A Belated Bride

by Karen Hawkins

  Deep in feigned sleep, Lucien stirred and began to snore in a most annoying fashion. Arabella took the opportunity to pull the door as far closed as she could with Lord Harlbrook standing in the way. “Thank you for your concern, my lord, but we must be returning home to—”

  His hand closed over her wrist, his breath hot on her cheek. “Pray don’t be so belligerent my dear. I have the right to ask anything I wish, and you know it.”

  Arabella yanked her hand away. “You have no rights where I am concerned. The debt will be paid and our association will be at an end.”

  “Forget the money.” He wet his lips with a swift swipe of his tongue, his hungry gaze roving across her face.

  “Arabella, you must know that I—”

  “Lud, what’s this?” Lucien’s voice rumbled across the coach, husky like aged whiskey. He slid forward until his arm rested along the back of the leather seat. “The coach has stopped. Have we lost a wheel?”

  All Arabella had to do was lean back and she would be comfortably ensconced in his embrace. The idea made her tingle in the most astounding places. She cleared her throat. “This is Lord Harlbrook, Your Grace. He is my neighbor.”

  “How exciting,” Lucien murmured in a wearied voice.

  “May we continue to Rosemont? I am tired.”

  Harlbrook puffed out his chest. “Your Grace, I was unaware of your presence in our neighborhood or I would have immediately ridden over to—”

  “I came for a private visit,” Lucien said softly.

  There was no mistaking the intention of that carefully uttered phrase. Harlbrook bristled. “You will forgive my curiosity, Your Grace, but I myself have an interest at Rosemont.”

  Lucien stared at the pudgy lord for an inordinate length of time, his gaze narrowing. Arabella could feel the anger building in the tense figure at her side. He proffered a polite, humorless smile and slid his hand another inch down the seat until his fingertips rested against her shoulder. “Rosemont is a lovely house. I, however, find its occupants more to my liking.” Heated green eyes turned to Arabella. “Don’t I, love?”

  The soft words settled in the silence and Lucien placed his hand on the side of her neck, his thumb moving in slow, easy circles.

  She tried to swallow, but failed. Her entire body focused on his warm hand and the sensuous movement of his thumb.

  Harlbrook choked, his face bright red. “This is insufferable!”

  Lucien looked surprised. “For whom?”

  Although Lucien’s actions were highly improper, Arabella had to fight the urge to giggle. She’d put up with Lord Harlbrook’s unwanted advances for so many months that it was a pleasure to see him glaring, his jowls quivering like an outraged hog.

  She forced herself to say politely, “If you’ll excuse us, my lord. His Grace and I really must return to Rosemont. My aunts will worry if we are late.”

  “So true!” Lucien exclaimed. “We must not tarry.” Leaning past her, he grabbed the door and slammed it shut, barely missing Harlbrook’s nose. Without waiting another moment, Lucien thumped on the ceiling.

  Wilson immediately hawed the horses into action. The lantern flickered against the walls as the carriage swayed along the road.

  Lucien’s breathing filled the tense silence, ragged and shallow. “How long has that bastard been forcing himself on you like that?”

  “He is usually not so persistent. I must say, you certainly set him in his place.”

  “I’d like to have set him in a much wetter, much muddier place.”

  She bubbled with laughter. “It was a wonder to see him so confounded he could not even speak.” She glanced at him shyly. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he snapped, his voice harsh, his eyes as hard as agates. “My damnable temper—” He broke off, controlling himself with an obvious effort. Then, in carefully restrained tones, he said, “Once that fool tells every person in town what he saw here, you will be ruined.”

  Arabella chuckled. “Pish-posh. No one will believe a word he says. Besides, I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

  “But I do,” Lucien ground out, his jaw set and hard.

  Arabella had to fight an overwhelming desire to kiss away the bitter turn of his lips. Shocked at her thoughts, she turned to fasten down the curtain that flapped against the window and said breezily, “Oh, I’ve been ruined before. As painful as it was, I lived through it.”

  “You should not suffer because of me.” Lucien’s warm voice sounded at her ear. “Never again, Bella mia. Never again.”

  She turned and found herself drowning in his sea-green eyes. She knew she should speak, say something cutting. After all, this man had taken her heart and discarded her as if she were of no more importance than a wrinkled cravat. His heartless actions had hurt her with a pain that had been as soul-deep as it had been long in duration. She could still feel the sting of his rejection.

  At the time, she had believed she would never forgive him. She had dreamed of the day when she would have the chance to face him. But the words she had imagined herself saying for so long fled, and all she could do was stare at him: at his incredible eyes, the smooth, golden line of his face, the sensual shape of his mouth.

  “So beautiful,” Lucien murmured. As if sensing her longing, he lifted a hand to her cheek. His eyes glistened with hunger as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Arabella was lost at the first touch of his lips. Once again she was sixteen, pledging her love to the only man who had lifted her senses to such heights. Waves of desire raced through her, stealing her breath and tangling her in feelings she had no strength to deny.

  A slow heat began to build inside her. She gripped him closer, and felt his groan rumble deep in his chest.

  Abruptly, Lucien’s mouth slipped away and he fell back against the seat.

  Arabella stared down at him.

  Lucien Devereaux, the dashing and dangerous Duke of Wexford, had fainted.

  Chapter 3

  Lady Melwin sat knitting, her needles clacking through the red yarn like a barnyard full of hens. “Something must be done.”

  “Indeed.” From the other chair pulled close to the fire, her sister, Lady Durham, looked up from her embroidery.

  “More than one thing, if you ask me.”

  Jane silently agreed and forced herself to knit at a slower pace. The last time she’d knit so furiously, she had inadvertently lost count and poor Wilson’s sweater had come out with one arm a good five inches longer than the other. She always felt a twinge of regret every time she saw the sleeve drooping over his hand. She sighed. It was just one of many things that needed correcting at Rosemont. “It’s a disgrace, the way poor Arabella runs from dawn till nightfall, staying out far too late.”

  Emma stabbed her needle into the material. “She works much too hard.”

  “As if she were a servant. Though it is improper to speak ill of the dead, our brother was derelict in his duty to his daughter. The ninny, losing everything on faro.”

  Emma lifted her brows, her blue eyes owlish behind her spectacles.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Jane said defensively.

  “Whist is an entirely different matter. Besides, James had an addiction. I, meanwhile, merely enjoy an occasional game of cards.”

  Emma snorted, but offered no more comment. Glad to see that her sister was disinclined to argue, Jane glanced at the painted wooden box in which she kept her winnings. At one time it had been satisfyingly full, and she’d thought to help Arabella with the debts left after James’s death. Now, however, she’d be lucky to find a shilling for a single game.

  Unaware of her sister’s musings, Emma tied off a thread. “It is beyond me how our foolish dolt of a brother could be a descendent of a man like the Captain.” She turned her gaze to the portrait that hung over the mantel and, as one, they both stared in silent admiration.

  The picture was of a decidedly rakish man dressed in the height of fashion for 1551. A red silk doublet sat across his
wide shoulders, the slashed sleeves revealing the rich blue velvet of his tunic. Cream-colored hose encased his muscular legs, outlining their fine shape. One hand rested casually on a sword set with jewels.

  But it was his expression that arrested one’s attention. There, the artist had outdone himself. The Captain’s blue eyes blazed with genuine humor, a quizzical half smile lighting his handsome face.

  This portrait did not show him in his dashing captain’s uniform, as did the one in the main salon. No, this portrait was of a later time, after a certain damsel had settled the lusty pirate’s need to wander. Emma and Jane sighed. No man had ever been so handsome as Captain Richard Hadley, the Pirate of Rosemont.

  Jane pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and delicately wiped the corner of her mouth. “The Captain would have known how to handle our Arabella.”

  “Oh, yes.” Emma adjusted her glasses, a beatific expression on her face. “He’d ride into the courtyard, brandishing his sword, and take her.” She tilted her head, her white curls gleaming in the firelight. “Would that be incest? He is her great-great-great—”

  “Emma! To suggest such a thing!” Jane tucked her handkerchief away and rose to check on the tonic she had brewing in a small kettle over the fire. She lifted the heavy ladle and sniffed. “It needs something….” She took a tiny bottle from the table and dropped a few dried leaves into the bubbling mix.

  Emma came to stand beside her. “You had better add more; Constable Robbins’s sheep are quite large.”

  Jane added a smidge more to the pot, dropped the lid back into place, and replaced the ladle. “I wish we could do something for Arabella. If only there were more eligible men about.”

  “Mr. Francot showed some promise. He visited every day last summer.”

  “But he is only a solicitor and much too old for her.”

  “True.” Emma sneezed as she resumed her seat, her plump bosom straining against her laces. “I believe I am catching a complaint.”

  “You are always catching a complaint.”

  Emma ignored her and removed a small brown bottle from her pocket. The sweet smell of cognac wafted through the air as she sipped delicately. She had long since forgone using a spoon for her “medicine.”

  Jane shook out the last of a knot and began a new row. “Arabella needs someone as strong-willed as she. Someone capable of understanding her high spirits.”

  “Someone with wealth and position. And a title. Nothing less than a viscount.” Emma recapped her bottle and returned it to her pocket.

  The fire crackled and Jane held her toes out to the warmth. As difficult as things were, at least they maintained some of the basic comforts. Since they could not afford to keep the morning room heated during the winter, she and Emma had turned the old nursery into a private parlor. The room was small enough to warm with just one fire, and decorated with enough rose chintz to give it a cozy, welcoming air. The only remnant of the old nursery was a wrought-iron bed that stood in the corner.

  The clicking of her needles increased in tempo as Jane considered the fate of her niece. Arabella was much too attractive to stay alone. Though the current rage seemed to be for tall, fair women, Arabella had garnered more than her fair share of masculine attention. She was small and well-rounded, her skin flawless. She practically glowed with good health.

  Perhaps that was one of the problems. Jane scowled at the tangle of yarn that suddenly appeared at the tip of her needles. Besides her vigorous health, Arabella refused to use any of the thousand or so feminine wiles designed to attract a man. It was a pity her niece had inherited the famed Hadley pride. Jane’s knitting needles clacked faster. Well, with or without her niece’s help, she was going to find a husband for Arabella.

  A heavy thud sounded down the corridor before the door opened, and Wilson and Ned staggered in carrying the limp form of a large man.

  Jane leapt to her feet and scurried to open the door wider. Her gaze locked on the red stain that stretched across the man’s torn shirt. “Good heavens! Put him on the bed.”

  Emma dropped her embroidery and clambered to her feet as Wilson and Ned struggled to lay their burden on the cotton counterpane, breathing heavily from the exertion.

  “Who is he?” asked Jane, peering over their shoulders.

  Panting, Ned placed his hands on his knees. “Fell…we thought…he…”

  Doubled at the waist and breathing even harder, Wilson nodded. “On the…road…tried to…had to…and then…”

  Emma plopped her fists on her generous hips. “Sweet Sampson! Spit it out!”

  Jane sniffed suspiciously. “Have you two been drinking?”

  “No…it were him,” managed Ned, his color returning to a more normal shade. He jerked a thumb at their unconscious guest. “He’s a dook.”

  Emma, on her way to the washstand, stopped in mid-step. “A what?”

  “A dook, m’lady,” Wilson said. “A real ’un.”

  Jane pulled open the torn shirt and regarded the neat bandage, recognizing Arabella’s handiwork. “How was he wounded?”

  “I’m afeared I frightened him into fallin’ off his horse,” Wilson said, adding hastily, “though it weren’t my fault. He was ridin’ in the middle of the night, gallopin’ acrost the road like a devil. Nigh frightened me to death.”

  Ned nodded. “If ye hadn’t run ’im down, someone else would ’ave.”

  Jane’s face must have registered her confusion because Wilson added, “The missus bandaged him up right quick. He’s hardly bleedin’ now.”

  “Fortunately for you.” She would just have to wait to speak with Arabella to discover the true story. Jane went to the cupboard to remove the roll of cloths she kept for such emergencies. “Was he injured anywhere else?”

  “He bumped his head.” The old groom pushed the sleeve of his sweater up where it fell over his hand. “Miss Arabella seemed quite taken with the gent.”

  Oh? This was getting more interesting by the moment. Jane set the roll of bandages on the bed and returned to the cupboard for clean cloths. “Remove his clothing and cover him with the sheet. We must be certain he is not injured elsewhere.”

  Moving quickly, Ned helped Wilson. After a few awkward tugs and muffled oaths, they succeeded. Ned stood back with an air of satisfaction. “Wait till I tell ’em down at the Wild Stag ’bout this. I’ve never undressed a dook afore.”

  “Where is Miss Arabella?” Emma asked.

  “Out in the barn,” Ned said. “Waitin’ to see if Constable Robbins is followin’.”

  Emma blinked. “The constable? What is he doing out at this time of the night?”

  “Lookin’ fer smugglers.” Ned frowned. “Miss Hadley seemed a bit put out to see ’im. Mayhap she didn’t want ’im knowin’ she had a real dook in the carriage.”

  Jane exchanged a glance with Emma before shooing the men from the room. She firmly closed the door behind them and returned to the bed. There she stared down at their new visitor, her mind alive with possibilities. “He is certainly handsome.”

  Emma poured some water into a basin and came to stand beside her. “Very handsome. But then, I think most dukes are.”

  “I have often thought it a tragedy that there weren’t more of them about.” Jane retrieved her sewing shears from her pocket and began to cut the cloth into strips while Emma removed Arabella’s crude bandage. The wound was shallow, but the severity of the jagged tear required stitches.

  Emma gathered her sewing silk, and they went to work. Tsking over the angry edges of the torn skin, they bathed the wound, sewed it with tiny, perfect stitches, and then packed it with a cold poultice. As they worked, they marveled over each inch of the golden skin. Muscular and well defined, he reminded Jane of a statue she’d once seen in Italy. The only difference was, of course, that this statue was incredibly warm to the touch.

  Emma tied off the fresh bandage, then lifted the duke’s hand and examined his ring. “This must have cost him a few pence.”

  “At least he is a
successful duke.” Jane stood back to admire him in his entirety. “He is certainly tall.”

  “Hmm. I wonder why Arabella did not wish to speak with Constable Robbins.”

  They exchanged a look, and Jane heaved a mournful sigh. “Something is amiss and I suspect it has to do with our guest here.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Emma looked at the duke with a regretful shake of her head. “A pity, too, for a duke would have been just the thing.”

  Jane could see it all now—the wedding would have been lovely. The gentleman, so tall and well proportioned, and Arabella, beautiful in the pink frock Jane and Emma had prepared almost six years ago. Every year, they added something to the bodice of the dress—a lace collar, a flounce, handcrafted beadwork, a silk bow. This year they had outdone themselves, adding ten rows of hand-sewn rosettes.

  Emma cleared her throat. “It is a bad habit for a duke, to wander around at night and startle servants. Still…there are so few qualified men available.”

  “True,” Jane said slowly, looking down at the glittering emerald on the duke’s hand.

  “And no man is perfect,” her sister continued. “In fact, you could almost hold that no man is perfect until he meets the right woman.”

  Jane beamed. “All our duke needs is a good woman who will break him of galloping around at night and scaring people’s servants to death.”

  Emma turned to the portrait over the fireplace. “Like the Lady Meaghan broke the Captain of his insatiable bloodlust.”

  “Exactly!” They both stared at the smiling portrait. Somehow, the blue eyes seemed to twinkle merrily, as if the Captain could discern their bold thoughts and heartily approved. A gust of wind arose outside the manor and rattled the shutters with satisfying vigor.

  Emma gave a delicious shiver. “Oh, my! It seems the Captain agrees with us.”

  Jane strongly believed in signs. “Of course he does. A duke is not so very different from a pirate, after all.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “His wounds will keep him abed a week, but no more. We must induce him to stay longer.”

  “Fortunately, it won’t take long for him to fall in love with Arabella, and—” Emma stared down at Arabella’s future husband, her brows lowered over the bridge of her upturned nose. “He is very handsome, but I wonder…”