A Belated Bride (17 page)

But she had to admit that Lucien was right about one thing: The view from the ground was exceptional. His strong thighs were braced against the rungs of the ladder, his backside outlined against the blue of the sky. She had always loved the strength of his legs, and the raw power of his corded thighs sent a shiver through her, tightening her breasts and heating her in the most unsuitable places. She unbuttoned her coat and tugged at her knotted neckcloth as Lucien hammered, his back muscles shifting beneath his shirt.

Lord, she was beginning to love linen shirts. Lucien had ruined at least half a dozen, and was ruining yet another as she watched. A pity he could cast aside hearts as easily as he cast aside his dirty linen.

He climbed down. “There. That should keep it in place for another hundred years or so.”

“I have to refasten that shutter almost every year. The winds blow hard over the cliffs.”

“Then I shall just have to refasten it.”

“You won’t be here.” She took the hammer out of his hand. It would be good for her to remember that fact, too.

His brows drew low. “Bella, we need to talk about our past. About what happened before.”

“There is nothing to discuss. I made a mistake, that is all.”

“It wasn’t a mistake, Bella. It was love.”

“You don’t leave someone you love, Lucien. You stay, no matter how much money you inherit. No matter what lofty title you win.”

“You don’t understand. You don’t know what it was like—”

“Nor do you. You weren’t the one left behind, with everyone watching you, wondering what had happened, your reputation in tatters.”

His jaw tensed. “Bella, I didn’t realize you would pay so dearly when I left.”

“How could you not know?”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I suppose I didn’t want to think about it, that it was easier if I just imagined you were happy somewhere, married to someone far bet- ter for you than I.”

Arabella tucked the hammer into the wooden workbox, then hefted it with both hands, carrying it to the front step. There, she set it down and eyed the broken railing as if absorbed. But all the while, she was acutely conscious of Lucien standing behind her.

His voice broke the quiet. “You need to know what happened, Bella. For your peace of mind, if nothing else.” “There is no sense in dredging up a past neither of us can fix.” She pulled the vise out of the box and set to work

loosening the broken railing.

“I truly cared for you, Bella,” he said in a quiet, insis- tent voice. “More than you know.”

She sent him a flat stare. “There was a time when that one sentence would have cured everything. But it has long passed.” She managed a casual shrug. “And I don’t care to speak of it again.”

He grabbed her arm and yanked her to face him, the vise she held clanging to the flagstone. His face was carved in hard lines. “I care, Bella, even if you do not. And I want you to know the truth. I had every intention of returning the next morning and asking for your hand in marriage. But when I returned to the lodge, I discovered my father had been in a carriage accident. I had to return to London immediately. I planned to write once I knew more, but he died within an hour of my reaching London. And then . . .”

He took a long, shuddering breath, as if the memory

haunted him still. “And then I discovered the extent of his folly, the true state of our family affairs.” His green gaze shifted across her face. “We were completely ruined, Bella. The house, the lands, all of it was encumbered. Due to his bad management, he’d squandered what invest- ments my grandfather had established and placed every- thing in jeopardy. And all for his own amusement.”

Arabella tried to still the harsh pounding of her heart. Though she wished it were otherwise, she believed every word he said. It all made perfect sense; even to the point of explaining his marriage to an heiress. The anger she’d shored up in her heart still burned hotly, but the tiniest bit of the bitterness dispersed, set loose from a heart that knew all too well the pain of poverty.

If anyone could understand the burden of financial ruin, it was she. How many nights had she lain awake, wondering how to find the money to pay the bills, even put food on the table? More than she could count. Still, she pulled herself free and met his gaze with a direct one of her own. “Why didn’t you write to me and tell me that?”

A huge band tightened about Lucien’s chest. “I tried to, once or twice, but I couldn’t find the words. Then, once I married Sabrina, I knew you’d want nothing more to do with me.”

Anger sparkled in her eyes. “So you just left me to wonder? To worry that perhaps I had done something wrong? Left me here to think that I wasn’t good enough to . . .” She turned away and grabbed up the vise, setting to work on the loose railing with abrupt, angry motions.

Lucien took a startled step forward. “Good God, Bella! My leaving had nothing to do with you. I was suddenly responsible for my sister and I hadn’t a feather to fly with. Worse than that, we owed thousands of pounds.”

“You should have written,” she snapped. “I deserved that much.”

She had deserved far more than that. He longed to touch her, to wipe away some of her pain, but he couldn’t. What was done, was done. “I was a fool and I know it now. But I want you to realize that I—”

She dropped the vise and grabbed up the heavy tool- box. “Good day, Lucien. I have work to do.” Without spar- ing him another glance, she marched toward the shed, her body tilted to one side to balance the weight of the tools.

Lucien looked down at his empty hands and sighed. He could fix the railing in an hour, maybe less. But how long would it take to mend Arabella’s trust?

The thought made him frown. He would be leaving soon; his contact at the Red Rooster Inn was only a few days from giving him the names he needed. Once he had those, there would be nothing to keep him in Yorkshire.

Lucien watched as Arabella opened the shed door, only to slam it closed behind her. The latch missed and the door bounced against the frame, then swung drunkenly on its hinges. Lucien commiserated with the splintered wood.

Sadly, he had the feeling that this was just the begin- ning. Somehow, some way, he would set things right with Arabella.

nm

Chapter 12

D

inner that night was grueling for Arabella. Lucien took every opportunity possible to torment her. She

could not reach for the cream pitcher without encounter- ing his long fingers placed there just a second before hers. She could neither say a word nor sit in silence without his dark green eyes resting on her, assessing her, caressing in their intent.

To Arabella’s chagrin, Aunt Jane seemed pleased, her jovial banter encouraging the duke to new heights of flir- tation, to new levels of delicious impropriety. Arabella could only wish she’d had the presence of mind to wear her boots to the table. At least then he’d feel it when she kicked his shins.

As soon as she could, she escaped to the privacy of the library. There, she settled at the desk and opened the ledger. Perhaps if she immersed herself in a sea of figures, the events of the past two weeks would fade away.

She propped her elbow on the desk and rested her chin

147

in her hand, staring blankly at the page before her. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the sensuous rub of his chin against her cheek when he’d wrested the shovel from her hands. The memory sparked other, more intimate memories.
Intimacy means nothing to a man like him
.

To make sure she didn’t forget it, she repeated the words aloud and added, “He is a duke, and he will never forget that. He is just amusing himself at your expense.”

The words sounded much stronger when spoken aloud. But before she could form another bracing statement, the terrace door burst open and Wilson tromped in.

A line of snow skittered across the rug as he pushed the door shut. “Gor’, but ’tis as cold as the devil’s arse today.”

“Just how cold is a devil’s arse? I’m curious.”

A slow blush rose up his neck and covered his already red-nipped cheeks. “Sorry, missus. That jus’ slipped out.”

She chuckled and pulled her shawl more tightly about her. “Did you make the deliveries?”

He removed his cap and stuffed it into a pocket, then dug into his coat and produced a hefty purse. “I only wisht we could get as much with every shipment.”

Arabella tugged the leather string free. A stream of glittering coins poured into her hand. “Well! Almost twice what we expected.”

“ ’Tis the cognac, missus. They can’t get enough of it.” “Neither can Aunt Emma.”

His weathered face creased into a grin. “She has a fine taste fer spirits.”

“Indeed she does.” Arabella returned to the desk and pulled out a small brass studded box and an iron key. The cask opened with a loud click and the lantern light caught the glitter of neatly stacked coins.

All she needed was seven hundred more pounds and they would have enough to pay Lord Harlbrook’s debt in

its entirety. She rubbed a fingertip over one of the coins in her hand. That would be a day of celebration indeed. The intolerable man had been a constant thorn in her side since the day she’d taken over Rosemont.

She remembered his irritation on discovering Lucien in the coach, and smiled grimly at his outrage when Lucien had so neatly cut the blustering man out. She would have paid twice her debt just to be rid of Harlbrook’s obnoxious presence once and for all. Yet something told her that even after she paid the debt, he would try to force his way into Rosemont. Well, she would see about
that
.

“Ye look like the old master when ye smile.”

“Pish-posh. Robert inherited Father’s handsomeness, not I.” She looked more like the portrait of her mother that adorned the morning room—small and unremarkable except for her large eyes, though even those fell short of perfection as they were plain brown, and not a romantic color like. . . . She had an immediate vision of Lucien’s glimmering gaze, as green as new grass after a spring rain.

God help her, Lucien was every bit as handsome now as he had been all those years ago. She couldn’t count all the times she’d imagined him older; his face lined and harsh, a bit of a paunch to his stomach from his debauched lifestyle, his hair sadly thinning. It had been one of her chief amusements, especially in the years immediately after his abandonment.

She scowled. The least he could have done was to have the decency to grow a few gray hairs.

Wilson pulled out a kerchief and blew his nose loudly. Brought back to the present, Arabella placed the new coins into the box and smoothed the stacks until they were all even. If all went according to schedule, she would have everything paid off within the next twelve months, with

the exception of Robert’s doctor bills. All she had to do was continue to pad the family coffers a while longer.

A sense of loss seeped into her at the thought. What would she do then? If she were honest, she would admit she was the tiniest bit addicted to the excitement. She loved the smell of the ocean, the unfettered freedom, and the knowledge that she was good at her chosen profession. Good? She smiled; she was better than good.

By God, let other women brag about their embroidery patterns and their ability to render a good watercolor—she was a first rate smuggler. Even Wilson had to admit that much, and he hated her being involved at all. She glanced at the groom who stood before the fire.

He wiped his nose one last time and stuffed his handker- chief back into his pocket. “How is yer duke this evenin’?”

She closed the box with a snap and twisted the key in the lock. “He is not
my
duke.”

“Sorry, missus. It was jus’ a turn of phrase.”

Embarrassed at her overreaction, Arabella crossed to the hearth. “We must order another shipment of cognac. I will—”

“No, you won’t,” he said bluntly. “If there’s more orderin’ to be done, I’ll do it.” He shook his grizzled head. “Ye shouldn’t have anythin’ to do with this business, mis- sus.”

“Nonsense.” She reached out and brushed a stray bit of straw from the edge of his collar. “How would you man- age without me? They’d talk you into taking poorly turned brandy at twice the price.”

“I ran it alone oft enough afore ye discovered what I was doin’,” he responded gruffly.

“You were never alone. You had Twekes and Lem with you.”

At the mention of his two burly nephews, Wilson snorted. “The only thing those two are good fer is loadin’ and unloadin’ the wagon. That and drinkin’ up any profit ye might have left.” He shook his head ruefully. “But I has to admit, Missus, ye are a born smuggler. No one can hag- gle like ye.” At her smile, he hurried to add, “But that don’t make it right.”

Right or not, Arabella was not about to let Wilson bear such a burden alone. In a way, this profession put her on a par with her ancestor the Captain. She glanced up at the picture that hung over the mantelpiece. Her profession gave her an instant bond with the Captain. She could understand the sacrifice he must have made when he gave up roaming the seas and settled in his rose-colored house high on the cliffs. Arabella noted the arrogant tilt of his head and the fearless light in his eyes, and she wished she possessed even a tenth of his daring.

“Gor’, missus, ye are a stubborn one.” Wilson shook his head, his brows lowered. “What if the duke finds out what ye’re about?”

She scowled. “The duke’s presence does not affect our plans.”

“He is as sharp as a pin, that one. I could see it in his eyes.”

“More like a knife blade than a pin,” she muttered, remembering Lucien’s gaze in the carriage after they’d rescued him. Nothing got by that man.

“Ye said ye knew him, missus, but I don’t recall ever havin’ a real duke at Rosemont.”

Arabella picked up the poker and stirred the fire higher. “Fortunately for us all, he will be leaving soon.”
Please, God
. She turned to Wilson, anxious to put the topic behind her. “When will the next shipment arrive?”

“Not fer another fortnight. But afore it gets here, we need to do somethin’ about Constable Robbins.” Unease darkened Wilson’s gaze. “I ran into him when I was comin’ out of the King’s Deer.”