Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02]

by The Duke Next Door

  Another valuable dented the wallpaper. “If you wanted a bit of pudding on the sly you ought to have been more careful! And then to leave—what are you thinking? You must go back to him at once!” Tessa demanded between shrieks of rage. “Seduce him from his anger, blind him with lust, make him forget the whole matter! It shouldn’t take much to make him forget his jealousy. After all,” she sneered, “it isn’t as if he actually loves you!”

  Deirdre felt the shot of that truth but would never give Tessa the satisfaction of seeing the arrow penetrate. Instead, she gazed at her stepmother with cool disdain.

  “That is your maternal advice? To distract him with bedroom acrobatics while I have my ‘pudding on the sly’?” Deirdre exhaled slowly. “Really, what was Papa thinking when he chose you to be my mother?”

  Tessa’s head snapped back and bitterness flared in her eyes. “I should never have agreed to his proposal! First he makes an idiot of himself with those shipping investments, then when the ships go down in a storm, he has the nerve to die and leave me with nothing but his brat to look after!”

  Tessa’s face twisted with resentment. “I told him not to risk everything, but he insisted that you have a worthy dowry. He didn’t want you to have to try for a duke, he said. He wanted you to marry for love!” She spat like a cat. “Love! What a ridiculous fool!”

  Deirdre didn’t retort, too stunned to care if Tessa scored a point.

  He wanted you to marry for love!

  Papa had not been party to the conspiracy of modeling her into the perfect bait for a duke. Papa had not wanted her to endure the endless hours of “figure-training” and semi-starvation and punishments at Tessa’s vicious hand.

  That had all been Tessa’s idea, in order to win wealth and connections for herself.

  Of course it was. Oh, Papa. I’m so sorry I doubted you.

  The irony of it was, she had blamed Tessa for the loss of her father’s wealth, when it had been herself at the source of it all the time.

  Nothing is ever quite what it seems, is it?

  Truth was the only constant in this world. If nothing else, all her manipulation and calculation had taught her that. If Calder had spoken the truth about having a daughter, or if Deirdre had spoken the truth to herself about her reasons for keeping Baskin close by, or if Tessa had spoken the truth about Papa’s wishes …

  No, that thread didn’t wind, for Deirdre had loved Lord Calder Marbrook, Marquis of Brookhaven, from the very first moment she saw him. From then on, she had trained as diligently as Tessa could ever ask for, for she had one goal in mind … to have him for her very own.

  And how did that wind up?

  She’d ruined everything, of course. Yet, she could not regret aiming her own arrow toward Calder’s heart. Should she never feel his touch again, she’d known more happiness with him in her short time as his wife than she ever had. How could she regret that?

  Tessa was pacing, her tirade escalating. “What if he decides to dissolve the marriage? Have you thought of that? He has the money to pay the bribes, and he has no honorable reputation to uphold. The man’s a scandal three times over! Do you think he’d stop at something like divorce?”

  Doubt wormed through Deirdre. Calder was a good man, but he might think himself in the right to divorce her. After all, he needed an heir. What if he didn’t believe her faithful enough to produce a true Marbrook?

  It was an ugly thought and she didn’t think him capable of it—yet the doubt wouldn’t dissipate. Tessa was right about one thing. Calder didn’t love her. What if Tessa was right about this as well?

  “We’ll be ruined!” Tessa, when highly wound up, required no actual response. “No one will want you now, and we’ve nothing left, not a farthing!” She whirled on Deirdre, her lovely face twisted with hatred. “This is all your fault!”

  Deirdre nodded calmly. “Of course it is, but really, how could you expect matters to end any differently when I haven’t the faintest idea of how to live happily ever after, like in one of Sophie’s stories!”

  She shook her head, suddenly unbearably wearied by Tessa’s self-absorption. “Tessa, since this house was rented with mine and Sophie’s money, I think you had better take yourself off to that lover of yours.”

  Tessa blinked in surprise, then snarled, advancing on Deirdre with her hand raised. “I’ll do no such thing! How dare you? I am your guardian, you little—”

  Crack! Tessa’s head whipped to one side at the force of Deirdre’s open hand on her cheek.

  “Oh, my,” Sophie breathed. “That was lovely.”

  Tessa scurried backward, her eyes wide over the hands she pressed to her reddening cheek. “You dare!”

  Deirdre ran her hand down her skirts, for her palm stung fiercely. “Get out, you nauseating harpy, or I’ll drive you out with my own hands.” Her voice sounded oddly calm, but her stomach trembled with rage and disgust.

  “I’ll help,” Sophie murmured, but Tessa only had eyes for Deirdre.

  “I’m done with you, Tessa,” Deirdre continued. “I am a married woman now, so you no longer have a reason to speak to me, or call on me, or wave to me when I pass you in Hyde Park.” She stepped forward, but took no real satisfaction when Tessa stepped quickly back. Bullying Tessa made her feel soiled. “Done, do you understand?”

  Tessa slid a look in Sophie’s direction, but perhaps some scrap of common sense remained in her vain and vicious mind, for she did not play the chaperone card at that moment. Instead, she straightened and tilted her head arrogantly at Deirdre, who decided not to notice that her stepmother’s hands were trembling at her sides.

  “I have things to do, in superior company, mind you, so I shall take my leave for a time.” She turned with twitchy dignity and nearly ran from the room.

  Sophie came alongside Deirdre and placed a gentle hand on her arm. “She can’t leave forever,” Sophie said. “It would not be acceptable for me to stay here on my own.” Then she gave Deirdre’s arm a little squeeze. “But I’d definitely enjoy a brief respite from her ‘superior company’!”

  Deirdre was too bruised, inside and out, by recent events to give an answering laugh, but she put her hand over Sophie’s, wordlessly thanking her for making the effort.

  She sighed. “Tessa is the least of my worries at the moment. What am I going to do about Calder? He thinks I’m in love with Baskin!”

  Sophie shook her head. “Sometimes I think I was better off not knowing any men. I truly had no idea they could be so very stupid.” She sighed. “It’s quite disappointing, really.”

  This time Deirdre did laugh, a small damp sound that might have been a sob.

  Damn Baskin anyway!

  Chapter Forty-two

  Baskin strolled jauntily, if a bit stiffly, up to the familiar door of the house on Primrose Square. For the first time in what seemed like forever, the gray skies that followed him had been parted by a ray of golden light. His beloved had left her husband behind!

  His new friend—the fellow had told him his name, he was sure, but he could never seem to remember it—had come to his rooms last night where he’d been nursing his wounds and weeping for worry for his Deirdre and informed him that she had moved out of Brook House, trunks and all!

  That knowledge had soothed the aches and healed the pains, making it possible for Baskin to eventually rise this morning and make his way here, to where she had taken refuge from the monster she’d married.

  Now he tapped the knocker, desperate to see her, eager to plan their future, dying to touch her hand with all the right in the world!

  He nodded archly at the disgruntled butler who answered the door. “Good morning. I am here to see Miss—er. Lady Brookhaven.”

  Instead of opening the door wider and giving welcome, the fellow only soured further. “Her ladyship is Not At Home.”

  Baskin scowled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you haven’t told her it’s me!”

  The doorway narrowed visibly. “Her ladyship is Not At Home.”

&nbs
p; Something snapped in Baskin, something too long held down, too long kept in check, too often failed and too readily ridiculed. With a snarl, he shoved at the door with both hands, knocking the sour-faced servant backward. Striding past the stumbling man, Baskin entered the house. “Deirdre! Deirdre!”

  At his shout, she appeared at the top of the stair. “Mr. Baskin! You—you should go.”

  She was looking around nervously. Why? No one could stop their love now. He started up the stair, but he’d not made one step before she pulled back, her eyes wide and … frightened?

  “Deirdre? What is it, my darling?”

  The other girl, Sophie, came up behind Deirdre and put a hand on her arm, then she glared down at him. “Get out, Baskin.”

  He’d never liked the scrawny Sophie. Her plainness was an affront to Deirdre’s golden beauty. In addition, she was terribly arrogant for someone so lowly and unattractive. He hated the way she looked at him, the same way his father looked at him, as if he were too stupid to draw breath on his own.

  He ignored the red-haired girl in favor of his golden goddess. He smiled up at her. “Deirdre, what is wrong? You need not be afraid of the Beast any longer. We can be together now!”

  Deirdre stared at him as if she didn’t know him. “Mr. Baskin, don’t you remember yesterday?”

  Sheepishly he fingered the bruises on his face. “He got the drop on me, darling. I’ll make better show of myself next time, I swear it.”

  Sophie snarled, “She means when you brutally assaulted her, you cretin.”

  Baskin blinked. “No, no, it was magical, our first kiss—”

  “Magical?” Sophie held out Deirdre’s arm and pushed up the loose lace sleeve. “Do you find this magical, you rotter?”

  Baskin recoiled from the black bruises he saw there—right where he’d taken her into his arms—where his hands had touched her—denied her—

  “No!” The word was a gasp, a shout, a plea. He ascended two steps, desperate to make her see. “I would never—I could never hurt you! I love you, Deirdre! You’re my angel, my savior, you’re the light in the dark—”

  “You’re a rapist,” snarled Sophie. “Do not return here or I’ll send for the law myself!”

  Baskin had eyes only for his love. “Dee—”

  She flinched from him. “Do not call me so,” she said, her voice low and hard. “Baskin, you have misunderstood every—” She halted and swallowed. “Everything. I’m not your love. I’m not your light. I am Lady Brookhaven and I will be for as long as my husband walks the earth. I do not want you to return, do you understand me?” She gazed at him, her stunning eyes without light or laughter. “Ever.”

  His heart shrank within his chest, leaving only a great emptiness that threatened his very breathing. He gazed at her pleadingly, but there was no relenting in her stare. Defeated, broken and empty, he numbly stumbled back down the stairs to where the butler stood, the front door still open. When he passed the man, the servant snickered vengefully as he rubbed at the mark on his forehead from the door.

  Out in the day again, though it seemed the blackest, soulless night, Baskin staggered to the walk as the door slammed firmly shut behind him.

  Bruises. Loathing. What had he done? How could he have done such a thing? His eyes burned and he wiped at them, then winced as his fist encountered his sore cheekbone.

  Bruises. He blinked. His bruises, caused by that brute Brookhaven. Her bruises …

  He clung to the thought, the hope, until it became truth in his desperate mind. For some reason, out of fear for his safety, probably—oh, my lovely brave darling!—she’d decided to drive him away. She didn’t want Brookhaven to kill him, of course!

  He tossed his head back and laughed aloud at the relief flooding him. Then he remembered his mission, his true and rightful purpose on this earth. He was Deirdre’s chosen champion. He must free her from Brookhaven’s cruel domination forever!

  The night receded, the bleakness faded. Life was once again worth living.

  THAT EVENING AT dinner, Calder sat across from his daughter at the silent table and tried very hard not to take it personally that she appeared grubby and tattered, her hair a tangled mass, a purposeful streak of soot across her nose.

  And she relentlessly kicked at her chair legs the entire meal.

  He made no comment, for he had no idea what to say to the child now that he’d driven off yet another mother.

  Eventually, she flung her fork down on her untasted plate with a clatter and glared at him. “You buggered it, didn’t you?”

  Calder put down his own fork, for everything tasted like sawdust anyway, and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not sure. I might have.”

  Meggie folded her arms. “I heard you, you know. I know you made her bawl.”

  “Mm.” He really must reinforce the walls of this house. Then again, what was the point?

  “You made her run away, just like Mama. Maybe I’ll run away from you, too. She didn’t even say good-bye to you. She hates you.”

  Another noncommittal grunt.

  Meggie lifted her chin. “She said good-bye to me. She said I could visit her and Sophie, at least when the wicked witch isn’t home.” Then her gaze narrowed. “I saw the bruises, too.”

  God, had Deirdre stripped naked and posed for the entire household? He wasn’t sure where he’d bruised her, but he was fairly certain it was somewhere rather private.

  Meggie continued. “Her arms looked like you beat her with a stick!”

  Her arms? He’d not grabbed Deirdre’s arms, had he? No, he’d taken her hand, he’d filled his palms with her full breasts and he’d definitely squeezed her buttocks—but he could honestly say he had no memory of touching her arms!

  Meggie gazed at him with a new hesitance in her eyes. “Did you beat her with a stick, Papa?”

  He pushed back his chair. “Excuse me for a moment, Lady Margaret.”

  He found Fortescue on his way back into the dining room. “Fortescue, where was her ladyship bruised?”

  Fortescue gazed somewhere over Calder’s shoulder, cold disapproval faint but definite in his lack of expression. “I saw only her arms, my lord, as I helped her into her spencer.”

  Had it been Baskin, after all? Had the fellow nearly raped his wife in his own bloody house?

  Had Deirdre fought him off, but been helpless against him when no one came to her aid? And then he, Calder, had accused her, had misused her—

  Passing a hand over his face, Calder blindly made his way back into the dining room and into his chair. Meggie still sat, her little face crumpled with anger. She’d asked him a question, hadn’t she? He couldn’t remember.

  Automatically he took a bite of his food, only to discover that somehow it had become covered in a crust of salt. Meggie glared at him, waiting for him to shout, to punish. A test? Fortescue appeared at his elbow. “Shall I take that, my lord?”

  Calder waved him off, never taking his eyes off his daughter’s. “No, thank you. It’s just how I like it.” He forced himself to chew and swallow, then take another bite, watching as Meggie’s confusion grew. He didn’t know what to say to her—how could a man fix losing the woman she’d come to love as a mother?—but he wanted someone, anyone by God, to trust him!

  Besides, he deserved worse.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Meggie roamed in the gardens, refusing to enjoy them. There were blooms everywhere, but she had no interest in them. All sorts of creatures rustled and slithered aside at this rare passage of anyone but the gardener, but she ignored them as well.

  There was Something Going On. It was one of the times that the adults had decided it was better that she not know anything. Even Deirdre had been closemouthed as she’d packed her things.

  “I must go, at least for a while, Meggie. I can’t say why right now. It isn’t because of you, truly it isn’t. I’m glad I came here and met you, sweeting.” She came to sit in a chair and gazed into Meggie’s eyes. “I think I’m doing the right th
ing, for us all. I hope—” She’d shaken off the thought with the first false smile she’d ever given Meggie. “Well, you and Mr. Livery will keep each other company for a time, won’t you?”

  The kitten’s name changed every time Deirdre said it. Sometimes it was Little Fortescue—when Large Fortescue wasn’t in the room, of course—and sometimes it was Foppish McMaster or once the Violent Valet when Dee had discovered teeth marks on her shoes. Meggie tried to think of something clever to call the little cat chasing at her feet, but it was Dee who always came up with the best names.

  She went to the place by the garden wall where she could sometimes hear the neighbor’s servants gossiping. There was a little bench there next to a statue of a man with goat legs that she liked to climb on to listen better.

  There was a piece of paper fluttering from the goatman’s wrist. Meggie pulled at it, only to discover her name on the outside. “Lady M.”

  “Dee!” Meggie plunked down on the bench to read it, sounding out the florid script with difficulty. Oh. It was from that man, the one Dee liked to visit with, the one who had told her about the chipped mantel.

  “Lady Margaret, if you’ll come to feed the swans with me in Hyde Park today, I’ll tell you all about your dear mother and why your father is to blame for what happened to her—and to our dearest D. Your friend in secret, Baskin.”

  D. Dee. Meggie thought about the black and blue marks on Dee’s arms and how her father had never answered her question at dinner and how the mantel in her mother’s—Dee’s—room was chipped, just like the man had said.

  Hyde Park was nice. Patricia had taken her there just the other day and they’d had ices and fed bread to the swans in the long skinny lake. It wasn’t far at all.

  She folded the note into a tiny square and shoved it deep into her pocket. No one was watching her, for Patricia had gone with Deirdre.

  She looked up at the cloudy sky, but she couldn’t tell if it was early or late. One could never see a proper sky in London. She’d already had dinner, so it must not be very early. If she didn’t hurry, Mr. Baskin might not wait for her.