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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

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Wonderful, but not likely.

Chapter Four

Back in the ballroom after smoothly inserting a blushing Phoebe back into the dancing throng, Rafe spotted his brother, Calder, holding up a column on the other side of the room.

People sometimes asked Rafe if looking at Calder was like looking into a mirror. It always reminded Rafe of that astonishing moment when he was eight years of age, when the imposing man who’d taken him from beside his mother’s deathbed brought him to the grandest house he’d ever seen and showed him to a finely furnished nursery.

“Calder,” the man had called out. A boy just Rafe’s size had emerged from a corner filled with books and had bowed to the man. “Yes, Father?

Looking at that boy … yes, that had been like looking into a mirror. His eyes, his nose, even his curling dark hair—the other boy had taken them all!

That seemed to be the very thought crossing the other boy’s mind as well. Long-lashed brown eyes had darkened and narrowed, focusing on the large, friendly hand resting on Rafe’s shoulder.

“Calder, this is your new brother, Raphael. He is my other son.”

Other son.

Resentful fire flashed in the other boy’s eyes, ending
Rafe’s newly born hopes of having the brother he’d always longed for.

“
I
am your son,” Calder had stated firmly, furiously, proudly. “
He
is nothing but your bastard.”

Perhaps it wasn’t right to hold the words of a hurt and shocked eight-year-old boy against the man he’d become, but Rafe still heard them, still saw them in Calder’s gaze, still felt the blow to the grieving, lonely heart of a lost boy in a stranger’s house.

Calder had been the first person in Rafe’s life to call him a bastard, but he was by no means the last. Now it was no longer news, of course. He’d known this world and its people for a very long time. He was nearly one of them, warily welcomed—as long as he remembered his true status.

Rafe would never forget his first sight of Brookhaven. Rolling up that long drive with his head and arms hanging out of the carriage window, he’d seen that golden evening sunglow upon the white stones of the great house and thought perhaps he was seeing the gates of heaven itself.

The marquis had smiled at his abrupt infatuation and later had taken him through the gallery. Hand in hand with the stranger now called Father, Rafe had gazed at the portraits of Marbrook men long gone and seen his own eyes painted on the canvases.

It was as if he’d been lost, even happy as he was with his loving, teasing mama. She was a memory, a wisp, a feeling of warmth and happiness that would never return. What there was to take her place was Brookhaven. The very earth beneath his feet—and on his hands, for he never tired of playing in it—vibrated in harmony with his own heartbeat. The land, the trees, the fields, the stone walls twining over the hills like ancient, illegible writing … those were his skin, his bones, his flesh, the creases of his own palms.

Father had watched that love grow, at first satisfied, then proud, then at long last—too late—worried.

Little boys don’t understand inheritance law, don’t think in terms of legitimacy or illegitimacy. He’d learned that his brother would someday have Brookhaven. He’d assumed he would share it, as he shared the nursery and the governess, the toys and the books.

Calder must have known, but he’d said not a word to Rafe on the subject. Kindness or subtle vengeance? There was no way to know. Their relationship grew quickly in the hothouse conditions of that nursery, for who else was there to play with? Their brawls became fewer, though never disappearing completely. Their accord, while sometimes uneasy, strengthened them both. It was something, to never be alone, to always look across the room or the desk or the dinner table and see the one person who knew you best—whether they liked you that day or not.

Until that day …

“I’m sorry, my boy, but you must see how it is. Calder is my heir.” Large, sympathetic hands on his shoulders.

He’d shrugged them off. “Then make him share it. Build a wall down the center of Brookhaven. I want the side with the house.”

A smile, sad and proud at the same time. Rafe had known then.

“Even if I didn’t have Calder, you could not have it, Rafe. The title, the lands, all is entailed to my legitimate heir. If not to Calder, then it goes to another branch of the family entirely. I have a distant cousin in Kent. He is a farmer, a country squire. Imagine his face when he received that knock on his door!”

The jest fell flat, for Rafe hadn’t the breath to laugh even out of politeness. He’d believed—he’d put
faith
in this man, in his brother, in Brookhaven itself. He’d thrown himself into his studies, trying to catch up to Calder, trying to be as good a son, willing himself to become worthy of this new life. He’d come home …

To a home that would never truly be his.

At the moment, the true heir, the Marquis of Brookhaven, looked as though he were trying to hide behind a potted palm—as if a mere tree could afford much cover for a great lout like Calder. He appeared to be gazing with interest across the room at this year’s crop of maidens fair.

Rafe snorted to himself. Knowing Calder, he supposed his brother planned to coolly shop someone from the lineup of twittering virgins, check her bloodlines and her teeth, and have her properly bridled by the end of the first month of the Season.

Then the systematic breeding would begin, something that Rafe truly didn’t want to picture. Calder in bed would probably be as boring and predictable as the ticking of a clock—at least, that was what Calder’s previous wife had claimed once in a passion of furious disappointment.

Rafe had steered clear of Melinda’s restless search for distraction but her words had only confirmed what Rafe had long suspected about his brother. All work and no play made Jack a very dull lover.

Smiling, Rafe crossed the room to join him. Rafe normally avoided his taciturn brother if at all possible, especially in social situations, but tonight not even Calder’s dour visage could taint his buoyant spirits.

Rafe grinned at Calder when he reached him, and even cheerfully clapped him on the back. “I can see you’re having your usual delightful time.”

Calder slid him a sour glance. “Can you not see the jig I’m dancing?”

Rafe leaned a shoulder against the pillar and regarded the teeming ballroom with new affection and appreciation. “Ah, simply look at all the pretty girls here tonight. Surely you can find someone who meets with your approval?”

“Unlike some, I’m not in the market for a face or a figure. I’m looking for a wife with—with something else to offer.”

“Blue blood to further refine the Marbrook breeding book?” Rafe grinned. “There’s a packet of thoroughbreds here, although I admit you won’t want to hold out for looks as well.”

Calder lifted one shoulder, evidently too bored to shrug with both. “There isn’t a woman here worth looking twice at, either way.”

Rafe turned to gaze at his brother. Should he broach the topic of his impending engagement now? No. It would only garner him another lecture on impulsiveness. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to hint in that direction.

“I spotted a lovely girl tonight. I think you know the family. Her father is Mr. Colin Millbury, a vicar. Her great-grandfather was Sir Hamish Pickering. You remember hearing stories about him, I’m sure. Crotchety old Scot who bought himself a knighthood?”

“Ah, yes.” Calder lifted a brow in halfhearted approval. “At least she’s not one of those shipping heiresses. I can’t abide shipping heiresses. Entirely too full of themselves.”

“No, she’s not at all overreaching. Her aunt is Lady Tessa, wed to Cantor. You knew Cantor quite well, didn’t you?”

Calder gave him an appraising look. “I did at that.” Then his interest sharpened. “Pickering, eh? There was quite a fortune there, if I remember correctly, although it didn’t seem to last. What ever happened to it?”

Trust Calder to check the price tag. “I imagine it was piddled away like most fortunes.”

Calder slid a glance his way. “Hmm. Well, I suppose you’d know all about that.”

Rafe exhaled slowly. “You’re improving. It took almost four minutes for you to mention that this time.”

Calder’s lips barely twitched. “I strive to please.”

Rafe folded his arms and gazed at the marble floor. “Once again—I did not piddle my portion away. I invested
it. Investments take time to come to fruition. Ships take time to come in. You should know that, of all people.”

Calder shrugged and looked away, his interest lost. “I have no desire to argue tonight. I came to find a wife.”

A wife.

Rafe gazed across the room where Phoebe stood with her family. She was no longer smiling, but the expression of grave reflection on her face suited her nearly as well. She might be whimsical but she was not silly. He felt the pull all the way across the room, as though she were tied to him—and he to her.

A day ago that thought would have sent him running. Now, it only seemed to bring a sort of peace.

For the first time Calder seemed to notice his distraction and raised his own gaze to the other side of the room. “Which one is she?”

Rafe repressed his possessive smile and pointed Phoebe out to his brother. “There, by the musicians. Standing next to the blonde.” God, she looked radiant even at this distance. What was she thinking of, to make her cheeks so rosy?

The same thing he was, no doubt.

Calder gazed thoughtfully across the room. “The … er, motherly one?”

Rafe tried very hard not to roll his eyes. Calder could be such a stick sometimes. Why not simply say, “the lady with the stunning bosom”? Then again, Rafe didn’t care to have his brother notice his future fiancée’s figure at all. “Right. That one.”

“The blonde is prettier.” Calder pursed his lips slightly. “But she looks like a good sort, I suppose. Cheerful. Decent connections as well. Old Pickering was in trade, but two generations later no one gives a damn as long as the family’s reputation is good.”

For Calder, such commendation was as good as applause.
Rafe relaxed. There would be no battle over his engagement to Phoebe, as long as he took his time and did things right and proper.

Then again, if Calder could see the value in her, others would as well. Perhaps he should secure her sooner.

Sooner sounded good to him. The sooner he had Phoebe to himself, in his house, in his arms, in his bed—

Yes, most definitely sooner.

Chapter Five

The next day Phoebe awoke to find Aunt Tessa shaking her with a rather violent hand.

“For pity’s sake, wake up, Phoebe! It’s all of nine o’clock. Goodness, you sleep like the dead!”

That should pose no problem for Tessa, for her shrill voice could surely rouse any lifeless churchyard.

Aunt Tessa’s face took on the oddest expression, making Phoebe hope she hadn’t said that out loud.

“Put on your wrapper and come to my sitting room, at once,” Tessa said tersely.

Oh, drat. She must be in some sort of disgrace. Somehow Tessa had learned about that encounter with Mr. Marbrook last night. Yet who could have told? Phoebe resolved to give nothing away, hoping that Tessa knew somewhat less than the whole truth.

There was nothing to be ashamed of in her hour alone with Mr. Marbrook, of course. They’d only talked—mostly. Still, it
looked
bad.

So she tied her wrapper neatly and went to Tessa’s room with her head high but her knees knocking ever so slightly. Her old fears only awakened further when she saw that Tessa had awoken her cousins Deirdre and Sophie as well.

Tessa turned her glare on Phoebe. And now she was about to pay for last night’s moment out of time. Oh, heavens,
when Tessa told the vicar—and Tessa would, for she would like nothing better than to ruin Phoebe’s chances of winning the inheritance—when that happened, Phoebe was going to find herself on the first coach headed back to Devonshire.

Oh heavens, the vicar would be so furious!

“Phoebe, you’ve received a proposal of marriage.”

Marriage?

Could it be him?

Phoebe’s knees gave out and she sat in the upright chair next to Sophie’s. Tessa went on, but Phoebe could scarcely hear her over the rushing of wind in her ears. She sat still, her hopes swirling within her while her aunt rattled off some wordy title. There was only one name among it she was listening for and her heart leaped when she heard it.

Marbrook.

The thought soothed the sharp corners of the anxiety she had lived with since she was fifteen, cowering in the shadow of her single, monumental mistake.

Marbrook
. If she could have
him,
live with him, be his wife, his lady—his lover!—she would be saved in so many ways.

“Phoebe?” Tessa’s voice was spiky with suppressed fury. “Have you no response?”

“Yes.” It was so easy. With a word, her foggy, desperately uneasy future was cleared and set right, the light of this one man’s sword of personality and status slicing through the fog and shining into every corner of her life. “Tell him yes.”

“But … he isn’t a duke,” Sophie said quietly.

“No,” Aunt Tessa replied sourly, “but he will be.”

Phoebe blinked. “What?”

Tessa’s eyes were narrow with resentment. “It’s true. Within weeks, possibly days. His uncle, the ninth Duke of Brookmoor, lies on his deathbed even now.”

A duke. How odd. She’d always pictured dukes as
more … stuffy and, well, dukelike. Marbrook hadn’t been anything like that. In fact, he’d been a bit … scandalous.

“He’s a respectable man?” Even a duke could be a bounder, after all.

Tessa rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why you care, since he’ll be a
duke,
but yes, he is a very respectable man indeed.” Her tone said she couldn’t imagine what a man like that would see in Phoebe, but Phoebe only smiled to herself.

They were like souls. That was what he’d seen last night. He had a restless spirit in him, too, an adventurous, naughty gleam in his eye that had stirred her own dormant blood. A man such as that would not hold her youthful indiscretion against her.

And soon to be a duke. Phoebe could not believe this further perfection. She would win the Pickering fortune as well?

Something that had long been tied in a furious, regretful knot inside her eased and released. She would be an independently wealthy duchess?

A woman like that need fear no one but a queen! She would be a princess in all but name. There was no door in Society that would ever dare slam in her face, no matter what scandal from her past came out.

Safe
. Safe forever—and with
him.

She covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath to strengthen herself against the shivers that ran through her entire body.

The bench creaked slightly next to her. It was Sophie, for there was no rustle of expensive silk.

“Phoebe,” Sophie said softly. “Are you upset by this? Would you rather not think on your decision for a moment?”

Upset? Phoebe could no longer fight the delirious laughter erupting inside her. It was as if the pressure of the last
ten years were released by the turn of a single screw. She threw her head back and howled, falling back onto the settee in giddy relief.

“I suppose not, then.” Sophie smiled shyly.

Still giggling, Phoebe threw her arms about Sophie and her cousin returned her embrace tentatively. Imagine, the vicar’s wayward daughter, marrying a marquis! He’d awakened something last night, something fey and careless, that made her toss her head and grin fearlessly at the dreaded Tessa.

“Tell him I said ‘yes.’” Phoebe cast a damp but brilliant smile at her aunt and Deirdre. “Oh, is it not unbelievable?”

“Entirely.” Aunt Tessa lifted an irritated brow. “Very well. Your father is still visiting with friends on the outskirts of London. He can be reached in a matter of hours.”

Deirdre only spared Phoebe a cool glance. “You have not won yet, Phoebe. The Duke of Brookmoor has been on his deathbed for a long time. He could live for months yet.”

Phoebe only grinned at them. “It would not matter if my fiancé never became duke, for I would have chosen him anyway.”

Sophie looked at her. “Is it love, then?”

Aunt Tessa scoffed. “Love? After one night at a ball?”

Phoebe did not contest her aunt’s scorn, but only smiled to herself.

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

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