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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

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Rafe knew that he ought not to be loitering here on this street full of shops, hoping to get a glimpse of Phoebe as she left Lementeur’s. He knew that he was heading down a dangerous road, but he found himself there all the same.

And then she was there as well, across the street. Her aunt and cousins milled about her for a moment, obscuring his view. Then they walked on while she paused before another shop.

She was just another pretty girl, he told himself savagely. A girl in a bonnet, shopping on the street with her family. There was no reason for his pulse to jump, world to narrow down to only her, no reason for his feet to step forward off the walk, into the street—

A shout jerked him back to awareness just in time to leap backward out of the way of a fast-moving cart. By the time he found his footing again, Phoebe was gone.

Damn. Or perhaps it was better this way. Now he’d only see her tonight, at dinner, surrounded by family and servants. That would be a safe way to meet her again.

After all, it had only been one evening—only an hour of that evening, in fact.

So she preferred Calder. What of it?

How do you know whom she preferred? You didn’t ask her.

He’d hardly had the chance, had he? Calder had moved with uncharacteristic impulsiveness—or was it merely Calder’s usual decisiveness? What if Calder really loved her?

God. Rafe ran a hand roughly over his face. Calder had been so alone for so long. Rafe doubted his brother had so much as touched a woman’s hand since Melinda died.

Could he in good conscience try to take that from Calder?

And what if Phoebe truly did prefer Calder? His eyes narrowed as he tried to sort it out in his mind. Yes, she had liked him, he was sure of it—but that was only liking. He’d reacted very strongly to her, but what if her reaction had only been champagne and the relief of being saved from humiliation?

The thought that chafed, was that in a scarce fortnight, Miss Phoebe Millbury would spend her wedding night in Calder’s arms.

He clenched his teeth.

Only a fortnight left until the wedding. Then she would be Calder’s wife and even Rafe’s shaky morals did not sink that low.

He hoped.

PHOEBE EMERGED FROM the shop with her gift in her reticule, looking about for the others. Next to the gentleman’s shop was a hat shop—a bit of clever salesmanship, really, when one considered that few gentlemen truly had the patience required for a decent bout of hat shopping.

When Phoebe peeked through the front window, she saw that Tessa and Deirdre were already happily engaged in lively debate over … feathers? Even Sophie was wistfully fondling a sweet concoction of straw and ribbon. What fun! Phoebe moved to the door and even had her hand on the knob—

Until she smelled the chocolate.

Chocolate was one of her secret sins—really her only sin these days, unless one counted a tendency toward unvoiced sarcasm. She managed to hide the occasional caustic thoughts that crossed her mind, but she had never quite conquered the longing for all things wastefully pleasurable.

There was not a large selection of sweets available in Thornton—aside from rose-petal gelatin—nor was the vicar one to waste money on such decadent luxuries, so her opportunities to submit to this particular vice were few and far between.

With one last longing glance into the hat shop, Phoebe set off to find the source of that delightful scent.

Now before her eyes, there rose a miracle of self-indulgence and pleasure. A confectioner’s, a real sweet shop of the sort she’d only heard of. The tiny place wasn’t much larger than a market stall, but it was filled from ceiling to floor with the sin of gluttony—sin shimmering with crystallized sugar, sin tinted in every color of the rainbow. The heady scent of sugar and cocoa was intoxicating now, making Phoebe’s knees weak with desire.

A woman popped up from behind a rack of red twists. Her pink cheeks and white hair made her seem like just another sweet. Her blue eyes twinkled and her smile dimpled when her gaze fell upon such an avid customer.

“Stopped in for a treat,’ave ye, pet?”

Phoebe fell instantly in love—with the shop, its proprietor, and with the rows upon rows of gleaming treats before her eyes. From the amber of caramel to the deepest coffee-color of fine chocolate, everything looked entirely and completely heavenly.

There was a spare farthing in her reticule—“spare” meaning that it had no immediately useful purpose. It sang to her, a high sweet note that said, “Spend me!”

A moment later Phoebe was skulking guiltily back the
way she’d come, a tiny paper twist of purchased candy in her hand and the first taste of chocolate on her tongue. Oh, it had been
years
. She must consume it quickly, for she could imagine what Tessa would have to say about it. For Tessa, the figure was paramount. Nothing, not wine or beef or cakes, could be allowed to come between a woman and the tightest laces of her corset.

Phoebe turned the last corner quickly—and nearly choked on her first taste. Her three companions gazed at her curiously.

“Where have you been?” Tessa’s eyes were narrowed. “What do you have there?”

With a tiny silent mew of loss, Phoebe dropped the paper twist of candy behind her back and stepped on it. She spread her hands before her. “I don’t know what you mean. I was only looking for a hack to take us home.”

Tessa gazed at her sourly. It only made Phoebe think longingly of lemon drops.

“Hmm. Well, I suppose we ought to begin our preparations for this evening. Let us go home then.”

Phoebe allowed herself to be towed away, casting only one longing glance over her shoulder at delicious sin left undone, squashed on the pavement.

Through the milling crowd she thought she saw someone stop and bend to pick up her discarded paper twist. Then skirts and parasols came between.

Phoebe sighed. When would she learn? Sin didn’t pay.

Chapter Fifteen

The mistress’s bedchamber at Brook House was a vast, feminine fantasy of cream silk dressed in shimmering gold velvet. There were three rooms, if one counted the enormous dressing room, with its racks upon racks to hold more gowns than Phoebe could imagine, much less owned.

With the matching sitting room, the bedchamber was larger than the entire ground floor of Thornhold. Two opposing fireplaces blazed against the spring chill in the air, making it a good bit warmer than Thornhold as well. Phoebe wandered through the room, almost afraid to touch the delicate crystal bottles on the gold-leafed vanity or the exquisite mother-of-pearl inlay on the dainty escritoire. She had never seen such grandeur in her life. It seemed meant for someone else, not for her.

She avoided looking at the other doorway discreetly set into the painted paneling with determined exactness. Her ladyship’s room came with its very own portal into his lordship’s room right next door.

A discreet throat-clearing came from the doorway. “You won’t be staying here yet, of course, Miss Millbury.” Fortescue, the tall and eminently correct butler of Brook House, said approvingly when he noticed her shy avoidance of that blasted door. “But I thought you might like to see where your ladyship will live after the wedding.”

Your ladyship.
He was talking about her, Phoebe Millbury, vicar’s daughter—the future Duchess of Brookmoor.

The beautiful room seemed to close in on her. The roaring fires—lighted just to warm the rooms for this tour?—seemed to burn all the air from the room. Phoebe closed her eyes against a wave of dread and pressed a hand to her constricted throat.

Fortescue might think her actions proof of her maidenish fears of the marriage bed—after all, the thing loomed like a great golden barge in this sea of wheat-colored carpet!—but Phoebe cared nothing for his opinion. It wasn’t the wedding night that frightened her.

It was the marriage itself.

The vicar, Tessa, Deirdre, and Sophie—they were all in their rooms by now, settled in to stay until the wedding.

And after the wedding as well, for her.

Forever
.

She would never leave Brook House, except to go to another one of her husband’s houses. She would say goodbye to her cousins and her aunt and her father after the wedding and they would leave and she would stay … forever.

That word kept getting stuck in her mind, the way a torn nail snagged on fine fabric. This marriage business was so very … permanent. What if she didn’t like Brookhaven, in the end. What if she eventually began to hate him?

Forever.

She turned her back on the lovely room and opened her eyes. Forcing a bland smile, she took a breath. “It is very fine. Now will you show me to my room?”

Fortescue led her down the hall, past many doors, to one apparently sufficiently far enough from his lordship’s to calm her virginal fears.

Phoebe breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the pretty but understated room before her. It was spacious enough
and the furnishings were very fine, but it was clearly a guest chamber, not a room fit for a queen.

The bed was large and lavishly hung in pale green velvet, yet was still more modest than the marchioness’s chamber and the walls were papered in white with delicately tinted vines running from floor to ceiling. The patterned carpet was a darker green and the furniture was elegant rosewood, sans decoration for the most part.

If the other room was a golden cage, then this one was a garden pavilion. It even overlooked the sculpted rear gardens of Brook House.

A cheery fire crackled in the petite hearth, welcoming Phoebe to a room she could live in forever. She turned to the butler with a real smile this time. “How lovely! Thank you, Fortescue.”

“You’ll find your things have already been stored away,” Fortescue told her. “I’ve assigned a girl to you for the time being. I’m sure you’ll be selecting your own lady’s maid soon, but you’ll find Patricia to be intelligent and teachable in the meantime.”

Her own maid. From pauper to princess in a matter of hours. Had it only been this morning that she’d accepted Brookhaven’s proposal?

No, you accepted Marbrook’s proposal. Brookhaven just happened to be attached to it instead.

“If it meets with your approval, Miss Millbury, I should like to introduce the entire staff to you—after you’ve rested, of course.”

Oh, dread. She was to be paraded before the servants and expected to remember everyone’s name and station.

“Oh, no,” Phoebe blurted. Then she recovered her bland smile. “I think I’d prefer to wait until I am officially the lady of the house. Until then, I am merely a guest like any other.”

“As you wish, Miss Millbury.” Fortescue didn’t so much as blink, yet now disapproval radiated from his very
bones. He really was the perfect foil for Lord Brookhaven, wasn’t he?

Another time, another place, Phoebe might have found herself intimidated by the elegant manservant. Now, Fortescue and his opinions were the least of her worries.

She let out a breath and moved to the vanity to set down her reticule. There was a flat, satin-covered, beribboned box there, approximately the size of a silver salver. “What is this?”

Fortescue blinked. “I’m afraid I do not know, Miss Millbury.” This bothered him, she could tell. “Perhaps a gift from his lordship?”

“Oh.” That flat vowel caused a flicker of too much concern from Fortescue, so Phoebe reapplied that damned smile and opened the box.

“Oh!”

It was filled from side to side, end to end, in two layers, with more chocolates than Phoebe had ever seen outside of the sweet shop this afternoon. Her jaw dropped at the generous plenty.

“This must have—”
Cost a fortune.
A silly statement in a grand house like this. Unable to hide her surprise and glee, Phoebe turned to Fortescue with breathless delight. “How did he know? I didn’t think anyone on earth knew how I love chocolates!”

Fortescue was gazing at the box with glacial consternation. “Er … his lordship can be most astute.”

Phoebe touched the satin-covered lid with thoughtful fingers. If Brookhaven had already discerned something so personal about her …

She’d had the impression all day that Brookhaven had very little real interest in her. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he merely had difficulty showing his emotions.

Well, anyone who would make such a lovely gesture deserved more of a chance than she had so far given him. So
he wasn’t his brother—what of it? Marbrook was a handsome, flirtatious fellow who likely toyed with the affections of a dozen women every evening. The more different Brookhaven was from Marbrook, the better!

Fortescue cleared his throat. “The dressmaker sent word that your gown will be delivered shortly. Patricia is awaiting it downstairs even now. Should I ring for her to help you freshen up from your afternoon?”

The gown, and the entire trousseau, were more evidence of Brookhaven’s openhanded generosity. All she had to give him in return was a piddling gold cravat pin.

So give him your loyalty and your consideration
—
and stop acting like you lost your favorite kitten!

“That’s fine, Fortescue,” she said absently. “Would you mind showing me where my cousin, Miss Blake, is staying?”

“Miss Blake requested a room at the other end of the hall from Lady Tessa.” Fortescue’s tone was not altogether disapproving of this decision.

Sophie was indeed at the other end of the grand house. “Goodness, Sophie!” Phoebe smiled at her cousin. “Was it so terrible to share a room with me?”

Sophie looked up from where she was seated tailor fashion on the floor, sorting through piles of papers. “Hello, Phoebe. Did you know that Brook House has the most astounding library? Your father has already lost himself in there. I doubt we’ll see him for days.”

Phoebe didn’t wish to be disloyal, but the very idea appealed. “And will you disappear as well?” Her tone came out a bit more wistful than she’d intended, for it penetrated even Sophie’s preoccupation.

Her cousin looked up, blinking behind her spectacles. “Are you all right, Phoebe? I thought you wanted this match.”

“Yes. Absolutely. I do.” Or at least, she was sure she would, once she became accustomed to the idea. “It is only that everything is moving so quickly …”

Sophie nodded. “Brookhaven is a very efficient fellow, isn’t he? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone accomplish so much before teatime.”

“Yes.” Phoebe flung herself stomach down over Sophie’s bed. “Gowns. Chocolates.” She opened the box and offered them. “A beautiful room. I am being most efficiently swept off my feet.” She rolled over to stare at the tester above the bed. “I wonder if I should tell him he needn’t try so hard? I feel a bit … suffocated.”

“Stop complaining,” said a tart voice from the doorway. Deirdre strolled into the room uninvited. She gazed at the chocolates longingly for an instant but did not indulge. “I heard the butler say you requested a room far from Tessa, Sophie. I wish I’d thought of that.”

“I’m rather glad you didn’t,” Sophie said absently as she paged through the stack of notes on her lap. “Then Tessa would only move closer still.”

Obviously stung, Deirdre stiffened. “Tessa would not target you so often if you did not give her such pleasure with your reactions! The way that you shrink up—and that slouch! Honestly, Sophie, sometimes I just want to slap you myself!”

Sophie didn’t turn from her task. “Feel free to try it.”

Deirdre made a noise of frustration. “Sophie, listen! When Tessa carries on, simply smile and nod and say, ‘Oh, do you think so, Tessa?’ or, ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way, Tessa.’”

Sophie drew back. “Why should I let her think I agree with her cruelty?”

Deirdre stared at her. “To survive it, of course.”

Sophie frowned slightly. “Is that what you do, Deirdre? Do you merely survive?”

Deirdre went quite still and then smiled her most brittle, Tessa smile. “Whatever gave you that idea?” With a toss of her head, she turned and swept from the room.

Sophie watched her go, then turned back to Phoebe, who was silently tracing the pattern of the coverlet with one fingertip.

“Is Deirdre very unhappy, do you think?” Sophie sounded as if she’d never before had the thought.

At that moment, Phoebe herself felt the urge to shake Sophie, just a little bit. She pushed herself off the bed and stood. “Yes, Sophie, I—and everyone who has spent more than fifteen minutes with Deirdre—think she is very unhappy. And who wouldn’t be, living their childhood at Tessa’s mercy? The question is, Sophie … why is that you’ve never seen it before today?”

Phoebe left the room before she found herself joining the general mistreatment of Sophie. Once in the hall, she halted and closed her eyes, reaching for patience and tolerance and all the things a good vicar’s daughter ought to have a plentiful supply of.

Two weeks in this house with Marbrook, Brookhaven, the vicar, Tessa, and the warring cousins.

Perhaps the dreaded wedding could not come soon enough.

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

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