Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01] (15 page)

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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]
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She longed to explain, for if he knew he would not be so hurt—or at least he might begin to understand—but if she broke the silence she would jeopardize Deirdre’s and Sophie’s portions as well as her own.
“You cannot even look at me, Phoebe.” His voice was strained and hollow. “How are we to live out our lives this way?”
Her heart wailed and her spirit ached, but she had been too long desperate to gain the vicar’s regard once more. She was unable to go against that habit, too weak or perhaps too well trained to please herself rather than him.
So she waited, frozen in her last shred of self-control, until she felt Rafe leave the settee then heard the parlor door slam. She remained there, eyes closed against the tears that threatened.
She felt weak and used up, like a torch that had burned itself to ash. There was only one thing immovable and certain in her world.
In a fortnight, she must marry the marquis.
Moments after Marbrook left her, when her color was still high thinking about what she ought not to be thinking about, Fortescue introduced yet another caller for Miss Millbury.
Phoebe hurriedly tended to her hair.
“Mr. Stickley, what a surprise!” Phoebe smiled and stood as Fortescue showed the solicitor into the parlor.
It wasn’t too hard to pretend pleasure. She liked Stickley. He was quiet and mild-mannered—rather refreshing after spending time with Calder and Rafe. Their scraping edges left her exhausted, and dealing with Deirdre and Sophie wasn’t much better.
Mr. Stickley didn’t seem nearly so happy to see her. “Miss Millbury, I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but a matter arose that I—well, I thought about it a great deal on the way here—” He stopped himself and inhaled deeply. “Miss Millbury, you cannot wed Lord Brookhaven.”
Phoebe couldn’t help but brighten. “Truly?” Then she caught herself and frowned worriedly. “Oh, dear. Mr. Stickley, perhaps you ought to explain yourself.”
She waved him to a seat, but he only began to pace anxiously before her. “I don’t know how to tell you this. Oh, my heavens. It truly is most disturbing—”
Phoebe kept her voice pleasant, but introduced just a smidgen of Tessa’s steel. “Mr. Stickley, sit.”
He sat instantly, but continued to wring his hands. “Oh, my heavens!”
At this point, Phoebe would have found an actual curse quite diverting. As it was, Stickley was wearing at her nerves. If there was some real impediment to her engagement, then she would be free—but would she be fearless enough?
Conflicting hopes assailed her and Stickley’s dithering proved fair to driving her mad! “Mr. Stickley, out with it!”
He stilled himself immediately. Really, perhaps Tessa was on to something with that waspish manner of hers.
“Miss Millbury, you cannot marry Lord Brookhaven because … because he is a murderer!”
She made a doubtful face. “Brookhaven? Whom did he kill—a rabbit?”
Mr. Stickley went prim. Lord preserve her from prim! But Phoebe recognized the signal that she’d offended. Time to make it up to him or she’d never get anything from the man. She leaned forward eagerly, parting her lips in mock anticipation. “Oh, Mr. Stickley—pray, tell me more!”
He sniffed, but then relented. “Oh, very well. This morning I was told about Brookhaven’s suspicious involvement in his late wife’s death—”
Phoebe blinked. “Brookhaven had a wife?”
Stickley made a peevish noise. Phoebe shook off her disbelief. “Oh, so sorry. Do continue. You have me on pins and needles …”
Blah, blah, blah, anything, only tell it!
She’d never been any good at all about waiting for the end of a story.
Mr. Stickley pulled a sheaf of newsprint from his pocket. “I never put faith in rumors, myself, so I took the liberty of stopping at the London
Sun
to look into it. I have here the original articles from that time five years ago.”
He spread out the sheets. Each headline was worse than
the one before.
“Lady Brookhaven lost in carriage accident
—
two dead.” “Brookhaven carriage stolen?” “Rumors fly
—
who was the other man?”
Rich meat indeed for the gossips. Why had she never heard of this scandal? Even Thornton received the newssheets, albeit a day or two late.
Ah, yes. Five years ago she’d been working day and night helping the vicar stave off a cholera epidemic in Thornton village. It had been months before she’d had a moment to read a newssheet. Tessa might have mentioned it, but Phoebe always did her best not to listen to Tessa.
“No one dared accuse him, of course.” Stickley sniffed. “There was no real evidence—although what would there be? No one saw the accident. There was only Lord Brookhaven’s account to go by. He explained away the other fellow by saying that he was a houseguest of theirs, although one might wonder why a marquis would have a stage actor as a houseguest.”
Phoebe had been scanning the articles, looking for anything more substantial than Stickley’s gossip. She pushed them away, frowning. “There is no such implication in this,” she said flatly. Was she disappointed or relieved? “Brookhaven may not be perfect, but I cannot believe this of him.”
Mr. Stickley blinked rapidly. “But—but Miss Millbury! If Brookhaven murdered his first wife, he’ll have no compunction about murdering you as well!”
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Stickley, I have just explained to you that I do not put stock in gossip. One small error—one misunderstood mistake!—and it pursues one forever!”
She didn’t know if she was still talking about Brookhaven, but she felt fury and helplessness bubble up from somewhere old and deep. “Why can’t people see all the good things that someone does? Why can’t they talk
about the years of hard work, or the charitable efforts, or the many kindnesses—why is it always those little lapses in judgment that follow one to the grave?”
Stickley stood, affronted and alarmed. “I cannot believe you would dismiss such powerful evidence—”
“Evidence!” Phoebe jumped up as well. “The only evidence I would believe of Brookhaven is his signed, sealed confession delivered to my hand by the Prince Regent himself!” She folded her arms and sneered. “And even then I’d first ask Brookhaven to check the handwriting.”
Stickley’s manner became more schoolmistress than solicitor. “Well, I never! If you’ve not the sense to save yourself, then I suppose there is nothing more I can do for you!”
Phoebe didn’t trust herself not to tear the little prig to pieces then and there. She gritted her teeth and kept her arms tightly folded for his protection. “I’m sure you know the way out, Mr. Stickley?”
He left in a prim and prickly huff. When he was gone, Phoebe closed her eyes and fought to pull herself together. What was the matter with her? She’d just thrown out possibly her last chance to get out of this mess—for even the vicar might take pause at selling her to a man with a murderous past—but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t hold a rumor against someone when she bewailed her own fate so often.
Not even for Marbrook?
No. She might barter her body and her life for status and protection, but not her soul.
Not even for Marbrook.
RAFE GAVE HIS horse a powerful kick in the sides and the stallion burst from the stable yard in a clatter of iron shoes on cobblestone.
He must let her go.
The streets were yet crowded, so Rafe cut through the alleys, taking a familiar path to Hyde Park. There was only one place to ride away one’s fury and anguish in London, and that was Rotten Row, an earthen track that ran the length of the park.
Not nearly far enough away, but it would have to do.
After Mr. Stickley’s departure, Phoebe remained in the parlor, pacing in a large circle around her wedding guest list.
Eventually, the bloody thing sent her fleeing the room, into the hall where the darkening evening had outpaced the servants and their fresh candles.
A shadowy figure loomed just outside the door. Rafe?
“Hello.” The deep voice rumbled through her belly. No, it was the marquis. Her fiancé.
Remembering Mr. Stickley’s tawdry gossip, she slowly moved toward him and took his large hand in hers. “I’m glad I have the chance to speak to you again,” she whispered. The dark closed around them. She would be a good wife to him, the poor man.
He let his fingers slowly wrap themselves around hers. “Are you?” he murmured. “Then so am I.”
Phoebe leaned into him, letting her forehead rest on his waistcoat. She let the fingers of her other hand slip up over his shoulder to stroke his hair. She heard his heartbeat thud faster in response.
Phoebe froze. What to do now?
Then she realized that there was nothing to do. She had every right to approach and caress her fiancé.
She simply couldn’t explain why she felt much more
guilty standing here in the hallway with Brookhaven than she’d felt pressed to Marbrook on the sofa!
So she stepped back slowly, trying not to give away her sudden discomfort. A servant hurried into the passage to light the sconces and Phoebe could see the bemused but very interested expression upon Brookhaven’s face.
“Don’t you think you ought be dressing for this evening’s concert, Miss Millbury?”
Concert? Had he invited her out this evening? Irritation sparked. If he had, he’d forgotten to mention it to her. Then again, it would get her away from the house.
And away from Rafe. She smiled briefly. “Of course. The concert. I suppose it is high time I changed.” She moved back and dipped a curtsy. “I shall be ready shortly, my lord.”
He nodded formally. “Until then, Miss Millbury.”
Just before she rose onto the first step, she turned back. “My lord?”
“Yes, Miss Millbury?”
She swallowed. “I … today I learned from … from a concerned party … I did not know you were married before.”
His silhouette went oddly rigid. “You did not? Your aunt assured me that she told you everything.”
“Oh, I’m sure she did.” She waved a hand. “But, to be truthful, my lord, I never listen to Tessa’s gossip.”
“I see.” He said nothing for a long moment. “And what did you think of what this concerned party told you.”
Phoebe took a step toward him. “I think you have suffered great loss,” she said softly. “First your parents when you were not much more than a boy, then your wife. So much pain …” She took a breath. “I simply wanted to say that I’m sorry. I know how great a hole someone’s death can leave in your heart. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for you.”
“Thank you, Miss Millbury.” His rigid silhouette did not
change, but his voice held something new entirely, something softer and several degrees warmer … and just a tiny bit impressed? “That is very kind of you.”
“You’re welcome, my lord. Until tonight.”
“Until tonight … Phoebe.”
She fled. There was nothing else to call her headlong progress away from Brookhaven. She ran up the stairs and to her room—thank heaven, her very own room!—to hide far away from her tangled feelings.
Unfortunately, they tagged along.
TESSA SWEPT INTO the dining room, her third best gown perfectly pressed despite its travel, done by a harried and exhausted Nan. Tessa’s hair was divine, her powder perfect, her most conciliatory smile in place. Brookhaven was going to be charmed out of his boots and beg her to stay on after the wedding … possibly even beg to come to her bed. She wouldn’t mind a lover again and Brookhaven was a handsome brute with a dark reputation. It could be he would enjoy her little amusements …
“So sorry I’m late,” she cooed. “I—”
There was no one there. Only one place was laid, with a Brookhaven servant standing attentively over it with a decided smirk upon his face. “Their lordships regret that they have been called away, my lady. If my lady will be seated, we may begin to serve.”
Oh, he might think he was expressionless, but Tessa always knew when she was being mocked.
“Where are my charges?” Their lordships might be beyond her reach for this rudeness, but the girls would pay dearly.
The man bowed again, the scraping rodent. “Miss Blake is in her room with the headache, Miss Cantor is in her
room with the headache, and soon-to-be-my-lady Miss Millbury is at a concert with his lordship, my lady.”
Soon-to-be-my-lady. A reminder that if she wanted welcome in this house, she’d better treat that dratted Phoebe with respect. Frustrated that her rage had no easy outlet, Tessa flounced to her chair and let herself be served the soup.
The long formal table stretched out to either side. Even with no one else here, she’d been placed in the socially lowest position, in the center with her back to the door. It was as if the Brookhaven staff knew something … something they couldn’t possibly know.
Damn
Phoebe.

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