Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01] (19 page)

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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]
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She looked up, startled. “What?”
He averted his gaze. “Nothing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You called me a goddess. I heard you quite clearly. The goddess of what?”
He turned to play as a last recourse. He grinned rakishly. “You are the goddess of green gowns. All green gowns must bow down to yours, because it is the finest in all the land, sewn by pixies by the light of the moon.”
She raised a brow. “I would think a moonlight gown would be blue … or white.”
He laughed, relieved that she was willing to play. “Then your gown was sewn by mermaids, princesses of the deepest depths.”
She turned toward the mirrors, examining her reflection carefully. “A mermaid goddess.” She cast an arch glance over her bared shoulder. The mischievous twinkle in her eyes sent an aching tremor through his gut. She was delicious.
“I should think a mermaid goddess would have her very own minion,” she said haughtily. “Goddesses set great store by loyal minions, you should know.”
He bowed deeply to hide the hunger he knew was flaring in his eyes. Composure, man! “Then your minion is here, your divine seaweediness.”
She snickered, then forced a stern glare. “Behave, minion, or I shall be forced to have my legions of swordfish run you through.”
“Then tell me, O thy limpet-speckled greatness, how shall I avoid such a perforated death?”
She turned in a swish of silk and began to count off on her fingers. “Firstly, all minions must know how to kneel. Secondly, a good minion should never say his goddess nay. The only permissible answers are ‘yes,’ ‘as you wish,’ and ‘if my goddess permits me.’”
To Phoebe, the game was merely a welcome attempt to diffuse the tension she’d created with her shameless display.
Then Marbrook sank to one knee before her, a most peculiar look upon his handsome face. “Yes,” he said huskily. “As you wish.” His eyes were dark with something that made her ache inside. His lids lowered sensuously. “If my goddess permits me …”
She exhaled in a long, helpless sigh as he reached one
hand toward her hem. To have this man—this broad-shouldered, powerful man!—at her feet, calling her his goddess with that black hunger in his gaze …
Well, it just about melted a girl’s knees, that’s what!
She curtsied deeply to hide the shaking in her knees. “You are too kind, minion.” When she rose, she stepped forward just as he extended his hand.
Her hem swept over it and his fingers slid over the inside of her ankle. They both froze.
She looked down at him, prepared to laugh it away, but his gaze was locked on the hand he couldn’t see. She felt the softest caress in that sensitive place beneath her anklebone.
So she kept still when she ought to have stepped away, wobbly knees or no. She waited, frozen in place, as his hand slipped farther beneath the peacock green silk.
His fingers were warm and feather-light. She could barely feel them through the silk of her stocking.
She could barely feel anything else. There was no sound, no light, no world. Only the touch of his warm hand sliding slowly—so slowly it made her ache!—up from her ankle … and over her calf … and the soft crease behind her knee …
There was nothing but the rustle of silk as his hand rose upward between her knees, then past. She could feel the heat of it between her thighs now—no touch now, just heat—and it made her belly quiver.
She ought to move, ought to step away, ought to whirl out of his reach with a shocked and revolted gasp.
The odd thing was, she couldn’t even remember what those words meant at that moment. All she could think was that, at the next moment, the heat of him would be on her—perhaps even in her …
His gaze flew upward to lock with hers. The heat inside her was nothing compared to the molten lust in his eyes.
“If my goddess permits me …” His voice was dark and husky with need.
She swayed forward, her eyes closing against the tide of hot lust that rushed over her.
Touch me …
Her eyes flew open when the curtain behind her whisked to one side with a rattle of brass rings on the rod. She jolted in surprise and turned so abruptly that she staggered. Lementeur stepped forward and reached one hand out to aid her balance.
“My dear, you look entirely delicious.” Lementeur considered her with approval. “Don’t you think so, my lord?”
A choked sound from Marbrook made Phoebe whip her head around—but he was safely back in his chair three yards away, as if he’d never left.
His hat was in his lap once more.
Lementeur whisked Phoebe away again, leaving Rafe alone with his burning thoughts and throbbing groin.
Days.
Not years, not months. It would be mere days until the wedding and he could leave this madness behind. Perhaps he would find himself a pretty wife in the Americas and make some fat babies with her. All he had to do was survive the next two weeks and keep his hands off the girl.
Lost in thought, he didn’t look up when the curtain was whisked back again.
“Ahem,” a soft voice said.
Rafe glanced up—and could not look away.
She was no longer just a girl. She was a bride.
Rich off-white satin was folded and tucked on the bodice of the beautiful gown, the lines arrowing out from the overlapped center to a knotted scrap of sleeve perched on each shoulder like a tiny ivory dove. The skirt fell in long, graceful folds, reminding him of a Greek column. Her skin glowed against the perfect pale color, while her hair outshone the faint golden tint.
’Tis bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.
Where had that thought come from? Rafe swallowed. Could it be that he still entertained some fantasy that Phoebe would change her mind? How mad and deluded could one man be? She stood before him in her wedding gown, for pity’s sake!
He met her gaze. She was waiting to hear what he thought. It clearly mattered to her a great deal what he thought.
Which was wrong. She ought to be all atwitter over Calder’s opinion, not his.
Damn. He’d done this with his lack of self-control. He’d muddled her mind, weakened her determination to take this advantageous step.
And the only one to pay for it would be her. In the end, he would walk away a free man—albeit with a hole in his heart. But no one needed to know about that.
He stood. “You look astonishingly beautiful.”
She blinked. “I do?”
“There is no lovelier woman in all of England,” he said gravely. Let her hear it once, for God knew Calder would never say it. “You should never forget that.” He bent to pick up his hat. “If you’ll excuse me, I find that I must go now. The carriage will take you back to Brook House when you’re finished here.”
With that, he turned his back on the bride of his heart—though it tore him nearly in two to do so—and walked away.
The next day, Phoebe managed to go the entire day without seeing Rafe. At this point, the sensible thing would be to avoid him entirely. She took breakfast in her room, kept to the loneliest portions of the house during the morning, pled the headache during calls and made it last all through dinner.
Brookhaven sent an officious message requesting that she inform him if she required a physician. She replied that, no, she was only overtired from the past few days of activity and she was going to bed early.
Activity that had been a great deal more strenuous and breathless than Brookhaven could ever be allowed to know!
He sent another message, reminding her that they had seats at the opera the next night. Phoebe knew there’d be no more hiding tomorrow. Brookhaven expected her to plan the wedding and be on his arm, ready to play marchioness.
It hadn’t worked, anyway. It did no good, trying to avoid Rafe. He was everywhere … in the servants’ conversation, in the portraits on the wall, in his hat and gloves on the front hall table, his voice rumbling through the halls …
She heard him coming once, the distinctive stride of his
down the hall. She spun about, thinking to flee to the front of the house.
Brookhaven’s deep voice resounded in the front hall, just coming in the door.
Rafe was behind her and Brookhaven on the approach. She turned to duck into the library. No, blast it. The vicar was ensconced within. He would know she weakened. His sharp eyes still followed her every move.
There were simply too many men in this house!
Across the hall another door beckoned. It was a servants door, flush to the wall, disguised as part of the paneling. Phoebe was through it in a flash. She carefully closed the door behind her, then pressed her ear to it. Had she been spotted?
Footfalls on the hall runner, then more from the other direction.
Both sets of footsteps paused before the linen closet.
Phoebe shook her head in the darkness. Of course.
“Ah, Rafe—I’m glad I caught you. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about my fiancée.”
Oh, dear. Phoebe didn’t know whether to shrink back and cover her ears or press herself more tightly to the door and listen.
“What about Ph—Miss Millbury, Calder?” Rafe’s tone was wary.
Calder cleared his throat. “Well, I have noticed you have a tendency to gaze at her. And you do seem to be always
about
. Even the staff has commented.”
Oh drat. Someone had seen them in the larder—or the parlor—or the hall—
My my, we have been busy …
She wrapped her arms tightly about her chilled midsection and tried to listen through the roaring in her ears.
Scandal. Disgrace. Notoriety.
Oh please, no.
“What of it?” Rafe was bristling, she could tell.
Calder harrumphed. “There’s no need to take offense. After all, you built your own reputation. You can hardly expect me to ignore something you’ve worked so diligently on.”
“Why not? You ignore everything else I care about.”
“Meaning Brookhaven?”
Brookhaven? Phoebe sat back slightly. This wasn’t about her, but the estate?
“Of course I mean Brookhaven!” Rafe’s voice began to rise. “You’ve ignored every suggestion I’ve made!”
Calder snorted. “Well, but really, Rafe. You’re hardly in a position to know what’s best for an estate the size and complexity of Brookhaven.”
There was a moment of silence. Phoebe waited, scarcely allowing herself to breathe. Did Calder even realize what he’d just said?
When Rafe did speak, his tone was so quiet she almost couldn’t hear.
“Because I had the wrong sort of mother, you mean?” His tone was like the furious snap of a whip. “Did that accident of birth cause a deficiency in my brain, do you think?”
Calder let out an impatient sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with your brain—when you choose to use it.”
“Ah. You’re saying I don’t think matters through—say perhaps like the matter of proposing to a woman you’ve never met?”
Ah, now it was back to her. Except … was it her imagination or were she and Brookhaven somehow tied together in this brotherly clashing of antlers?
Calder grunted. “Why I so promptly proposed to Miss Millbury is of little moment.”
Really? Because Phoebe was perishing to know.
Rafe continued in his too quiet tones. “I think it is of vast moment. I believe that if you were to answer that question truthfully, that you and I might just have to take this outside … or choose weapons.”
Phoebe swallowed, her chilled gut turning to pure ice. Oh, no. What had she wrought here in this grand house?
Or was the battle simply far too ancient for her to influence either way? Was she simply a new pennant in an old war?
“You’ve been drinking again.” Calder’s tone was of condescension covering alarm.
Rafe let out a long breath. Phoebe breathed with him, willing him to back down from that perilous stance.
“Actually, no,” Rafe said in lighter tones. “Not a drop since the ladies encamped, in fact.”
Phoebe heard his steps begin, moving away down the hall.
“Although your brotherly
concern
for my well-being does make me want to swallow great amounts of brandy,” he called back to Calder. “Great, amber
oceans
of brandy.”
His striding steps faded then and silence reigned outside Phoebe’s hiding place. Was Calder still there? Should she open the door a bit to peek?
Then she heard the rumble of Calder’s muttering. “Bloody, damn buggering
hell.”
Phoebe’s eyes widened at the profanity. Not that she was shocked to hear it—she’d assisted at more than a few village childbirths, after all!—but she was most certainly shocked to hear it from the stiff, cool, upright Marquis of Brookhaven.
Apparently she wasn’t the only one subject to fits of strong emotion when it came to Lord Raphael Marbrook!
She heard Calder’s usually measured tread march off in the opposite direction in relatively unseemly haste.
Although it was dark as pitch in the chamber where she was, suddenly things were becoming all too clear. Her heart
sank and she slid down the wall with it until she crouched with her hands clasped about her drawn-up knees.
Two dogs, circling warily, and she was the bone—or the symbol of the Brookhaven bone—or something such. Her head ached.
A discreet tap came at the door. “Miss?”
Phoebe sighed. “Yes, Fortescue?” She answered without lifting her forehead from her knees.
“Miss Millbury, might I be of some assistance?”
“No thank you, Fortescue. I’m perfectly fine.”
“A candle perhaps?”
“No, thank you.” She paused a moment. “Fortescue, what room is this?”
“’Tis the closet where we keep the table linens, miss.”
“Will anyone be needing linens for the next few hours?”
She could almost hear the elegant Fortescue purse his lips in barest amusement.
“I believe we can make do without, miss. What should I tell his lordship if he asks after your whereabouts?”
She leaned her head back against the door. “Fortescue, have you ever seen two dogs fight over a bone?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Well, this particular bone needs a bit of a holiday.”
“Indeed, miss. I shall tell his lordship that you are indisposed.”
“You’re a treasure, Fortescue. Now go away.”
“Yes, miss. Have a nice holiday, miss.”
So here she was in the dark and silence and privacy she’d craved so desperately. She ought to take this time to plan her honeymoon or learn the staff’s names or consider which charities Lady Brookhaven ought to endow—but there was one only thought on her wayward mind.
Three days—and she’d not managed to keep her hands to herself for any one of them. She didn’t know how she was going to bear another eleven!
OUTSIDE THE LINEN closet, Fortescue pondered the door behind which the future Lady Brookhaven cowered.
She was a lovely young lady, so sweet and unassuming.
The poor thing was going to be chewed alive by Society. If their lordships didn’t manage it first.
A soft laugh from nearby sent a quivering tingle up his spine. He did not turn. “Good afternoon, Patricia.”
Light footsteps approached. “Good afternoon, sir.” She came to stand next to him—not too close, of course, but it didn’t matter. He could still catch the warm, cinnamon scent of her.
“Will she be comin’ out soon, d’you think, sir?” The laughter in Patricia’s voice was gentle, not mocking. “I’ve a sudden need for a tablecloth, like.”
Fortescue inhaled carefully and managed not to close his eyes and moan in pleasure. “I believe Miss Millbury is taking a bit of a holiday from the tensions of preparing for the wedding.”
“Aye,” Patricia sobered. “But has she decided which one?”
Fortescue swallowed. “We do not gossip about our employers.”
Patricia shook her head, sending more aphrodisiac scent to enfold him. “I’m worried about her, sir. She’s a real lady, for all her simple ways. I hate to see her so sad.”
So his Irish flower was kind as well as lovely. The flames threatened to burn him alive.
“’Tis nice that she has your understandin’, sir,” Patricia went on, approval making her voice softer yet. “Most men would think her daft for hidin’ amongst the napkins.”
He felt a touch on his sleeve. “You’re a good sort, Mr. Fortescue.”
No one touched him. Ever.
His arm felt cold once she’d moved away.

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