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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

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Chapter Sixteen

The damned wedding could not come soon enough.

Rafe was in his suite, frankly hiding—not to mention cracking open the brandy a bit early—trying not to hear the hubbub from the guest rooms down the hall.

Had she liked the chocolates? Was she nibbling on them even now, as she had in the street, with that look of guilty exultation on her face, her eyes half closed in sensual pleasure as the dark sugary confection melted on her tongue? Was she thinking of him at all?

Stop it.

Now.

He tossed back what remained in his glass, then slouched in the large chair by his fire, his booted feet stretched toward the flames although he was not cold.

How could he be cold when she was in the house? God, she would be everywhere—at the dinner table, down the hall at night, bathing in her room in the firelight, all golden and slippery and flushed from the heat of the water …

He groaned and poured himself another glass. He was going to hide in his room for the next two and a half weeks. If he had any luck at all—and if the cellars of Brook House held enough brandy—he would manage to stay drunk until the happy couple boarded the coach for their honeymoon.

He would simply leave now, but Calder would never understand if Rafe missed the ceremony itself and there was no way in hell that Rafe was going to tell him why.

Then Calder was there, standing over him, his expression clearly prepared to wax disapproving over the lack of brandy in the decanter.

“Bugger off, big brother.”

Calder grunted. “My fiancée has taken up residence. I’ll thank you to make a good impression on her family.” He folded his arms. “That means you will not interfere with Miss Millbury’s cousins.”

Rafe raised his right hand and placed his left over his heart in mock earnestness. “I solemnly vow that I will not interfere with Miss Millbury’s cousins.” Easy enough, for his record of “interfering” with virgins was rumor, not fact.

More or less.

“And do try not to get drunk before dinner.”

“Oh, shut it,” muttered Rafe.
You got the girl.
“Let me have the brandy, at the very least.”

His brother turned to leave, but—being Calder—couldn’t go without one parting shot. “It appears to me like the brandy has you.”

Rafe glared at the decanter as his brother left the room.

DEIRDRE STROLLED THROUGH the house, pausing to trail a hand over the lip of a large Chinese vase displayed on a hall table. The smooth cold porcelain left not a trace of dust on her fingertips. Of course not. Brook House gleamed with wealth and comfort and good care.

She sighed in acquisitive envy. Their own house in Woolton had suffered greatly from Tessa’s alienation of the staff … although Deirdre’s own chambers were always spotless and warm. Despite the petty satisfaction of seeing Tessa helpless against the combined spite of the servants,
Deirdre did long for the days when the fires were generous and the dinners exquisite—when Papa was alive.

It would be that way here in Brook House—if not far better yet. The lady of Brook House would live a life of luxury beyond compare—coddled by attentive staff, indulged by a generous husband, freed by status and wealth to do as she wished, whenever she wished.

Well, that certainly won’t be you.

Phoebe was the lady of Brook House—or would be in mere weeks. Deirdre fought back a dark wave of resentment. Phoebe would win it all—the house, the inheritance …

And Brookhaven himself.

The worst of it was, Phoebe didn’t even seem pleased! Here Phoebe had every dream that Deirdre had ever had the imagination to compose—and that covered a lot of ground!—yet she seemed as pale and reluctant as a prisoner being walked to the gallows.

It was enough to make Deirdre hate Phoebe … if the damned girl wasn’t so pitiful. God, that father of hers! Tessa might be a vile and pitiless bitch, but Deirdre needn’t take her abuse personally, for Tessa wasn’t blood. Tessa’s status as her guardian was a temporary one—the more temporary the better.

But “the vicar” as Phoebe called him—never “Papa” or “my father”—was as cold and remote as Tessa was hotly interfering. He seemed to care nothing that Phoebe was obviously unhappy with the match, or that she grew quieter and paler by the hour.

Of course, Brookhaven, the huge lout, was just as oblivious. He took Phoebe by the arm, held her hand, spoke to her and never, ever actually saw her.

I’d never let a man like that ignore me. I’d make him see me. I’d make him ache for me.

Deirdre floated down the hall, opening door after door, finding every room more exquisite than the one before. At
last, she opened to door to a small, private parlor that took her breath away.

Beautiful landscapes covered the walls from the wainscot to the ceiling. Pale velvet draperies framed the large high window with its view of the garden. Delicate spindled furnishings in fine ebony seemed to float on the luxurious blue carpet like pleasure boats on the sea.

She wanted to go in, to take her place at the delicate escritoire that was obviously meant for her ladyship—the very place to plan menus and arrange the household matters !—and run her fingers over the carved mantel that was a frilly, feminine confection of pink marble, and lie back on the ivory velvet fainting couch and dream her afternoons away—

Where Phoebe would dream her afternoons away.

Deirdre shut the door on those dreams, pulling the latch to with a decided slam. Damn Phoebe anyway.

AT BROOK HOUSE, the guests were gathering for dinner.

Phoebe tried not to twitch with nervousness as she waited to meet the party. She knew she had never looked better in her life.

The gown from Lementeur was a treasure in silk of perfect hazy summer blue, perfectly constructed to look simple while in fact it was anything but. There was no trim other than a darker velvet ribbon just below her bustline, yet the entire effect was one of exquisite opulence. Her waist had never seemed so tiny, nor had her bosom ever sat so high. She preferred not to look down, although Sophie had assured her that the neckline was no lower than they had seen other respectable ladies wear.

“It is only your figure that is out of the ordinary,” Sophie had said admiringly, without the slightest trace of envy. “Brookhaven will be speechless.”

Brookhaven had indeed been speechless, but not with admiration. His brow had creased slightly when he’d seen her, as if she were not at all what he’d had in mind. He’d been equally underwhelmed by her gift, although he’d dutifully thanked her and pinned it to his cravat.

Then it was time.

Marbrook was there, just across the room, when Phoebe entered on Brookhaven’s arm. Her gaze went directly to him as if it were magnetized. He glanced up once, then glanced away again immediately. Phoebe ordered her spine to straighten and her chin to lift. The man owed her nothing, not even explanation. She’d spent an evening with him once, which had meant nothing.

Matters were awkward enough without dwelling on one misspent evening.

I wish I’d kissed him properly. I wish I’d seen him without his shirt. I wish I’d
—

He was still not looking at her, but was instead gazing across the room at no one at all. Well, two could play as well as one. Phoebe turned her attention to the other guests, determined to do his lordship and the vicar proud as the future Marchioness of Brookhaven. She smiled, she curtseyed with just the right amount of subtle awareness of her new status, she spoke sweetly and without opinion, just as Tessa had instructed her. She was perfect in every way.

She could scarcely stand herself.

If I met me, I wouldn’t want to see me again either.

Nonsense, perhaps, but at least she was free to be nonsensical within the confines of her own mind.

If only said mind would stay away from thoughts of Lord Rafe Marbrook, who had never looked at her again so far this evening.

Instead, he stood, arms folded with one shoulder braced against the mantel, scowling at nothing in particular. The
other guests avoided him, even Brookhaven, who occasionally glanced at his brother in dry puzzlement.

Calder himself, on the other hand, seemed positively expansive this evening. He didn’t actually smile, but he did relax the grim steeliness of his jaw on occasion and even spoke unnecessarily once or twice.

Phoebe watched them both, these two brothers, one whom she’d pledged to marry, the other she’d lost to only dream of. They were both handsome, astonishingly so, both highborn, both extraordinary in every way—which made her wonder what in the world either one of them had ever seen in her.

Instead of wondering why Marbrook didn’t propose, you ought to wonder why he ever spoke to you in the first place.

Right. She was lucky to have this opportunity, she was lucky to have caught Brookhaven’s eye, she was lucky, lucky, the luckiest girl in London.

So why did her heart feel as though it were being ripped in two?

Chapter Seventeen

Rafe almost hadn’t recognized her when she came in on Calder’s arm. She looked beautiful in a sky-blue gown that coincidentally happened—or perhaps not—to be Calder’s favorite color. Her hair was up without a strand out of place and her smile was just the right degree of beautifully turned lip …

She looked like Phoebe’s much more restrained sister, although the gown was a celebration of sin in the making. Yet, where was the flash of defiance in her blue eyes? Where was the tumbling, riotous hair that begged to be splayed across his pillow? Where was the girl who had tried her first champagne and ended up in his arms?

She spoke, she smiled, she even laughed—but it was never in her eyes. That sweet effervescence had been lidded, trapped, and suffocated.

She looked his way and he quickly glanced aside—only to turn his gaze upon her reflection in the large mirror across the room. It was perfect. He could see her, gaze at her, fill his eyes with her—er, rather, gaze casually in her general direction—and she might never even know she was being watched.

Something that looked like disappointment crossed her features when he looked away, but it was so swiftly gone that he knew he had only imagined his own feelings on her face.

His gaze followed her in the mirror as she made her away around the room on Calder’s arm. She did everything perfectly, smiling and nodding and curtsying, yet she looked so … distant. It was as if she were asleep and all that surrounded her was naught but a dream.

I could wake her, if I chose. I could pull her onto that darkened terrace beyond the doors and bring her back to life
—

Rafe killed those betraying thoughts, or at least stabbed them thoroughly and left them to bleed on the carpet. He would not allow those thoughts. She was now Calder’s. She was as off-limits to him as if she were on the moon.

Then she appeared in front of him. Her hand was still on Calder’s arm so Rafe could not actually run from her, much as he might want to.

“You’re being a wallflower this evening,” Calder said cordially. “Are you still fretting over that farmer?”

“That farmer” was a man with seven children and an ailing wife who had been a prosperous and productive tenant until recent rains had wiped out his crops. To Calder, he was merely a machine that had stopped working properly and must be replaced. To Rafe, he was a member of the Brookhaven family and Calder was failing his duty—by every ancient custom of honor and stewardship—to help the man recover instead.

But Calder hadn’t listened and there was nothing that Rafe could do about it. Helpless rage swept through him, fueled by the sight of Phoebe’s hand tightening on Calder’s sleeve.

Already depending on him to save you, are you? Already thinking he’s your knight in shining armor, going to slay the dragon to save fair maiden?
Fair maiden had best remain price-worthy and efficient if she wanted to register on Calder’s scale of importance!

“All done making the rounds, Calder? Did you count the steps required and figure out a more efficient way to do it next time?”

Calder’s brow rose. “Not necessary. I had the servants guide the guests to spots ranked in order of importance, so that I would not waste time crisscrossing the room.”

Rafe saw Phoebe’s startled gaze go to Calder’s face. Her expression was priceless.
Is he quite serious?

Rafe laughed sharply. “He is entirely serious, Miss Millbury.”

Phoebe’s eyes locked with his. Something jolted through him, something sweet and fiery.
At last.

He hardened himself against that rare allure and bowed stiffly. “You are looking every inch the future marchioness this evening, Miss Millbury. Did my brother choose your gown?”

She might have flinched, he could not tell. Then her eyes became entirely without expression and she returned his bow with a very proper curtsy. “I am flattered that you think so, my lord. It was chosen on my dressmaker’s recommendation, in fact. Why do you ask?”

Nothing. She was again as lifeless as a stone—perfectly carved and faceted and glittering, but without any light of its own. He must have been drunker than he thought last night at the ball.

Then she rose from her perfect curtsy and raised her gaze to his once more.

Rafe had felt electricity once, at a scientific demonstration. He’d been the only one brave enough to touch the tip of the wire when the fellow had urged them all to feel this astonishing new force. That nip of startling energy was nothing next to the fierce jolt of thrilling possessiveness that tore through him at the miserable longing in her eyes.

She is mine.

His woman—on his brother’s arm. His woman—soon to be in his brother’s house, in his brother’s bed.

Then she glanced away and the spell was broken.

The glint of gold caught Rafe’s eye. He clutched at
anything to take his mind off her. He bent forward to peer at his brother’s cravat pin. “The Minotaur?” He straightened, one eyebrow raised.

Calder patted his cravat. “A gift from my intended,” he said smugly.

A harsh bark of laughter escaped Rafe. He covered it with a cough as he glanced at Phoebe. Her gaze was averted, but her cheeks were pink and her lips were pursed. She was trying not to laugh as well.

Calder, of course, missed the joke entirely. “What?”

“Your brother finds it most fitting, I believe,” Phoebe said demurely. “Although I could be mistaken.” She did not so much as cast Rafe a glance as they walked away, every inch the grand new couple of the ton.

Rafe felt confusion tangle with his earlier desire. He had the distinct feeling that there were two entirely different Miss Phoebe Millburys living side by side behind that now-distant blue gaze.

Which was mad, of course. He was imagining the flashes of desire in her eyes. She was no more than a pretty girl, like a hundred others. If Calder wanted her, he could have her.

So why did that thought not have the finality it should? Perhaps because he’d already thought it a hundred times today and it still didn’t ring true.

HE WAS STILL tall. He was still achingly handsome. He was still just a tiny bit lost beneath his dashing demeanor.

He was the wrong man. Phoebe turned her back on Marbrook, determined to give Brookhaven the chance she’d secretly promised him. “You set great store by efficiency, don’t you, my lord?”

“Indeed. When I was but thirteen, my father made sure I understood that I would someday have guardianship of not
one, but two major estates. He said, ‘You’ll have to be in two places at once, lad.’”

“An intimidating prospect!” And a heavy load to place on a thirteen-year-old boy’s narrow shoulders.

“To be sure. In order to prepare for that day, I began to investigate efficiency. I became fascinated by the new practices being used in some of the more modern factories. I bought my first factory when I was twenty-one. Since then I have accumulated a great many—and all are more productive now than when I purchased them.”

Phoebe feared her eyes were beginning to glaze over. “I’m sure it’s a most diverting pastime,” she said, trying not to give away the fact that she’d only heard every fourth word.

A brief silence made her realize she’d said something wrong. She glanced up to see the beginning of a faint scowl on his handsome face. What could it have been? She’d called his passion a pastime—yet he was a marquis! What more could it ever be? As she understood the nature of all things aristocratic, his ancestral lands ought to be his priority, not his widget makers.

Still, best to cover as well as possible. “And so … productive!”

He grunted slightly, but she thought he seemed appeased. It was so blasted difficult to read his various and sundry nonexpressions!

She racked her mind for something to fill the wounded silence. “Can not your brother take some of the burden from your shoulders? Two estates, two sons—it seems most …
efficient
to me.”

The sudden and utter silence from Brookhaven—and everyone within a ten-foot circle!—made her realize she’d done it again, but worse. She looked about, but everyone carefully did not meet her gaze.

What had she said? Brookhaven had a brother, she—if anyone!—knew that was a fact.

A deep voice spoke at her ear. “Half brother, Miss Millbury.”

She turned her head to see Marbrook next to her, his eyes dark and furious and a slight, wry smile on his lips.

“My lord?”

He leaned closer, until she could feel the warmth of his breath on her ear. “From the wrong half of the bed, you see.”

Oh, God. Marbrook was a bastard—which was obviously such common knowledge that no one had seen the need to mention it. The family name and the “lord” were some sort of courtesy, then. He must be one of those rare accepted bastards.

No inheritance, no grand title, no estate. So little, when his half brother had so much!

“Ah.” She gazed helplessly at Marbrook. What could she say? “I’m … sorry?”

His lips twitched. “Don’t be. You had nothing to do with it. It was all the old marquis’s doing.” He raised his gaze to meet Brookhaven’s, his smile turning into something altogether darker and fraught with meaning she couldn’t interpret—except to guess that Marbrook wasn’t entirely happy with his lot. “Isn’t that right, Calder?”

“Indeed.” Brookhaven’s tone was dry. He gazed at Marbrook with stolid dislike. “What a fine Michaelmas gift it was, too. A brand-new brother, just my size, to take half the toys.”

Marbrook chuckled without humor. “And all the girls.”

“Not all.” Brookhaven’s hand tightened over Phoebe’s, pressing it firmly into his arm. He turned to her. “Come, my dear. You haven’t met our neighbors from the north.”

Phoebe went, for Brookhaven’s grip was rather implacable, but as she left she cast a glance over her shoulder at Marbrook. He stood in the center of the drawing room, tall and rigid and alone, his dark eyes locked on hers.

Don’t walk away from me
, his gaze commanded.

She had no choice but to turn away.

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

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