A Belated Bride

by Karen Hawkins

  Lucien absently pressed a hand to his shoulder where it throbbed. Such speculation was useless, he knew. He had wasted a lifetime on exactly that type of empty thought and had almost lost himself to it.

  He met Arabella’s curious gaze with a carefully guarded expression. “Sabrina is gone. There isn’t anything more to say.”

  Spots of color appeared in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to imply that you—”

  “I know you didn’t. I just didn’t want you to think…” What? That he should never have left Arabella? That he should have been more attentive to his own wife? That he seemed destined to cause pain to those he loved and those who loved him? He’d told himself those things hundreds of times.

  He forced a smile. “I would rather talk about you. Arabella, I know this is ten years too late, but we need to clear the air.”

  She set her cup down with a snap. “I have no wish to speak about what happened ten years ago.”

  “But I do,” he said. She turned her face away, but he continued, “I have never forgotten you.”

  “And I have never forgotten you, either,” she said coldly.

  How could she not hate him? He’d left without a word and had never returned to explain. But at the time, he couldn’t bring himself to face her, knowing that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to leave. “I’m sorry to have caused you distress. Circumstances prevented me from returning, though that is no excuse.”

  A flicker of something crossed her face and was gone. She cleared her throat, her hands unconsciously smoothing her skirt. “I must help Cook with dinner. Do you need anything else before I leave? More tea? Another pillow?”

  It was as if a wall had been erected between them, fifteen feet high and ten years thick. Perhaps it was better this way. He would stay focused on his mission and leave before things became even more complicated. “If you don’t mind, I would like some cognac before you leave. It will ease my shoulder.”

  “Of course.” She crossed the room to a large ornate cabinet and withdrew a decanter. She poured some golden liquid into a glass and then returned to place it on the table in front on him. “If you need anything else, ring the bell. Mrs. Guinver will be delighted to assist you.”

  He picked up the glass and watched her through narrowed eyes, waiting until she had almost reached the door before he said, “Arabella, where did you get this cognac?”

  She stopped so suddenly that her skirts swung forward. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The cognac. It is an excellent quality and I want to purchase some for my estate in Derbyshire. I could get you a nice price for it.”

  Her color fluctuated wildly. “No,” she said in a strangled voice. “It came from our cellars and I have no wish to sell any.”

  His stomach tightened, his instincts on the alert. “Bella, are you—”

  “There is no reason for you to stay at Rosemont, Lucien. I want you gone, and the sooner, the better. Tonight.”

  “Your aunts will not like to hear that.”

  “They will if I tell them what once happened between us.”

  She had a point. Lucien set his glass down and sighed. “By the time Hastings packs, it would be dark.”

  “In the morning, then.”

  Her tone brooked no refusal. Lucien pursed his lips thoughtfully. So he had indeed struck a nerve, had he?

  “Very well. In the morning.”

  “Good.” With a stilted curtsy, she swept from the room.

  Lucien stared at the closed door. He couldn’t doubt it now—she knew something. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. But perhaps it wasn’t just something. Perhaps it was someone—whoever was smuggling the prime cognac. And perhaps he wasn’t just smuggling spirits to the local gentry; perhaps he was smuggling in something much more sinister.

  Lucien sighed and leaned his head against the cushion. The suspicion that Arabella knew the smuggler and was protecting the villain made him that much more determined to stay at Rosemont. Lucien smiled grimly. His stay was about to become prolonged.

  But who was Arabella protecting? One of the servants? Lucien picked up his glass and absently swirled the golden liquid. No, her reaction had been too strong. Perhaps sweet little Aunt Emma, or determined Aunt Jane? But no, the idea was laughable. Neither had the wits to organize such a grand scheme. And Robert was bound to a wheelchair….

  Or was he? The doctors seemed to question the truthfulness of his paralysis. Perhaps Robert could indeed walk and it was all a ruse to avoid suspicion.

  Sighing, Lucien stood, walked to the window, and pulled the heavy curtain aside. Outside, snow blew lightly over the pane, frosting it with swirls of white. It looked as if Rosemont were surrounded in a pristine sea, an island of enchantment locked in the icy grip of a sorcerer’s spell. He dropped the curtain back into place.

  Whether she knew it or not, Arabella was in danger. The free trader who supplied her family with cognac could also be one of Napoleon’s agents. And if she knew his identity, she could become a dangerous liability.

  Lucien was unable to shake off a sense of gloom. Frowning at his thoughts, he went to the small desk tucked into a corner and opened his writing case. With bold, decisive strokes, he addressed a letter to Mr. Mumferd of the Red Rooster Inn.

  It was time he quit dallying and got back to work.

  Chapter 8

  Hours later, Arabella entered her aunts’ room with an impatient step. “I need to speak with you.”

  Jane looked up from her knitting, noting the tense expression on Arabella’s face. Emma must have noticed, too, for she gave a nervous start. “Whatever is wrong?”

  Arabella pulled up a stool and sat on it. The pose struck Jane as being both mature and youthfully forlorn. She noted, too, the faint circles under her niece’s eyes and wondered for the tiniest instant if perhaps she’d been wrong to throw the duke and Arabella together.

  Arabella clasped her arms around her knees. “This is rather awkward. I need to talk to you about Lu—” She flushed. “About the duke.”

  “The duke?” Emma beamed. “He mended my pen for me this afternoon! Such a gentleman.”

  “He can be amiable when he wishes, but—”

  “He is perfectly delightful! Why, I knew the moment Jane and I laid eyes on him that he was—”

  “He is not the man you think,” Arabella said sharply. With an abrupt move, she stood and began to pace.

  Jane stopped knitting. “How so?”

  Arabella paced faster, her face strained. “There was a time, long ago before either of you came to stay, that I met…someone. I was young and foolish. Father tried to warn me.” She stopped and gripped her hands together, the knuckles showing white. “You know how stubborn I can be. I—I didn’t heed him.”

  The corner of her mouth curved down and, to Jane’s horror, a tear quivered on her niece’s eyelash. Arabella never cried. Worse yet was the realization glimmering in Jane’s brain. “Do you mean to say the duke is the same man who—”

  Arabella nodded miserably and sank back onto her stool. “His father came hunting every year. I so looked forward to his arrival; it was the one thing that made life here bearable after Mother died. Then, one year…he arrived and we just knew.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Or, at least, I knew. I thought he felt the same.”

  “Where was James when all this was happening?”

  “Father was involved in a horse venture at the time, and he wasn’t at Rosemont for weeks on end.”

  “James was a fool.” Jane looked down at the tangled yarn in her lap. “I suppose you were indiscreet.”

  Another tear slipped down Arabella’s cheek. “I thought he loved me.”

  Emma reached out to grasp her niece’s hand. “Dear! Don’t say another word. We know all about it. Your father wrote us some time after…after your friend returned to London.”

  Jane nodded, her own throat tight. “He didn’t name the man, of course, or we’d never have placed the duke in your path.”

  The dark head drooped, a d
usky curl following the line of her cheek. “I should have known you’d heard something; Father told everyone.”

  Emma patted Arabella’s hand. “How uncomfortable for you, dear. Though I have to wonder…are you sure it was the same duke? I mean, there are other dukes, and—”

  “Of course I’m sure it was him! He was twenty at the time, but except for being more…” She flushed, then continued doggedly, “Except for being older, he is exactly the same.”

  Jane sighed. It certainly sounded damning. And if it was true, it ruined everything.

  Or did it? All of the signs had pointed to the fact that Arabella and the duke belonged together. Why, Jane’s bad luck was already beginning to turn for the better. And then there was the way the duke looked at Arabella, his green gaze intent, as if fascinated beyond his control. Jane pursed her lips. “Perhaps he is sorry.”

  Emma nodded, her face brightening. “I daresay he is very sorry! It is wretched knowing one did something as a youth that one should not have. Why, I remember once when I stole a kiss from old Mr. Frothington and I—”

  Jane started. “Our tutor?”

  Emma nodded, a beatific expression on her plump face.

  “But he was married!”

  “Yes, well, as I said, one does things that one might not be proud of.”

  Some women, perhaps, but not Arabella. Not unless…Jane raised her brows. The child must have been incredibly in love to have so heedlessly thrown propriety to the winds. In fact, now that she thought about it, there was reason to believe that Arabella’s feelings were still engaged. It would explain why she hadn’t shown the slightest interest in any of the eligible young men Jane had planted in her way over the past four years.

  Arabella gently untangled her hand from Emma’s and stood. “I just felt I should tell you so you would cease your efforts to throw Lucien and me together. It is untenable.”

  Jane saw the hurt in the dark eyes and it made her own heart ache.

  As if realizing she was revealing too much, Arabella straightened her shoulders and turned toward the door. “I need to see Cook about dinner.” She stopped by the door and smiled weakly. “Thank you both.”

  The door closed behind her.

  “I suppose this changes things,” Emma said dolefully. “I feel sorry for the poor duke; he seems so smitten.”

  “And how could he not be? Arabella is the most beautiful, the sweetest—”

  “The most capable,” added Emma helpfully. She reached down to untangle her embroidery where it had fallen to the floor and twisted about her boot heel. “Do you think he did it on purpose? Just rode in, took advantage of her, and left?”

  “I daresay. I understand he was quite a rake at one time.”

  “But what rakehell would stay so quietly in the country? He seems content here.”

  “Exactly,” Jane said. “I think the duke has changed and Arabella has not yet realized it.”

  “I don’t think she wants to realize it.” Emma’s round shoulders slumped. “Oh, sister, I wonder if she can ever forgive him.”

  Jane and Emma sat silently, one plucking absently at a loose thread, the other chewing on her lip. Finally Emma sighed, reached into her pocket, and withdrew her bottle. She took a thoughtful swig. “Perhaps she still cares for him.”

  Jane nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Despite his past, I cannot see how a wealthy, titled suitor could make her anything but happy. Especially one who is so well hu—”

  “Developed,” finished Jane hastily. Before Emma could offer more insight, Jane reached across to take the bottle. Pinching her nose, she took a quick swallow. Cognac burned its way down her chest. She coughed, handed the bottle back to Emma, then took out a lace handkerchief and delicately wiped the corners of her mouth. The fiery liquid infused her with energy. “This calls for action.”

  “What can we do? She won’t have him. Perhaps Mr. Francot could be convinced to renew his suit.”

  “I’d rather have a rakehell for a nephew-in-law than that mawkish worm.”

  “Heavens, Jane! Mr. Francot has always been very kind.”

  “He isn’t right for Arabella. But the duke…that is another matter altogether.” Mr. Francot didn’t have the ability to shake Arabella’s confidence. Nor could he make her flush with a mere indolent smile, yet Jane had witnessed the duke doing all of these things. There was a bond between her niece and their visitor, and she was not about to ignore such a promising opportunity. Of course, it would take a good deal of address to smooth over this little bump. But Jane had faith in the duke’s ability to win her stubborn niece. A man with a face like that, and such a fine figure—all he needed to do was make an effort. But he would have to use all the weapons at his disposal—every last one.

  Perhaps she should have word with their duke. Yes, that was what she would do. And once she explained what his responsibilities were, she was sure he would know exactly how to go about winning his way through Arabella’s defenses. After all, there were two hearts at stake in this game, and Jane was determined that neither would go to waste.

  Satisfied, she picked up her abandoned knitting and began untangling the knots.

  Chapter 9

  Buoyed by the duke’s brooding glances at her niece during dinner, and further encouraged by Arabella’s frigid refusal to acknowledge those glances, Jane waited for Arabella to retire and then marched into the library. Lucien stood by the fireplace, staring into the flames, a cheroot in his hand.

  He turned when she came into the room and hastily tossed his cheroot into the fire.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” she said, sending him an encouraging smile. “My husband enjoyed his cigars. I miss the scent of fresh tobacco.” She took a chair and patted the arm of the one beside her. “Come and sit, Your Grace. I wish to speak with you.”

  It was amazing how quickly his face shuttered, but he did as she invited and took his seat.

  Once there, he leaned back and regarded her, his handsome face inscrutable. “Yes?”

  The man certainly had a gift for being direct. Jane liked that almost as much as his title. “I have come to warn you.”

  “Oh? Am I in danger of some sort?”

  “Arabella told me about your…past relationship.”

  He went very still, lines of white bracketing his mouth.

  “What did she say?”

  His voice held an edge that made her sit a little straighter. “Not much, really. Only that you knew her, took advantage of her, and left.” Jane met his gaze straight on. “Is it true?”

  “Yes,” he answered harshly. “It is all true.”

  She sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  Lucien stood abruptly and turned away to stir the fire with the toe of his boot. “I will not lie to you. I was young, a thoughtless cad, and—there are not enough names for what I was.” He made a gesture as if to push the memory away, his mouth thinned. “I went heedlessly through life, ignoring my responsibilities. I was unprepared to step into my father’s shoes and I suffered for it, as did Arabella.” His green gaze rested on Jane for a moment, burning with intensity. “But I never forgot her.”

  Jane’s disappointment softened. There was such sincerity in his gaze, such a depth of emotion that she felt her own eyes grow damp. For Arabella’s sake, Jane pressed on. “Did you love her?”

  His hand fisted at his side. “Yes.”

  Do you love her still? The words burned on Jane’s tongue, but she held them back. She doubted whether he knew what he felt. Yet. Instead, she said in a mild tone, “You hurt Arabella quite badly.”

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “I have a history of hurting all of the women in my life.”

  “But Arabella did not deserve it. She loved you dearly.”

  He turned away, but not before Jane saw the agony in his gaze. “I know she did.”

  She waited for him to say more, but he stood, silent, head bowed. Finally she said, “Surely there were extenuating circumstances
. Perhaps you fell ill and could not return?”

  “If you are searching for an excuse for my behavior, you will not find it here. What I did was inexcusable. At the time, I thought—” He stopped, desolate lines carving his face. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. Suffice it to say that I did irreparable harm to an innocent girl and I have regretted it every day since.”

  His pain was almost palpable. Jane regarded him silently for a long moment, thoughts tumbling through her mind like water over a fall. “I won’t say you are wrong, but fortunately it won’t be a matter for either of us to worry about. I expect Arabella will wed shortly.”

  “To whom?” The question snapped across the room like the crack of a gun.

  Jane hid a smile. “Lord Harlbrook has been most insistent lately—”

  “No.” The duke’s jaw tensed. “Good God, Harlbrook is a pig! Even I saw that, and I was in his company but a moment. You cannot let that happen.”

  “I may have no choice. Things are not well at Rosemont and Arabella feels responsible for us all.”

  He turned to pace before the fire. “Perhaps I can make some arrangements…send my man of business with a draft—” He stopped and turned a bleak gaze on her. “She would refuse.”

  “Most likely. She has the Hadley pride, you know.”

  He gave a wry grimace. “I had noticed. It is one of the things that annoy me the most about her, yet at the same time, I cannot imagine her otherwise.” A smile softened his mouth. “She is the most damnable woman.”

  Jane had to bite her lip hard to keep from jumping from her chair and rewarding him with a fierce hug. Whatever had happened to the boy who’d once been Lucien Devereaux, it had made him into an exceptional man.

  The perfect man for Arabella.

  Jane kept her face blank. There was still much to do. “The past is the past. What I want to know, Your Grace, is what you intend for the future.”