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Authors: The Duke Next Door

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BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02]
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Calder tossed aside the ledger he was pretending to read and leaned his head back on his chair. Inhaling deeply, he let out a minor experimental groan. It helped a little.
Deirdre was driving him mad, and she wasn’t even in the room! He’d just spent half an hour staring at columns of numbers that made no sense while his mind was filled with her hair, her breasts, her eyes … but mostly her breasts, if he was honest with himself.
What was she doing right now? She might be bored, or even a little lonely. He could seek her out and tweak her powerful pride just a little, just enough to make her cheeks pinken and her blue eyes flash haughtily …
It was a marvelous plan. Being a man of deeds, not words, he jumped up to put it into action immediately.
Unfortunately, as he entered the front hall of the house he heard the sounds of company in the house—company that was having far too good of a time!
“Fortescue!”
As usual, his butler materialized as if he’d rubbed a bloody lamp. He scowled at the man. “What is the meaning of this?” He waved at the parlor door. “I was very specific in my orders!”
Fortescue inclined his head. “Indeed, sir. Very specific. However, is it my understanding that I have your permission to knock milady down in order to beat her to the door?”
Calder drew back. “Of course not!”
Fortescue folded his gloved hands before him and gazed at Calder serenely. “Then might your lordship suggest by what means I am to accomplish said task? Other than grappling with milady on the foyer floor, of course.”
Calder gazed furiously at his highly paid, once-slavishly-devoted-but-now-openly-traitorous butler, but Fortescue remained unfazed. Calder threw his arms wide. “Corrupted! She’s corrupted you all!” He swung about and glared at the hallway, where the sound of tinkling laughter and male guffaws infiltrated his once peaceful home.
Peaceful? Or dreary?
“I should have chosen the other cousin,” Calder muttered. “Miss Sophie Blake would never carry on so.”
“No, my lord. Although …”
“What?”
“I do believe Miss Blake is in the parlor as well, my lord.”
Unbelievable. His beautiful bride infected everyone she met! “I should have married Tessa herself,” Calder growled. “At least then I would have known what to expect.”
Fortescue raised a brow. “With respect, my lord, if you had wed Lady Tessa, you would have been obliged to hire an entirely new staff. Myself included.”
Since he himself would rather run naked through Westminster Abbey than spend ten minutes with demon-spawned Tessa, he could hardly blame his butler for
such an insubordinate statement. “Like begets like,” he muttered.
Fortescue cleared his throat. “My lord, if I may be so bold to say—
milady
is nothing at all like her stepmother.”
The odd emphasis didn’t escape Calder. “But I am, is that what you’re saying?”
Fortescue only bowed deeply. “If there is nothing else, my lord, there are guests to be attended to.”
Calder gestured sharply. “Oh, get out of here, you turncoat. I never would have thought a head of fair hair and a fine bosom would warp a man like you, Fortescue.”
Fortescue bowed. “No, indeed, my lord. I think it might have been the mind and the heart beneath.”
Calder looked away, for he’d not been privy to nearly enough of either and it didn’t behoove a man in his position to be envious of his butler! “Fortescue,” he forced out between gritted teeth. “Pray, ask her ladyship if she would excuse herself so we could speak for a moment.”
Fortescue entered the parlor, then left, followed after a moment by Deirdre. She walked past Calder quickly, forcing him to follow her. Not that he minded—the view going was nearly as attractive as the view coming. Once they turned the corner in the hall, she turned on him in a rustle of silk and indignation.
“My lord, I am surprised at you! How could you do that to poor Sophie?”
Calder blinked. “I’m quite sure I’ve done nothing to Sophie. You, on the other hand, likely have a great deal to answer for.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Well, that shows what you know. Tell me, now that both Phoebe and I are out of the house, do you imagine that Sophie gets many callers there?”
His frown eased. “Ah. So this is how you intend to keep Sophie in the social circle? By captivating every man within a mile and keeping him from so much as glancing her way?”
She folded her arms, her chin lifting. “I am trying to teach her
by example.”
“Hmm. Actually, that notion has some merit, I suppose.”
Damn it.
“She certainly won’t learn how to hold a conversation with a man if she never leaves her studies.”
Her forehead cleared in surprise. “Yes, precisely. I hadn’t thought you would—”
He let out a breath. “My lady, I am not a complete block, you know.” He glanced back toward the parlor door. “Poor thing, all alone there with Lady Tessa.” He turned back to Deirdre. “You should invite her to come often.”
She tilted her head, a tiny crease appearing between her brows. “Brookhaven, are you actually being
nice?
”
She needn’t look so astounded. “Of course not. Anything that troubles Lady Tessa is sure to be a good investment in time, that is all.”
An answering glint appeared in his wife’s beautiful blue eyes. “Indeed.”
He curled the corner of his mouth. “Indeed.”
They stayed that way, each unwilling to do anything to end the rare moment of accord between them.
Calder could feel her close to him, as if the air between them was charged with incipient lightning. Her
near smile faded slowly as her eyes softened to a summer blue. She grew sweeter, softer, warmer with each passing second.
His for the taking, hanging ripe and inviting on his very own vine—why was she not in his arms? He could not recall at that moment. She ought to be.
He could reach out right now to stroke that lock of hair that she let curl just over her ear, or perhaps allow his fingertips to trail softly over her cheek to those pink, full lips …
He shifted in her direction. She swayed toward him, her eyelids drooping in willing surrender—
From upstairs came a crash and furious shriek from Meggie, then a string of words no seven-year-old girl ought to know.
Calder shot a frustrated glance up the stairs. “What a menace. I ought to pack her right back off to Brookhaven—” He turned his gaze back to Deirdre to see that she’d stepped back, disappointed anger in her eyes.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” She folded her arms. “Why don’t you just bundle her up in brown paper and send her through the post? Or me, for that matter—where will I be bundled off to if I don’t behave?” She was really working herself into a spitting rage now. It looked good on her.
Damn
. He sighed wearily, knowing it would annoy her more than anything else would. “I don’t have time for this nonsense now. I’ll be in my study.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Go on. Hide. It is what you do best, after all.”
He shook his head and turned away from her, flushed cheeks, bright eyes and all. He must remember what he
was about here. He would not get anywhere if he let her bait him into reacting.
When Brookhaven turned his broad back to her and walked away, Deirdre nearly pounced on him in her frustration. Oh, how she’d like to pound some sense into that thick head!
With no available projectiles in her path, she had to satisfy herself with a noise of frustration and misery.
Score: Brookhaven one, Imprisoned Bride nothing. Nothing but a belly full of the fiercest desire she’d ever experienced mingled with loss and ache and plain, ordinary, bone-deep
mad
. She stamped her foot, for being childish didn’t count when no one could see.
“Brookhaven, one day you are going to kneel at my feet and beg me to love you forever,” she vowed. “And then I’m going to—to—”
What? Deny him? Reject him?
Love him right back for the rest of his life?
The fight seeped from her body and she let out a sigh. Yes, she probably would.
Damn it
.
After clashing with Brookhaven in the hall, it was a relief to return to the parlor and the uncomplicated admiration awaiting her there. Perhaps she was shallow, but what was wrong with a bit of innocent flirtation? After all, it wasn’t as if his lordship cared—at least, he didn’t care as long as she wasn’t having too much fun.
Well, drat him, she would have more fun than she could stand, beginning right now.
She sailed into the room with her very best smile for her admirers. Sophie looked up with a rather wearied glance, obviously twitching to disappear back into her stuffy books. Deirdre felt a twinge of guilt for using her cousin so.
She settled on the sofa next to Sophie, discreetly turning her best profile to the three young men on the opposing one. Graham, who was sprawled in the chair by the fire, shot her a wry glance of appreciation. She raised an admonishing brow and turned to Sophie.
“Cousin, do tell us about your latest translation. I’ve been simply dying to hear.” Actually, the stories were rather intriguing, but it would have been worth the transformation in Sophie even if they hadn’t been.
Instantly, her drab, restrained cousin brightened. “Oh,
yes—this one is called ‘The Summer and Winter Garden.’ There is a spell, you see, that causes snow to fall on one half of the garden in the summer and roses to bloom in the other half of the garden in winter. One day, a man journeying by sees the roses blooming in the snow and stops to pick one for his youngest daughter—”
“I hope this isn’t about gardening,” one of the young men, that dreary poet-in-his-own-mind Baskin, drawled.
Quelled, Sophie lowered her gaze. “I haven’t yet told you about the beast—”
Graham leaned forward, spurred from his languishing sprawl. “I want to hear, Sophie.”
Deirdre sent Baskin an arch glance. He was not so endearing this way. “I, as well.”
But shy Sophie had lost her tenuous nerve. It was best to let her stop before she tripped Fortescue with the tea tray or demolished one of Brookhaven’s art treasures in her distress.
Baskin must have realized his mistake. In an obvious attempt to change the subject, he turned an adoring gaze upon Deirdre. “Why don’t you tell us about the first ball you’re going to throw here at Brook House?”
Oh, dear. She ought to have known that letting people in meant that her humiliating secret might get out. Playing for time, she waved a hand. “Oh, I’m not ready to announce anything yet.”
Baskin leaned forward. “But you must have chosen a theme? You were so looking forward to it the last time we talked.”
Deirdre blinked at him, touched that he’d actually remembered what she’d spoken of more than a week ago. She rewarded him with her most blinding smile. “When I’m ready to announce my plans, you shall be
the first to know.” She leaned forward and patted his hand. “After all, only my
dearest
friends will be invited.”
The silly fellow actually glowed. Honestly, it was like having a faithful hound, if a hound wrote excruciatingly bad poetry. She added even more intimate warmth to her smile. Sweet, faithful Baskin—a certain guarantee against husband-induced doldrums.
Now that she’d reduced one admirer to a puddle of longing, she turned her attention back to the rest of the party. She was determined to enjoy this respite from Brookhaven, whether she liked it or not!
FOETESCUE STOOD BEHIND the desk in his small but precisely neat office. He’d taken this room, which was once meant for a lady’s morning room, as a private workspace when he’d first succeeded his mentor. Since her ladyship didn’t seem inclined to ask for it back, it would do as a classroom for Patricia as well.
The fact that it was a charming room with a delightful aspect of the garden had nothing to do with it—unless perhaps it was the fact that the large window provided good light.
Then again, he’d planned the lessons for evening, so the only thing one would see might be moonlight on roses …
You’re a bad fellow, John.
True. He’d honestly never realized he had such a calculating streak, but he refused to allow shame or propriety to stand in his way. He could not bear a day without Patricia in it.
Now he waited, showing not a fragment of his
quivering anxiety as he waited for a response to his proposal—er,
her ladyship’s proposal.
“Me, Mr. Fortescue? Learn to read?”
Fortescue kept his hands folded before him and his gaze properly on Patricia O’Malley’s face. Her own gaze had been properly downcast—saucy she might be, but Patricia knew the proprieties—until her startled green eyes had risen to meet his.
As green as the hills of Ireland itself …
He cleared his throat and nodded. “You, indeed. Her ladyship believes you more than capable of learning—as do I.”
She blinked. “You do, sir?” Her cheeks grew slightly pink.
Was she blushing from his compliment—as if he’d concocted rhymes about hair like fire and eyes like emeralds and spoken them aloud?
Not that he would. Ever. Particularly not to a pert lady’s maid who worked under him—er, beneath him—er, oh damn. He cleared his throat again.
“I have a spare hour every evening after supper.” Actually, it had taken an entire afternoon to rearrange his strict management schedule. “Her ladyship has no engagements scheduled … for the moment. We will work in here.”
She fixed her gaze upon him sharply. “Here, sir? In the evenings? Alone?”
“Did you expect her ladyship to ship you off to school?” He raised a brow. “I appreciate your hesitation, Patricia. It shows you possess a modest bent. However, I am old enough to be your father—”
“A bit older, actually, sir. Me da’s not yet forty years of age.”
Her blasted da must have had an early start indeed. Well, it was a good thing to remember, wasn’t it, when he thought too hard upon the way the curve of her waist was revealed beneath the proper black gabardine when she moved? “Then there is nothing to worry about, is there?”
She still gazed at him doubtfully, a tiny wrinkle between her auburn brows.
“What is it, then?” He hadn’t meant to speak sharply, yet she did not so much as flinch at his terse tone. She had a spine, this one.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t want to disappoint her ladyship, but I don’t think I can do it. It’s not right, is it, that you take so much time away from your duties, when I likely won’t learn a thing, big country cow that I am.”
He begged to differ. “Patricia, I have worked in the houses of the nobility for many years. If you vow never to quote me, I will swear to you that many a child, much stupider than you, has mastered reading and arithmetic and gone on to make us all miserable with their idiocy.”
She tried to press her lips together but the smile won out. “Yes, sir. I see what you mean, sir.” She took a breath and nodded. “All right, sir. If you think I can do it.”
“Very well, then. We shall start tonight, immediately after the family has finished supper.”
She bobbed smartly at him and left, her face glowing and her eyes bright.
A clever girl. No, better than clever. Brave. She had the heart of a lion, to step from her tiny Irish dale into such an unfamiliar world as London and try to better herself the way she had.
“You’ll do fine, my Patricia,” he whispered to the empty room, his tone a caress. “Just fine.”
BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02]
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