Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02]

by The Duke Next Door

  “Do you always dither that way? It was like watching a cat decide between a dog and a dunking.”

  Sophie opened her mouth to respond but nothing came out. He was handsome—too handsome by far. His narrow face was creased with sardonic humor and his green eyes twinkled at her knowingly—oh, yes, he knew he was a delicious devil.

  Sophie’s palms went damp and panic welled up within her, and even though she was standing several feet away from anything breakable, she knew it was only a matter of time. She would shatter something valuable, or knock over something loud and clattering, or spill something—oh, God, not that—and then he would gaze at her with sympathetic confusion and then he would look away—forever—because to stare at someone so pathetic would be rude—

  “Are you planning to combust or some such?” His gaze was curious and amused, not pitying. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone go from white to red to white again in the course of a breath.” He turned smoothly and stretched his long legs out, leaning one elbow insouciantly on the pianoforte.

  If Sophie thought being watched in the mirror was bad, it was nothing compared to the full force of this attractive man’s attention. She stood there, frozen and feeling entirely naked, while his amused gaze went from the top of her head to her toes and back again.

  “You certainly are a dress length and a half. Did your parents decide to buy by the yard?” He stood and moved nearer. “I’m still taller, so I win.”

  He was indeed several inches taller than her, which gave her the oddest feeling, almost as if she were, well, not a towering tree. She had to tilt her head back slightly to look him in the eye, which required her to straighten from her usual posture. How … unusual.

  Oh, he was fine indeed! He wasn’t heroically handsome, like some steel-jawed, iron-thewed knight of old. He was leaner, with a long, chiseled face and eyes like seawater in the sunlight …

  His eyes began to twinkle further, his grin broadening. “I’m quite the looker, aren’t I?”

  “What?” Oh, God, she’d been staring at him, ogling him like a lovesick maiden! Horrible—any moment he would say something kind to let her down easy. No, how unbearable! She stepped back jerkily, almost stumbling, not caring, just wanting to get away from the look that would momentarily rise in his eyes—

  One long-fingered hand flew out to wrap about her upper arm. He pulled her back quickly, drawing her against him for a mere instant.

  It was long enough to find out that his languid ease hid a lean body that was hard as granite against hers. What small bosom she had was crushed against a muscled chest that gave not at all at the impact. She gasped as much from that unexpected discovery—and the instant effect it had upon her—as she did from the surprise of his motion.

  He let her go as soon as she had her balance and stepped back easily. “Door,” he said with a grin. “Those cost money, you know.”

  Sophie glanced behind her to see that, indeed, she’d been about to turn and run directly into the closed door. Still turned away, she shut her eyes. Idiot! What was wrong with her?

  He moved around her, his head tilted in order to look into her face. “I think you must be Miss Sophie Blake. Deirdre said you were tall and plain.”

  He thought she was plain—that was no surprise. The fact that he said it so naturally—that was new. Most people either avoided saying it with such determination that their very silence had humiliating emphasis or felt it was necessary to offer her a sort of gleeful encouragement.

  “Don’t worry, pet. Somewhere out there a man is looking for a no-nonsense, skin—er—slender sort.”

  This fellow wasn’t pitying at all. She lifted her head a little to look back at him, curious.

  “Well?” He grinned. “Are you the elusive Sophie or not?”

  “Do you see any other tall, plain ladies about?” Good heavens, was that her voice, so tart and crisp?

  He laughed, then gave an insouciant minimal bow. “Hello, Sophie. I am Lord Graham Cavendish. Lady Tessa is my cousin.”

  Sophie relaxed slightly. He was family—or at least, he was Tessa’s family, which very nearly counted, didn’t it? Still, the way he was looking at her—right at her, no less!—was making her rather twitchy. Almost family or not, he was incredibly attractive.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Lord Graham Cavendish, Tessa’s cousin.” Did that sound childish? She’d meant it to be light and worldly.

  She absolutely reeked at being worldly.

  Lord Cavendish seemed to think so as well. “Where have you been all these years? Living in the bottom of a well? I suppose that explains your height. You’ve spent your life trying to grow your way out of it.”

  He was laughing at her, but it was entirely in fun, without the slightest cruelty. Sophie found her own lips beginning to curve. “Indeed. And every year they would hand me a spoon and ask me to dig it deeper.”

  His smile widened. He bent close to her. “That’s my girl,” he said approvingly.

  His breath was warm on her cheek. Sophie jerked back in surprise. Again, he caught her arm and dragged her away from a bruising confrontation with something architectural.

  He released her a bit more slowly this time. “Are you a little bit insane?” His tone was conversational. “Or is something physical awry?”

  Damn it! Sophie closed her eyes miserably. “It’s—I’m—” She hunched. “I only get this way around … men.”

  “Hmm.” He crossed one arm over his chest and tapped the fingers of his other hand on his chiseled jaw. “All men? Does the butler send you spinning into solid objects?”

  Sophie writhed. “No …” Oh, what did it matter. She opened her eyes and gazed at him miserably. “It is mostly around handsome, eligible men.”

  He nodded sagely. “Well, then, you need not gain any more bruises from my availability.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He smiled, his expression almost gentle. “I mean that I am not in the market for a wife—ever!—and furthermore, I, handsome bloke that I am, am entirely out of your reach. So you see, we might as well be friends, for there isn’t a chance in hell that we will ever be anything else.”

  In a strange, skewed way that thought actually helped. Sophie looked at him—God, he was beautiful—and then down at herself. He was right. They were not even the same species. The idea of them together was as odd as mating a tiger to a giraffe.

  Relief flooded her, lifting her hunch and lightening her mind. She smiled easily at Lord Graham Cavendish. “How lovely to meet you, my lord.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Calder tossed aside the ledger he was pretending to read and leaned his head back on his chair. Inhaling deeply, he let out a minor experimental groan. It helped a little.

  Deirdre was driving him mad, and she wasn’t even in the room! He’d just spent half an hour staring at columns of numbers that made no sense while his mind was filled with her hair, her breasts, her eyes … but mostly her breasts, if he was honest with himself.

  What was she doing right now? She might be bored, or even a little lonely. He could seek her out and tweak her powerful pride just a little, just enough to make her cheeks pinken and her blue eyes flash haughtily …

  It was a marvelous plan. Being a man of deeds, not words, he jumped up to put it into action immediately.

  Unfortunately, as he entered the front hall of the house he heard the sounds of company in the house—company that was having far too good of a time!

  “Fortescue!”

  As usual, his butler materialized as if he’d rubbed a bloody lamp. He scowled at the man. “What is the meaning of this?” He waved at the parlor door. “I was very specific in my orders!”

  Fortescue inclined his head. “Indeed, sir. Very specific. However, is it my understanding that I have your permission to knock milady down in order to beat her to the door?”

  Calder drew back. “Of course not!”

  Fortescue folded his gloved hands before him and gazed at Calder serenely. “The
n might your lordship suggest by what means I am to accomplish said task? Other than grappling with milady on the foyer floor, of course.”

  Calder gazed furiously at his highly paid, once-slavishly-devoted-but-now-openly-traitorous butler, but Fortescue remained unfazed. Calder threw his arms wide. “Corrupted! She’s corrupted you all!” He swung about and glared at the hallway, where the sound of tinkling laughter and male guffaws infiltrated his once peaceful home.

  Peaceful? Or dreary?

  “I should have chosen the other cousin,” Calder muttered. “Miss Sophie Blake would never carry on so.”

  “No, my lord. Although …”

  “What?”

  “I do believe Miss Blake is in the parlor as well, my lord.”

  Unbelievable. His beautiful bride infected everyone she met! “I should have married Tessa herself,” Calder growled. “At least then I would have known what to expect.”

  Fortescue raised a brow. “With respect, my lord, if you had wed Lady Tessa, you would have been obliged to hire an entirely new staff. Myself included.”

  Since he himself would rather run naked through Westminster Abbey than spend ten minutes with demon-spawned Tessa, he could hardly blame his butler for such an insubordinate statement. “Like begets like,” he muttered.

  Fortescue cleared his throat. “My lord, if I may be so bold to say—milady is nothing at all like her stepmother.”

  The odd emphasis didn’t escape Calder. “But I am, is that what you’re saying?”

  Fortescue only bowed deeply. “If there is nothing else, my lord, there are guests to be attended to.”

  Calder gestured sharply. “Oh, get out of here, you turncoat. I never would have thought a head of fair hair and a fine bosom would warp a man like you, Fortescue.”

  Fortescue bowed. “No, indeed, my lord. I think it might have been the mind and the heart beneath.”

  Calder looked away, for he’d not been privy to nearly enough of either and it didn’t behoove a man in his position to be envious of his butler! “Fortescue,” he forced out between gritted teeth. “Pray, ask her ladyship if she would excuse herself so we could speak for a moment.”

  Fortescue entered the parlor, then left, followed after a moment by Deirdre. She walked past Calder quickly, forcing him to follow her. Not that he minded—the view going was nearly as attractive as the view coming. Once they turned the corner in the hall, she turned on him in a rustle of silk and indignation.

  “My lord, I am surprised at you! How could you do that to poor Sophie?”

  Calder blinked. “I’m quite sure I’ve done nothing to Sophie. You, on the other hand, likely have a great deal to answer for.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Well, that shows what you know. Tell me, now that both Phoebe and I are out of the house, do you imagine that Sophie gets many callers there?”

  His frown eased. “Ah. So this is how you intend to keep Sophie in the social circle? By captivating every man within a mile and keeping him from so much as glancing her way?”

  She folded her arms, her chin lifting. “I am trying to teach her by example.”

  “Hmm. Actually, that notion has some merit, I suppose.” Damn it. “She certainly won’t learn how to hold a conversation with a man if she never leaves her studies.”

  Her forehead cleared in surprise. “Yes, precisely. I hadn’t thought you would—”

  He let out a breath. “My lady, I am not a complete block, you know.” He glanced back toward the parlor door. “Poor thing, all alone there with Lady Tessa.” He turned back to Deirdre. “You should invite her to come often.”

  She tilted her head, a tiny crease appearing between her brows. “Brookhaven, are you actually being nice?”

  She needn’t look so astounded. “Of course not. Anything that troubles Lady Tessa is sure to be a good investment in time, that is all.”

  An answering glint appeared in his wife’s beautiful blue eyes. “Indeed.”

  He curled the corner of his mouth. “Indeed.”

  They stayed that way, each unwilling to do anything to end the rare moment of accord between them.

  Calder could feel her close to him, as if the air between them was charged with incipient lightning. Her near smile faded slowly as her eyes softened to a summer blue. She grew sweeter, softer, warmer with each passing second.

  His for the taking, hanging ripe and inviting on his very own vine—why was she not in his arms? He could not recall at that moment. She ought to be.

  He could reach out right now to stroke that lock of hair that she let curl just over her ear, or perhaps allow his fingertips to trail softly over her cheek to those pink, full lips …

  He shifted in her direction. She swayed toward him, her eyelids drooping in willing surrender—

  From upstairs came a crash and furious shriek from Meggie, then a string of words no seven-year-old girl ought to know.

  Calder shot a frustrated glance up the stairs. “What a menace. I ought to pack her right back off to Brookhaven—” He turned his gaze back to Deirdre to see that she’d stepped back, disappointed anger in her eyes.

  “You would, wouldn’t you?” She folded her arms. “Why don’t you just bundle her up in brown paper and send her through the post? Or me, for that matter—where will I be bundled off to if I don’t behave?” She was really working herself into a spitting rage now. It looked good on her.

  Damn. He sighed wearily, knowing it would annoy her more than anything else would. “I don’t have time for this nonsense now. I’ll be in my study.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Go on. Hide. It is what you do best, after all.”

  He shook his head and turned away from her, flushed cheeks, bright eyes and all. He must remember what he was about here. He would not get anywhere if he let her bait him into reacting.

  When Brookhaven turned his broad back to her and walked away, Deirdre nearly pounced on him in her frustration. Oh, how she’d like to pound some sense into that thick head!

  With no available projectiles in her path, she had to satisfy herself with a noise of frustration and misery.

  Score: Brookhaven one, Imprisoned Bride nothing. Nothing but a belly full of the fiercest desire she’d ever experienced mingled with loss and ache and plain, ordinary, bone-deep mad. She stamped her foot, for being childish didn’t count when no one could see.

  “Brookhaven, one day you are going to kneel at my feet and beg me to love you forever,” she vowed. “And then I’m going to—to—”

  What? Deny him? Reject him?

  Love him right back for the rest of his life?

  The fight seeped from her body and she let out a sigh. Yes, she probably would.

  Damn it.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  After clashing with Brookhaven in the hall, it was a relief to return to the parlor and the uncomplicated admiration awaiting her there. Perhaps she was shallow, but what was wrong with a bit of innocent flirtation? After all, it wasn’t as if his lordship cared—at least, he didn’t care as long as she wasn’t having too much fun.

  Well, drat him, she would have more fun than she could stand, beginning right now.

  She sailed into the room with her very best smile for her admirers. Sophie looked up with a rather wearied glance, obviously twitching to disappear back into her stuffy books. Deirdre felt a twinge of guilt for using her cousin so.

  She settled on the sofa next to Sophie, discreetly turning her best profile to the three young men on the opposing one. Graham, who was sprawled in the chair by the fire, shot her a wry glance of appreciation. She raised an admonishing brow and turned to Sophie.

  “Cousin, do tell us about your latest translation. I’ve been simply dying to hear.” Actually, the stories were rather intriguing, but it would have been worth the transformation in Sophie even if they hadn’t been.

  Instantly, her drab, restrained cousin brightened. “Oh, yes—this one is called ‘The Summer and Winter Garden.’ There is a spell, you see, that causes snow to fall o
n one half of the garden in the summer and roses to bloom in the other half of the garden in winter. One day, a man journeying by sees the roses blooming in the snow and stops to pick one for his youngest daughter—”

  “I hope this isn’t about gardening,” one of the young men, that dreary poet-in-his-own-mind Baskin, drawled.

  Quelled, Sophie lowered her gaze. “I haven’t yet told you about the beast—”

  Graham leaned forward, spurred from his languishing sprawl. “I want to hear, Sophie.”

  Deirdre sent Baskin an arch glance. He was not so endearing this way. “I, as well.”

  But shy Sophie had lost her tenuous nerve. It was best to let her stop before she tripped Fortescue with the tea tray or demolished one of Brookhaven’s art treasures in her distress.

  Baskin must have realized his mistake. In an obvious attempt to change the subject, he turned an adoring gaze upon Deirdre. “Why don’t you tell us about the first ball you’re going to throw here at Brook House?”

  Oh, dear. She ought to have known that letting people in meant that her humiliating secret might get out. Playing for time, she waved a hand. “Oh, I’m not ready to announce anything yet.”

  Baskin leaned forward. “But you must have chosen a theme? You were so looking forward to it the last time we talked.”

  Deirdre blinked at him, touched that he’d actually remembered what she’d spoken of more than a week ago. She rewarded him with her most blinding smile. “When I’m ready to announce my plans, you shall be the first to know.” She leaned forward and patted his hand. “After all, only my dearest friends will be invited.”

  The silly fellow actually glowed. Honestly, it was like having a faithful hound, if a hound wrote excruciatingly bad poetry. She added even more intimate warmth to her smile. Sweet, faithful Baskin—a certain guarantee against husband-induced doldrums.

  Now that she’d reduced one admirer to a puddle of longing, she turned her attention back to the rest of the party. She was determined to enjoy this respite from Brookhaven, whether she liked it or not!