Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03]

by Duke Most Wanted

  She would never be that paragon of elegance that Lementeur had worked so hard to create. She would never actually master that fashionable ennui. Too many things mattered to her, her emotions were too deep and too entangled. Injustice angered her, unwarranted scorn offended her, the snobbery of the ton caused her heart to pound with fury.

  The languid and the elegant had no such strong feelings, no such burning desire to right the wrongs of Society, no doubts and fears because they simply didn’t care enough to do so. Such a life would be death to her soul, yet she—in a contrary impulse that confounded even her—still longed for a bit of the cool detachment, of that easy unconcern.

  Yet, evidently her new coterie was a better class of friends than Tessa was accustomed to, for her chaperone’s remarks were met with silence and uncomfortable averting of gazes. Tessa, unfortunately, seemed immune to such subtle disapproval. She only became more strident in her attempt to become more entertaining.

  “Did I mention that Sophie traveled all the way from Acton by herself? She actually rode the coach alone. Of course, no one would interfere with a girl who looks like she does, but still—”

  As always, Sophie felt muzzled by a lifetime of bashful withdrawal. She wanted to shout Tessa down, to say something cutting and devastating and permanently stifling—but her writhing was all internal. She simply couldn’t open her mouth in front of all these people.

  Succor came from somewhere entirely unexpected—although perhaps she ought to have expected it.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Tessa. I’ve always favored the independent sort.” Graham leaned indolently in the doorway and sent an easy smile of approval in Sophie’s direction. “And we all admire a woman who reads a great deal, do we not?”

  His words sent a ripple of relieved agreement through the guests and sparked a discussion of the latest novels. Completely excluded and finally aware of general disapproval, Tessa fumed but thankfully did so silently.

  Slowly the hot humiliation ebbed from Sophie’s pale cheeks. She even managed to offer an opinion or two to the topic of conversation, but she had eyes only for Graham, who had moved around the outside of the group to take up a watchful station with one elbow on the mantel.

  His expression was one of amused commiseration. Do you really want to be here?

  She smiled slightly, meeting his eyes warmly. I do now.

  “Hello, my love,” purred a voice in Graham’s ear.

  Graham watched as Sophie’s expression went from wry welcome to icy disinterest when she realized that Lilah had accosted him. Then Sophie looked away altogether, casting her attention upon the rabble instead.

  As much as he might want to slither out of Lilah’s grasp—for she’d wrapped both taloned hands about his biceps—he forced himself to turn and smile down at her. “Good afternoon, my lady.” It wasn’t a very good smile, more of a grimace, really, but Lilah didn’t seem to be keeping a scorecard at the moment. That meant he was in serious danger, for Lilah never gave anyone an advantage—not for free, anyway.

  This time, however, Lilah only gazed with infatuated silver eyes at him and surreptitiously rubbed her breast against his arm. “I’ve missed you, Grammie,” she whispered. “Won’t you come back to see Lillie soon?”

  “Er—” Graham slid his gaze helplessly toward Sophie. He knew if she heard Lilah call him “Grammie” like that, he’d never hear the end of it! At least Sophie had given him a decently manly pet name of “Gray,” which he rather liked.

  But Sophie wasn’t paying a bit of attention. She was, in fact, leaning toward some older fellow that Graham hadn’t noticed before. Then he felt Lilah’s nails bite into his arm and remembered the value stamped firmly on his arse. One ancient title, only slightly tarnished, for sale to highest bidder.

  And Lilah had coin to spare. Graham tried not very successfully to repress a sigh. “What will you bid, my lady?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Her eyes snapped, ever wary of mockery, probably because it was a bit easy to do.

  Graham thought of crumbling cottages and starving dependents and added several candlepower to his smile. “What is your bidding, my lady?”

  Lilah purred. Literally. He’d once thought it highly arousing. Now he only hoped Sophie didn’t hear the ludicrous affectation from where she sat. He could just imagine the incoming sarcasm. Keeping pets now, Gray? Don’t forget to dust the cat hair from your arse before you leave.

  “Come to me tonight, my sweet,” she urged, her husky whisper almost an orgasmic sigh. “Come to my bed and let me console you . . . just the way you like best!”

  Knowing he’d never get rid of her if he didn’t agree—not that he wanted to get rid of her, of course, not when he was seriously contemplating marrying her, but she really couldn’t be allowed to continue so or she’d embarrass them both—he patted her hand and whispered back.

  “Yes, of course. Whatever you say, Lilah.”

  “Don’t be late,” she said crisply, releasing his arm at last. Graham secretly flexed his hand, for he’d lost some sensation there while she had clung.

  Lilah retreated at once, just as he’d known she would. Having had her way, she would expend not a moment’s more effort on the matter. With a flourish of her hand and a toss of her head, she collected Tessa on her way out the door.

  Now free of her, Graham turned back to Sophie—who ignored him completely. She was surrounded again, nearly invisible behind a row of attentive men. Graham fought down irritation that she was not simply waiting here alone for him, as she once had. He’d suspected the throng would descend, but somewhere inside him he’d still expected her to be clad in some old rag, spectacles slipping down her nose, engrossed in something that left ink on her fingers and made her blink with annoyance when interrupted.

  The way she used to be.

  Yet at the same time, just look at her! He didn’t know what that dressmaker had done to his Sophie, but she sat erect and composed, cool and serene in a room full of idiots that he knew she must want to flee at top speed. Possessive pride warred with ordinary possessiveness until he pushed off from his watchful perch, determined to leave this mess behind. He had a great deal to attend to.

  On his way to take his leave, he brushed by a couple of the less worthwhile pups in the room.

  “I’ll take her to the opera on Wednesday, see if I don’t!”

  “Well, I’m going to ask to escort her to Lady Peabody’s musicale tonight and—”

  A snarl rose in Graham’s throat. Before he knew what he was about, he turned it on the two young men. “I’m escorting her to Lady Peabody’s musicale tonight!” He turned to the other one. It didn’t matter if he had the right fellow, for they were surely interchangeable parts. “And I’ll be sitting with her in Brookhaven’s box at the opera on Wednesday!”

  Leaving the pups near whimpering in his wake, Graham turned eyes sparked with murderous glee on the rest of the crowd. It began to thin at once. A few hardier souls thought to defy his claim, including Somers Boothe-Jamison, but Graham stalked them down one by one and made it quite clear that their presence was not welcome.

  “Your presence is not welcome,” he told Somers sharply.

  Somers lifted his chin. “I say, Edencourt—you’re being a right bully. I don’t see that you’ve any more rights here than the rest of us!”

  Graham growled—actually, physically growled. Somewhere in the back of his mind a saner voice wondered if there was perhaps more of his father in him than he’d previously thought, for even Somers drew back, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.

  “Well, I suppose I’ve overstayed at that . . .”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Then nearly all the snapping hounds were gone, leaving only one man still in attendance. He seemed vaguely familiar to Graham, although by his dress and manner he was not someone of the ton. A man of business perhaps? Did he think he had an actual chance with a girl like Sophie?

  Maybe Sophie likes him.

  She certainly seemed intimate,
at that. She was leaning forward to hear what he said and bestowing upon him the smile she ought to be saving for Graham.

  Furthermore, for all his mundane appearance, the bloke was a good-looking lout—tall and powerful, if a bit drawn and creased.

  The thought that Sophie might actually prefer that . . . that clerk . . . to him . . .

  The fellow looked up then to meet Graham’s gaze. Like measured like. This man was no stammering clerk. No, this was a different sort altogether. Instant distrust flared in Graham, to be matched by an answering flash of amused assessment in the other man’s eyes.

  SOPHIE WISHED MR. WOLFE would leave. At first she’d been intrigued by his interest in her translations and further distracted by his maturity and trusted connection to the family. Then, as their perfectly innocuous conversation turned to the current gossip, which seemed to center on Graham’s exploits in particular, Sophie began to feel rather hunted in his company.

  There was dark urgency in Mr. Wolfe’s reddened eyes, as if he could scarcely keep from reaching for her with his hands, which kept opening and closing in nervous distraction. Mr. Wolfe wanted something.

  Perhaps this was what Lementeur had meant when he’d said “ardent”?

  It must be only that she was unaccustomed to such regard that his gaze made her feel like a steak on a plate. After all, ardent was what she was looking for, was she not? And unlike the simpering boys around her, Mr. Wolfe was a man of accomplishments. As a solicitor, he was an educated man, one who had learned the value of working for his place in the world.

  He also seemed genuinely interested in her, not caught up in the glamour of Sofia. He was old enough to know what he wanted and not be swept up in the winds of the latest craze.

  His abruptness and his awkwardness might be a bit jarring, but who was she to judge someone for not moving smoothly through Society? Yes, Mr. Wolfe ought to be quite high on her list of possible husbands.

  It wasn’t his fault that she simply couldn’t imagine any such thing. Ashamed of her reaction, Sophie made sure to bestow a little extra attention on the man. She wouldn’t want him to detect her inexplicable aversion and have his feelings damaged in any way.

  At last, the throng of younger men left and Sophie began to hope for eventual escape. Then she realized that it was Graham who was herding her admirers from the room, like a sheep dog cutting a ewe from the flock.

  GRAHAM STARTED FORWARD, furious in his intent to separate this . . . this predator from his Sophie. By the time he reached her, however, the fellow had bowed a quick farewell and slithered out the door, following the rest of the pack, leaving Sophie alone with Graham, just the way he’d wanted.

  When he reached her, however, he wasn’t expecting the flare of fury in her eyes. He halted, startled.

  She stood and advanced on him. “Just what, pray tell, was that all about?”

  Ah, well, perhaps he’d not been precisely subtle. He cleared his throat and gave her his best charming grin. “You didn’t want to spend all afternoon with that keg full of idiots, did you?”

  She folded her arms and pursed her lips. “Oh, were they your callers to dismiss then? If so, then you’ve been keeping tawdry secrets from me indeed!”

  He gaped. “My callers?” Tawdry secrets? What had that hairy fellow been filling her head with? Not sure he wanted to know—for what if he couldn’t honestly deny them?—he backpedaled quickly. “I’m not the only one with secrets here!”

  She drew back and paled. Why? He’d only been referring to her surprise transformation last night at the masque. Then, as quick as a blink, she was back in form. “I might have been enjoying myself. You’ll never know for sure.” She poked him in the chest with one finger. Hard. “We’re friends and I’ve appreciated that, but you’ve no call to wax territorial. You don’t own me, Gray!”

  Territorial? Alarms began to ring back in that tiny sane portion of his mind. He ignored them. Instead, he scoffed, folding his arms. “That wasn’t territorial! It was . . . it was protective! You’re naive and barely chaperoned. You’ve no idea what wolves some of these blokes are!”

  “You have no room to speak. You’ve taken advantage of my lack of duenna. You tell me—am I ruined because I spent a few hours playing cards with a rogue?”

  He blustered at that, for he had indeed gone beyond the bounds of propriety—at least that once. The memory of her scent and the feel of her hair trapped in his fist slapped him nearly senseless with a sudden surge of longing.

  He’d been a fool, he saw now. He’d thought himself the victim of a random urge to touch her that day, an impulse born of a need for distraction . . .

  Not for diversion had it been, but for solace. For comfort. Not an impulse, but a yearning.

  A strand of her red-gold hair had come undone in her fury. It drifted down to coil next to a high, elegant cheekbone, framing one furious, dark gray eye. “You know what, Graham? I think you’re a wee bit jealous.”

  He had a sudden vision of what she would look like sleeping, half her face buried in his pillow, her hair drifting over both their naked bodies, clinging to skin dampened by satisfied lust . . .

  Bloody hell.

  What had he become? What had he done to her—to himself?

  Just look at him! He was becoming a chest-beater! He had no right to snort and stomp and scare away her suitors!

  She fumbled in her sleeve and drew out her spectacles, all the better to glare at him through. She was a soldier dressing for battle. The gesture touched him in the oddest way.

  The spectacles and the way her eyes peered through them belonged to him and him alone. The others might think they knew who they courted, might even believe they felt something real for her, but he was the only one she trusted enough to don her spectacles around.

  What was so wrong with them, anyway? They were naught but a bit of wire and glass. He detested that she didn’t feel as though she could be herself with that crowd.

  “I can’t believe you’re looking for a husband among that lot! Why?”

  She pushed her spectacles up with the tips of her fingers and glared at him furiously. “Why not? You’re the jealous one. Tell me! Give me one reason why I shouldn’t!”

  What could he tell her? I ruined everything.

  How had he let something so innocent and easy come to this—and why now, when he was no longer free to act on it? He’d dug his own grave, by God—dug it deep and wide with the sharp blades of loneliness and good intentions!

  Through a throat tight with longing and lust, he pounded the last nail into his own coffin. “Don’t be ridiculous!” he snapped at her. “I took pity on a poor, plain girl from the country! There’s nothing to be jealous of!”

  The flash of startled pain in her eyes made his gut ache. He didn’t want her pain. He didn’t want the responsibility of yet another soul on his shoulders. He turned away, unable to face her pallor and stunned silence.

  Then, at the door, he glanced back to see that she had not moved, had apparently not even breathed. The pain forced him to continue. He needed to make sure she understood. It might not be a bad idea to remind himself as well.

  “I have decided to ask Lady Lilah Christie for her hand in marriage.”

  Then he left like the coward he was, walking away from the damage he’d caused.

  IN THE OFFICES of Stickley & Wolfe, Solicitors, there was, as usual, only Stickley. He wrapped up another day of totting up the interest earned in various accounts by the Pickering trust and mused over his current plan to put some of the money into shipping. It could be very lucrative, but required a large initial investment. If Miss Blake did wed the Duke of Edencourt, then she might wonder where such a large amount of her money went. Even the merest thought that something could cast a shadow of doubt upon his ethical management of Sir Hamish’s fortune would not do.

  He sighed. Such a pity to pass up a golden opportunity. Perhaps if he had approval beforehand—of course, that would require signatures from all three of the ladies, even
though Lady Marbrook was already disqualified . . .

  Soothed by thoughts of money and putting matters in neat and lovely order, Stickley had almost completed his weekly foray into the safe before he noticed the marks on the door.

  Scratches? Nay, gouges! What on earth—?

  Then, as if he’d seen it with his own eyes, he knew. That day Wolfe had come in early, he’d actually come to try to crack open the safe!

  But why? Surely Wolfe knew that Stickley only kept their own personal retainers there, and only a month at a time, with, of course, a second month’s worth as margin against emergencies, of which Wolfe had constantly and Stickley never . . . or perhaps Wolfe didn’t know that.

  Did the idiot think that the entire balance of the trust lay within this iron box? Did the fool know nothing of banking and investment?

  Then again, it was Wolfe. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Stickley shut the safe box and dialed the lock shut. His partner was becoming more and more of a liability every day. Stickley hoped that Miss Blake would marry the duke—providing that the duke understood his proper responsibilities concerning the inheritance—because when that day came, Stickley would be free!

  He closed his eyes for a long moment, savoring the pretty picture that thought made. Free of Wolfe’s face, his foul habits, his tendency toward distressingly illegal acts—and, admittedly, his mysterious ability to make those acts seem like the most logical course of action!—free to invest his own money, or even to spend it, though he couldn’t imagine needing anything he did not already have.

  Real work.

  Oh, yes. True work, work of meaning and progress and . . .

  And nonsense, as long as he was tied to the trust and to Wolfe. Eyeing the disfigured door of the safe, Stickley pursed his lips once more.

  He only hoped he could get out before he discovered what depths Wolfe was truly willing to sink to.