Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

by Desperately Seeking a Duke

  “Yes, thank you.” Phoebe knew she was being abrupt, and after he’d been so kind, but if she didn’t get all these people out of the room, someone was sure to decipher Rafe’s murmurings and realize that he was saying, “Phoebe, where are you?” over and over again.

  Shooing the crowd from the room, promising Mr. Boothe-Jamison a visit with Rafe when he recovered sufficiently, and exacting a vow in return that he would do his best to get a physician for Rafe and the servants immediately suctioned the last bit of strength Phoebe had left.

  When the door was shut at last, she leaned her back to it and took a long breath. Then she rushed to Rafe’s side to smooth his hair and feel his brow and generally reassure herself that he was alive and safe at last.

  Then she gasped one raw and terrified sob and pressed her shaking hands to her burning eyes. The tears of reaction and exhaustion came at last and she slid down next to the bed to sit on the floor, her arms wrapped about her knees, sobbing until she had nothing left to cry.

  At last her breathing steadied and her tears ran out. She swiped at her eyes with her torn and dirty skirt, then gazed at it with revulsion. The gown of a temptress, meant to tease Rafe’s brother into a mad passion.

  She stood quickly and stripped it from her, popping buttons in her hurry. She contemplated burning it, but when might she find another? In compromise, she hurled it into a corner and stumbled to the bowl and pitcher on the stand across the room clad in only her shift.

  She washed away the burning in her eyes and did her best to remove the stains of her ordeal from her skin, but without soap, Rafe’s blood did not want to come off. She took the softest of the towels to clean his poor bump and wash his handsome face clean of the road dirt. They’d beaten him badly, poor brave dear.

  She knew he likely would have fought so powerfully for any lady’s protection, but the fact that he’d fought so for her—and had been so beaten for it—did something irreparable to her heart.

  Love. It welled up full and warm and permanent within her. There was no denying it, no passing it over, no believing that it would ever diminish or fade.

  She loved him.

  And he loved her.

  That was when she realized that it had never been Society’s reproof that she had feared. It had never been scandal that had turned her into a coward.

  It was this … this longing ache, this vulnerability …

  This love.

  She had almost loved Terrence, and that had been bad enough. The pain had lasted years and the humiliation even longer. Even then, somewhere inside her, she had known that if she were ever to experience the true depth of real love, there was a possibility of pain so deep that forever could not heal it.

  How foolish she’d been. Love was not a drink one tasted and then rejected. Love was not something that could be avoided or arranged. Love was a highwayman, standing by the road of life, just waiting to strike at the reckless and fortunate few.

  As she had been struck.

  How simple it had all turned out to be. In a world where she’d been blinded by shades of gray for the last ten years, there was sudden black and white clarity. She’d heard that dire circumstances could strengthen and refine some people. She was glad to find out that she was one of those people.

  There was nothing in her but love for Rafe. There were no decisions to make, no strategies to form. She was his woman. He was her man.

  There came a knock at the door. The physician had arrived. After wrapping her cloak about herself, Phoebe brushed Rafe’s dampened hair back from his forehead and pressed her lips to his. “I love you,” she whispered.

  Forever.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  In the now-quiet inn room, the physician had come and gone, pronouncing that Lord Marbrook needed rest and care. He emphasized “rest” while looking sourly at Phoebe. He was a gentleman who had seen a great deal in his long life—apparently the “sister” façade was a tad overused.

  Now Phoebe sat on the edge of the bed next to Rafe. She reached out to brush a lock of dark hair away from his temple. He turned his face toward her touch, even while barely conscious, seeking her out.

  Love.

  How strange and vulnerable this thing within her. It was love in infancy, first blazing hot in passion, then warm in acceptance. The way she’d felt for Terrence was nothing compared to the way she loved Rafe. A single blossom compared to a valley full of roses. She loved this rakish, impossible, beautiful rogue. His charm delighted her and his handsomeness pleased her, but the wounded aching lonely man inside him was what snared her heart and seemed fated to never release it.

  He was imperfect. His life before her had been a maze of short, callous affairs and hard, careless living. Could he love forever? Could he see only her and never set his eye roving again? Should she gamble her future on his shy and wild heart?

  Such a simple word, “yes.” Why not say it? Why not say yes to love and happiness? She’d already said yes to him once, though he remembered it not—one night filled with moonlight and imaginary roses …

  “Excuse me, my darling,” she said to Rafe as she rose from his bedside. “It is time I officially jilt your brother.”

  Calder would be disappointed and likely angry, but she did not think he would be truly hurt. Someday Calder would hand his heart over to a woman, but that lucky woman wouldn’t be her. Funny, now that she was thinking about leaving him, she could see Calder clearly for the first time as a man, not an obstacle.

  As a respectable, honorable man, Calder deserved better from her than simple desertion. He deserved an explanation.

  Her heart calm at last, her future clear, she rang for someone from the inn and waited by the door, listening for footsteps. Before they could tap and disturb Rafe, she opened the door and requested paper and ink. When they arrived she set herself down at the small table to explain herself to the man she could never marry.

  Dear Lord Brookhaven,

  I ought to have told you at once, before we set about this betrothal in earnest, but I made a terrible mistake …

  When the letter was done—and it came much more easily than she would have thought—she sealed it with a bit of candle wax. She pulled her still-damp cloak over her borrowed nightdress and stepped quickly up to the next level, where the driver and footman had been given a room.

  The footman opened the door, his eyes widening. “Yes, my la—miss?”

  “How is the driver?”

  “’E’s all right, miss. Just a crack to the’ead.’E’ll be right as rain come mornin’.”

  Phoebe considered him for a long moment. She had little choice, after all. “Are you Brookhaven’s man, or Marbrook’s ?”

  The fellow scratched his ear. “Well … I suppose I’m both, miss.”

  Phoebe frowned. “Oh, dear. That is not an enviable position.”

  Something like respect flickered in the man’s eyes. “No, miss. I suppose ye would understand that if anyone would—if ye don’t mind me sayin’.”

  At his sympathetic tone, Phoebe smiled. “I don’t suppose you would consider working for me, just this once? I must be sure that this letter reaches Lord Brookhaven immediately. Do you know where his lordship is?”

  The man blinked. “As a matter of fact, I do, miss. I’ve been to’is pottery factory with him before.”

  Phoebe handed him some coins from Rafe’s purse. “Get a good horse from the hosteler and ride fast. I want Brookhaven to see this as soon as possible.” She smiled again. “It seems I’m going to wed Lord Marbrook instead.”

  At that, the man quailed. “Er, do ye wish me to wait for an answer?”

  Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Heavens, no. Throw the letter at him and run for your life.”

  The footman took the letter, nodding. “Yes, miss. I’ll be sure to get a very good’orse!”

  Phoebe waited by her inn room window until she saw the man ride off at great speed, his Brookhaven livery nearly invisible in the darkness. One man disappointed. Her father, sh
e must tell in person. For all his faults, she owed him that.

  Then she turned to look at Rafe, his bruises still alarming but his sleep easy and natural now.

  Her man … forever.

  Feeling the conflict of these last days fall from her shoulders like a great weight, Phoebe smiled softly as she undid her nightdress and let it slip from her shoulders. Naked, she walked to the other side of the wide bed and slipped beneath the covers.

  RAFE GROGGILY BECAME aware of two things. One, his head hurt. Two, his head really, really hurt.

  He sat up, spasmodically trying to escape the pain. It intensified cruelly, driving him helplessly back down. He landed on something soft.

  “Mm-mm.”

  The sweet female sigh jolted him into full waking. Warm skin, soft flesh—he knew what that was. There was an entirely naked girl in bed with him.

  “Uh … hello?” It had better be Phoebe—except that if it was Phoebe—oh, God, he was in such trouble either way!

  “Rafe?”

  Joy and pain sliced through him in equal measure—all right, perhaps not equal. To hell with his soul, to hell with Calder—he had Phoebe in his bed! He reached for her, pulling her into his arms. She came willingly, softly melting herself into him, laying her head on his bare chest.

  “How is your head, my love?” she whispered.

  “It hurts, but—” My love? Rafe closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to remember. Women tended to take it ill when a man couldn’t remember. They’d been alone in the carriage. He’d released her, given her up, sacrificed his heart for her happiness—

  And then what? There was something else, something important …

  “Sand and liver?”

  She laughed, propping herself up on his chest, as naturally as if she’d lain naked in his arms for years. “You’re making fun of me now.”

  “There was a highwayman!”

  “Two actually. I believe the second one sneaked up on you, otherwise I’m sure you would have thrashed them most properly,” she said staunchly.

  He tried to sit up again. “I didn’t? Then how did we get away with our lives?”

  She pressed him down again. “Shh. Your poor head.” A cool hand soothed his brow. “I thrashed them for you,” she said. “Well, one of them, at any rate.” She snuggled closer. “I’m quite good at cricket, you know.”

  His head throbbed and he felt as if he were floating or falling—either way, as if he were not in control. “Phoebe, please start at the beginning.”

  “Must I? The middle is much more interesting.”

  “Phoebe.”

  She sighed. “Oh, very well. You and I were talking in the carriage, after you’d sent the servants away. Do you recall that much?”

  “Yes, I remember everything up until I told you to run. Which you apparently ignored.”

  She shrugged. Delightful things happened against his ribs … things he meant to thoroughly investigate when the throbbing subsided in his head.

  “I could hardly leave you in their hands. They were trying to drag you off!”

  He frowned. “Why would they do that? Highwaymen steal and sometimes kill, but I’ve never heard of them kidnapping. They tend to strike and flee.”

  “Well, that’s what it looked like to me … although I might have been mistaken. There was still a bit of fog. Perhaps they were only searching your pockets for something to steal.” She made a grumbling noise. “Well, that makes my rescue a bit less exciting, I suppose. I faced down a pistol to save your pocket watch?”

  His arms tightened about her. “Never do that again!”

  She twined her arms about his neck. “I promise,” she said soothingly. “Next time I’ll hand it over myself.”

  “Next time you’ll flee when you’re told!”

  “Yes, my lord … my love.” She kissed his chest softly. “Next time I’ll flee.”

  My love. There it was again. “And … after you drove them off with a cricket bat—how did you get a cricket bat again?”

  “Tree branch. I only hit one of them. The hard man. The other one was … different. He didn’t seem to want to hurt anyone. He made the hard man leave us be, but they frightened the horses away and left us there in the road. I managed to get you on your feet and we lasted long enough to walk back to the inn we’d passed.”

  He doubted he’d done much walking. More likely she’d done a great deal of dragging. “What of the driver, Afton, and the footman?”

  “They’re here, being tended to. Don’t worry. I don’t know if anyone has found the carriage but I’m sure they will soon. I had you put to bed and then I—”

  He gave her a squeeze. “Then you what?”

  She laid her head down on his chest again. “I wrote to Calder,” she whispered. “I told him that I could not marry him because I love another.”

  Him. She’d chosen him. This was not another illicit encounter, a brief flash of heat between him and his brother’s intended. She was with him because she was with him.

  I love another.

  She loved him.

  She was waiting for his response. He knew that because she poked him and said, “I’m waiting for your response.”

  He hesitated still. How could he express—what was there to say? How to tell her the way that his world had just expanded, that his heart had burst its bounds, that he was a man remade?

  “Thank you,” he said formally.

  She pushed herself up on her hands to stare down at him. “What?”

  “I said th—”

  “Wait. Stop. One moment.” She scrambled over him—and he enjoyed every moment of it—to climb from the bed and pad across the room. He heard the rustle of fabric, then a clink and a snap. She was lighting a small lamp. The glow steadied as she adjusted the wick.

  She carried it back to the bed—regrettably now clad in his shirt, which covered her to her knees. She had very pretty calves, however. Nicely turned ankles as well.

  She put the lamp on the table. “Sit up,” she ordered, then rearranged the pillows behind him when he did so. “Now lie back.”

  He was propped now, facing her as she perched on the edge of the bed. She moved the lamp slightly closer, then peered into his eyes. “All right. You can say it now.”

  He smiled slightly. “Thank you,” he repeated. Thank you for not giving up on me.

  She gazed at him for a long, silent moment. Then a beautiful smile bloomed. “Well, all right then.” She leaned forward and softly kissed his chest, just about where his heart began to beat hard. “You’re welcome,” she whispered against his skin.

  I love you, his heart whispered back to her.

  She lifted her head and smiled at him, the corners of her lips curving mischievously. “Are you feeling well enough yet?”

  He reached to cup her cheek in his hand. “Well enough for what?” His thumb stroked down over her full lips. She kissed it.

  Then she gently bit the pad. “Are you feeling well enough to make love to me properly?”

  He toyed with a strand of her beautiful hair. “I suppose I might be able to muster the strength soon—”

  She sat up and whipped his shirt off over her head, revealing herself to him for the first time. He coughed in surprise. “Or perhaps now.”

  She flung herself onto him, kissing his chest, her hands roving rather more adeptly than one might suppose from an innocent maid—not that he cared, really. He was no angel himself, to worry over a tiny flaw in this gift from the gods.

  She wrapped her hand about his erection and squeezed it slightly before moving in a rhythmic manner. She rained kisses on his chest, moving lower over his flat stomach, following the trail of dark hair there. Surprising—but not disappointing.

  Her touch, somewhere between skilled and innocent, her kiss, urgent and yet sweet—all this only made her more herself—more Phoebe.

  Still, she was in a tearing hurry—when they had all night this time. He caught at her hands and pulled them away. “Sweet—please—”


  She went still. “Oh, no. Already?”

  “What? Oh.” He grinned. “No. Not that you aren’t tempting, darling, but I’ve a bit more control than that.”

  She blinked. “Control? Men can control … that? All of you?”

  He looked at her. “Of course we can. Most of us, at any rate. There are always exceptions …”

  She suddenly looked very consternated. Why?

  Then he knew. His mind might be muddled, but it did work eventually. She’d apparently known just such an exception. How to handle this without making her feel as though he blamed her? “Did—did you know someone who … ahem … couldn’t?”

  Phoebe hesitated for a very long time. She’d never told—the vicar had been so adamant. Now that she probably ought to tell—after all, she did not want there to be secrets, not with Rafe—she couldn’t seem to form the words.

  “Oh, bugger.” No, those weren’t the words, although the vulgarity did make her feel a bit better. “Rafe … I … I’m not—” She gazed mutely at him, unable to continue.

  Rafe smiled gently at her, his eyes crinkling in that way that made her turn to mush inside. “Phoebe, I’m not upset with you. You’d be surprised how many of the prim young ladies of the ton … well, aren’t. The myth is preserved for the sake of some gentlemen, but I assure that I am far too blackened myself to be one of those.”

  She continued to look at him, loving him more by the minute, but unable to say what needed saying.

  He reached to the floor, holding his pounding head on with the other hand, and handed her back the shirt. “Why don’t you put this back on for a moment? You’ll be easier if you aren’t nude.”

  She slipped it over her head, grateful for the understanding in his eyes. Then he took her hand in both of his and rested it on his hard stomach.

  “You aren’t a virgin,” he said for her. “There was a man.”