A Belated Bride

by Karen Hawkins

  “Nonsense.” She reached out and brushed a stray bit of straw from the edge of his collar. “How would you manage without me? They’d talk you into taking poorly turned brandy at twice the price.”

  “I ran it alone oft enough afore ye discovered what I was doin’,” he responded gruffly.

  “You were never alone. You had Twekes and Lem with you.”

  At the mention of his two burly nephews, Wilson snorted. “The only thing those two are good fer is loadin’ and unloadin’ the wagon. That and drinkin’ up any profit ye might have left.” He shook his head ruefully. “But I has to admit, Missus, ye are a born smuggler. No one can haggle like ye.” At her smile, he hurried to add, “But that don’t make it right.”

  Right or not, Arabella was not about to let Wilson bear such a burden alone. In a way, this profession put her on a par with her ancestor the Captain. She glanced up at the picture that hung over the mantelpiece. Her profession gave her an instant bond with the Captain. She could understand the sacrifice he must have made when he gave up roaming the seas and settled in his rose-colored house high on the cliffs. Arabella noted the arrogant tilt of his head and the fearless light in his eyes, and she wished she possessed even a tenth of his daring.

  “Gor’, missus, ye are a stubborn one.” Wilson shook his head, his brows lowered. “What if the duke finds out what ye’re about?”

  She scowled. “The duke’s presence does not affect our plans.”

  “He is as sharp as a pin, that one. I could see it in his eyes.”

  “More like a knife blade than a pin,” she muttered, remembering Lucien’s gaze in the carriage after they’d rescued him. Nothing got by that man.

  “Ye said ye knew him, missus, but I don’t recall ever havin’ a real duke at Rosemont.”

  Arabella picked up the poker and stirred the fire higher. “Fortunately for us all, he will be leaving soon.” Please, God. She turned to Wilson, anxious to put the topic behind her. “When will the next shipment arrive?”

  “Not fer another fortnight. But afore it gets here, we need to do somethin’ about Constable Robbins.” Unease darkened Wilson’s gaze. “I ran into him when I was comin’ out of the King’s Deer.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He seemed mighty suspicious as to why I had traveled all the way to Littledean jus’ to wet me thirst. Lord Harlbrook was there, as well. I think he knows somethin’, missus.”

  “Constable Robbins would have already made an arrest if he knew anything of our business. Did they see you make the delivery?”

  Wilson looked affronted. “Lawks no, missus! ’Tweren’t no but me and Twekes and Lem, and ye know they can hold their counsel.”

  Wilson’s large nephews were notoriously reticent. Despite the fact that they were perennial favorites at every local tavern on the coast, they possessed a natural tendency to silence. Arabella didn’t think she’d heard either of them speak more than two sentences a row. “Perhaps we should hold off on the next shipment,” she said.

  “I hate to do that, missus, especially with the cognac in such demand.”

  Though she wished it were otherwise, Arabella agreed. She didn’t want to disappoint their customers and they still desperately needed the money.

  If only the constable hadn’t suddenly become so interested in the smuggling trade, she thought resentfully. And that was apparently thanks to Lord Harlbrook’s interference. If she could wave a magic wand and turn that spineless toad into the slimy worm he was, she’d do it without thinking twice.

  Wilson pulled his hat from his pocket and pulled it low over his ears. “I’ll send out the signal tomorrow, missus.”

  “Fine, and tell them to keep to the schedule. We’ll just have to find a way to deal with Constable Robbins.” But it was Lucien she was worried about. His constant presence made it difficult for her to slip away and attend to the shipments.

  She scowled. He would be gone before the next shipment was due, even if she had to have Lem and Twekes carry him off. She turned to Wilson. “We need to check our stores and see what we have left. Meet me at midnight.”

  The old groom wrapped his muffler around his throat. “Very well, missus.”

  Arabella pulled her shawl closer and stared into the fire. “Only twelve more months, Wilson. Then the bills will be paid and we can return to normal.”

  “Master Robert should be up and about by then, too.”

  “I think he looks much better, don’t you?” she asked eagerly.

  “’Deed I do, missus,” replied Wilson in a stout tone.

  “Very lively, he’s been lately.”

  She managed a very credible smile. “Thank you, Wilson.”

  The old groom’s craggy face softened. “Ye’re welcome, missus.” He stepped to the terrace door, pulled his coat about his ears, and slipped outside.

  Arabella shivered as cold air swirled about her feet and tugged at the edge of her dress. With renewed determination, she returned to the desk and bent over the ledger.

  As if to mock her efforts, Lucien’s deep laughter echoed down the hall, followed closely by Aunt Jane’s boisterous laugh that sounded suspiciously like a horse’s whinny.

  She fought a sense of ill usage. Here she was, toiling away, trying to keep her family from ruin, and that spendthrift bounder enjoyed Aunt Jane’s unalleviated adoration. It was simply too much. She should march upstairs and tell him just what she thought.

  She slapped the ledger closed and marched to the door, but just as her hand closed around the knob, she caught herself. What was she doing? The last place she needed to be was in a room with Lucien Devereaux.

  Especially when he was in bed.

  Half clothed.

  His hair tousled, a lazy gleam in his green eyes, and the most devilish smile ever to grace a—

  “Oh, for heavens sakes, stop that!” Arabella stomped back to the desk and dropped into her chair so hard, it slid back almost three inches. It wasn’t just dangerous for her to see Lucien—it was lethal. She yanked the chair back into place, propped her elbows on the desk, and rested her chin in her hands. She wished her father were still alive to tease her from her despondency.

  She reached into the desk and pulled out the letter he had written the day he’d taken ill, never again to rise from the sickbed. The short missive was filled with her father’s broad charm and exaggerated blandishments, concerning a bet he had won—a rare happening in those dark times.

  When it came to gambling, James Hadley had not been a lucky man. Of course, no one had been able to convince him of that. He always believed that his big win was just around the corner—only one flick of a card away.

  She still missed his loud, joyous voice booming through the house, the feel of his arms crushing her against him when he hugged her good night, and the scent of pipe tobacco that had always lingered on the collar of his greatcoat.

  But while James Hadley had loved his family, he had loved gambling more. Her hand tightened over the letter, her fingers creasing the edge.

  “Pardon me,” a deep masculine voice rumbled into the silence. “I thought I heard a mouse.” Lucien entered the room, looking every bit as delectable as in her imagination. He was clad in a perfectly cut black coat that traced the line of his broad shoulders, his black breeches stretched over his powerful legs, his cravat intricately knotted and creased. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a London ballroom.

  Some hurts never faded. Arabella carefully smoothed her father’s letter and replaced it in the drawer. “I don’t know how you could hear anything over all the laughter coming from the sitting room.”

  He sauntered to the table by the fireplace and adjusted the decanter on the silver tray. “Robert and I were playing a rubber of whist with your aunts.” His green gaze gleamed with sudden humor. “Lady Melwin is a feverish opponent, isn’t she? I’ve never seen anyone more determined to win.”

  “Did you lose money?”

  He made a comical face. “Worse—I won. Your aunt
now owes me forty-two pounds.”

  Arabella tried to smother a pang of worry. She should speak with Aunt Jane about her gambling; the last thing they needed was more debt. Her obligations threatened to pull her under if she faltered for even a second.

  But she would not falter. James Hadley may have left his family destitute, but his daughter would not forget her responsibilities.

  She opened the ledger and sent a politely chilly smile toward her guest. “I hope you don’t mind, but I must finish these accounts before Mr. Francot arrives tomorrow.”

  Lucien came to stand by the desk. “Mr. Francot? Ah, the stern dandy who fancies himself in love with you.”

  “Pish-posh,” she replied, dipping her pen into the ink and setting to work.

  He walked to her side and rested his hand on the edge of the ledger, his thumb smoothing the leather. “I don’t wish you to be obligated to a man like that.”

  “A man like what?”

  “A man who thinks he is in love with you.”

  “It is none of your concern who is in love with me and who is not,” she replied sharply, then winced at how inane she sounded. What was it about Lucien that so disturbed her, that made her want to argue his every utterance?

  “Hm.” Lucien leaned over her shoulder as if studying the accounts. His hand slid down the ledger page as he read, and it was suddenly hard for Arabella to breathe. She stared at his long, well-shaped fingers as they came closer and closer to the bottom of the page. If he lifted his thumb, he would brush her nipple through her dress. A strange quiver passed through her and she had to fight the wild impulse to lean forward.

  Lucien pointed to a sum. “Is this how much you owe Harlbrook?”

  Arabella nodded, unable to speak for the torrent of emotions that skittered through her.

  “I will write a draft to cover it.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “Then consider it a loan. You can repay me when Rosemont is once again productive.”

  She kept her gaze on the desk. “I will not take your money, even as a loan. I already made that mistake with Lord Harlbrook and look where it has gotten me.”

  Lucien placed one hand on the back of her chair and pulled it around until she faced him. Anger simmered through him. “You cannot compare me to that fool.”

  Her hands tightened about the arms of the chair, her eyes sparkling. “Why not? At least he is forthright about his reasons for visiting Rosemont, while you pretend to have developed a fondness for Robert, who will be crushed when you leave.”

  There was no answer but the truth, and he could not share it with her. Not yet. Arabella stared back, her stubbornness showing in the firm line of her chin.

  Her skin glowed in the lantern light, the soft blue of her dress making her hair appear even darker. Lucien was assailed with the desire to touch her, to thread his fingers through the silk of her hair. He took the quill from the desk and drew the feather down her cheek and across the soft curve of her mouth. “What if I promise to leave, Bella? Will you take the money then?”

  Her lashes fluttered down over her smooth, warm skin. Lucien fought the urge to drop the feather and replace it with his hand, to caress her cheek. Damn, but she was as intoxicating as Aunt Jane’s sheep tonic.

  “Think about it, Bella,” he murmured, sliding the feather over her bottom lip. “You wouldn’t have to worry about Harlbrook, or paying Robert’s doctor bills.” The feather traced the firm line of her chin to her ear and then down the side of her neck to the sensitive area at the base of her throat. “And you could take all the time you wished to repay it. You would be free, Bella. Completely free.”

  For one brief minute, her lashes dropped and a quiver passed through her. Slow color heated her face and Lucien could see that she was fighting the sensation caused by the feather, fighting him. As he watched, her tongue touched the edge of her lip and Lucien’s grip on the feather wavered, his blood heating to an instant boil.

  God, but she was luscious, the simplest touch arousing her. Lucien loved that about her—even as he hated himself for using it to distract her.

  Arabella took a shuddering breath and caught the quill in her hand, yanking it from his grasp. “Lucien, don’t.” A frown marred her smooth brow. “Why would you offer such a thing?”

  Lucien shrugged. “I see you struggling and I want to help.”

  To his surprise, a smile flittered across her face, curving her lush lips, her eyes dark and mysterious. “Perhaps I am more resourceful than you realize.”

  He frowned. What could she mean? Before he could ask, she leaned over to replace the quill by the ink well.

  When she turned, she was at eye level with his breeches, where his aroused state was painfully obvious. She turned bright red, shoved her chair back, and stood, knocking the ledger onto the floor. “I don’t want your money and I don’t want you here. I just want you to leave Rosemont. Please.”

  Lucien bent to retrieve the fallen ledger. “Whether you like it or not, I’m staying until you accept my offer. Until then, all you can do is ignore me.” Not that he would let her. The air between them was too charged, too hot. Just one spark and they would both be consumed yet again by the flames of their passion. He ached for her, ached for what was and what had been. “What do I have to do to get you to accept the money, Bella?”

  She was silent for a long moment, then raised her eyes to his. “I want the truth, Lucien. What were you doing on the moors that first night? Why did you come back?”

  For one mad instant, Lucien was tempted to tell her. But until he knew the nature of her connection to the smugglers, he could not trust her with information that could endanger far more than his own plans. “I will tell you when I am able. You have my word on it.”

  “And what good is that?” she said bitterly.

  The words hurt like a saber slash to his heart, and he watched as she gathered the ledger and her papers and walked to the door. There, she turned and looked at him. “I will discover your reason for staying at Rosemont, and I will take great delight in exposing your real intentions to my family. They will never trust you again.”

  Then, in a whirl of blue, she was gone.

  Chapter 13

  Sir David Loughton swung out of the saddle. “Damnation,” he muttered under his breath as his heel hit the ground.

  “Gout a-botherin’ ye agin, sir?” asked Wilson.

  “It is a damnable thing, getting old.” The baron wondered why he’d felt the need to come to Rosemont anyway, and in such weather. Truly he was getting soft in his old age, to be drawn along by nothing more than a mischievous impulse.

  Wilson put a hand on his own neck. “Ever’ time the wind blows, I get a crick in my neck that feels like one of Satan’s teeth. Cook says it will go away if I sleep with a bag of garlic ’neath my pillow, but I’d rather die a horrible, painful death than try to sleep with garlic in my nose.”

  “Ha! I have to agree with you there. My doctor says spirits cause my gout to act up. But I’d rather put up with the aches than give up my port.” He handed his reins to the groom. “Tell me, is there any more of that cognac you brought last month? It was superb.” He slipped a coin into Wilson’s curiously ready palm. “Bring me a pipe, will you? Two, if you can spare it.”

  The coin disappeared into the folds of the groom’s faded livery. “As soon as it arrives. Ned is on his way to make a delivery this afternoon. Maybe he can find one or two fer ye.”

  “Excellent, Wilson!” He peeled off his gloves and tucked them into the pocket of his greatcoat. “And how are the ladies this fine morning?”

  “Doin’ the best they can, sir. The best they can.”

  The baron nodded. He and Wilson were compatriots in a way, self-appointed guardians of a brace of the stub-bornest women to walk the earth. “I take it they are still blessed with their noble guest?”

  Wilson’s face folded into a scowl. “It’s goin’ on two weeks now. He’s brought a curse on the house, he has. Jus’ march
on up to that door and ye’ll discover how bad ’tis, see if ye don’t.”

  Sir Loughton glanced up at the house, the leafless vines stark against the pink stone. Perhaps he should investigate this mysterious visitor. After all, with the amount of money the spirited Jane owed him, he might own Rosemont one day.

  The thought made him chuckle. He had no more use for Lady Jane’s money than he did the run-down manor. Unbeknownst to the interested population of Yorkshire, Sir Loughton was a wealthy man. A very wealthy man, although he dressed like a sober country squire and Loughton House boasted only four bedrooms and one decent-sized parlor.

  Having come into his inheritance at a young age, he knew the disappointments that awaited those courted for wealth alone. At the tender age of seventeen, he’d barely escaped marriage to an avowed fortune hunter, coming to his senses just in time. Since then, he’d been cautious not to let anyone suspect his wealth and contented himself with short-lived flirtations with safely married women.

  But in all of his years of confirmed bachelordom, none had had the power to fascinate him like Jane Hadley. A sudden crease furrowed his brow. It was inconceivable that he could feel such a strong attraction for such a woman. She was not his style at all, far too plain and gangly for his palate, which tended to favor younger, more rounded women. Not to mention that she was self-sufficient to a fault, stubborn to the point of belligerency, and the most thoroughly maddening woman of his acquaintance.

  All this, and he hadn’t even tossed her addiction to gambling into the equation. It was unfortunate that his less-than-gentlemanly impulses had overtaken him and, in a moment of weakness, he had lured her into wagering a huge sum. It was also unfortunate that he had compounded his error and refused to allow her to gracefully withdraw when it became apparent she could not pay. But her every breath seemed a challenge, and he’d refused to bend his knee to such impulses.

  Having reflected over the distress he must have placed her in, though, he’d decided to relieve her of her anxiety and dismiss the wager.

  Yes, he decided, feeling magnanimous, he would forgive Jane her debt. She would accept, albeit stiffly and without real gratitude, and that would be that—he could end an association that was showing a deplorable tendency to develop into something more than it should.