“My…my brother is to marry? Surely you are mistaken.”
“Oh, no!” said Aunt Emma. She looked at Lucien. “Am I not right, Your Grace? Aren’t you to marry my niece?”
He nodded once, his face grim.
Liza swallowed. “B-but you never said a word…you never wrote or—”
“I didn’t have time.”
“Oh, yes,” Emma said, a vague smile on her plump face. “You see, we only just found out they were to be married this morning, when we walked in on them while they were—”
“I don’t think my sister needs to know all of the details,” Lucien said firmly. He sent a brief glance at Liza, his face suspiciously red. “I suppose it is a good thing you arrived when you did. At least you will be here for the ceremony.”
“You are getting married before Christmas?”
“Tomorrow, if I can arrange it.”
“But—”
“We’ll discuss it later,” he said, glancing meaningfully at Emma. “In the meantime, I had best get the rest of your trunks.”
Before she could protest, he left. Liza’s fingers curled into her palms. It all became very clear to her. Somehow, some way, Arabella Hadley had tricked her brother into marriage. No wonder he’d been so upset on finding her on his doorstep. He was a proud man and he would not wish for anyone to witness the indignity of his marriage to such an odious schemer.
Liza’s heart swelled with righteous anger. “Where is Miss Hadley? I would like to meet her.”
“Oh, she will be down soon. Mrs. Guinver is drawing a bath for her right now.” Lady Durham took Liza’s hand in hers and inexorably led her to the morning room.
“Come and have a bit of tea while we are waiting for your room to be readied, and tell me all about your trip here.”
Left without any recourse, Liza followed. Much later, refreshed after a plate of cold meat, bread and butter, and some of Mrs. Guinver’s special restorative tea, Liza stood at the window of her bedchamber. Aunt Emma was as talkative as she was naive, and it had taken very little to discover the full circumstances of Lucien’s wedding. Liza scowled, thinking of all the times her brother had warned her against the attentions of men who might be interested only in her fortune. Now some brazen harpy had come along and neatly tricked him into the very same trap.
Liza sniffed. It was a good thing she had come to Rosemont when she did. She would find Miss Hadley and see for herself what kind of a woman would behave so dishonorably.
Girded in righteous anger, Liza sailed from her room and down the steps. The door to the morning room was closed, but the low murmur of voices escaped through the wood panel. She hesitated, one hand ready to knock, wondering if she dared burst in. But the thought that the occupants might be someone other than Lucien and the unscrupulous Miss Hadley stayed her hand.
Just as she turned to retreat to the stairs, a sliver of light from beneath a tall door down the hallway caught her attention.
She quietly tiptoed over and listened, but no sounds came from within. Curious, she opened the door and came to a sudden halt. A man sat in a wheeled chair by the fireplace, a huge tome in his hands.
Liza cleared her throat. “Pardon me. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
The man turned his head and she saw he was much younger than she’d at first thought. His hair was a true chestnut, dark brown with red lights, and curled over his forehead, showing signs of needing a cut. Had he dark eyes instead of silver-gray, he would have looked exactly the way she always pictured one of Byron’s tortured heroes.
She dipped a curtsy. “How do you do? I am Miss—”
“I know who you are,” he said unpleasantly. “You are Wexford’s sister.”
While Liza was not one to be immersed in her own self-worth, it was unusual to meet someone so patently unimpressed with her title. Worse, he continued to stare at her in a bold, rude manner, looking her up and down as if she were a horse.
Liza’s temper flared. “Well, you know me, but I don’t know you,” she said ungraciously.
“I am Robert Hadley. This is my house you are standing in.” Then, apparently thinking his discourteous introduction sufficient, and deeming her of no more interest, he turned back to his volume and ignored her.
Liza didn’t know what to think. She had never been spoiled or used to getting her own way at every turn, but she had been brought up by an aunt who clearly believed that the world owed some deference to the prestigious Wexford name.
Gathering her scattered courage, Liza stepped forward. “I understand that your sister has entrapped my brother into marriage,” she said sharply.
“Entrapped?” He gave an inelegant snort. “That shows how little you know about it. If there was any entrapment, it was your brother who orchestrated it. He has been hot on her trail since he arrived. Any fool could see that.”
“Lucien would never stoop to such a thing! May I remind you that my brother is a duke, and the handsomest man in London. Women chase him in swarms.”
“That explains why he is so enamored of my sister, then,” Robert said with a superior smirk. “Men don’t like forward females.”
Liza’s hands balled into fists. “Real men like women who are their equals and do not pander to their every whim and whimsy.”
“What do you know of real men? Unless London has changed drastically since I visited it, there are no real men in London.”
Having spent the last two months there, Liza was inclined to agree with him, but she was not about to bow so tamely. “Your manners are intolerable. You are arrogant, rude, and—”
“Rude? What about people who come unannounced for a visit and demand the best guest room? What do you call that?”
“I sent a letter, but it has apparently been mislaid. Besides, I did not ask for the best guest room. I would have been happy for a pallet in the attic, if that had been all that was available.” Anything to escape Aunt Lavinia’s stifling presence.
“Ballocks.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me,” he said impatiently, sending her a silver glance. “Please don’t tell me you do not know what ballocks are.”
“I do indeed know what they are,” she said acidly, wondering if it was a special crime to kick a crippled man in the knee. “I am no missish female, Mr. Hadley. I am quite familiar with the term ballocks. In fact, I use the word quite frequently myself.”
His brows rose. “I don’t believe you.”
“Well, I do.”
“Let me hear you, then.”
That gave her pause, but she hid it behind a scowl.
“Very well. Ballocks. There, I said it.”
He snorted. “I would hardly call that using a word. If you are going to use a word, then grab it with both hands, don’t just fondle the damn thing.”
His needling pricked her anger, and she seethed with the desire to put him in his place. “Very well, damn it. Ballocks to you!”
“Oh, dear,” said a soft voice from the doorway. Aunt Emma stood with her mobcap askew, wringing her hands and looking from one to the other. “Is…is there a problem?”
“No!” said Robert and Liza in unison. Liza glared, but Robert seemed amused, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
“Oh. I see,” said Aunt Emma, plainly bewildered. Her brow furrowed for a moment, then cleared as she brightened. “I know! Perhaps you would like some nice tea and cookies.”
“Thank you, Lady Durham,” said Liza stiffly, “but I find that I am more tired than I realized. I wish to retire to my room, if you don’t mind.”
“Coward,” murmured Robert, watching her with eyes strangely alight.
She sent him a quelling glance, her head held at a proud angle. “Fool.”
“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Emma again, looking uneasily from Robert to Liza. “I hope you found everything in your room satisfactory, Miss Devereaux. Was…was the bed not made?”
“The room is lovely, thank you.”
Robert tsked. ??
?And to think you would have been happy with a pallet in the attic.”
With a frigid glare that caused its intended victim to grin even wider, Liza stormed out the door, pausing only to offer the tiniest curtsy to Aunt Emma as she went.
“What will Jane say?” Aunt Emma said. “We had such hopes that perhaps—”
“If you will excuse me, I am going outside,” Robert said shortly, though a smile lingered on his mouth. With a last glance at the doorway through which Miss Devereaux had disappeared, he pushed himself onto the terrace and slammed the door behind him.
Aunt Emma pulled her medicine from her pocket. Rosemont couldn’t handle any more upsets. She took a long sip and looked up at the portrait of the Captain. With a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure she was alone, she turned to the portrait and said in a loud voice, “I wish you would at least make a push to help us. Jane and I can only do so much, you know.”
To her astonished gaze, it appeared as if the Captain’s gentle smile broadened, his blue eyes twinkling. Emma took a hasty step back, her mouth wide open. Then she turned and ran from the room, calling for Jane as she fled.
Chapter 23
Aunt Jane was determined that the wedding would be the social event of the year, and since she had less than twenty-four hours in which to plan it, she was in something of a tizzy. Arabella could have cared less for the type of cake that was served, the amount of greenery to be used in adorning the church, or the color of cloth hung over the old settee. It was fortunate for all involved that her aunts’ boundless excitement made up for her own lack of enthusiasm.
By midafternoon, the morning room was already covered with Christmas greenery, the carpets beaten and replaced, the chairs arranged to hide the faded and worn spots, and every bit of silver that had spent the last ten years collecting dust in the Rosemont cupboards was on display. All in all, it was an impressive sight that would greet their guests after the wedding tomorrow.
Arabella sat near the open door of the morning room and listened with half an ear to her aunts’ endless quibbling over the arrangement of the extra chairs, and wondered how Lucien was faring with the vicar. She didn’t have long to wait. He emerged from the library a short time later, looking suspiciously white about the mouth and ready to murder someone. Arabella slipped unnoticed from the room and joined him in the foyer.
He stood staring with an unseeing gaze at the front door, as if he longed to pass through and never return. The sight made her spirits sink even lower. She wished she knew how to set him at ease and convince him that all would be well, but she couldn’t find the words.
She had just decided to leave when he muttered a curse and turned, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw her standing so near.
His face softened and some of the tension left his shoulders. “I was coming to find you. I must leave to get the license.”
Arabella’s mouth went dry. Part of her wanted to offer him his freedom and point the way to the door, while the other part longed to burrow in his arms and never let go. She clasped her hands behind her back. “Then we are to be married.” Perhaps if she said it aloud, it wouldn’t seem quite so preposterous.
“Yes,” he said in a firm voice, as if daring her to contradict him. “Tomorrow morning. All I need to do is get the license from the bishop. In the meantime, you should rest.” A sudden smile warmed his eyes and he crossed to stand in front of her, his shoulders blocking the light from the window. “You look a bit pale this morning. I should have let you sleep more.” He brushed his fingertips over her cheek, his touch warming all the way to her stomach.
Arabella closed her eyes and wondered what he would do if she placed her head against his broad chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart as she had done in the cottage. But somehow, the intimacy of the cottage seemed far away, the spell broken by the cold, stern necessity of their circumstances. She raised her gaze to his. “Lucien, perhaps we should reconsider—”
His hand touched her lips, silencing her. He regarded her somberly, his green eyes dark with some emotion. “We are set in our course, Bella.” He dropped his hand to capture hers. Smiling, he brushed a soft kiss across her fingers and gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Don’t look so worried. This is best for us all.”
Arabella looked down at his large hand as it enveloped hers, and she wondered at the sense of security such a simple touch could convey. She only wished it were more than an illusion, something stronger than just her desires. “Lucien, I hope you—”
“Ah, Wexford! There you are,” Aunt Jane said, emerging from the morning room, an ominous list in her hand.
“We must discuss the exact time of the wedding. Wilson is ready to deliver the invitations, and we must get them written before another minute advances.”
Lucien gave Arabella’s hand one last squeeze, and then he followed Aunt Jane into the morning room. Arabella started to follow, but Cook appeared, complaining about Wilson’s refusal to go to town at her bidding. By the time Arabella returned to the foyer, Lucien had already left.
The rest of the day passed in a blur, with Aunt Jane or Aunt Emma always hovering just around the corner, keeping her busy with seemingly useless tasks. Arabella thought that if she stayed occupied it would ease her mind, but everything reminded her of Lucien and the awful predicament their untoward passion had placed them in. She could only hope he would not come to regret the hasty events of this day.
The sun sank lower on the horizon behind a bank of thick black clouds that rumbled louder as night approached. Arabella found herself starting at every noise, imagining that Lucien had returned, but each time it was one of the servants passing through the hallway, or the wind rattling the shutters. With each disappointment, her uncertainty grew.
Dinner only made things worse. Lucien’s sister seemed disposed to glare until Arabella felt acutely uncomfortable. Even Robert was in a strange mood, making cutting remarks to Liza and then laughing whenever she retaliated.
Their bickering quickly became more than Arabella could bear, and she pleaded a headache and escaped to her room. There, she fought against a looming sense of failure as she paced the floor, her thoughts as depressed as the driving rain that pelted the countryside.
After an hour of relentless examination, one undeniable fact remained—she could not marry Lucien. While there were innumerable benefits for her, he gained nothing in the bargain. She would find a way to deal with her own difficulties—she always had.
The ugly truth was that there was nothing to keep Lucien at Rosemont. He didn’t care about her—he’d made that fact abundantly clear when he’d listed all of the reasons why they should wed. Not one had anything to do with love.
Her eyes watered and she was forced to find a handkerchief before she could resume her pacing. It was better this way. No declarations of love, no pretense at emotions, just a calm, orderly arrangement—rather like a business deal. Strangely, the thought made her heart sink even lower.
Night crept in and the clock ticked away the passing minutes. Arabella was finally too tired to pace any longer, so she sat before the dying fire, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her hands damp and quaking. God, what am I doing?
Outside, the rain increased in tempo, beating against the house as if desperate to gain entry, but Arabella didn’t hear it—she was too busy trying to decide how to tell Lucien that there would be no wedding.
The rain sheeted across the inn yard, rivulets of muddy water sluicing into the road. Standing under the dripping eaves, Lucien stared grimly at the rain and clenched his jaw. Bloody hell, will this torrent ever end?
His greatcoat was soaked, his boots crusted with mud, and his temper frayed. Gritting his teeth against his impatience, he took off his hat and shook it. A shower of fat, cold droplets sprinkled across the mud-smeared threshold.
It had taken two hours to locate the bishop’s place, only to discover that the man was not home and wasn’t expected anytime soon. After kicking his heels for the better part of an h
our waiting for the blasted man to return, Lucien had finally set out after him, locating the rotund clergyman at his sister’s house. It had taken an earnest plea and two gold sovereigns before the bishop could be persuaded to drive his cart back to York to issue the license.
Then, mission completed, Lucien had set out for Rosemont, only to be halted by the storm. Lucien replaced his hat and pulled the brim low, thinking of Arabella’s pale face as she stood in the vestibule this afternoon. There was no mistaking the doubt lurking in her eyes. But Lucien knew there was a way to chase away her haunted look. He remembered her after they had made love, her smile softened with pleasure, her eyes glowing with happiness. He moved impatiently. Bloody hell, I have to get home.
The thought held him. Since when had he considered Rosemont home? The leaky old manor house was special only because it was where Arabella lived. Maybe that was it—it wasn’t the house, but his Bella. Lucien pulled a cheroot out of his pocket and lit it, liking the thought of calling Rosemont home, of calling Arabella wife.
A carriage pulled into the muddy yard and came to a splashing halt. A heavily wrapped coachman jumped down and trudged through the rain to open the door. Amid a flurry of preparation, the occupant of the coach stepped out. Lucien noted absently that the man’s greatcoat possessed such a preposterous number of capes that the owner appeared to be every bit as wide as he was tall.
“Blasted rain,” the young man muttered as he hopped his way through a maze of puddles toward the door where Lucien stood. Once he reached the safety of the overhang, he carefully examined every inch of his clothing for additional mud, removing his wide-brimmed beaver hat so that the dull light from the window fell on a head of mussed golden curls. “Demme! Ruined my new boots, too, blasted rain. That’s the last time I ever come to Yorkshire. Never saw such a plaguey, wet place in all my—” He glanced at Lucien and broke off. “Luce? Is that you?”
Lucien straightened in surprise. Edmund Valmont was one of the few people he considered a friend. Though the younger man was naive and possessed far less common sense than he needed, his heart was every bit as soft as his head. “What brings you here, halfling? Is there a race about?”