My dear Miss Millbury, I regret that I am unable to fulfill my promise to you this evening.
Brookhaven.
A good brother would see that the message was delivered. A good brother would fling himself on the first ship bound for other seas.
He crumpled the note and shoved it in his pocket. “Apparently I am not a good brother.”
He couldn’t do it. He could not leave now and desert Phoebe to a life of luxurious neglect, to know that her discontent would grow until the day that, like Melinda, she was flung from a disintegrating carriage like a broken doll in her attempt to flee the pain and emptiness of her life.
Phoebe’s unhappy future rose before him. He must try once more to convince her not to go through with this marriage.
Apparently, Melinda had known something about Calder that Rafe had never wanted to believe.
In his own perfectly correct, wintry, and heartless way, Calder really was the Bastard of Brookhaven.
TESSA WAS LISTENING again. Oh, if anyone had passed, she would have seemed to be purposefully headed down the hall.
She was rarely caught in the act, however. She’d had a brutal, violent father who’d not always been susceptible to her carefully doled-out charm. It had been a fine line between cajoling him from his black moods … and attracting him too much. She’d learned to manipulate, to scheme—and to win.
Not to mention how to move quietly in a man’s house, ever alert to things like the smell of cigars, the clink of a whisky decanter against a glass, the heavier step. Such a skill never seemed to become less useful, she thought, smiling to herself.
Brookhaven was away … and it seemed the mice were going to play.
Well, far be it from her to stand in the way of young love. Especially when helping it along just might make her—or rather, Deirdre, of course—a very rich woman.
IN THE OFFICE of Stickley & Wolfe, Solicitors, a new plan of battle had been hatched.
“His lordship has seats to the opera tonight. I’ve confirmed with a delivery lad to Brook House that himself is taking his bride-to-be. They’ve their own box, of course, which means that his lordship will be ducking out occasionally to stretch his legs, have a smoke, et cetera.”
“Et cetera?”
Wolfe endeavored not to roll his eyes. “Take a piss, then. At any rate, we can dress up to fit in and wait outside his box. The upper levels of the opera house are a maze of little halls. We’ll snatch him, overwhelm him between the two of us, and …” Stickley’s twitching became no longer ignorable. “What?”
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
Wolfe shrugged. “Any evening suit will do—”
Stickley’s twitching intensified. Wolfe’s eyes widened. “You don’t have an evening suit.”
“I’ve never had a use for one,” Stickley said primly. “I do not condone expenditures on unnecessary clothing.”
Wolfe snarled. “Fine. I’ll wait for him, I’ll overwhelm him, and you’ll wait at the back door of the theater with the cart at the ready.”
Stickley nodded nervously. “All right. If you truly think it is necessary to go to such extremes.”
Wolfe grinned toothily. “Stick, old son, she can’t marry him if he isn’t there!”
UPSTAIRS IN HER bedchamber, Phoebe had three of the new gowns from Lementeur laid on the bed and was regarding them with a frown. What to wear to the opera with the Marquis of Brookhaven?
First of all, she’d never been to the opera, and while it was assumed that one dressed very well, she had some doubt as to the degree.
Second of all, what would be appropriate for an affianced bride of a marquis?
Deirdre would likely know and might help, but she was off driving in Hyde Park with one of her admirers. Sophie—well, never mind.
This is one of those times when having a mother would truly be a blessing.
“Having trouble, dear?” a kind voice inquired.
Phoebe started, whirling toward the doorway of her chamber.
But it was only Tessa, stepping gracefully into the room, a gentle smile on her face—which was out-and-out bizarre, actually. Phoebe stepped back warily. “Lady Tessa.”
Tessa’s smile deepened. “Surely you can call me ‘Aunt’ by now, dear?” She came even with Phoebe and perused her choices. “Oh, how pretty! You’ve done well. However … oh, dear. Ordinarily, these would do perfectly well but …”
Phoebe eyed her gowns, her doubts rising anew. “But what?” She might not trust Tessa but there was no denying Tessa’s exquisite taste—in her own fashions, at least.
“Well, this is your first evening at the opera as the marquis’s betrothed bride. One wants to make a lasting first impression, doesn’t one?”
Phoebe’s stomach turned over. All eyes upon her—tongues wagging—
Don’t do it.
“Help me, please, aunt!”
Now you’ve done it.
Tessa beamed. “Of course, dear!” She turned toward the the bounty of gowns Phoebe had received from Lementeur.
Phoebe followed Tessa like a worried puppy. “I’d thought blue, for his lordship, but I did not know if a deep color would be appropriate or if I should select something light—”
Tessa waved a negating hand. “Theatrical is always the order of the day at the opera. All the ladies wear their very most dramatic and exciting gowns—ah, this will do perfectly!”
Tessa reached for the one gown that Phoebe had especially avoided—the blue-green extravaganza that made her look as though she were made entirely of bosom.
And made her think of the look in Rafe’s eyes when she’d tried it on for him …
“Oh, no! I couldn’t.”
Tessa turned with the gown in her hands and blinked at her in puzzlement. “Whyever not? What is the use of a gown you will not wear?”
“But it makes me very—” Phoebe indicated with both hands before her, blushing.
Tessa gave a tinkling laugh. “Well, then it will stifle those wits who can’t see why Brookhaven chose you from all the others!” She seemed completely unconcerned that she was lumping herself and Deirdre in that group.
“I—I thought you were upset about the match,” Phoebe said hesitantly. “With the chance that I’ll win.”
Tessa shrugged. “Well, I won’t deny that I was a bit miffed at first. Yet why should I care, really? No matter what the outcome, I personally would never receive anything but the satisfaction of seeing Deirdre nicely set—and I’ve no doubt she’s entirely capable of securing a fine future for herself. Brookhaven’s connections will make that all the easier now. So there is little point in holding your good fortune against you, is there?”
Tessa in general made Phoebe uneasy, but her words did make sense. Deirdre was one of the beauties of the Season. She might very well make a match worth far more than twenty-seven thousand pounds.
She found herself smiling shyly. “Very well. I shall wear the gown.” It was a beautiful creation.
“Lovely!” Tessa turned her toward the mirror and held the gown to her front, reaching from behind and gazing encouragingly over Phoebe’s shoulder. “See? Brookhaven won’t be able to resist you!”
Brookhaven. Phoebe felt that same twisted guilt at the thought of getting close to his lordship.
Yet that was how it should be. She should be dressing to please Brookhaven and no one else. And perhaps …
Perhaps if she made herself as tempting as possible—perhaps Brookhaven would be driven to long for her as Rafe did.
And perhaps that would inspire her to long for him right back. Perhaps that was all that was lacking. Perhaps then things would be as they should be.
Perhaps.
Chapter Thirty-two
Two hours later she was dressed and she knew she’d never looked more tempting in her life. Tessa had magnanimously sent Nan to help Patricia and had even supervised the various choices of hairstyle.
In the end, both the maids and Tessa had agreed that the hair shoul
d be as simple and elegant as possible, so as not to draw attention away from the gown—“And your pretty face, dear.”
Of course, to Phoebe’s eye, that meant that the primary draw of the world’s—and Brookhaven’s!—attention would be her bosom. It was disconcerting to think about going out in public so … so exposed.
Yet Phoebe had seen Tessa herself in worse, and other ladies of the ton as well. Apparently what was not acceptable for the daughter of Thornton’s vicar was entirely expected of the new Marchioness of Brookhaven.
I—and my breasts—are simply going to have to get used to this.
So was the vicar, apparently. He was waiting for her outside her bedchamber door when she emerged, wrap in hand, peacock feathers waving high above her head.
His eyes went wide and there was a severe bout of throat clearing. Finally he pulled himself together—but only by staring somewhere over Phoebe’s left shoulder. She herself was blushing mightily at the thought of her tightly bound father seeing quite so much of her—ah, assets.
He cleared his throat one last time.
“My dear—” he began. “I wish to speak to you for a moment.”
Tessa and Nan had moved discreetly away already. “Yes, Papa?”
“I—er—I thought it was high time I commended you for the way that you’ve overcome your—” He cast one helpless glance downward, then squeezed his eyes shut. “Your previously wicked nature.”
The hypocrisy was almost more than she could bear. All those years of perfect behavior had garnered nothing but criticism, yet throwing herself on her betrothed while half clothed met with praise.
She’d been a silly child. She’d made a terrible mistake.
In shocked response, the vicar had essentially put her in gaol, hiring servants whose sole purpose was to watch her. From ignored to imprisoned in one swift move.
What is the primary difference between a rich marquis and a poor dancing master? Coin. And the brood mare goes to the highest bidder.
And what was the rich marquis going to think when he discovered that he’d purchased soiled goods?
“Papa …” She had no one else to talk to. “Papa, what am I going to do on my wedding night when Brookhaven discovers that I’m not—”
“Not prepared?” The vicar interrupted too quickly—and his ruddy flush was not due to squeamishness.
Phoebe blinked. “You know?”
He looked away, clearing his throat. “Nothing to know. Nothing at all.”
Phoebe was stunned. The vicar, self-righteous man of God, was a liar. Moreover, he fully intended for her to lie in order to bag and bed a marquis. Was he even particular about that order of events?
How dare you judge me so harshly for my poor misdirected heart? At least I sinned out of love!
Out loud, all she said was, “Yes, Papa.”
He huffed, obviously pleased by her decorous meekness. “Well, never let it be said that I don’t give credit where credit is due! You have come a long way from the wild and wayward girl you used to be, my dear.”
“Have I?” And yet, who was she now—wild, untamed, sensual Phoebe of the past or prim, demure, faultless Phoebe of the present? One man wanted one woman, the other man wanted the opposite.
I miss that girl.
I miss myself.
But that girl would never be the Duchess of Brookmoor. That girl would never be immune.
RAFE WAS COMMITTING the unforgivable and he knew it. As he prepared for his departure, he saw to every detail of his affairs, leaving nothing behind that he might ever need to come back for.
The gamble for Phoebe’s heart was a sure thing—a sure thing that he would somehow lose by it. He was simply in too much pain to care. The devil on his shoulder had spoken and he’d listened—he intended to take this last chance with her.
If she accepted him, he would lose his brother forever.
If she rejected him, he’d lose Calder anyway, for he would never be able to face the future here in England—living out his days in his brother’s house, watching his brother live happily evermore with his lovely new wife.
There was one last thing to take care of. He stood before his dressing table, gazing down at the Marbrook signet ring that was as much a part of him as the finger it had spent the last twenty years circling.
There was no possibility of coming back from this betrayal of his brother, no way to come back home … ever.
The signet hit the crystal dish, ringing like a bell.
The voice in his mind took on an edge of horror.
What are you doing? Are you mad? You are a Marbrook! That is the only thing you have left!
It didn’t matter. His heart was torn from him, kept prisoner in another’s hands, and he couldn’t even regret it. If ever a woman was worth a man forfeiting his soul, it was Phoebe. The agony of living without her, of breathing and eating and sleeping for the rest of his life with this hole in his chest was more than he could bear. She loved him as well. He must believe it. He could be the man she wanted—he must believe it or he would surely die.
He rubbed the heel of his hand against the place where his heart used to reside. The ache did not subside, the need did not abate.
There was no help for it.
At least, one outcome or the other, this torture would at last be done.
Chapter Thirty-three
The footman was dressed in the usual blue and black, the carriage standing in the street before Brook House was one they’d used before. There was nothing to make Phoebe suspect that there was anything odd in the gloved hand that reached from the darkness within.
Yet the instant she placed her own gloved hand within it, she knew.
She made to pull back, but Rafe’s hand tightened on hers and implacably pulled her inside.
Or perhaps she went willingly. It wasn’t as though she could think clearly when he touched her!
At any rate, she found herself in the dark carriage alone with a man she should not be alone with. He had released her instantly when the carriage door had shut, but she could still feel the heat of his fingers on hers. Her belly tightened and she shifted uneasily. Just being near him had the most disturbing effect between her thighs. Every bump and rattle of the carriage threatened to worsen her condition, and the longer he let the silence stretch, the higher her tension ran.
Finally, she could not bear it. “Where is he?”
She heard him draw a deep breath.
“In Hertfordshire. Something blew up.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but the silence fell again. She ought to have filled it with more questions, or even something inane about the evening fog, but she’d hesitated too long for normal conversation and could not bring herself to speak again.
He was watching her. She could feel his gaze on the skin of her face, neck, and upwelling breasts. The light from the forward carriage lantern cast a yellow glow on her while keeping him in total shadow, but she knew he was staring. She’d worn the blue-green gown for Calder’s titillation—a heavy-handed attempt for the attention of a rather dense man. Now she wished she’d borrowed a nun’s habit instead. Rafe obviously needed no such stimulation.
“You look like a lamb for slaughter.”
“The only one I want slaughtered is you,” Phoebe shot back instantly. “What are you thinking, sneaking up on me this way? You know I cannot resist you!” Then she blinked. Where had that come from? Damn the man! He always brought out the “other” Phoebe in her!
As the wheels rolled through the London streets, Phoebe considered her options. She might scream. She might fling herself from the carriage, or beg assistance from the footman even now clinging to the rear of the vehicle.
She did none of those things. This was Rafe, who hadn’t done a thing to her that she’d not been a willing, if later shamed, party to.
They did need to talk, that was a fact. She needed to make sure that he understood that she was serious in her decision to move forward with her commitment to Calder.
So she decided to bide her time and wait for them to reach the opera house in Covent Garden. She gazed out the window, although the fog-smeared view was little more than a series of dark outlines and blurs of light.
Then she noticed that the blurs of light had become fewer and the darkness more dense and closer to them. She peered outside, alarms sounding within her—along with the distinct sensation that she’d missed her opportunity for escape.
“Where are we?” She stood to press her hand to the latch of the carriage door.
“Phoebe, don’t—”
She opened the door, which swung outward—
Into the sweeping branch of a tree. It knocked the door shut, hard. The impact flung Phoebe backward.
“Oof.” She landed on large, warm man. She was sprawled across his lap!
She tried to scramble to her feet. Hard arms came about her, keeping her where she was. “Shh.” His breath was hot in her ear, sending shivers through her body to mingle with the trembling of alarm.
She used her hands to pull her upper body off his, although his arms about her waist kept her bottom firmly planted on his lap … where matters were developing at an alarming rate. She struggled. “Where are you taking me, my lord?”
“Phoebe,” he gasped. “Stop wriggling or we won’t be talking at all soon.”
She went completely still, although she did not relax against him. Now she could feel him, every inch of him, hardening against her. She was leaning forward, gripping the opposite seat handle in her attempt to get away. Unfortunately, that tilt of her hips only planted her most sensitive area right on top of his rigid, pulsating erection.
The tissue-thin gown and sheer petticoats were no barrier at all. His trousers were fine as well, leaving nothing but a few frail fabrics between seeking and finding …
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