The memory dried his throat and tightened his trousers.
Damn, he’d just ruined another wedding night, hadn’t he?
Chapter Twenty-eight
Back at Brook House, Meggie, bathed and brushed and pitiably subdued, climbed listlessly into her bed and allowed Deirdre to tuck her in without so much as protesting the early hour or the extra grooming. Patricia, who had taken on maid duties for Meggie as well, stood to the side, worry clear in her green eyes.
Deirdre sat carefully on the edge of the bed and gazed at the child whose fighting spirit she’d thought nothing and no one could shatter. She sighed and smoothed the covers yet again. “I’ve done it now, haven’t I, Meg?”
Meggie’s gaze slid away to fix blankly on the glowing coals in the fireplace. Deirdre brushed a dark curl back from the child’s forehead, but there was no response to the tender touch.
It was difficult to remain calm when she was filled with such stunning guilt. All that had transpired today was completely and entirely her fault. True, she hadn’t made Calder into what he was, but she’d brought Meggie to the factory, where she clearly didn’t belong, and then left a seven-year-old girl unsupervised while she … ah … allowed herself to be distracted.
“I fear I’m a wretched excuse for a mother, little one.” She’d gone too far, using a child’s heart for her own purposes. Now she’d driven the two of them even further apart and she hadn’t the slightest idea how to fix it.
She started to sit up and take her hand away, but Meggie’s gaze flickered back to hers. “Don’t go,” the little girl whispered.
Deirdre felt something inside her melt and soften, completely and without reservation. Her eyes stung as she nodded acquiescence. “Patricia, you may go.”
“Will you be wanting your own bath, my lady?”
Though she went weak in the knees at the thought of washing away this awful day, Deirdre shook her head. “Later.” She bent to remove her shoes and then pulled the covers aside to slide in with Meggie. When the little girl snuggled into her, her heart broke completely. How could she have involved Meggie in her battle of wills? What sort of monster used a child so?
The sort raised by Lady Tessa, apparently. Well, she wouldn’t do it. Meggie was out of this little game, as of now. Stroking the hair back from her small brow, Deirdre closed her eyes against the guilt. I will fix this, little one. I promise, I will make him see.
But how? How to teach a man who’d never known love that it would save him forever if he’d only allow it?
MORE THAN EVER, Calder regretted setting eyes on Miss Deirdre Cantor. His factory was in ruins, his workers angry, his unruly child promoted to a menace beyond compare—his bride had certainly accomplished a great deal in these few days of marriage!
Even his anger had an unfamiliar edge to it, one prompted by unresolved lust. What was happening to him? He wasn’t an ill-tempered man, yet he found himself growling at his groom and snapping at Fortescue when he entered Brook House at last, filthy and exhausted and minus one once satisfyingly progressive and profitable factory!
Argyle had his bath steaming and ready in his bedchamber, but Calder couldn’t drum up so much as a grunt of thanks. He stripped off his things and flung them to the floor, all the while recounting his wife’s multiple offenses to himself. Sinking into the heat without taking a moment to accustom himself, he yelped in surprise, then snarled Argyle away when he tried to assist.
Gripping the edge of the tub until his knuckles turned white, Calder took the punishing heat and let it melt away his deep frustration. When at last the burning eased from his skin, it took the worst of his fury with it. With a long sigh, he leaned back in the tub and tried to turn his mind to more pleasant things.
Brookmoor would be his soon. It was beautiful there, quite wild still. Very refreshing after too many weeks in London.
He let his mind rest on that peaceful view. The hills were softly rolling there, just the beginnings of the range known as the Pennines. The air was as clear as water and the wind would whip Deirdre’s blond hair into a golden flag, streaming out behind her. Did she ride well? He’d have to find her a gentle mare, but one that could keep up with his own fine stallion. They would gallop over Brookmoor until the wind pulled the color into her cheeks and she laughed with joy, her exquisite smile only for him …
Abruptly he sat up, sending a tide of bathwater onto the floor.
Bloody hell!
Opening his eyes, he glared across the room at the door in the opposite wall. So close he could reach her in a few steps, his nemesis resided behind that door, doubtless plotting new and more exciting ways to ruin his life.
His gaze fixed on the latch. If he tried it, would it open? Or had his outburst today guaranteed her refusal once more? He was master of this house, master of her, damn it! Why did she have to make such a simple matter so bloody complicated?
What did she want from him?
Well, he wouldn’t stoop to pressing that latch, begging for admittance like a supplicant before the queen! She could lock it or not—he wouldn’t trouble himself to find out either way!
He shut his eyes and sank beneath the water, shutting out the world. Unfortunately, Deirdre wouldn’t leave him alone. Her constant testing kept him engaged, her beauty kept him on the edge of torturous arousal, and her quick mind kept him interested despite his doubts. Between the outrageous pranks and her ruthless beauty, he was having trouble maintaining the icy distance that had served him so well for all these years.
Bloody hell!
AFTER HER OWN late bath, Deirdre avoided the great silken-hung bed and remained by the fire, brushing out her hair, clad in her nightdress and wrapper. It had been, quite frankly, one of the worst days of her life—and that was claiming quite the contest!
She was exhausted, but far too upset to even think of sleep yet. Shame over her own actions chased doubts and regrets through her mind again and again. What was she fighting for? She could scarcely remember. Could she and Calder not simply stop this war? Hadn’t they done enough harm to each other yet?
Across the room, the firelight gleamed on the brass latch on the door she’d never opened. Her gaze slid to it again and again. It was still locked, she was sure, though he’d not tried it again.
Was he in there, wide awake as she was, too rigid in his pride to reach out yet longing for this madness to end? If she was so righteous to demand him to change, could she not relent a little as well?
Before she could talk herself out of doing the one thing she’d longed to do, she rose to her feet and strode across the room to turn the key. The door opened on a scene that took her breath away.
The room was dark but for the golden radiance from the coals. The fine dark-finished furnishings disappeared in the gloom, leaving only the great bed like a bright island, the snowy bed linens vivid in the fire glow.
Across the wide bed, arms outstretched, hands limp in sleep, Calder looked like a weary knight stripped of his armor. His big body was bare to the glow of the coals—and to her hungry gaze. Her fingers twitched with the urge to stroke her hands all the way down his great, catlike frame—to start by running them through his thick dark hair and down his tanned throat, over his powerful chest and down over the ridges of his stomach, following that narrow trail of dark hair that arrowed down, down …
Her knees struck the bed frame with a faint thunk. Oh heavens, she’d crossed the huge room without even realizing her feet moved over the carpet! For a long moment she stood frozen, waiting for the noise to wake him. He would open his eyes and see her there, looming over him, staring at his thick …
She covered her face with her hands. Now, if she just moved her index finger slightly she could keep his male organ in clear view. Much better. Now if he awoke, he wouldn’t think she was either a wicked voyeur or a lecherous trollop obsessed with his body.
He might quite like to wake up to that. You would.
Well, yes, but she wasn’t the one who was so angry, was she? He didn
’t want anything to do with her, remember?
He shifted, stretching one leg slightly. Her eyes locked on the flexing muscles of his thighs. He was tanned all over … how could that be? Did he swim naked somewhere on the Brookhaven estate? The very thought of Calder’s big body skimming lightly through the water nearly knocked her to her knees. The sunlight would gleam from his rippling muscles, the droplets running down his golden skin as he walked from the water towards her, reaching out one powerful hand to her with a knowing smile on his face—
There the fantasy came to an abrupt halt. Calder didn’t smile. Ever.
Nor would he if she gave in so soon. As difficult as all this was, there was a reason. A lesson that he must learn. She had learned hers … at least she hoped she had.
Now she must hold strong until he learned his. She turned resolutely away and left the room immediately—well, that last long wistful look didn’t count if no one was looking!
For pity’s sake, Calder, hurry up and fall in love with me! I don’t think I can stand this much longer!
Chapter Twenty-nine
The next day, Calder did not appear at breakfast, although Deirdre kept the appointment, properly dressed this time. She ate alone, for Meggie was still refusing to do anything but gaze listlessly into the fire or out her bedchamber window. Deirdre was worried that the girl’s spirit might be permanently crushed. She hadn’t the slightest notion how to heal it, so she’d left Meggie in Patricia’s brisk and cheerful care, resolutely not listening to any of Patricia’s progressively more hilarious stories about her younger siblings. If that didn’t bring the old Meggie back, Deirdre was quite without other ideas.
After she’d pushed her food about her plate for sufficient minutes—well, she did manage to choke down a bit of ham—she gave up on Calder and went looking for Fortescue. She found him polishing something that didn’t need it in the front hall.
Frustrated, she folded her arms. “He’s hiding from me when we’ve so much to discuss.”
Fortescue said nothing and kept polishing.
Deirdre sighed and continued, “So many things to apologize for, so many things to regret …”
Polish, polish, polish.
“Well, I can hardly chase after him, not after yesterday. I’ll only make things worse again. I suppose I’ll have to let him come to me this time.”
Fortescue straightened and snapped his cloth. “Excellent idea, my lady.”
Deirdre smiled then. “Well then, I suppose I shall dress, just in case I have any callers today!” She certainly wouldn’t want Brookhaven to find her pining away for him. It would be lovely if Sophie stopped by. Or Graham. Blast it, today she’d even be glad to see that idiot Baskin!
WASN’T IT A pity that of all the wishes she’d made lately that Baskin’s appearance was the one chosen to come true? Later that morning, Deirdre sat through yet another paean to her unworldly beauty and timeless … duty? Oh God, the execrable rhymes were worse than usual today!
This particular piece was an ode to the day he’d first seen her, riding in an open carriage, looking “like Bodicea charging the Roman army.” It was a tribute to his lack of talent that he made such a connection, since she wasn’t driving that day and she didn’t have red hair, and while she might have the wish to trample Tessa occasionally, she wasn’t the sort to charge the Roman hordes.
Sophie, now … Her gaze drifted to where Sophie stood gazing out the window. The light glinted red-gold in Sophie’s hair and there was something in her irritated posture—Sophie thought Baskin the rankest fool—and the height of her frame that seemed … commanding?
Deirdre blinked. Heavens, she must be addled by her lack of sleep lately. What a thought—mild, bookish Sophie, a warrior queen?
At last the poem ended—less than an hour this time, thankfully—and Baskin gazed at her with worshipful anticipation. “What did you think?”
Ah, therein lay Baskin’s primary charm. He actually cared what she thought. He didn’t bark orders, he didn’t run roughshod, he didn’t glare at her with hot, black eyes …
Shaking off the rush of heat caused by that memory, Deirdre smiled warmly at Baskin. A bit too warmly, to judge by the avid gleam that appeared in his washed-out blue eyes. His rounded face flushed darkly and he shifted closer to her.
“Er …” Deirdre managed to move away by smoothly reaching for the closely scrawled pages clutched in Baskin’s fist, then rising to her feet. “I shall treasure it always!” She stepped aside swiftly, leaving him to nearly fall into the place where she’d been seated. The window was the point farthest from his ardor. She made her escape—too bad she couldn’t flee out the damned thing! “Look, Sophie! Baskin has given me his poem!”
Sophie, who still had her back to the room, crossed her eyes rudely. “’Tis indeed thrilling,” she murmured. “How happy you must be.”
Still smiling brightly, Deirdre whirled to show the pages to Graham, who sprawled in a high back chair, sleeping most soundly. “Graham, is it not wonderful?” She woke him with a kick to the ankle, her crime concealed by her skirts.
He jolted awake. “Ow! H—how excellent!”
Graham had always been quick. Now Deirdre wiggled her brows and flicked her eyes in Baskin’s direction. “You look tired, Graham. Are you sure you’re not ill? Sophie, does Graham not seem a bit ill to you?”
“Goodness me.” Sophie was practically snoring with boredom. “Graham, you must conserve your strength. I’ll see you home myself.”
Fortunately, Graham wanted escape as badly as Deirdre did, and although Baskin might want to linger once the others left, it would be the height of bad manners to stay on unless expressly invited to.
Sophie burst from the front door as soon Fortescue stepped aside. She didn’t know how Deirdre could bear to be polite to that fawning idiot. The fellow was lucky that she herself was shy around men, for she’d spent most of his everlasting poem creating detailed scenarios where she’d either suffocated him with her reticule or dismembered him with a very dull pair of garden shears!
Graham was a close second behind her as they made their way to where one of the Brookhaven carriages awaited to transport Sophie home. “Give me a ride, will you? It’s a long way back to my rooms,” he wheedled. “I want to put miles between myself and that smarmy little pip.” He glanced back over his shoulder to where Baskin was now descending the steps. “I don’t like that bloke. He’s … twitchy.”
Despite her own dislike of Baskin, Sophie found herself defending the fellow. “I suppose it is hard loving someone who doesn’t love you back.”
Graham scoffed. “Love? I never knew you were so sentimental. You’re above such girlish nonsense, aren’t you?”
She looked away, her blush rising. Graham laughed. “My, my. Pray tell, whom do you love, Sophie Blake? Give me his name so I can kidnap him and force him to the altar for you!”
She swung on him then, gray eyes stormy with fury. “Thank you, but if that’s what it takes for someone to wed me, I think I’ll pass on tying myself to such an unwilling victim! As for giving you a ride, the walk will do you good! If you didn’t gamble away every penny you have, you could take a hack home!”
Leaving him stunned and blinking at her sudden vehemence, she hopped nimbly into the carriage and departed down the drive toward the street.
“Bloody hell!” he muttered. “You’d think I’d said something wrong!” Shrugging, he shoved his hands into his pockets and ambled off.
He didn’t notice that Baskin lingered behind, gazing longingly at the door to Brook House.
Chapter Thirty
After the bustle of footmen and hats, Deirdre was alone once more. As the front door closed and silence descended, Deirdre closed her eyes to let the stillness leach the tension from her shoulders.
It didn’t work.
Calder. She opened her eyes. Of course, the real source of her unease was still here, avoiding her, hiding out behind his study walls when they had so much to settle between them. Co
ward.
And you’re not, sitting here flirting with that pup and then tricking him into leaving so you don’t have to tell him you don’t like his poetry?
She still had the pages in her hand. Heartfelt words from someone she didn’t care for, cold silence from the man whom she loved. Suddenly angry, with herself, with Calder, with Baskin, she crumpled the sheets and tossed them into the cold hearth.
She didn’t want poems and pretty words. She wanted her husband, damn it!
BASKIN DITHERED ON the steps of Brook House. He hadn’t actually meant to give the poem to Miss—er, Lady Brookhaven. Or at least, not until he’d made a copy of it. It was, if he did say so himself, one of his finer works.
Pounding on the door again so soon might seem a bit desperate, and then there was the prospect of telling his beautiful Deirdre that he wanted the poem back …
Perhaps if he simply entered quickly to see if by chance she’d left the pages in the parlor? It would save him considerable embarrassment and then he could present her with a beautifully penned copy of the poem tomorrow!
Reminding himself that he was a welcome guest, privy to visiting along with family, he opened the door and entered. Moving quickly, he walked down the hall toward the parlor door.
Voices close by made him halt. Past the parlor, he could see the butler’s back just around the corner. If the man saw him, there would be a great deal of explanation—
“Then the door between his lordship and my lady is still locked?”
Baskin stopped backing away. Instead, he crept forward until he could see around the corner.
The pretty maid standing before the butler nodded. She looked miserable about it, whatever it was. “Milady won’t go near it. She even had me put one of the wing-backed chairs before it, as if it were just a bit of wall!”
The butler shook his head. “This is not a good beginning to a marriage. The previous Lady Brookhaven managed to go several years before she chipped her bedchamber mantel by flinging a vase at his lordship.”
Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02] Page 14
