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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

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BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

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The footman was dressed in the usual blue and black, the carriage standing in the street before Brook House was one they’d used before. There was nothing to make Phoebe suspect that there was anything odd in the gloved hand that reached from the darkness within.

Yet the instant she placed her own gloved hand within it, she knew.

She made to pull back, but Rafe’s hand tightened on hers and implacably pulled her inside.

Or perhaps she went willingly. It wasn’t as though she could think clearly when he touched her!

At any rate, she found herself in the dark carriage alone with a man she should not be alone with. He had released her instantly when the carriage door had shut, but she could still feel the heat of his fingers on hers. Her belly tightened and she shifted uneasily. Just being near him had the most disturbing effect between her thighs. Every bump and rattle of the carriage threatened to worsen her condition, and the longer he let the silence stretch, the higher her tension ran.

Finally, she could not bear it. “Where is he?”

She heard him draw a deep breath.

“In Hertfordshire. Something blew up.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but the silence fell
again. She ought to have filled it with more questions, or even something inane about the evening fog, but she’d hesitated too long for normal conversation and could not bring herself to speak again.

He was watching her. She could feel his gaze on the skin of her face, neck, and upwelling breasts. The light from the forward carriage lantern cast a yellow glow on her while keeping him in total shadow, but she knew he was staring. She’d worn the blue-green gown for Calder’s titillation—a heavy-handed attempt for the attention of a rather dense man. Now she wished she’d borrowed a nun’s habit instead. Rafe obviously needed no such stimulation.

“You look like a lamb for slaughter.”

“The only one I want slaughtered is you,” Phoebe shot back instantly. “What are you thinking, sneaking up on me this way? You know I cannot resist you!” Then she blinked. Where had that come from? Damn the man! He always brought out the “other” Phoebe in her!

As the wheels rolled through the London streets, Phoebe considered her options. She might scream. She might fling herself from the carriage, or beg assistance from the footman even now clinging to the rear of the vehicle.

She did none of those things. This was Rafe, who hadn’t done a thing to her that she’d not been a willing, if later shamed, party to.

They did need to talk, that was a fact. She needed to make sure that he understood that she was serious in her decision to move forward with her commitment to Calder.

There would an opportunity to speak in the box at the opera, and they would be most public there. No danger of undone buttons or flung cravats. It was odd that she was accompanied by Rafe and not her betrothed, but perhaps not too scandalous.

So she decided to bide her time and wait for them to reach the opera house in Covent Garden. She gazed out the
window, although the fog-smeared view was little more than a series of dark outlines and blurs of light.

Then she noticed that the blurs of light had become fewer and the darkness more dense and closer to them. She peered outside, alarms sounding within her—along with the distinct sensation that she’d missed her opportunity for escape.

“Where are we?” She stood to press her hand to the latch of the carriage door.

“Phoebe, don’t—”

She opened the door, which swung outward—

Into the sweeping branch of a tree. It knocked the door shut, hard. The impact flung Phoebe backward.

“Oof.”
She landed on large, warm man. She was sprawled across his lap!

She tried to scramble to her feet. Hard arms came about her, keeping her where she was. “Shh.” His breath was hot in her ear, sending shivers through her body to mingle with the trembling of alarm.

She used her hands to pull her upper body off his, although his arms about her waist kept her bottom firmly planted on his lap … where matters were developing at an alarming rate. She struggled. “Where are you taking me, my lord?”

“Phoebe,” he gasped. “Stop wriggling or we won’t be talking at all soon.”

She went completely still, although she did not relax against him. Now she could feel him, every inch of him, hardening against her. She was leaning forward, gripping the opposite seat handle in her attempt to get away. Unfortunately, that tilt of her hips only planted her most sensitive area right on top of his rigid, pulsating erection.

The tissue-thin gown and sheer petticoats were no barrier at all. His trousers were fine as well, leaving nothing but a few frail fabrics between seeking and finding …

He groaned, shifting spasmodically beneath her. She gasped, jolted by the rush of pleasure. He moved again, slowly this time, as if he could not help himself.

The pressure of him there, the heat of his body, the way his hands slipped down to grasp her hips.

The jolting of the moving carriage added delightful bumps and shudders to the process, as did the feeling of his heated panting on her bared back and the hard, nearly painful grip of his hands on her.

The ride grew frantic—chaotic—breathless—

At last, Phoebe tossed her head back, letting out a cry as the jolting motion brought pleasure that took her higher, pushed her farther, snatched her up, and threw her over the edge of heaven to let her fall, headlong.

She fell forward, panting, her hair tumbling down over her shoulders and face, bracing her hands on the opposite seat to keep from falling apart completely.

Then she noticed that the carriage had slowed and now jolted to a stop.

“My lord?” The driver’s voice preceded the sound of the small latch that held shut the square speaking hole in the roof of the carriage.

Swiftly, Rafe flung Phoebe into the darkest corner of the opposite seat, just before the square of lantern light fell upon his upturned face. He put up a hand to shield his eyes.

“My lord, is everything all right? Was the ride too rough?”

Phoebe clapped a hand over her mouth to stop her horrified laugh.

Rafe cleared his throat. “Everything is fine.”

“Yes, my lord. Ah, my lord, how much farther are ye wantin’ to do down this road? We passed the last inn for miles near five minutes ago.”

Phoebe saw the hand-caught-in-the-biscuit-tin amusement fade from Rafe’s face as he shot her a disconcerted glance. “We’ll halt here a moment,” Rafe told the driver. Phoebe felt her own pleasurable lassitude seep away to be replaced by dismay.

He’d meant to bring her out of town, to an inn far from interruption—or aid.

She’d just been kidnapped.

SLIDING FROM HIS seat, Rafe went to his knees before her in a sudden rush that made her gasp.

“Phoebe, please! I’m sorry. I had to do it. I cannot stop thinking about you … about the way you look at me—as if I am more than a man. As if I am a hero. When I am with you, I am the way I once was—before bitterness and resentment came between me and the world like a hard shell.”

He reached for her hands, grabbing them like lifelines. “I was a boy who worshiped his father and dreamed of being like him someday.” He smiled crookedly. “Perhaps without the production of bastards with the widow down the lane … but a man who took pride in his lands and his people, who wore the mantle of master with humility and care. It wasn’t until I realized that every stick and stone and rivulet was actually Calder’s that I—”

He halted the torrent of confession, for she was gazing at him in horror and consternation.

“I’m going about this all wrong, aren’t I?”

“You aren’t seriously suggesting that I jilt Calder and run away with you? How? Tonight? In a gown your brother bought for me, in his carriage, driven by his servants?” She drew back. “How can you suggest such a thing!”

“Because he cannot make you happy! He never will, don’t you see? He is stone, icy impervious stone! Your
heart will shrivel and die with him! He will never understand you as I do—he will never listen to your dreams—he will never play Goddess and Minion, or Lady and Knight! Can you truthfully tell me that you will be satisfied to live out your days without another moment of daydream or delight? That you can go on, joyless year after joyless year, without laughter or love, and not turn into either a dead, frozen imitation of the woman you are now or go wild with desperation and bring harm to yourself somehow? It has happened before!”

She looked down at her hands clasped in his. “Melinda,” she said flatly.

“She was not so different from you, you know,” he said urgently. “She thought she could be satisfied with the trappings of wealth and status. She thought that if her life looked beautiful, it would be so, but in the end she wanted more than empty, icy distinction—she ached for more!—until she decided she simply couldn’t live another day without it.”

His gaze searched her face for her response, but she felt frozen.

“Phoebe, don’t you see? You can stop this now, right this very minute. Change the course of everything! Choose me!” He dropped his forehead to rest on their clasped hands. “You can be happy,” he said huskily. “I can give you a happy life, I swear it.”

A happy life.
Rafe, hers for always. The nights—oh heaven, the nights!—and then the mornings, with the sun streaming in the windows of some small but wonderful cottage. And when they went out together—

When they went out together, it would begin. Whispers. Sideways glances. Derision.

“The rake’s bride—”

“
—
wed in scandal
—
”

A lifetime of notoriety. She had been in Society long
enough now to realize that her father had been accurate all along. Gossip never went away. It lived forever and grew and grew, until no one knew the real truth or even cared.

Panic swept her, until her ears roared and her throat began to close. She pulled away from him, gasping. “I cannot breathe—I cannot think—” She shook her head wildly. “No! I never want to feel that way again! I am too afraid!”

“Afraid?”

Her hands began to shake.
Yes, afraid. So afraid of that bleak, desperate place of being everlastingly in the wrong.
She pushed at him wildly. “Oh, no. I could not bear it!”

“Bear what? Phoebe, speak to me!”

She tried to catch her breath enough to answer. “I am already watched, emulated, talked about—simply for becoming engaged! What do you think the world will think of me for throwing away a marquis for a bastard rake!”

She saw the pain flare in his eyes and shook her head. “I’m sorry. You know that I don’t hold your birth or your past against you … but they will hold it against me! Wherever I go, for the rest of my life, they will whisper, they will point. I will be known as the Bastard’s Bride, or the Runaway Duchess, or something else more horrible.”

“They are whispers,” he said softly. “Only whispers. What do they matter?”

She choked on damp and bitter laughter. “If wedding you gives me this much pause—when I feel the way I do about you,” she gasped, unable to catch her breath. She suffocated under the burden of that future even now! “How do you think my father will react? My cousins? The family in the house next door, who won’t let their children play with ours—the people who will leave the ballroom when we walk in!”

“Let them walk! We will dance alone if we must!”

“Alone? Do you understand what alone is? You have always had Calder. I have only the vicar. You do not know
what it is like, having someone’s love by a thread. The worry that one wrong move will cut that thread and you will lose them forever …” The thought stole the air from her lungs once again.

His brows drew together. “Have you not met my brother?”

She shook her head. “No. Calder loves you. You’ve tested him for years and he’s still there.”

“No he isn’t.” Rafe pulled away to sit wearily in the opposite seat. “Not after tonight, at any rate.” Rafe smiled crookedly. He reached upward to knock on the small trapdoor above.

There was a pause. “Yes, my lord.”

Oh, God. Phoebe closed her eyes tightly.

“Do you and Stevens think the lady and myself might have a moment to ourselves now?”

“Yes, my lord. Stevens and I will just walk down the road a bit, eh?”

Phoebe waited as the two jumped down and their steps faded to silence.

Chapter Thirty-four

Deirdre wandered into the music room where Sophie was working on the next phase of her translation. Sophie gave a brief finger wave but did not break her concentration. Deirdre flung herself across the settee with a small world-weary “oomph.”

“Tessa’s up to something,” Deirdre stated firmly.

Sophie sighed inwardly at the determined interruption, then marked her place with care. Putting down her pencil, she turned her attention fully to Deirdre. “What makes you say that?”

Deirdre snorted. “Years of practice.” She sat up and frowned at Sophie. “She helped Phoebe dress for the opera tonight. Tessa never helps anyone unless there’s something in it for her. What could she possibly gain from Phoebe looking so beautiful at the opera tonight?”

Sophie shrugged. “I have no idea, since Phoebe isn’t going to the opera tonight.”

Deirdre blinked. “What?”

Sophie tried not to let her gaze wander back to the page she’d been working on. “I heard Fortescue tell one of the footmen. Lord Brookhaven’s been called out of town on business.”

Deirdre snapped her fingers. “Sophie, concentrate! Are you sure about this?”

Sophie blinked, realizing that Deirdre was truly worried about something. “Of course I’m sure. I saw him ride away hours back. I’m sure Phoebe knows by now.”

Deirdre shook her head slowly. “Phoebe left an hour ago—with a man who apparently isn’t Lord Brookhaven.”

It was Sophie’s turn to snort in disbelief. “Who in the world would she have left with, if not his lordship?”

Deirdre raised a brow. “Who indeed?”

Alarm and a bit of envy began to shimmer in Sophie. “Did you say she looked beautiful?”

Deirdre nodded gravely. “I’ve never seen her look so … delectable.”

“Oh dear.” Sophie bit her lip. She didn’t know whether to be happy for Phoebe or heartbroken. “And you think Tessa knew about this?”

Deirdre narrowed her eyes. “Tessa can be very perceptive if it’s for her own gain.”

Sophie considered Deirdre for a moment, forgetting all about her translation. “You know about Phoebe and Marbrook?”

Deirdre leaned back upon the settee and folded her arms. “Not as much as you, apparently. Why don’t you fill me in?”

Perhaps not surprisingly, Tessa was not amused by their suspicions when they confronted her a few moments later where she loitered in the front parlor, flipping through the latest gossip sheets.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I was only trying to help poor Phoebe. She’s so useless when it comes to fashion.” She laughed, a musical sneer of a laugh. “Rather like dressing up a cow for a parade.”

Deirdre gazed at her stepmother coldly. “Did you dress the cow for a parade or for milking? You knew Brookhaven called off the evening at the opera.”

Tessa blinked in overdone surprise. “Did he? I’m stunned. I had no idea. Phoebe must have kept it from me in order to maneuver a tête-à-tête with …” She snickered. “Another man!”

Sophie gasped. “That’s a lie!”

Deirdre could have told her cousin to save her shock. Tessa hadn’t been within a mile of the truth for as long as Deirdre had known her.

Tessa actually seemed to take offense at Sophie’s righteous stance. “Why do you care, either way? Whether Phoebe or Deirdre wins the Pickering inheritance, it can’t possibly make a difference to you, you dough-faced stick insect! It’s a good thing you’re getting that fifteen pounds a year, for you’re too repellent even to be a governess!”

Deirdre wouldn’t have thought Sophie could become any paler than she already was, but Tessa managed to make her nearly white as paper. Even Tessa seemed dismayed by her own unsubtle cruelty. The three of them stood frozen in a moment of awkward silence.

Then Tessa huffed and strode to the door. With Tessa gone, the mood eased somewhat, but Deirdre didn’t know what to say to Sophie who remained frozen and pale. She wished she knew how to remove that look from her face!

“Sophie,” she said brightly, “let’s have a game of cards.” It was the only thing she could think of.

Sophie took a deep breath, then another. Deirdre watched her walk shakily to the card table and pull the deck from its drawer. She paused a moment to squeeze her eyes shut, hard. Deirdre knew from experience that this sometimes worked to hold back tears.

It seemed to do the trick for Sophie, for she was able to turn back to Deidre and say with something close to a smile, “Yes, let’s.”

Deirdre sat at the table as Sophie walked over with the cards. If she could make her forget all about Tessa’s horrible insult then it would be worth the effort.

Well, not forget, perhaps, but ease the sting.

Besides, what could they do to help Phoebe until she returned to Brook House?

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

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