Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01] (6 page)

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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]
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The early sun still slanted through the windows of Brook House, but each moment passed like an hour in Rafe’s swirling thoughts. He’d tapped the brandy decanter immediately after Calder’s departure this morning, but the fragrant amber liquid wasn’t up to its usual ability to make him forget.
Now he stood, white-knuckled fists braced on the window frame, staring unseeing at the street visible from the front of Brook House.
Calder was engaged to Miss Phoebe Millbury.
His
Miss Millbury!
Rafe had tossed and turned all night, trying to compose the perfect “this is romantic, not raving mad” proposal to present to Miss Millbury.
He tried to shut out the memory of himself humming the latest off-color ditty as he’d tied his cravat and pulled one of his signature silver-buttoned blue coats on over his shirt and waistcoat.
Downstairs in the breakfast room, Calder, of course, had been up for hours. Rafe had joined him silently, still pondering the best way to present his potential engagement to his brother. Calder had casually cleared his throat.
“You should be the first to know, Rafe. I took your advice and this morning I received word that Miss Phoebe Millbury
has consented to be my wife. Her aunt has guardianship of her for the moment, but Lady Tessa believes there will be no objection from the girl’s father. Thank you for saving me much tedious study and consideration.”
No.
For an eternal moment, Rafe could not draw a breath. Then, through the roaring in his mind, he’d managed to speak. “It has been only hours since the ball.” His voice had croaked. He hadn’t cared.
Calder had only chuckled, apparently oblivious. “That sort of thing does not take long if one employs the right people to investigate. She is entirely suitable; although her great-grandfather was in trade, there has been adequate rise in the family’s station so that the difference is not inappropriate. She brings no wealth, but then, I don’t need it.”
Still Rafe could not breathe for the fury that consumed him. Once again, the ripest fruit fell easily into Calder’s oh-so-deserving hand.
But wait … simply because Calder had proposed didn’t mean that—
“She accepted my offer with dispatch,” Calder had gone on to say. “I find that admirably decisive, don’t you? Miss Millbury must be a very practical, nonromantic sort.”
With dispatch.
She hadn’t even hesitated, it seemed. And why would she? That moment in the garden, that soft whisper of possibility that had hung in the air between them … in truth, he’d been the only one to feel it.
Cain and Abel—murder between brothers. Vengeance on a biblical scale sounded good just then.
Rafe couldn’t kill his brother, but he could sure as hell pound his face into the marble floor of the foyer and relish every moment of it.
Phoebe.
Rafe’s hands had clenched into fists, snapping the fork’s
mother-of-pearl handle in two. He hadn’t noticed the stabbing pain as the edges dug into his flesh.
As much as he hated to admit it—and it took several snifters of brandy to make him admit it—he had no one to blame but himself. He could see so clearly where he’d gone wrong.
Hindsight was no comfort to the loser, however. The fact that he’d turned Calder’s attention to Phoebe like a well-trained pointer indicating a choice fowl to the hunter only made the facts all the more agonizing.
Of course, then he spent a good hour telling himself that one moonlit evening in a garden with a saucy and delightful angel didn’t matter at all.
Then he swung back to blaming Calder for yet again taking everything good for himself.
And she had accepted—how could she have accepted?
How could she not? A girl like that, a vicar’s daughter
—
what was she to do, turn down the richest man in London? “No, thank you, my lord. I don’t care to be your marchioness.”
Well, Calder wasn’t the richest man in London—quite. He wasn’t the most powerful either, although there were only about four or five others above him. He was handsome as well, since he looked a great deal like Rafe—and Rafe had never had any complaints. So how could one expect a young woman fresh from the country to say no to the Marquis of Brookhaven?
Perhaps none of that is the case. Perhaps she simply likes him better.
Everyone else does, after all.
The better man.
Their father, the previous marquis, had said that many times to Rafe in his wastrel days. “Thank God that Brookhaven will be in the hands of a better man than you!”
Hating Calder and despising Phoebe, while darkly entertaining, was not going to supply an answer for this dilemma.
What was done was done. Calder could hardly break his engagement without disgracing the woman and damaging his own closely protected reputation—something Calder wouldn’t do.
Phoebe, on the other hand …
He rubbed a hand over his face. She’d seemed the perfect answer. So sweet, yet full of earthy warmth.
And exhilarating. He smiled slightly. Sweet yet tart, dreamy yet spirited.
No. She’d never back out of the engagement. A girl like that didn’t change her mind once made. It killed him to think of all that loyalty and sweetness wasted on dour, automaton Calder.
Nor could he in good conscience say a word about last night. It had been innocent, for the most part. He would not compromise the lady.
He straightened, a quiet, despairing certainty settling over him.
Rafe looked down at his hands, which were still fisted and pale of knuckle. He willed them to open and relax.
So now Calder had it all. The estate, the title—
And her.
His fingers curled with old fury once more.
THE GUEST PARLOR in Tessa’s rented house was a formal room carefully decorated not to give offense, which only made the mingled bland floral and muted stripes jar Phoebe’s eye in their own way.
Or perhaps it was just her. Perhaps this was all some sort of ghastly dream, the sort one had when one overindulged on chocolates. No, it was all horribly real. The vicar was
beaming, Tessa was trilling, Deirdre was looking on in sardonic silence, and Sophie was gazing dreamily at the window.
Phoebe sat in perfect stillness on the settee next to the Marquis of Brookhaven and tried dutifully to listen over the buzzing in her ears. The world had an eerie sharpness, yet the color seemed leached from Tessa’s salmon-pink gown and the vicar’s dark coat.
Seated next to her, Brookhaven was garbed in perfect black and white. Phoebe herself was in proper virginal white muslin with nary a sprig or pattern. Together they seemed a proper indication of her life to come.
Black and white. Wrong and right. No room for error. No easing of expectations. No freedom. No laughter.
No passion.
For Brookhaven, for all that he was every bit as young and handsome as Marbrook, seemed rather more like the vicar at heart. Both men were strict with themselves and others. Both men had precise views of the rules and obligations of their positions. In fact, the resemblance in their personalities was so striking that Phoebe took a certain dismal comfort that she was not to marry a complete stranger after all.
Yet Phoebe couldn’t suppress the notion that the vicar had aged in the last week since she’d seen him. Or had she stopped noticing at some point as she had sleepwalked through her life in Thornton?
The vicar seemed inordinately worn by his short journey back from the next county where he’d been visiting friends. Subsequently, the drive through Hyde Park had been canceled in favor of tea in the parlor.
All of which was magically accomplished without any of the ladies managing to put in a word. Brookhaven certainly had a commanding air about him. Even Tessa’s sullen staff jumped to carry out his every wish with alacrity.
Now, the vicar turned to her at last. “Well, my dear, you’ve
done nicely for yourself, I must say. He’s a capital fellow. I couldn’t have chosen better myself.”
Then why don’t you wed him?
Oh, heavens—she hadn’t just said that aloud, had she?
No, no one seemed shocked or taken aback. In fact, the insipid smiles just went on and on. It had only been that the irreverent remark had sounded so loudly and defiantly in her head that she could have sworn she had voiced it.
Brookhaven seemed equally pleased with the vicar. “How gratifying to learn that Miss Millbury has been influenced by such sensible thinking all her life. So many young ladies these days seem to have no thought in their heads but balls and gowns,” he said approvingly.
Phoebe had the sudden mental image of him patting her on the head.
Good dog
. Just let him try it, she thought in a giddy panic.
Phoebe saw Deirdre bite her lip, hard. At least she wasn’t the only one who was bursting to round on the pompous Brookhaven. Then Tessa placed an apparently affectionate hand on Deirdre’s shoulder—and squeezed until her knuckles turned white with effort.
Although it had to have been extremely painful, Deirdre never twitched. She only maintained her vapid smile while patting Tessa’s hand with daughterly affection.
Phoebe was distracted from her own predicament for a moment by the way Deirdre had taken the painful abuse with such casual familiarity. It seemed all was not as perfect between the two as Phoebe had thought. Perhaps it was better to have a father like the vicar after all.
And now you can wed a man just like him and never, ever be allowed to grow to womanhood. From vicar’s perfect daughter to duke’s perfect wife with nary a moment of relief between.
Except for one thing—she wasn’t perfect. How was she going to explain
that
on her wedding night? The vicar
would be no help there, for he believed she’d been deserted before she’d been deflowered—and Phoebe had never had the nerve to correct that impression.
The marquis was speaking. Phoebe pulled her wandering attention back with an effort.
“Upon reflection, I have decided that it will not be efficient to continue to visit here.”
He was planning to make himself scarce until the wedding? How … relieving.
“Instead, I should like to invite your entire party to move to Brook House for the coming fortnight. Lady Tessa, you will be able to assist Miss Millbury with the arrangements with the help of my excellent staff—”
So he’d noticed the lackluster service. Phoebe couldn’t blame the poor folk burdened with working for Tessa. One had to be paid a decent wage, and on time, to enjoy one’s employment.
Still it was a kind offer—even if it clearly originated in his own desire for convenience. Phoebe opened her mouth to politely decline.
“What a lovely notion!” Tessa’s eyes absolutely glittered with social-climbing glee. “We’ll pack up at once!”
“No need,” Brookhaven said crisply. “I shall have your things moved by this afternoon.”
“Oh, that will be grand!” Tessa fluttered and trilled and generally made a rather nauseating show of gratitude. Then her gaze sharpened. “
Until
the wedding, did you say?”
Oh, no. Tessa was playing for hospitality for the entire Season. Since Phoebe would rather stick needles in her eye than live with Tessa one minute more than necessary, she held her breath waiting for Brookhaven’s response.
Brookhaven gazed at Tessa. Tessa gazed unrelentingly at Brookhaven. Phoebe watched, fascinated by the clash of wills between two people who were obviously used to getting their own way.
On one hand, it was nice to see Tessa meet her match. On the other hand, Brookhaven had not consulted her, Phoebe, as to her preference in the matter. In fact, he’d not spared her so much as a questioning glance during the entire exchange.
That did not bode well for the future.
Then a belated warning bell sounded inside her. There was more to consider here. On one hand, if she went to Brook House, she’d see Marbrook a great deal. On the other hand, if she went to Brook House … she’d see Marbrook a great deal. Either way she was doomed to be in his company more than she’d like—or dangerously less than she wished.
Lord Brookhaven turned to the vicar. “Sir, I can take you to Brook House now. My valet will be happy to tend to your needs.” Leaving the vicar to blink in bemusement at the thought of having his pants buttoned by another man, Brookhaven turned back to gaze benevolently at the rest of them. “I thought perhaps you ladies would prefer an outing to visit Lementeur. I hear he’s quite the favorite in our set.”
By the way that Tessa gasped and even Deirdre’s eyes lighted up, this Lementeur was something both desirable and exclusive. Phoebe hadn’t seen Tessa this excited since Deirdre had managed a second waltz with the septuagenarian duke.
“After all,” Brookhaven went on, “Miss Millbury will be needing a trousseau befitting a marchioness.”

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