The Wayward Bride

by Anna Bradley

  “That’s your place, right there.” Lucas pointed a commanding finger at the horse blanket tucked under the window. “Get down from that bed.”

  Brute let out a low, pleading whine and wriggled his eyebrows appealingly.

  Lucas frowned. He couldn’t decide whether he should be disgruntled over his dog’s wholehearted devotion to Lord Sydney, or jealous that Brute’s blatant displays of affection had earned him a place in the earl’s bed.

  Lucas crept closer, and his gaze fell on Lord Sydney’s face. A disheveled lock of dark hair had fallen over the earl’s brow. His cheeks and jaw were shadowed with a heavy growth of beard, but his mouth was still easily discernible.

  As always, those generous lips looked as if they were on the edge of curling into a smile. Over the past few days, Lucas had discovered that when Lord Sydney did smile, it was nearly impossible to keep from smiling in return.

  If dogs could smile, Brute would be doing it right now.

  Lucas glanced down at his dog, cuddled so contentedly against his beloved new friend, and a deep sigh tore from his chest. Brute’s tender, doggy heart would be broken to pieces when Lord Sydney left. Better to put an end to it now and save the dog from worse pain later.

  “Brute. Get down.” Lucas pointed toward the blanket again, ignoring Brute’s reproachful look as the dog climbed reluctantly from the bed and slunk over to his place under the window.

  Sydney stirred, and before he’d even opened his eyes he was patting at the bedcovers, searching for Brute. “Want my bear back,” he muttered groggily, a frown crossing his lips.

  Even Lucas’s hard heart couldn’t help but melt a little at that, but his voice was brusque when he replied. “He’s not allowed on the bed.”

  Sydney rubbed the sleep from his good eye and blinked up at Lucas. “He’s not? I mean no, of course, he’s not. That is, I warned him not to come up here with me. He must have jumped up after I fell asleep. Bad dog, Brute.”

  Lucas raised an eyebrow at this less than convincing denial. “You realize he could have jostled your shoulder when he jumped up, or stepped on your broken hand.”

  “Oh no, he’s too smart for that. I told him he had to stay by my feet, and he did just as I said. He never got anywhere near my injuries. He’s a brilliant dog.”

  “What do you mean, you told him?” Lucas asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You just said you were asleep when he got onto the bed.”

  Sydney flushed guiltily. “Well, I… He was… Oh, for God’s sake, never mind that, will you? When can I get out of this confounded bed? I’m bored to death, lying here. I may have to slip back into my concussed stupor, just for something to do.”

  Lucas pressed his lips together to hide his smile. “You’re in a bad temper this afternoon, my lord.”

  “Well, of course, I am. You left me here alone with Burke for hours. I love the man like a father, but damned if I can spend an entire afternoon chatting about horses with him. I had to fall asleep to escape a long lecture about the transition from leather to iron horseshoes.” Sydney paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was gruff. “I haven’t seen you all afternoon. Where have you been?”

  The idea that Lord Sydney might have missed him caused a tingle under Lucas’s breastbone. “In the fields, assessing the storm damage.”

  Sydney struggled up against his pillows. “Oh. Well, I won’t argue with that, but now you’re here, you’ll have to find some way to amuse me. You did wake me up, after all.”

  Lucas dropped into the chair next to the bed and crossed his ankles. “I don’t know how to amuse an earl, Lord Sydney. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “Oh, what ballocks, Dean. Amusing an earl is no different from amusing any other man.” Lord Sydney gave him a crafty smile. “I’ve an idea. Why don’t you start by helping me out of this bed?”

  Lucas shook his head. “No. Not yet. You’re still not steady on your feet.”

  Lord Sydney rolled his eyes. “That’s what you’re for, Dean. You’re a large, sturdy sort of man—certainly strong enough to help me get about. I’d settle for a walk around the bedchamber.”

  Lucas couldn’t deny he found the idea of Lord Sydney leaning against him appealing, but it had only been three days since the accident. The earl was healing quickly, but he wasn’t ready to leave the bed yet. “Maybe tomorrow. I could read to you instead, if you like.”

  Lord Sydney gave him a sulky look. “Oh, very well, if you must. What have you to read? Robinson Crusoe? Or Gulliver’s Travels, perhaps? I prefer adventurous stories.”

  “No. Neither of those.”

  “Tom Jones, then? Or Humphrey Clinker? Either of those would do, as well.”

  “The Complete Farmer.”

  Lord Sydney blinked. “The Complete Farmer? Why the devil would I want you to read that to me?”

  “Because you haven’t any other choice?”

  Lord Sydney stared at him. “What, is that all you have?”

  Lucas shrugged. “I’m a farmer, my lord. I haven’t time or money for novels. I have a few old medical books, but I doubt they’d interest you much.”

  “But you think The Complete Farmer will interest me? It’s a dictionary, isn’t it? You’re proposing to read to me from a dictionary?”

  Lucas ran a hand over his jaw. That was exactly what he was proposing, and it was sure to bore Lord Sydney to tears, but he hadn’t any better ideas. With any luck Sydney would drift off again, and then Lucas could hover over his bed and watch him sleep.

  He’d been doing far more of that than he should lately. He’d thought Lord Sydney had caught him out at it yesterday, but if he’d been disconcerted to find Lucas leaning over the bed and peering at him when he awoke, he’d hidden it well.

  Christ. He was nearly as bad as poor Brute. At least he’d drawn the line at climbing into bed with the man.

  Barely.

  “It’s not as dull as it sounds,” Lucas lied.

  Lord Sydney let out a deep sigh and let his head fall back against the pillow. “Very well, The Complete Farmer it is.”

  Lucas went downstairs to fetch the book. When he returned to Sydney’s bedchamber, he caught Brute with both paws braced on the bed, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his eyes closed in ecstasy as Lord Sydney scratched one of his ears with his good hand.

  “Brute! I told you to lie down.”

  “Yes, do go on, Brute, you wicked animal.” Lord Sydney gave the dog a gentle push, then turned a guilty look on Lucas. “Now then, Dean. The Complete Farmer.”

  Lucas took his seat and spread the book open in his lap. “Where would you like to begin?”

  “At the beginning, I suppose,” Lord Sydney replied, without enthusiasm. “With the letter A, I presume.”

  “Very well.” Lucas cleared his throat and began reading. “The Abele-tree, a species of poplar, growing naturally in all the temperate parts of Europe…”

  Lord Sydney was quiet at first, listening patiently as Lucas read through the definition of Ablaqueation. By the time Lucas reached Abortive Corn, the earl was squirming with annoyance, but he managed to hold his tongue until Lucas got to Acorn.

  “Acorns are said to have been the primitive food of mankind, but at present they are principally used in fattening hogs—”

  That was when Lord Sydney lost patience. “Hogs!” He let out a pitiful groan. “Here I thought the horseshoes were tedious. Ah, I thank you for your efforts, Dean, but I believe I’ve had enough of The Complete Farmer for one day. Unless, of course, you’d like to learn about feeding acorns to hogs?”

  “No.” Lucas closed the book. “I don’t keep hogs.”

  “Ah. We’ll, you’ve got your hands full with the bear, I expect.”

  Lucas’s lips twitched in response to Lord Sydney’s engaging grin. “Something like that.”

  Lord Sydney studied
him for a moment, then asked, “Did you always want to be a farmer, Dean?”

  Want? Lucas couldn’t recall what he wanted ever coming into the discussion. He’d inherited the seven-year lease on Brinkhill Farm when his father died, and since farming was all he knew, he’d continued on with it as a matter of course. “I expect I wanted to become a farmer as much as you wanted to become an earl, my lord.”

  It wasn’t at all the same thing, of course. Who wouldn’t choose to be an earl, if they were offered the chance? But Lord Sydney seemed to understand what he meant, just the same.

  “All right, then. If you could have chosen for yourself, Dean, what would you have done instead?”

  Lucas shifted uneasily in his chair. “I’ve no idea. I’ve never thought about it.”

  Lord Sydney studied him, his good eye narrowed. “Now, why is it that I don’t believe you, Dean? Indeed, I think you’ve given it a great deal of thought.”

  “Just as you’ve given a great deal of thought to what you’d do if you weren’t an earl?”

  Lucas meant the question sarcastically, but to his surprise, Lord Sydney looked thoughtful. “I think you’d be amazed at how often I think of that, but we’re not talking about me. You’re very good at turning the conversation away from yourself, aren’t you?”

  Lucas blew out a long breath. For a man with a head injury, Lord Sydney was annoyingly perceptive, and it was difficult to lie with those thoughtful blue eyes on his face. It was a wholly unfamiliar feeling, this urge to tell Sydney the truth. It occurred to Lucas that aside from Leah, not many people had ever asked him what he wanted, or what he might have done if he’d been born someone other than Lucas William Dean.

  He didn’t like talking about himself. He never had, but since Leah’s death the natural reserve he’d been born with had turned into a cold aloofness. Lord Sydney had somehow managed to slip under his defenses. Even now Lucas couldn’t have said how or when it had happened, but it had.

  The truth was, as much as he tried not to dwell on impossibilities—as hard as he worked to be contented with his lot in life—Lucas had given a great deal of thought to who and what he might have been if he hadn’t been fated to become a Beaconsfield farmer.

  He wanted to tell Lord Sydney something about himself. He couldn’t say what had brought on this sudden openness. It could have been Lord Sydney himself, or it could have been that there was a good chance no one else would ever ask.

  Lucas rose from his chair without answering and tossed another log on the fire. Burke had likely gone in search of the missing horse, because he hadn’t yet returned, and the house was quiet. The sun had set an hour or so ago, and the room was dim, but Lucas didn’t light a lamp.

  When he returned to his chair, he met Lord Sydney’s gaze. “You want to know what I’d do if I could do anything I wished?”

  Lord Sydney lifted his good shoulder in a shrug, but his gaze was intent. “I want to know everything about you, Lucas, but I’ll settle for anything you choose to tell me.”

  I want to know everything about you…

  Suddenly Lucas wished he were a great deal more interesting. “I’d like to travel. France, Italy, perhaps Spain and Portugal. I’m…interested in classical history.”

  Lucas was glad for the dimness of the bedchamber, because he could feel his face heating. A commonplace farmer with an interest in antiquities and the arts? It sounded absurd.

  But Lord Sydney didn’t mock him, and that told Lucas more about him than the laugh lines around his eyes or his smile ever could.

  “A Grand Tour of sorts, you mean?” Sydney asked.

  “I know it sounds foolish—”

  “No, it doesn’t. Why should it be foolish for a man of taste and intelligence to wish to travel?”

  “It’s foolish because that man isn’t a gentleman.”

  Lord Sydney snorted. “A great many young men who did make a Grand Tour weren’t gentlemen when they left England and were even less so when they returned.”

  Lucas smiled a little at this. He’d long since redefined his opinion of what made a man a gentleman, but he’d never expected to hear his own thoughts echoed by an aristocrat. “Did you make a tour?”

  “No. My father always intended I should, but then there was the war, you know. I’m afraid Boney put a halt to my classical education. I always rather regretted it, really. I’m fond of art and architecture. I think I would have enjoyed a few years of travel on the Continent.”

  “You could still go.” Lord Sydney was an aristocrat, and a man of means. If he wanted to travel, Lucas couldn’t see anything standing in his way.

  “Yes, I suppose, though there always seems to be some obligation or other to prevent it.” Lord Sydney’s brow creased, and he looked away, but when he faced Lucas again a moment later, the troubled look on his face had disappeared. “Which city would you most like to see?”

  “Rome. The churches and the ruins there. All of Italy, really.” Lucas looked down at his hands, an unfamiliar feeling of shyness overwhelming him. “I don’t have the education to make the most of it, of course.”

  His mother had been a governess before she married his father, so he and his sister had learned more than many children of their station did, but the bits and pieces he’d cobbled together fell far short of a gentleman’s education. He’d often wondered if he’d been given just enough knowledge to make him want more of it—just enough to make him discontented with his lot.

  “An education can be had at any time, Lucas,” Lord Sydney said quietly. “But a desire for knowledge can’t be taught.”

  Lucas couldn’t help but laugh at this. “How like an earl, to think an education can be had at any time. I don’t recall ever being offered a chance to attend Oxford.”

  Lord Sydney looked surprised at this, but after a moment he nodded. “Fair enough.”

  They were both quiet for some time after that, until Lord Sydney settled back against his pillows with a sigh. “Well, Dean, it’s just as I suspected. You’re much more fascinating than The Complete Farmer.”

  “That’s something, I suppose.”

  “Indeed, it is. But how do you intend to entertain me now?”

  Lucas grunted. “I don’t. I’m going to change the dressing on your head, and then you’re going to go to sleep. I’m taking Brute with me this time, too, before he knocks you out of that bed.”

  Sydney kicked restlessly at his covers. “What, you’re going to leave me here alone again? I’ve been sleeping all day, Lucas. I can’t manage another wink. Is The Complete Farmer truly the best you have to offer? Can’t we have a game of chess, or cards?”

  “No. It’ll put strain on your left eye.”

  “Damn it, Lucas, there must be something you can do to keep me entertained while I’m confined to this bed—”

  Sydney broke off abruptly, and a sudden, charged silence fell between them.

  A deep flush stained Lord Sydney’s cheeks, and Lucas realized Sydney’s words had struck them both at the same time, with the full force of the innuendo behind them. His next thought followed right on its heels, inevitable as a clap of thunder after a lightning strike.

  I can think of a number of ways to entertain you.

  “That is, I mean…what I meant to say is…” Sydney stammered.

  “What sort of entertainment do you demand, my lord?”

  Lucas’s voice had deepened and hoarsened, and there’d been just a hint of a challenge in the question, a tease so subtle it was nearly undetectable, but he could see by the expression on Lord Sydney’s face he’d heard it.

  He’d heard it, and knew it at once for what it was.

  An invitation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was an invitation. A subtle, hesitant one, but an invitation just the same. Other such invitations had been extended to Sydney over the years, but never in his life had h
e been more tempted to accept one than he was now.

  At any other time, or if he were a different sort of man, he wouldn’t have hesitated. That lock of red hair that fell into Lucas’s eyes, the somber curve of his full lips, his lithe, strong body…

  Lucas Dean made Sydney’s heart pound and his body ache with want.

  But this wasn’t another time, and he wasn’t another sort of man. He was a man of honor—a man who kept his promises. When he’d made Isla an offer of marriage, he’d also made her an implicit promise of faithfulness. He intended to keep it.

  Nothing had changed since he’d made her that promise. It didn’t matter that there was something special about Lucas. Sydney wasn’t sure how to put into words what it was—a sort of vulnerability, perhaps, or melancholy, but paired with a proud, quiet strength. All he knew was he was drawn to Lucas in a way he’d never before been drawn to anyone.

  He’d sensed it that first night. He’d been half out of his head after the accident, numb with pain and shock. His legs had been shaking underneath him, but even then, he’d known Lucas was different.

  He’d told himself the attraction would fade as necessity forced them into each other’s company. That was often how it went, after all, and it wasn’t as if he and Lucas had a great deal in common.

  That hadn’t happened. The attraction had only grown worse.

  Or better.

  Sydney wasn’t sure which, but every night since the accident, he’d dreamed of gray eyes.

  The more time he spent with Lucas, the more he wanted him, but he was no less betrothed now than he’d been the day he arrived. Worse, Lucas didn’t even know he was betrothed. Sydney hadn’t mentioned a word to him about Isla. He’d meant to—had even tried to, on more than one occasion—but somehow the words never seemed to find their way past his lips.

  “Perhaps you’ve found you can sleep, after all,” Lucas murmured.

  Sydney remained silent. He could feel the gray eyes on him, assessing each emotion as it passed over his face. What did Lucas see, when he looked into Sydney’s eyes?

  Desire. Uncertainty. Confusion. Need.