Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

by Desperately Seeking a Duke

  And now you can wed a man just like him and never, ever be allowed to grow to womanhood. From vicar’s perfect daughter to duke’s perfect wife with nary a moment of relief between.

  Except for one thing—she wasn’t perfect. How was she going to explain that on her wedding night? The vicar would be no help there, for he believed she’d been deserted before she’d been deflowered—and Phoebe had never had the nerve to correct that impression.

  The marquis was speaking. Phoebe pulled her wandering attention back with an effort.

  “Upon reflection, I have decided that it will not be efficient to continue to visit here.”

  He was planning to make himself scarce until the wedding? How … relieving.

  “Instead, I should like to invite your entire party to move to Brook House for the coming fortnight. Lady Tessa, you will be able to assist Miss Millbury with the arrangements with the help of my excellent staff—”

  So he’d noticed the lackluster service. Phoebe couldn’t blame the poor folk burdened with working for Tessa. One had to be paid a decent wage, and on time, to enjoy one’s employment.

  Still it was a kind offer—even if it clearly originated in his own desire for convenience. Phoebe opened her mouth to politely decline.

  “What a lovely notion!” Tessa’s eyes absolutely glittered with social-climbing glee. “We’ll pack up at once!”

  “No need,” Brookhaven said crisply. “I shall have your things moved by this afternoon.”

  “Oh, that will be grand!” Tessa fluttered and trilled and generally made a rather nauseating show of gratitude. Then her gaze sharpened. “Until the wedding, did you say?”

  Oh, no. Tessa was playing for hospitality for the entire Season. Since Phoebe would rather stick needles in her eye than live with Tessa one minute more than necessary, she held her breath waiting for Brookhaven’s response.

  Brookhaven gazed at Tessa. Tessa gazed unrelentingly at Brookhaven. Phoebe watched, fascinated by the clash of wills between two people who were obviously used to getting their own way.

  On one hand, it was nice to see Tessa meet her match. On the other hand, Brookhaven had not consulted her, Phoebe, as to her preference in the matter. In fact, he’d not spared her so much as a questioning glance during the entire exchange.

  That did not bode well for the future.

  Then a belated warning bell sounded inside her. There was more to consider here. On one hand, if she went to Brook House, she’d see Marbrook a great deal. On the other hand, if she went to Brook House … she’d see Marbrook a great deal. Either way she was doomed to be in his company more than she’d like—or dangerously less than she wished.

  Lord Brookhaven turned to the vicar. “Sir, I can take you to Brook House now. My valet will be happy to tend to your needs.” Leaving the vicar to blink in bemusement at the thought of having his pants buttoned by another man, Brookhaven turned back to gaze benevolently at the rest of them. “I thought perhaps you ladies would prefer an outing to visit Lementeur. I hear he’s quite the favorite in our set.”

  By the way that Tessa gasped and even Deirdre’s eyes lighted up, this Lementeur was something both desirable and exclusive. Phoebe hadn’t seen Tessa this excited since Deirdre had managed a second waltz with the septuagenarian duke.

  “After all,” Brookhaven went on, “Miss Millbury will be needing a trousseau befitting a marchioness.”

  Now Phoebe felt like a clay target in a shooting match. Bright envy sparked from the gazes of both Tessa and Deirdre. If sharp glances could kill, Phoebe would be dismembered.

  “Who is Lementeur?” Sophie asked.

  Phoebe was glad Sophie wasn’t afraid to appear unsophisticated, for she was burning to know herself.

  Tessa tilted her head and looked at Sophie with unconvincingly fond pity. “Dear child, you really must climb out of your butter churn. Lementeur is only the most exclusive dressmaker in London. It is almost impossible to get an hour of his time, much less to have him agree to make an entire wardrobe!”

  Phoebe blinked. “That is very generous, my lord, but I—”

  He patted her hand unctuously. “It is no matter, my dear. After all, one cannot have one’s wife looking tatty, can one?”

  Tatty. Phoebe doubted he even knew he’d been insulting.

  The vicar cleared his throat. “I do not wish to offend, my lord, but Lady Tessa felt it necessary to speak to me, so I fear I must speak to you. What of your … brother?”

  Brookhaven went quite still. “What of him?”

  Phoebe was every bit as frozen. What of Marbrook? Why did the vicar sound so … tentative? It was as if he wished to speak about a subject not fit for ladies’ ears, which was ridiculous because Marbrook was a perfectly respectable—

  “Your—ahem—brother will be residing at Brook House along with the young ladies, my lord?”

  Brookhaven didn’t move a muscle. “He will. As will both you and Lady Tessa. I hope you are not implying that there will be any impropriety, sir.”

  Tessa bent her head to whisper furiously to Deirdre. Phoebe was torn between listening in and paying attention to the mounting tension between the vicar and the marquis. The vicar, who seemed in near ecstasy over the engagement, would never be so offensive—unless there was something very wrong with Marbrook.

  “Rake.” Phoebe heard the word clearly in Tessa’s distinctive hiss, the tone she kept for the very tastiest—and most unseemly—shreds of gossip. “Degenerate.”

  No. And yet …

  He’d not denied it when she’d asked him if he was a rake. He’d only smiled.

  And hadn’t she herself sensed that he was somehow not quite respectable? After all, to whisk her off onto the terrace without introduction—

  He had rescued her. She was still grateful for that.

  “Scandal follows Marbrook like a faithful hound,” was Tessa’s final triumphant hiss on the matter.

  Scandal.

  Chapter Nine

  As Phoebe sat next to the man who had made her father so happy, she had the breathless sensation that she’d very nearly been run down by a racing cart—and had only just been snatched from beneath its wheels.

  How fortunate she was. She had almost faltered for the wrong man. Again.

  Old shame engulfed her. Not shame for her ruination, but the crushing feeling that there must be something wrong with her that she could be so gullible.

  “—I assure you that there is nothing to worry about,” Brookhaven was saying with strange lack of emphasis. “The young ladies will be utterly safe in Brook House.”

  Safe from Marbrook. As if he were a mad dog, prone to biting the unwary.

  Brookhaven stood. “I shall send my staff immediately to take the house in hand.” He turned to Phoebe. “I have informed Lementeur that you will need one gown immediately. I wish to set matters in motion at once with a dinner party at Brook House tonight. My brother and I—” His eyes flickered toward the vicar. “We shall gather a select group of friends for you to meet.”

  “Tonight?” Phoebe spoke without thinking. “Who will come on such short notice?”

  Brookhaven looked at her oddly. “They will come if I invite them.”

  Phoebe withdrew. “Oh, yes. Of course.” She must remember to whom it was she spoke. A marquis need not worry if his guests had other plans for their evening.

  Or if she’d had other plans for her life.

  RAFE WAITED FOR Calder in the Brookhaven carriage parked outside the house where Miss Phoebe Millbury lived with her aunt and cousins. He’d come here to speak to Calder, not to catch a glimpse of Phoebe, of course.

  The fact that he couldn’t keep his eyes off the front of the house made him feel like a fool.

  He’d come to a decision. He had decided to leave for … well, somewhere as far from the new Lady Brookhaven as he could manage. The Americas might do, or Africa. He hadn’t coin for the passage, but he had a few things of value that were becoming worth less and less to him by the moment. />
  In any event, he would be gone just after the wedding, before Milady moved in. That was important. He didn’t want to think about why.

  By the time Calder came out, Rafe had concocted and thrown out a thousand ways to broach the topic of his departure. All made him look capricious in the extreme. Such was his desperation that he was beginning not to care.

  Calder entered the carriage without more surprise than a raised brow at Rafe’s presence there. “I thought you’d make yourself scarce as usual so I can’t ask you to accompany me somewhere.”

  Rafe gazed at his brother, lifelong fondness and hatred warring in his heart. “You look different.”

  Calder smiled slightly. “I noticed last night that Miss Millbury had a preference for green, so I sought out this waistcoat from my wardrobe. Do you think she noticed?”

  Rafe watched in surprise and a bit of awe as his brother actually tugged self-consciously at his weskit. “You truly care?”

  The mere twist of the lips that passed for a smile on Calder did not fade. “She is a pleasing girl. I thought I’d best do a bit of pleasing in return.”

  The fact that his brother was actually happy about his engagement—rather than simply satisfied at concluding a business matter—sent arrows of fury through Rafe.

  But she’s mine.

  Calder adjusted his cravat further. “I’ve arranged for her to be fitted at Lementeur today. I think that’s a good idea, don’t you? Indulging her now will increase her attachment, don’t you think?”

  Rafe choked. “You’re—you’re asking me?”

  Calder turned to look at him strangely. “Did I not just ask you? What is your difficulty? I thought you approved of Miss Millbury?”

  Thank heaven he wouldn’t have to see her again until the wedding … and then it would be too late. He managed to find his voice. “Yes. Yes to the visit to Lementeur. Yes to the approval. Yes to the damned bilious weskit.”

  Calder frowned and turned back to his cravat. “You’re in a mood today. I hope you intend to improve it. Miss Millbury and her family will be joining us later today.”

  His pulse jumped at the thought of seeing her again. Well, perhaps he could make it through one dinner. He nodded shortly. “Of course. Dinner.”

  “Yes, dinner … and I’ve asked them all to move their things to Brook House immediately.”

  It was another blow on top of so many today. “To Brook House.” Next Calder was going to tell him that he’d decided to consummate the union in public and that Rafe was required to sit up front.

  “I am not a fool,” Calder said gruffly. “I know that it was the fact that I was not attentive enough that drove Melinda into another man’s arms.” The automatic motions of adjusting cuffs became somewhat less casual, but Calder’s tone did not change one iota while speaking of his late wife.

  Melinda Chatsworth Bonneville was a suitably pedigreed daughter of the aristocracy, groomed from birth to marry high and well. A demure brunette beauty with exquisite manners and large green eyes, she was the toast of the ton from the moment she first stepped dainty slipper through the door at Almack’s.

  Calder, having decided it was time to marry soon after rising to his father’s title as Marquis of Brookhaven—entirely understandable, everyone said while looking askance at Rafe’s steady decline into depravity, since the young marquis had no real heir—went about the selection of a wife as carefully as any breeder would compare the bloodlines of new brood mares.

  Marry too high and one was likely to find one’s fortune drained by the great houses and estates of one’s highborn and usually useless new relatives. Marry too low and one would find one’s own house filled with social-climbing inlaws hoping to stand on one’s shoulders to rise higher.

  The Honorable Miss Bonneville had no such undesirable attachments. Her parents were sensible people well-situated with their own small but profitable lands. She had no irritating siblings or cousins to drain one’s resources and launch into society and she had a spotless reputation as a biddable but not unintelligent young lady who possessed excellent taste.

  Calder set about securing this admirable acquisition to the bloodline with his usual swift and rational efficiency. Within weeks of her debut, Miss Bonneville’s ownership had been contracted and paid for and all parties declared themselves satisfied …

  Except that Miss Bonneville respectfully requested to put off the wedding until the end of the Season so that she could fully enjoy her first visit to London. Calder, having had his way in all things so far, indulgently agreed. He penciled in the September wedding date on his calendar and promptly went back to his previous absorption in his factories, sure that his well-laid plans could not go astray in his absence.

  Melinda, however, had other ideas. It seemed that she was less happy with the match than her parents were. She’d hoped for several Seasons of enjoyable society and a legion of admirers to choose from at her leisure. Now she was eighteen, engaged, and rather less carefully chaperoned than other girls her age … and angry at her swift entrapment.

  There were mere whispers at first, which Calder likely never heard in his distraction. Then there was rumor, but he ignored that as well. He’d experienced the jealous tongues of Society when he’d inherited so much so young. He knew that idle minds manufactured their own entertainment.

  Then rumor became flaming gossip and gossip exploded into scandal—and there was nothing Calder could do about it but marry the girl he’d so unwisely left unattended all season long. Dissolving the engagement himself would have besmirched him and ruined her forever—neither of which were desirable entries into the family history. He was assured by Melinda’s humiliated parents that she would settle properly into her wifely role once the wedding took place. There was nothing to do but go through with it and hope for the best.

  The best did not happen. Melinda, furious that her actions had made no difference and now madly infatuated with a man she’d met during her adventures, continued to make headlines in the gossip sheets. Matters finally seemed to settle a bit and the couple even seemed to achieve a sort of happiness—Rafe didn’t know why precisely, for he and Calder were not on the best of terms at that time—until two years into the marriage when occurred Melinda’s next and tragically final act of rebellion.

  It was the stuff of grand theatre—the fleeing wife, the mocking cuckold, the shattered husband, and the dramatic cross-country escape which ended in the carriage accident that killed two. It was all so very tawdry and cliché—and ferociously private Calder found himself in the center of it all.

  Rafe, who had passed that night in the energetic embrace of a happily married mother of six children—who were shamelessly mismatched in coloring and features all, although thankfully his own black hair and brown eyes never appeared there—learned about Calder’s tragic mishap the same way the rest of England did.

  The papers were merciless, rooting out every scrap of old gossip and rumor from Melinda’s outrageous season and shoring up any weak points with wild speculation as well. Calder found himself in the excruciating position of being openly pitied—and snickered about—by an entire nation. Unbearable for a proud and aloof man.

  Rafe packed up the rooms he kept and came home and Calder opened Brook House to him. Neither spoke a word about the tragedy, but Rafe told himself that Calder appreciated the show of support. It was a grim, hushed time.

  Calder’s determined and dignified silence—and the stature of his enormous wealth, no doubt—eventually outlasted the storm of scandal. Rafe stayed on in Brook House and did his best not to add fuel to the gossip fires. One by one, he gave up his self-indulgent pleasures, although neither Calder nor the rest of Society ever seemed to notice. Perhaps it was simply Rafe’s own form of penance. Melinda’s wildness was not his fault, but he’d taken a certain bitter amusement in seeing Calder hoist on his own sanctimonious petard.

  He would never have wished this seething madness on anyone however, and it bothered him to see Calder retreat even f
arther into his stern shell.

  Calder never gave up his blacks after his year of mourning was over, and his new brooding demeanor did nothing to deter the gossips who still loved to paint him as an object of romanticized pity.

  Calder’s thoughts must have followed a similar vein, for he scowled slightly into the glass. “I do not intend to make that mistake again. That is why the wedding will take place within weeks. If not for the reading of the banns, I would take care of it tomorrow.”

  Rafe was quiet for a moment. “Do you truly mean this? You intend to be a true husband to Ph—Miss Millbury?”

  Calder slid him a glance. “I was a true husband to Melinda. She was not a true wife to me. But Miss Millbury has not been in town long enough to form any attachments and I intend to see that she does not have the opportunity.”

  “Cage the bird quickly, you mean.” Rafe’s chest tightened. “So she has no opportunity to fly.”

  “Of course. It is much more efficient. She will not miss what she never had.”

  I wouldn’t wager a farthing on that, brother of mine. One can miss quite a bit that one never had.

  “Her cousins are coming as well. Very demure and proper girls, those two.”

  Stay away from the young ladies, in other words. Rafe gave a short bark of laughter. “I’m sure they are. I shall see you then.”

  He slammed his palm down on the door latch and exited the carriage. Better to walk the rest of the way. As he shut the door and turned away, he heard something he would have wagered he’d never hear in all his days.

  Calder was humming, rustily and a bit off key, but humming nonetheless. Rafe could quite honestly say that he’d never seen his brother so happy.

  How appropriate then that it made him so miserable.

  Chapter Ten

  Moments after Brookhaven made his goodbyes, another gentleman arrived at the house on Primrose Street—a Mr. Stickley, from the firm of Stickley & Wolfe, the executors of the Pickering trust.