A Belated Bride (5 page)

“True,” Jane said slowly, looking down at the glittering emerald on the duke’s hand.

“And no man is perfect,” her sister continued. “In fact, you could almost hold that no man is perfect
until
he meets the right woman.”

Jane beamed. “All our duke needs is a good woman who will break him of galloping around at night and scar- ing people’s servants to death.”

Emma turned to the portrait over the fireplace. “Like the Lady Meaghan broke the Captain of his insatiable bloodlust.”

“Exactly!” They both stared at the smiling portrait. Somehow, the blue eyes seemed to twinkle merrily, as if the Captain could discern their bold thoughts and heartily approved. A gust of wind arose outside the manor and rat- tled the shutters with satisfying vigor.

Emma gave a delicious shiver. “Oh, my! It seems the Captain agrees with us.”

Jane strongly believed in signs. “Of course he does. A duke is not so very different from a pirate, after all.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “His wounds will keep him abed a week, but no more. We must induce him to stay longer.”

“Fortunately, it won’t take long for him to fall in love with Arabella, and—” Emma stared down at Arabella’s future husband, her brows lowered over the bridge of her upturned nose. “He is very handsome, but I wonder . . .”

Jane didn’t like the frown on Emma’s face. “What?” “What if . . .” Emma had to swallow twice before she

could continue. “What if he’s not . . .” She blushed, then whispered loudly,
“Adequate.”

Jane looked down at the duke’s face and noted the thick lashes and the strong line of his jaw. He seemed too hand- some to be anything
other
than adequate. But one could never tell. “Perhaps we should look, just to make certain.” Emma’s mouth rounded into a perfect O. “Look?
Us?
” Jane smoothed her hands over her neatly starched skirt and nodded sternly. “Think, Emma. What if he is

deformed? Or worse?”

Seeing Emma’s mouth firm into a stubborn line, Jane added, “You wouldn’t buy a melon without thumping it, would you?”

No one was more devoted to selecting quality fare for the table than Emma. She blinked down at the duke. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Would you choose Arabella’s husband with less care than you choose a melon?”

Emma looked positively dazed. “I hadn’t thought of it quite that way. I . . . I suppose you are right, sister.”

“Furthermore, who is better to judge if the man is fit to be wed? After all, we were both married for over thirty years. Here, I’ll even go first,” Jane said bravely. She took a calming breath, and then folded the sheet back until the edge of one muscular leg showed. Bronze against the white linen sheet, it would ripple as he walked.

“Oh, my,” breathed Emma. She pressed a plump hand to the lace at her even plumper bosom. “Oh, my, oh, my!”

Jane gestured toward the bed. “Your turn.”

Face furrowed with determination, Emma stepped for- ward and folded the sheet back farther, revealing the trim line of his hip and the lean edge of his stomach. The two women studied the exposed area in silence. Finally, Emma turned to Jane. “Are you ready?”

Unable to do more than nod, Jane grabbed the sheet and lifted.

There was a moment of reverent silence.

Then Emma closed her mouth, reached out and took the sheet from Jane’s still fingers, and carefully lowered it back into place.

Without looking at one another, she and Jane tucked the sheet in, replaced the blanket, and returned to their respective seats by the fire.

A strained silence filled the once-peaceful room. Emma pretended to embroider, though it was painfully clear her mind was elsewhere, since her needle had no thread.

Jane didn’t even attempt to knit. She just sat, staring ahead.

After a prolonged stillness, she let out her breath. “He is definitely a
real
duke.”

Emma sank against her chair in relief and fanned her- self with a weak hand. “Arabella
must
marry him.”

Jane looked up at the picture over the fireplace. The Captain’s blue eyes met hers, and suddenly she knew what was destined to happen as clearly as if she were a seeress. “Oh, yes, Emma. Our Arabella must marry her duke. And the sooner, the better.”

nm

Chapter 4

L

ucien awoke slowly, pulled from deep sleep by a pounding headache that surged against his eyelids

and forced them open. Squinting against the sunlight, he surveyed his surroundings.

The room had the unmistakable look of a feminine retreat. Lace frills hung from the curtains and covers, and embroidered roses adorned every conceivable surface. The cacophony of color made his head spin. Lucien raked a hand through his hair and winced as his fingertips brushed a lump that felt the size of a cricket ball.

From across the room, bright blue eyes surveyed him with interest. Gray, plump and bespectacled, his observer tugged her companion’s cuff. “Jane, look! He’s awake.”

Jane turned and regarded him with blue eyes that were an exact replica of her companion’s. “So he is, Emma. I thought he’d sleep the rest of the day away.”

Emma scurried to his side and beamed at him like a

36

cordial fairy. “My, you have the most beautiful eyes!” She called over her shoulder, “Jane, come and see!”

Small and neat as a wren, Jane advanced and peered down her arched nose. She stared intently, assessing him as thoroughly as if he’d been a stallion on the block at Tat- tersall’s. It was damned irritating, but before he could protest, she straightened. “I once had a cat with green eyes. Best cat I ever had.”

It was too much for his clouded mind to decipher. Lucien turned away. As he did so, the soft rub of crisp cot- ton brushed across his knee and caused him to start. Bloody hell, he was completely naked.
“Where the devil are my clothes?”

Emma retucked the edges of his blanket as if he were no more than ten years of age, the distinctive scent of cognac swelling as she leaned near. “We sent them to be cleaned.”

Lucien crumpled the edge of the sheet between his fists. The papers from the Home Office were still con- cealed in his greatcoat. If they were discovered—

He caught sight of his coat slung casually over a small chair in the corner, the telltale outline of the packet clearly visible. He relaxed against the pillows.

Unaware of his turmoil, Jane returned to the table by the fire, saying over her shoulder, “Your shirt was ruined, you know.”

“As was your cravat,” Emma said. “You lost lots of blood.” She beamed pleasantly and added in a singsong voice, “Lots and lots and lots of blood.”

Somehow Arabella had forgotten to mention that her aunts were completely, unequivocally mad.

“Fortunately for you,” Emma continued, unabashed by his lack of response, “Jane had some of her tonic already

in the making. It is wine-based, you know. Very tasty.” Emma’s cupid’s bow mouth pursed into a pout. “My niece is not fond of having spirits in the house. The supply has dwindled sadly since she took over the estate.”

“Arabella runs the estate?”

“Oh, yes. Since her father died two years ago.” “Surely her brother assists her.”

“Oh. You don’t know about . . . Robert is not well,” Emma said, a tremor to her voice.

“Humph,” Jane said, returning to the bed with a metal cup. “Robert would be fine if you and Arabella would cease coddling him.”

Flags of color flew in Emma’s cheeks. “We do not cod- dle him; we just want to help him. If you weren’t so unfeeling, you would want to help him, too.”

“The doctor says we should force him to use his legs.” “Ha!” Emma scoffed. “And what does the doctor know

about paralysis? Has
he
ever been paralyzed?” “Of all the silly—”

“How did Robert come to be injured?” Lucien inter- rupted hastily. His shoulder was stiff and painful, his head throbbed a relentless beat, and his bandages were so tight he could barely breathe. The last thing he needed was to have two elderly women arguing across his bed as if it were a chessboard and he a hapless pawn.

Emma sent a darkling glare at Jane. “Robert was para- lyzed
in the war
.”

“No,” returned Jane evenly. “Robert was not paralyzed until two weeks
after
he returned. He rode his horse all the way up the coast to Rosemont the day his ship landed and even bragged he’d made record time.”

“But he was pale,” Emma said quickly. “And he had horrible nightmares those first weeks. We thought he’d get better once he’d had time to adjust. But . . .” Her voice

faded to a thread. “One day, he didn’t come down to breakfast.”

Jane fished in her pocket for a handkerchief. “We found him by the bed, trying to reach the door to call for help.” She met Lucien’s gaze with a pained smile and pushed her kerchief into Emma’s waiting hand. “That was two months ago.”

If Arabella was indeed overseeing the estate, as well as the care of an invalid brother and her two crazed aunts, it was no wonder she’d appeared so tense the evening before. Lucien moved restlessly under the sheet, feeling as if a weight were pressing him into the soft mattress. “Is there no one to help administer the estate?”

Jane sighed. “Emma and I try, but I fear we are more often a burden than not.”

Maybe he could do something. God knew, he certainly had the funds. He would talk with Arabella, offer to underwrite her expenses until—

Bloody hell, what was he thinking? Arabella Hadley would no more accept help from him than she would a gift from the devil. Even at sixteen, she had possessed far more than her fair share of pride; it had been one of the things that had drawn him to her. The women Lucien had met in London had either been bored society misses or shameless paphians. Arabella had been different. An engaging mixture of innocence and excitement, she had experienced life second by second, throwing herself wholeheartedly into whatever she did. She’d been an amazingly sensual lover, her emotions completely engaged. And he had been utterly besotted.

Not that it mattered now. Whatever sentiment she’d once felt for him was long gone. The sooner he removed himself from Rosemont, the better she would like it. But once he left, he would find a way to be of service to her,

perhaps through a third party, so she would not suspect his influence.

He would send for Hastings, complete his assignment for the Home Office, and return to London. Then he would set his solicitor to investigating the state of affairs at Rosemont. The idea gave him a surge of strength. “Has my horse been found?”

“Arabella sent Ned to search for him, but it will be hours before he returns,” Emma said placidly.

Jane held out the metal cup. “Drink some of this and you’ll feel much better.”

The scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted through the air. Lucien’s stomach rumbled and he was suddenly aware of how high the sun stood in the sky outside the window. It must be late afternoon. No wonder he was famished.

Still . . . he looked at the brown liquid in the cup. The two women reminded him far too much of the witches in
Macbeth
to drink any brew of their making. He gently pushed the cup away. “If you could just send for my valet, I could find Satan myself—”

“Oh, no. You will not be rising for many days to come,” Jane said. “You are too ill.”

“Nonsense. A few days’ rest and I will be as good as new.”

“Oh, but we cannot allow that to happen!” Emma said. His astonishment must have shown, for Jane immedi- ately added, “What Emma
meant
to say was that we can- not allow you to risk your health. Besides your shoulder, you also have a grievous wound to your head.” She thrust

the steaming cup under his nose. “Now drink this.” “But I—”

Jane neatly tipped the cup into his mouth. He was instantly assailed with sweet warm wine mixed with cin- namon, cloves, and just the faintest hint of nutmeg. He

took a second drink. Swirls of delight trailed down his throat and into his empty stomach.

She pressed the cup into his hand and straightened his covers. “There. We’ll have you feeling the thing in no time at all.”

He took another sip, savoring the ambrosia before swallowing. “What is this?”

“Mulled wine and tonic,” Emma said. “The sheep love it.”

He blinked into the cup. “You waste
this
on sheep?”

Jane sent a quelling glance at her sister. “Emma, get the poor duke another blanket. He looks chilled.”

Lucien sipped his wine. Not only were his aches reced- ing with each passing moment, but his mind was acutely clear, as if he’d spent his entire life looking through a clouded fog that had suddenly been blown free. By God, he would have Hastings learn how to make this magnifi- cent tonic and serve it every night before bed. Lucien tilted the cup over his open mouth and let the last few drops fall onto his tongue. Hell, he just might drink it with every meal.

Emma helped Jane spread a blanket over his legs. “We get so few dukes in Yorkshire.”

“True,” agreed Jane. She removed the tumbler from Lucien’s nerveless hand and set it on a side table, then slipped his arm under the blanket and tucked it in so tightly that he couldn’t move. “Barons, viscounts, and an occasional earl, but very few dukes.”

“And
such
a duke.” Emma cast an admiring stare his way, her eyes hideously magnified by her spectacles. “I vow, I shall not know how to go on.”

Lucien smiled and would have waved a hand, had one been free. “Pray do not bother yourself, Lady . . .” He trailed off, wondering foggily if he knew their names.

“Where have our manners gone?” Jane exclaimed. “Allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Lady Melwin.” She issued a short, jerky curtsy and then waved a hand at her plump counterpart. “And this is my sister, Lady Durham.” Wreathed in smiles, the rotund lady dipped a curtsy that caused an unholy crack to sound. Her cheeks red- dened. “Pardon, Your Grace. Age, you know.” She bright- ened. “Fortunately, I have my medicine right here.” She withdrew a small bottle from her pocket and took a swig.

A whiff of prime cognac wafted toward Lucien.

Jane stared down her aquiline nose at her sister. “Pray forgive Emma. She has a consumptive complaint.”