves, then turned to see Phoebe and Deirdre, who had uncovered her eyes, staring at her.
“Oh.” Sophie looked as though she were contemplating returning to the wolves. “I only left for a moment … I was out of ink.”
Phoebe couldn’t help but laugh. “Why don’t we all just sit and pretend the others aren’t here?”
Deirdre smiled slightly and crooked her arm over her face again. Sophie looked from one to the other, then took the other chair next to Phoebe.
Phoebe closed her eyes again, still smiling. She’d wondered if she would find anything in common with her cousins. Now she knew there was one thing the three shared. They all feared Tessa’s wrath.
Someone cleared their throat near her. She opened her eyes to see Sophie hovering, a crinkle of worry appearing between her eyes. Phoebe shook her head. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch a thing. I didn’t even read it. Should I get out of your way?”
Sophie’s mute desperation told her enough to spur her to her weary feet. “Perhaps I’ll retreat to my room,” she said unenthusiastically.
“Don’t.” Deirdre spoke without uncovering her eyes. “You’ll never make it through alive.” Then she rolled over, propping herself up on her elbows. “Believe me when I say that. I
know.
”
Phoebe sagged. “I’m sure you do.”
Sophie pulled the other chair back to the card table. “We can share, if you like,” she said shyly. “Would—would you
like to read my translations? On my journey to London I came across a true find in a bookshop.” Her eyes glowed. “It is a collection of folk tales from Germany.”
Frankly, Phoebe would rather bang her head against the floor than read some dry text, but when the alternative was an early demise at Tessa’s spiteful hands …
She sat and leaned forward to look at the paper nearest her. “Will it take long?”
“Oh!” Sophie was all eagerness and enthusiasm. “You’ll simply love it, I promise!” She took up the paper Phoebe had been eyeing warily. “This is one of my favorites so far. It’s really rather romantic—” She faltered, as if waiting for Deirdre to poke fun, but Dee was listening willingly enough. Apparently any form of diversion won out over facing Tessa.
Sophie cleared her throat and took a breath.
“In times of old there lived a king and queen, and every day they said, ‘Oh, if only we had a child!’ Yet, they never had one. Then, one day, as the queen went out bathing, a frog happened to crawl ashore and say to her, ‘Your wish shall be fulfilled. Before the year is out, you shall give birth to a daughter.’”
1
Deirdre snorted. “A frog? A talking, wish-granting frog?”
Phoebe turned sharply. “Shh! Or I’ll tell Tessa you’re lying on the sofa, wrinkling your gown.”
Deirdre quailed. “Oh, very well.”
Sophie sent Phoebe a grateful glance and took another breath. Her voice came out stronger this time, more sure.
“The frog’s prediction came true, and the queen gave birth to a girl who was so beautiful that the king was overjoyed and decided to hold a great feast. Not only did he invite his relatives, friends, and acquaintances, but also the wise women, in the hope that they would be generous and kind to his daughter.”
Soon Phoebe found herself entranced by the tale, read in Sophie’s breathy, light voice—which was very pretty, now that she listened carefully to it. There was a curse, which was exciting, and an evil wise woman, which was distressing, and an innocent young girl of fifteen—
Weren’t we all?
Phoebe swallowed back a surge of bad memory and focused on Sophie’s narrative. A girl, who—through no fault of her own—was sentenced to a magical sleep …
Sophie stopped reading and put down the paper.
“What?” Deirdre sat up from her sprawl on the sofa. “That’s it? That can’t be it! She spends forever shut up in her castle behind a wall of thorns?”
Phoebe was gathering a bit of upset herself. “I can’t believe that—”
Sophie shook her head. “Oh, no—there’s more. I simply haven’t finished translating it yet.”
Phoebe shot up from her chair and pushed Sophie down into it. “Go. Begin. Translate.”
“Yes,” Deirdre added. “Translate like the wind.”
Sophie blushed, pleased. “Do you really like it? I thought I might bind them when I’m done—”
Deirdre raised her hand. “Less talking. More working.”
An endless hour later, the next paragraph was done. The hapless princess was still trapped and now countless fine young would-be suitors had died, impaled upon the thorns.
Deirdre refolded her handkerchief to find a drier spot. “All those handsome princes … such a terrible waste.”
Phoebe sniffed. “The poor princess … locked away, punished forever …”
Sophie dabbed frantically at her notes, trying to dry her own tears from the paper before the work was ruined. “All those people, their lives frozen still …”
A good bawl was had by all, in fact. Phoebe felt the better for it, and even waspish Deirdre seemed softer around
the edges afterward. Sophie leaned back in her chair, one hand limp on her midriff. “I can’t do any more. I’m exhausted and my eyes burn.” She took off her spectacles and glared down at them. “I hate you.”
“As well you should,” Deirdre agreed. “Spectacles are guaranteed man-repellent. Which is odd, when one considers it. I mean, most men aren’t really interested in one’s eyes, are they?”
Sophie turned to her, squinting. “What do you mean?”
“Teats and arse,” Dee said flippantly.
Sophie gasped, but Phoebe only burst into horrified giggles. “She’s right.”
Sophie fixed her spectacles back over her ears and gazed from one to the other. “Really?”
They nodded as one. Sophie shook her head. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not on a husband hunt, for I’m sorely short on bait.”
“You’ve enough to catch a very short, very poor sort of banker person,” Deirdre consoled her. “Perhaps someone bookish.”
Sophie blinked. “Bookish would be all right, I suppose …” Then she shook her head, covering her face with her hands. “But I’m such a clumsy ninny whenever I—” She raised her face and gazed at them hopelessly. “I can’t even
talk
to a man without—you simply don’t know!”
Phoebe tilted her head. “You talk to men all the time. There are several male servants in the house.”
Sophie drew back and shook her head. “I don’t speak to them.”
Deirdre leaned forward, rather as if she were repelled and fascinated at once. “Never?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Phoebe said. “You must speak to the menservants at Acton—”
Sophie shook her head again. “We haven’t any. Mama says that deep voices hurt her head.”
“But your vicar—?”
“We’ve only a sexton, but no. He visits Mama, but he likely thinks I can’t speak.”
Phoebe threw up her hands. “But the—the butcher? The blacksmith? Little boys playing in your way on the village street?”
Sophie shrugged. “The cook negotiates with the butcher and we’ve no horses and little boys usually run when they see me coming.”
“A world without men,” Deirdre breathed. “I don’t know whether to be horrified or envious.”
Phoebe made a face. “I’m a little of both, I think.” What would her life be like without the vicar’s harsh disapproval shadowing her all day—
But those days were over, weren’t they? She was her father’s “dear” once again. Bolstered by that thought, she dusted her hands in a businesslike way. “Deirdre, stand up. Sophie, fetch that book on the table.”
Soon she had Deirdre pacing sedately about the room, demonstrating the classic feat of ladylike grace, although why in the world one needed to know how to carry a book on their head was apparently beyond Sophie.
“That looks ridiculous.”
Phoebe put her hands on her hips. “Well, it was the only thing I learned from my brief and bitter bout with a governess. If you can do it, you’ll never have to worry about being clumsy in front of a man again. Just try it.”
Deirdre paced back and forth, the picture of elegance. She sat, stood, curtsied, and even danced while the book remained as if nailed to her crown. Phoebe was moved to applause. Deirdre ducked out from under the book, caught it with one hand, and bowed theatrically, the book acting as a sweeping feathered cap. “Tessa, if nothing else, is a persistent teacher,” she said with a grimace.
Sophie’s evident doubt only grew. “I’ll never be able to
do that. Just thinking about having to speak … converse … heavens, you don’t mean to make me dance—” She swept her arms wide in her distress.
A cut-crystal vase crashed to the floor as Sophie stood like a simpleton, watching it fall.
Phoebe looked at her strangely. Deirdre tossed the book onto a side table and plunked her fists on her hips. “Honestly, Sophie, how do you ever expect to marry a man if you can’t even think about one without spontaneously shattering valuables?”
Sophie paled, then flushed. The shards of vase lay winking derisively on the carpet. The door burst open and Tessa came striding in, her skirts hiked in one hand.
“Oh, for pity’s sake! What happened to the crystal?” Her tone so matched Deirdre’s that for a moment Phoebe thought it was her cousin speaking again.
Then Deirdre stepped forward. “So sorry, Lady Tessa. I was showing Sophie how you taught me to walk balancing something on my head.”
Tessa smoothed her skirts and rolled her eyes. “Well, next time use something unimportant, like a book! Not that it will do Sophie any good. If you don’t learn that sort of thing by the time you leave the schoolroom, Sophie, it will never look natural.”
She waved vaguely at the mess. “Do have someone sweep that up, Deirdre.”
Sophie tilted her head to whisper to Deirdre with some surprise. “Why did you lie?”
Deirdre smiled slightly. “What a thing to say! I never lie.”
Sophie looked at Phoebe, who only laughed helplessly and spread her hands. “She didn’t actually lie, you realize,” she whispered. “She
was
showing you the walk.”
Instead of her former pout, Tessa now had a sly look of satisfaction on her lovely face.
“Thanks to Brookhaven’s status in Society,” she announced,
“the guest list for the wedding ceremony contains the very finest of Society. The splendor of this event will reflect directly upon me, so I will have everything just so. I have left the tedious details to the staff, of course. Phoebe, you will assist me. Deirdre, you will see to your wardrobe, for you will never have another chance like this one to meet the most eligible men in London. Sophie …” Tessa grimaced. “Just … do something with your hair and try not to fall on your face during the ceremony.”
Sophie’s attention was on her table full of notes. “Mm. Yes, Aunt.”
“Phoebe, come along now. We have much to do.”

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