A Belated Bride

  He turned his head and met her gaze. Her lips were still parted, her breath gasping and uneven, her eyes soft and unfocused. Yet she managed a small, soft smile, so tender that he gathered her close and placed a kiss in her hair.

  Lucien savored the warmth of her breath against his chest, the feel of her hair where it tumbled over his arm. Time slipped by and her breathing settled into the deep rhythm of sleep. Lucien looked down where she lay curled so trustingly against him, her lashes shadowing her cheek, her soft, pink mouth parted in sleep.

  Something shifted in Lucien’s chest and he brushed a curl from her forehead. Come what may, she was his. His to have and to hold. His to protect—with his life, if necessary.

  His stomach tightened at the thought. This time, he would not fail her.

  For a long, long time, Lucien lay with Arabella in his arms, his face drawn and set.

  What was it about her that touched his heart? He pulled the blanket over her shoulder and tucked it about her as if she were a child. But there wasn’t anything childlike about Arabella. She had taken on the care of her brother and aunts without hesitation or any self-pity. She was strong and capable, one of the most independent women he knew.

  Though he appreciated her good traits, he was not blind to her faults. His Bella was too quick to anger and far too stubborn—just like her brother.

  Lucien rested his cheek against her hair, the wild, silky curls brushing his chin. But of all her family, Arabella had inherited the Captain’s pirating spirit—she thrived on the excitement of a livelihood that would have left many men weak-kneed with trepidation.

  As if aware of his thoughts, she murmured an incoherent word, and then turned to burrow against him, one hand resting on his chest. Lucien held her tighter, a band constricting about his heart.

  Before he could devote himself to Arabella, he had to let the past go. Somehow, he’d let Sabrina’s tragedy keep him from living. He needed to move forward and face the future—a future that included his Bella.

  The thought held him for some time, until finally, too tired to do more, he drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 21

  A brisk rap awoke Arabella from a deep, languorous sleep. The dim light meant it was early—much too early to rise. Yawning, she stretched and then shivered as a finger of cold air wafted over her bare skin.

  Her eyes flew open, memories of the night yanking her awake. She started to sit up, but a warm, masculine leg moved over hers, pinning her to the bed. Lucien. She turned her head and gazed at him. His thick, black hair fell across his forehead and softened the lines of his face. Just seeing so much male beauty asleep beside her made Arabella sigh. And last night, for a short while at least, he had been hers. The thought curled up to warm her.

  The sharp rap rang out again. Startled, Arabella turned toward the heavy oak door and caught sight of Aunt Jane’s favorite blue bonnet through the vine that covered the window. She gasped and dove under the covers, slipping an arm out to search the floor for her lost clothing.

  A lazy voice drawled in her ear. “Hmm, a sprightly maid, to awaken me by burrowing ’neath the covers.” Lucien pulled her closer and pressed her other hand to his manhood, now soft and warm between his legs. “Is this perchance the treasure you seek so eagerly?”

  She jerked her hand away. “Will you stop that? Someone is at the door.”

  “Let them find their own amusement.” His hands wandered over her hips, her breasts, instantly rousing her. “I have plans for you, milady. And they include only ourselves.”

  “Aunt Jane is here!”

  That stopped him. He lifted his head. Outside came the faint murmur of voices, as if someone were holding a meeting.

  “How did they find us?” Arabella asked desperately. She knew what would happen, and she was not about to sit idly by as her aunts tried to shame Lucien into marrying her. She fought an overpowering desire to crawl under the cot and hide.

  Lucien seemed impervious to the danger. He regarded her with a smiling gaze, his attention focused on her lips. “Maybe if we ignore them they will go away.”

  Or burst through the door and stumble in to see their niece naked in bed with a duke. Aunt Jane would think she’d died and gone to heaven. The idea sent a wave of panic through Arabella, and she jerked upright and swung her legs over the side of the cot.

  Lucien’s muscular arm encircled her waist. With a smooth, easy motion, he hauled her back beside him, tucking the blanket back over her. “Stay here.” His whispered command tickled her ear. “It is too cold to rise.”

  “What if they come in?”

  “Then you will have to tell them.”

  “Tell them what?” she asked, stung that he would put the entire burden of confession on her shoulders.

  “That there isn’t room in this cot for anyone else. In fact”—he nuzzled her neck—“there’s barely room for us.”

  “Lucien, I will not say anything so improper!”

  “You’ll have to,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m going to be much too busy touching you, kissing you, tasting you.” He nipped her shoulder, sending a tremor of awareness all the way to her toes. He rubbed against her, the hardness of his manhood telling her he was more than ready to resume their lovemaking.

  “Will you stop that?” She pushed at his arm. He was making it pure hell to even think. “Lucien, Aunt Jane was peeking in the window—she may already know—I will have to tell them….” She trailed off miserably.

  He stilled for an instant before threading his hand into her hair and turning her face toward his. He held her there, his eyes sparkling and hard. “What will you tell them, Arabella?”

  “That you and I did not…that we just slept here because of the snowstorm and…and nothing else.”

  He regarded her for an intense moment. “No.”

  She gritted her teeth in frustration. Even now, her aunts would be deciding what color of wedding gown she should wear. Panic seared her lungs. “We have to get dressed!”

  She scrambled to untangle her legs from the blanket, but Lucien held her tight, his voice warm against her neck. “It is too late, sweet.”

  “But they could open the door any minute and find us.”

  He nuzzled her neck. “Hmm. You smell like cinnamon.”

  “That’s from Mary’s plum pudding, you lummox! Don’t you understand—”

  He cut her off with a kiss, his mouth demanding, insistent, his hands moving rapidly over her breasts, her stomach. She was lost before she could even fathom his intent, her body instantly arching against his.

  Lucien reached down to let his fingers begin a leisurely journey across the curve of her knee, to the inside of her thigh, coming to rest just inches away from the tight sable curls. From there, it was but a second of heart-rending pleasure as he cupped her intimately, his long fingers stroking ever so lightly, bringing her to an instant state of arousal that was so strong, she forgot about the murmur at the door, forgot she was in a cottage in the middle of the forest. She forgot everything but the fact that she was naked and in his arms.

  The door suddenly burst open and Aunt Jane stood silhouetted in the predawn dimness, a lantern in her hand. Arabella gasped, yanked back to reality by the sudden glare.

  “Behold,” murmured Lucien into Arabella’s ear, “so cometh Justice holding aloft the lantern of Truth.”

  She elbowed him, hard.

  “Oh, my…” Aunt Jane sputtered. “I—I never thought…I didn’t realize…this isn’t what we had agreed—”

  Behind Aunt Jane stood Aunt Emma, her eyes wide, her mouth drawn in a perfect O.

  Vicar Haighton strode into the cottage, his nose red from the cold. “Here we are, ladies. I tied up the cart. I trust you have found our missing—” His gasp of shocked outrage could have been heard in the next county.

  Arabella dropped back onto the makeshift pillow and yanked the covers over her head. Please, God, I will never again ask for anything. Just make them all go away.

  After a m
oment of stilted silence, Lucien said, “Uhm, pardon me, Lady Melwin.” Without waiting for an answer, he burrowed beneath the blanket, his voice brushing across Arabella’s ear. “I hate to bother you, sweet. And I know you must be tired from our exertions, but we must get up.”

  “Then go,” she hissed, turning to glare at him. The lamplight shone through the blanket and bathed everything with a soft yellow glow. “I am not stopping you.”

  His eyes lit with a strange light. “No?”

  “No. Do whatever you want to do; I am staying here.”

  “For how long?”

  “Forever, if necessary.”

  “You will die of starvation.”

  “So be it,” she snapped.

  Aunt Emma coughed loudly, but Aunt Jane was not so circumspect. She harrumphed and said loudly, “Vicar Haighton, how quickly can you marry them?”

  While the vicar sputtered an answer, Arabella turned to Lucien. “It is rather dark in here. Perhaps they didn’t get a good look at me.”

  He raised his brows and she continued, “You could tell them that I’m not here, that you left me at the Marches, and that the woman under the blanket is someone else. They would believe it, because you aren’t exactly an angel, and—”

  “No.” Lucien cupped her face and rubbed the pad of his thumb over her full bottom lip. “Arabella, you cannot expect me to tell your aunts that I met some chance woman in the forest and seduced her.”

  “Why not?” she demanded. Her fingers closed over his wrist and she pushed his hand away.

  “Pardon me!” Aunt Jane’s voice came from directly above their heads, as if she had bent down to yell through the blanket. “Vicar Haighton and I would like a word with you both. Could you please come out from beneath that blanket?”

  Arabella clenched her teeth, her body stiffening like a board. She looked at Lucien and he noted the swell of tears in her eyes. “I can’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Not now. Not like this.”

  He brushed a curl from her forehead. “No?”

  She shook her head, the tear dislodging and rolling down her cheek.

  Lucien kissed away the tear, a feeling of regret shading his good humor. It really was for the best, and the sooner she realized it, the better. “Do you want me to speak to your aunts?”

  Arabella nodded miserably, another tear slipping out to join the first.

  “Very well.” He placed a quick kiss on her cheek and then lifted the blanket, careful to uncover only his own head. “Ah, Lady Melwin. Arabella and I would like some time to compose ourselves.”

  “Compose?” Aunt Jane’s gaze sharpened and she lifted a hand as if to reach for the blanket. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Lucien curled an arm about Arabella’s still form and pulled her closer. She turned toward him, hiding her face against his chest. “We are just a little, er, overwhelmed by so many guests.”

  Aunt Jane stared at him, her eyes hawkish. Whatever she read in his face must have reassured her, for she relaxed and gave a brief nod. “I suppose you should dress before speaking with the vicar.”

  Arabella murmured a protest against Lucien’s chest, and the warmth of her breath against his bare skin made his breath quicken. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, we will need more time than that. We would like time to er, prepare before meeting with the vicar.”

  Aunt Emma tugged on Aunt Jane’s lace sleeve. “Jane, for heaven’s sake, leave them alone long enough to put their clothes on!”

  “But we can’t leave them here!”

  The vicar pursed his lips. “Lady Melwin is right. We should not leave them alone in such a manner. It is most improper.”

  Aunt Emma gave an inelegant snort. “Why not? They cannot fornicate worse than they already have.”

  Lucien choked back a laugh, drawing the vicar’s stern gaze.

  The portly man gave a disgusted sigh, then strode to the door, saying gruffly over his shoulder, “We will see Your Grace at Rosemont within the hour, if you please.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lucien said meekly.

  “Oh, stop that!” Aunt Jane snapped. “We brought Satan; we’ll tie him up outside.” She stared hard at the blanket where Arabella lay hidden before letting out a long sigh and marching from the cottage. Aunt Emma followed, smiling apologetically at Lucien and thoughtfully closing the door behind her.

  Lucien sighed, then lifted the blanket back over his head and joined Arabella in their makeshift tent.

  Arabella looked up at him, her hair a nimbus of curls about her face, her nose red. “What will we do?”

  “It appears, my love, that you and I are to wed.”

  “No.”

  The vehemence of her denial made him wince, even though he had expected it. “And why not?”

  She turned away and covering her face with her hands. Her muffled voice answered, “You don’t want to marry me, and I have no wish to marry you.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Lucien’s gaze trailed down the delectable slope of her back, all the way to the rounded swell of her bottom. “Perhaps your aunt is right. This may not be exactly what we planned, but there are many reasons we should marry.”

  “Name one,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Well, for one—you are ruined. You have to marry.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, sounding so sure that he slipped an arm around her waist and turned her onto her back so he could see her face.

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  “Because I was ruined when I was sixteen. You can’t be ruined twice.”

  “I would like to try,” he murmured, kissing her shell-pink ear.

  She swatted at him. “Stop that. This is serious.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, grinning when she glared at him. “There are other reasons we should consider an alliance, too. For example, think how embarrassed your aunts will be if the vicar sees fit to mention to anyone what he saw here.”

  That struck home, for she turned a bright red before rallying. “My aunts are more likely to be distraught that I missed a chance to be a duchess.”

  “That is yet another reason: You’ll be a duchess. Think of how much enjoyment you could glean from that.” He rested his cheek against her hair. “Just imagine Lord Harlbrook’s face when he has to call you ‘Your Grace.’”

  She bit her lip. “He would hate that, wouldn’t he?”

  “With every breath in his body.”

  She lingered on the image for a while, then sighed heavily and shook her head. “No, I don’t want to be a duchess. I have far too much to do here.”

  Lucien shrugged. “As you wish. But I happen to be a very wealthy duke, Bella. Think of all the improvements you could make at Rosemont if you had considerable funds at your disposal.”

  She turned to look at him, a serious expression in her wide brown eyes. “Lucien, if we were married and I told you I needed a certain sum of money, would you give it to me without asking any questions?”

  “Yes,” he replied without pause. What in the devil had she gotten herself into now?

  “Even if I asked for ten thousand pounds?”

  Ten thousand? At her steady, pleading gaze, his lips twitched. “We will consider it a bride gift.”

  She brightened. “You would?”

  “Anything you desire.” He brushed the end of a strand of hair across the delicate line of her cheek. “You know, I like the idea of having you as my duchess.”

  She frowned and shifted to face him directly. “Lucien, you’ve given me so many reasons to marry you, but what possible reason would you have to marry me?”

  Because I love you to distraction. The words burned on the edge of his lips, begging for release, but he hid them behind a casual smile. “I am getting older and it is time I settled down.”

  A frown curved her brow. “You did say that your aunt was forever pressing you to marry.”

  “I believe the word I used was hounding. If I marry, she will cease to bother me.” He traced
the line of her brow with his finger. “Especially if we produce an heir within the next year.”

  He saw a flash of something in the back of her eyes, but he held his ground. Their marriage would be as passionate as he could make it. She would be his wife in every sense of the word.

  Lucien slid the back of his hand down her cheek. “I watched you at the Marches’, Bella. You want children.”

  “Yes. Someday.”

  “You dream of them, as do I.”

  “I…I suppose I do. I just never thought to have them this way.”

  Married to a man I do not love. She didn’t say the words, but Lucien heard them nonetheless. His heart ached at the thought. He’d failed at love before, and he could not bear the thought of disappointing her yet again. It would be better for them both if he kept his heart firmly under control.

  He swallowed the tightness in his throat. “There are other reasons we should marry. Constable Robbins would never dare accuse the Duchess of Wexford of smuggling.”

  “No, but he might still accuse Wilson.”

  “We’ll send Wilson to one of my estates in Derbyshire. The constable won’t know where to find him.” He leaned over to place a kiss by her ear. “Bella mia, think of it: no more freezing cold caves, no more dealings with men like Bolder to provide a home for your aunts.”

  He knew he’d scored a mark with that one, because a dreamy expression softened her face. Lucien swooped in for the kill. “And there are doctors in London,” he murmured softly, running a finger up and down her arm. “Doctors who have experience in dealing with cases like Robert’s.”

  She turned to look at him then, her face alive with hope. “Oh, Lucien! Do you think they could cure him?”

  “I don’t know, sweet. But as soon as we are wed, we will find out.” He prayed he could find one who knew something about Robert’s peculiar paralysis. If he had to turn over every brick in London, he would find someone to cure Arabella’s brother.

  She stared at him, clearly caught between fear and hope. For an instant, Lucien felt like the biggest heel on earth. It’s a necessary deception, he told himself.

  Finally, she let out her breath in a long sigh that sounded suspiciously like defeat. “Very well. I will marry you.”