Rafe stopped reluctantly. She came even with him and dropped the skirts she had picked up to run. Her cheeks were pink and that flicker of vulnerability shone again in her blue eyes.
“Yes?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry about—no one told me about your … birth. I didn’t know.”
Now he knew he hadn’t lost her due to his lack of birthright. That must mean that she was after the title.
He raised his brows with polite inquiry. Yes. Be merely polite. “I see. Is there anything else?”
She flushed anew and looked down at her hands. Pressing her palms over the wrinkles she’d just made in the blue silk, she kept her gaze low. “No. I simply wished … to thank you for not mentioning last evening to your brother.”
“There was nothing to tell. We danced and we talked. This morning you accepted my brother’s proposal of marriage.”
“My lord, did you … were you merely interested in me for Lord Brookhaven’s sake?” That part came out in a rush. Her cheeks grew pink but she gazed steadily at him, determined to have the answer.
“Does it matter?” Yes, it matters! No, it could not. Not ever. “Yes, I pointed you out to my brother. Evidently, he liked what he saw. You accepted him, so you must have as well.”
Phoebe felt something new and precious start to die inside her. Yet she knew from personal experience that one magical night didn’t necessarily mean dreams came true. “I see. So you checked the teeth of a horse he wanted to buy, is that it?”
“If that is how you choose to perceive it.” Something dark flickered behind his eyes.
Abruptly Phoebe wanted nothing to do with either of them. Calder was cold and stern, Rafe was obviously capricious in the extreme.
Yet to walk away from such an advantageous match? It was a hard world. She must take care of herself. A wealthy titled lady had a better chance of doing that than a tarnished vicar’s daughter.
So she gave a polite smile, the one she could do in her sleep—the one, it turned out, that she could smile while her heart was tearing itself in two. She curtsied and then straightened and held out her hand. “Well, since you are not bothered by it, neither shall I be. Shall we go in to dinner?”
Abruptly Rafe regretted his own distance. Where had she gone? He missed her already. He stepped closer, then a bit too close, until he could feel her soft breath and detect the subtle floral scent of her skin.
He came closer, until she could feel the fire emanating from him. It was more exciting than a touch, for she was doing no wrong. She was simply standing, her hands at her sides, her eyes downcast. No wanton recklessness, no deviation from her path.
It was only that he was there, so close she could feel that heat, smell the fine, clean male scent of him, let it fill her lungs without regret. She was only breathing, after all.
She studied his boots and the way the finished leather clung to his ankles and muscled calves. Her gaze shifted slightly higher almost without thought—although she was still being most well-behaved—and she let her eyes drink in the sight of his long, rippling thighs. He was so close she could see every shift of his body in those thighs. The muscles swelled and relaxed, swelled and—oh, heavens, that wasn’t a muscle!
She must shut her eyes and turn away. She must feel shocked and demeaned by his earthly … er, display!
Then again, her lids were still lowered, her lashes still hiding the direction of her gaze. Who was to know if she peeked a bit?
She peeked. A great deal.
His male organ lay to one side, along his thigh, pointing at a downward slant. As it stiffened—why would it do that, when she was only standing before him in a most demure state?—as it grew and filled before her eyes, something like heat began to gather in the pit of her stomach.
No one could see it, of course, so there was no danger. It was only that her thighs began to tense in response, for it felt so good to squeeze slightly against the rising pressure inside her. Her breasts felt odd as well, the tips tingling and tightening—something she hoped he was ignorant of. She was safe, silent and unrevealing in her growing desire. No one knew.
When Phoebe raised her gaze to Rafe’s, he could see nothing in their blue depths. She made no reaction at all. No spark, no fire, not even predictable virginal jitters at his presumption.
She smells like Eden.
Any woman could wear perfume. Most women who bathed smelled fairly nice.
She would be warm and soft in your arms, in your bed. She would bear fat, laughing babies and smile at you over breakfast for all of the years of your life.
Again, nothing unique there. Most women could fill that bill.
She could make you forget any other woman.
Or perhaps she already has.
The chilling danger of that thought made him step back swiftly. “I’ll be along in a moment,” he said hoarsely. God, don’t let her detect the naked need he heard in his own voice. “Go—go in to Calder. I’m sure he’s waiting for you. You’re better off with him, anyway.” He smiled, a bitter slice of white in the shadowy hall. “You’ve probably heard all about me by now.”
She gazed at him soberly. “You are generally considered to be a rake, a rotter, and a bounder. You neglected to mention that when I asked.”
He shrugged, his smile growing sharper. “I lied. That is what rakes, rotters, and bounders do, you know.”
She nodded. “So I’ve noticed.” She lifted her chin. “Well, we will be seeing a great deal of each other in the future. You should know that I—I don’t hold last evening against you. What is past, is past.”
He bowed briskly. “That’s big of you, Miss Millbury. I’ll endeavor to do the same.”
“Oh.” She blinked. He could see her confusion—what did I do to him? What indeed? After all, no woman in her right mind would choose the black sheep when they could have the golden boy, would she?
She raised her chin and smiled that perfect, remote smile that revealed absolutely nothing. “I shall see you at dinner, then.”
Rafe despised that smile.
She turned and walked away, a portrait in serene unconcern. Rafe watched her go, letting something die inside him.
TESSA STEPPED AWAY from the door, with its fascinating view of the hallway, and moved smoothly back into the guests gathered in the drawing room.
That wretched vicar’s daughter had a secret … and now so did Tessa.
For Tessa knew that Phoebe was a volatile creature—like gunpowder, she was perfectly safe until someone put a match to her.
The handsome, notorious Lord Raphael Marbrook might just be the man to do it.
It seemed the game might not yet be won, after all.
When Phoebe reentered the room, Tessa was speaking to Deirdre in the far corner. When Lord Marbrook rejoined them, Tessa was smiling at Lord Brookhaven, laughing though he’d made no joke at all.
What an intriguing evening this was turning out to be.
Chapter Nineteen
Later that night, after the guests had all given her their goodbyes and congratulations, Phoebe paced her room in her nightdress, feeling caged and twitchy like a captive animal.
Never before had she felt like such an impostor. She was no marchioness! She certainly wasn’t what any of them saw in her—not even Sophie, who thought her so fortunate—and she certainly wasn’t the proper virtuous vicar’s daughter that Brookhaven saw!
Marbrook had seen her. He was the only one who had ever seen past the pose—and she had mucked it up.
Would you have truly tied yourself to a scandalous bastard?
The very thought filled her with dread. Scandal follows Marbrook like a faithful hound.
Doubt plagued her. She thought she saw more in him than the rest of the world, but what if she was wrong? What if she was only being duped again. She had believed in Terrence absolutely and look what had happened.
How could she be sure? Even Marbrook himself didn’t deny his history. No. She was where she ought to be, and
if she was not the woman they thought her, then she must try very hard to become her … she must become the marchioness—and someday the duchess.
And soon.
One of the guests, Lady Oh-would-she-never-remember-all-these-names?, was asking Brookhaven about the wedding plans. Brookhaven looked up, his expression one of faint surprise. “I’ve posted the banns and the church has been secured for that date. I need no more plan than that.”
Every lady at the table had gasped in simultaneous horror. Phoebe didn’t wish a prominent display, of course. Girlish daydreams of a romantic and opulent celebration didn’t seem to matter when the transaction was as businesslike as theirs.
No flowers? No wedding breakfast with rose-petal gelatin and cream? No smiling, happy crowd to wish the new couple well?
No, she told the voice firmly. It was silly and wasteful and …
And a mockery of what might have been?
There could be no repeat of this evening’s silent moments of communion with Marbrooks. For the next fortnight in Brook House she would be in close proximity with him—God, perhaps sleeping mere yards from his room! Seeing him at breakfast and at tea and—she closed her eyes at the horror of it—more eternal, heart-aching dinners like tonight!
Even at this very moment, Marbrook was in his room … perhaps in his nightshirt … or perhaps bathing, wearing nothing but warm soapsuds and the glow of the fire on his muscled body—
Two more weeks of it, and then more, if he stayed in the house—her house!—after the wedding. A horrible thought struck her, making her wrap her arms about her stomach and nearly double over.
He would be in the same house on her wedding night—only a few steps away while she was giving herself to Brookhaven—there’d be no way to hide it, everyone knew, so he would be aware of every moment that she betrayed him—
No. Wait. She would be Brookhaven’s wife.
In love with Brookhaven’s brother. Who was she betraying there?
She clutched at her head, willing the conflicting thoughts to subside. Please stop. Please let it be simple. Why wasn’t it simple?
A tentative knock on her door. Sophie. Thank God!
She threw open the door, grabbed Sophie’s hand and dragged her into the room. “Sophie, you must help me. I’ve made the most tremendous error! I cannot marry him!”
Sophie blinked. “You don’t like his lordship after all?”
Phoebe sat on the bed, not caring if she wrinkled the counterpane, and buried her face in her hands. “I like his lordship’s brother better,” she murmured, a frantic, panicked laugh escaping her, cracking her voice.
“What? Please sit up and talk to me, Phoebe. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
No, she couldn’t tell anyone, not even Sophie. Oh, heavens, the vicar’s face if he found out!
Lifting her face from her hands, Phoebe forced an awkward smile. “It is nothing. It is only that I am just now realizing that all of this is real.”
Sophie sat down next to her. “You are very lucky, Phoebe. You know that, don’t you? A fine, handsome man wants you to be his wife. Do you realize what that is worth?”
Phoebe nodded, knowing what Sophie was saying—that Sophie herself would never have such an opportunity. She took her cousin’s hand in hers. “You’ll get one too, Sophie, see if you don’t!”
Sophie shrugged, her gaze going dreamy once more. “I’ve already gained more than I ever thought I would. New adventures …” A small smile crossed her lips. “New friends.”
Phoebe took a breath. “Yes. Friends.” Marbrook would make a marvelous friend. He’d been the only one to understand the stock pin. If she could ever forget the way he’d made her feel before—and the way he made her feel tonight, simply by standing near her in the hall!—then she might yet manage to be his friend.
She turned to gaze out over the dark night garden.
Someday.
A WAXING MOON brightened the garden, but not enough to dim the red tip of Rafe’s lit cheroot as he lurked in the shadows.
I’m not lurking. It’s my garden, after all.
Or not really. It was Calder’s garden. Brook House was Calder’s house. Bloody Calder.
Rafe reluctantly allowed his gaze upward once more to the large square of light on the wall above. Phoebe’s room—the pretty green one with the view of the garden—the one Rafe had suggested to Fortescue that morning.
She’d liked it. She’d liked the chocolates as well, Fortescue had told him. Rafe felt ridiculous, depending on secondhand information like a schoolboy with a crush, yet he hung on every word.
A shadow moved before the window. He went still. Then the gleam of auburn and the lithe silhouette told him it was the maid, Patricia. He blew out a stream of smoke, discouraged and mightily disgusted with himself.
Not so disgusted that he left, however.
A while later, another shadow—this one altogether more buxom and soft. He straightened. Phoebe. Honeyed light struck her hair as she leaned against the embrasure and gazed out at the garden. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes from here but he could imagine them softened, like a twilight sky.
Yearning tore at him. Why? What was this hideous ache, over a girl he barely knew?
He ought to fling himself out into the city and take up with the first likely widow who happened by! Tossing down his cheroot, he stamped it out with emphasis. He would, by God! Right now!
She turned her head in his direction. He froze. She lifted a hand to swipe surreptitiously at her eyes, so the maid wouldn’t see.
There could be a thousand reasons for her tears. She could be weeping for someone passed, like her mother. She could be weeping for any one of the lost souls lurking in the dire London streets at this god-forsaken hour. She could be weeping for joy.
Fiery hope detonated within him.
Those tears belonged to him. He couldn’t say how he knew, but he knew.
She wept for him, even as he stood out in the cold like a cast-off hound, shivering for her warmth.
She wept for him.
Chapter Twenty
By the next morning the invitations had already begun pouring in. Phoebe sat at the table with Deirdre and Sophie in the comfortable breakfast room at Brook House, sifting through the vast pile. “I don’t even know most of these people.”
“Well, the Marchioness of Brookhaven will.” Deirdre didn’t bother to hide her peevishness. “Did you think things would remain the same?”
“Not that I’d mind,” Sophie interjected slowly, “but I think Tessa would dislike it if you accepted invitations that did not include all of us.”
Deirdre snorted into her teacup. “I think Tessa would have kittens, but don’t let that stop you.” She put down her cup and leaned forward. “Or accept none of them. Brookhaven won’t care. He despises social events.”
Phoebe blinked. “He does? How do you know?”
Deirdre stared at her. “How do you not? It is obvious the man would rather tot accounts than dance a step.”
What a relief, if that were true. Then again, why not behave as if it were until proven otherwise? Phoebe smiled and nodded at her cousins. “Thank you. I will take your advice. After all, Tessa can hardly feel slighted if I decline them all.”
Deirdre leaned back in her chair and shook her head, a dry smile on her lips. “Never underestimate Tessa’s ability to take offense. She’s quite expert.”
Sophie glanced at Deirdre nervously, then back at Phoebe. “There’s something else.”
Phoebe smiled. “What did I miss?”
Deirdre heaved a sigh. “You won’t like it. I would, but you’re not the sort to appreciate it.”
Phoebe looked from Deirdre to Sophie. “What is this? Tell me.”
Sophie drew a folded newssheet from behind her back. She hesitantly handed it across the table to Phoebe.
Laughing, Phoebe picked it up. “Look at your faces! What could possibly be so—”
There she was, on the front page of
the newssheet. The drawing was spare and hurriedly done, as if someone had only a moment to catch her likeness as she paused, but it was most definitely her. Next to her image was one of Brookhaven, although his was more finished, making her seem wispy and insubstantial next to him.
She and Brookhaven, on the front page of the most popular newssheet in London—her face sent out all over the city and beyond—her face handed out by newsboys on every street corner. She closed her eyes in horror, then opened them again, unable to look away.
“Brookhaven Chooses a Bride! Vicar’s daughter snatches up London’s premier bachelor before the Season is fully under way! Mary Mouse and the Marquis!”
If the headlines were bad, the text was worse. “Your Voice of Society has discovered that Miss Phoebe Millbury has only been in town for a week, yet she has managed to do what three Seasons of London’s loveliest young ladies have failed to accomplish—she has caught the eye and the betrothal of one of England’s most desirable men, the dashing Brookhaven! Moreover, she did it in last year’s sprigged muslin with puffed sleeves, if you can believe it!”
Phoebe felt her belly tremble. She carefully put the gossip sheet on the table and cleared her throat. “Mary Mouse?”
Deirdre popped a bite of sausage into her mouth. “The country mouse. From the story.”
Phoebe inhaled and exhaled, but it didn’t ease the tightness in her chest. Her face began to go numb. Sophie jumped up in alarm.
“Dee, she’s going to faint!”
Sophie and Deirdre made it to her just in time. They eased her back into her chair and made her lean forward until her head hung in front of her knees.
“Just breathe,” Deirdre urged, her voice not unkind. “You’ll get used to all this soon enough, I imagine. After all, as the Duchess of Brookmoor, you’ll be in the papers every time you sneeze.”
Phoebe whimpered.
“Dee, you aren’t helping,” Sophie hissed.
“No.” Phoebe straightened, one hand pressed to her breast bone to make sure her lungs were still in working order. “No, she’s quite right. I just never thought about it like that—” And I thought I’d be facing it with Marbrook instead.
Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01] Page 11
