Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01] (16 page)

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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]
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The Royal Concert Hall was a gleaming example of Georgian opulence and wealthy splendor. Creamy plaster relief crowned the arched ceilings and gold leaf touched every surface with grandeur. Above them all hung stunning chandeliers, icy concoctions of crystal and glittering light.
This place was meant to display the finer things for the finer folk—to impress upon all visitors that they were indeed the most civilized country in the world.
Such was the splendor of modern London, from the astonishing gas lights in Pall Mall to this sumptuous display. How unbelievable that she, Phoebe Millbury, was at the center of it all. She attended balls and concerts and the opera—dressed in a fine silk gown, seated next to a handsome lord—living just the dazzling life that every girl dreamed of.
All she needed to do to gain it had already been done. This would be her world now. She was already being swept up in it. She need only allow it—if she could only be sure it was a world she truly wanted. Or was it simply what she ought to want?
The soprano’s voice soared toward the frescoed ceiling. Lord Brookhaven leaned close and murmured something
approving. Phoebe nodded automatically. Her entire existence was like a beautiful dream.
Why then, did she so desperately long to wake up?
“MARBROOK, WHERE IN the world have you been?”
A tall willowy woman, wrapped in the finest of furs, waited for him eagerly. She let the cloak drop to reveal a deeply cut wisp of clinging silvery silk that had the nerve to call itself a gown. Hair the shimmering blue-black of a raven’s wing tumbled freely down her back in defiance of the latest style. A gaze the disturbing silver of a wolf’s eyes swept him from boots to brow as the woman raised her chin haughtily.
Lilah. As he entered the grand reception room at the Royal Concert Hall, Rafe considered a swift turnabout and escape, but it was too late. Lilah had spied him. A predatory smile turned her lovely face into something wicked and sexual. Of course, that had once been a major part of the initial attraction, but now it only left him cold. He was already regretting the impulse that had caused him to invite her out this evening.
Lady Lilah Christie was a fascinating beauty and true carnal delight. She had the added bonus of a husband who looked the other way, apparently grateful merely to have her on his unworthy arm. Most men in Society would give half their fortunes to get a mere evening of her attention. Rafe himself had only won her through a relentless and tireless pursuit.
“Hello, darling.” Her husky voice held an intimate purr. She came a bit too close and let her gaze roam over his body possessively. Only a few months ago that would have been all the invitation necessary.
Now, standing within inches of Lilah, Rafe’s skin
crawled just a tiny bit. He wanted to move away—and possibly bathe.
This—aside from being prickly and odd—was a horrifying development. “Fashionably late, as always, my lady,” he said to her uneasily.
Enthusiastically sinful and outrageously imaginative, Lilah had kept Rafe’s interest longer than any other lover ever had. Indeed, she had tired of him first, or so she had claimed. Now, she seemed to have reconsidered that rejection.
You’re a lucky man. Keep telling yourself that.
He offered Lilah his arm with a bow and they entered the concert hall itself in a wave of whispers and sidelong glances. Lilah’s affairs always supplied the very best gossip. Rafe resigned himself to being a household name once more.
As he guided Lilah to a seat, he cast a last longing glance toward the exit. Abruptly, his attention was captured by the gleam of light on a certain head of fair hair, on the familiar lift of a particular chin.
She’s here.
His entire being focused onto Phoebe like a hunting hawk on a dove. The concert went on but he heard not a note. His awareness was narrowed to the pinpoint sight of her sitting next to Calder. Her tilt-nosed profile, the curve of her cheek, the delicate wisps of hair at the back of her neck—all enough to dry his mouth and constrict his throat.
When Calder leaned close to whisper something into her ear, Rafe saw her tense. She did not lean away—quite—but neither did she lean intimately toward the man she meant to marry.
Telling, that.
Or not. She seemed naturally demure in public, after all.
So he tortured himself onward.
She doesn’t want him. She does. She loathes him. She likes him.
Calder himself began as a lump on the periphery of Rafe’s focus, but as the evening wore on Rafe could not help but notice that Calder seemed … relaxed. The brother Rafe knew could never have borne to waste an entire evening thus—not while there were machines that needed machining and whatsits that needed manufacturing.
Yet here he sat, serenely enjoying the music, Miss Phoebe Millbury quite willingly at his side.
Phoebe turned to Calder and smiled slightly at something he said.
She likes him.
She likes the better man.
The dowager in front of Rafe shifted, mercifully cutting off his view of them, although it did nothing to stem the flood of angry self-contempt.
What was the use of this torture? He hardly needed to prove to himself that Calder had won.
The soprano finished her aria and politely enthusiastic clapping ensued. Rafe took advantage of the moment to make his escape. As he blindly exited the concert hall, he felt a hand on his arm.
“Marbrook?”
Oh, God.
Lilah.
AS THE CONCERT went on, Phoebe became aware that the evening was becoming slightly more bearable. His lordship had eased considerably in the last two days and Phoebe had almost detected a flash of dry humor. Almost.
Then Phoebe caught the flash of blue from the corner of her eye.
Marbrook.
She turned more fully to see his broad back disappearing through one of the doors.
She didn’t even hesitate. “Please, excuse me for a moment, my lord. I—I feel the need for the retiring room.”
Why hadn’t she hesitated?
No, don’t think on that. Don’t think at all.
Calder stood instantly. “Are you ill?”
She smiled quickly. “No, I’m quite well. It’s simply the crowd—I’m not used to this …”
It was a ridiculous excuse for an excuse, but he seemed to accept it. “Please, let me know if I can—”
But she left him behind, slipping past a sturdy dowager who was complaining of the number of people, moving through the crush like water seeking level, entirely intent on
him.
This is not good. This is not the
him
you ought to be thinking of.
Of course it wasn’t.
She didn’t care.
IN THE HALLWAY, Rafe found himself pressed to the wall by an advancing Lilah. Unfortunately, he wanted only to have her step back and stop looking at him as if she wanted to have him on her plate at dinner.
Did this mean that he was ruined for other women forever? Could that happen from one evening’s sweet—God, so sweet—encounter in a garden and a mere moment in a parlor? Could a man like him catch such a serious case of devotion in such a short amount of time?
Not if he could bloody help it.
He smiled false invitation. Lilah glowed. She hadn’t had more than a nodding acquaintance with sincerity for years, so it was no surprise that she did not detect the lie.
She moved closer still. “For a moment there I thought you’d forgotten me,” she whispered.
Rafe let habit take over. “I could never do that.” He ran his fingertips delicately up her bare arm. She let out a husky sigh that tickled his ear. Her touch felt soiled, although to be truthful, she was no more soiled than he himself. His past covered him in grimy regret … and only the
understanding in Phoebe’s clear blue eyes could have washed him clean. She would have been his redemption and his reward. His new beginning. A chance to be the man he ought to have been.
A chance he’d lost forever. So what was the point of trying anymore?
He quelled his distaste and opened his hand around the back of Lilah’s neck. She was beautiful and willing. He was a man, damn it! That was all a man needed, right?
Perhaps sometime between now and getting her naked, he would recapture his free will.
God, I hope so.
If not, he was in for a bit of embarrassment. Lilah was more woman than most men had in a lifetime. If she couldn’t liberate him, no one could.
“Lilah wants,” she whispered throatily.
And whatever Lilah wants, Lilah gets.
He opened his mouth to give the customary response, a playful bit of sexual banter they had created between them … but the words would not come. She was pressed practically knee to chest with him, ready to play out his darkest secret fantasies—if there were any left they hadn’t already done—and he couldn’t do it.
Are you mad, man? Grab her hand and drag her to the nearest broom closet to play “Master and the Virgin Chambermaid!”
I don’t want the chambermaid. I want the vicar’s daughter.
She can likely play that, too! Just go!
He closed his eyes and concentrated. Lilah naked. Lilah on her knees. Lilah on top—
Would Phoebe like it on top? He could allow her to set her own pace, to find her own way to orgasm while he supported her, hands about her waist—
She would toss her rebellious honey-gold hair and cry out in surprise, and then her blue gaze would lock on his as the pleasure flooded through her …
“That’s the lad,” Lilah cooed in his ear. Her hip nudged his growing erection. “For a moment I thought you’d forgotten me again.”
For a moment, he had. “You always did talk too much,” he said gruffly. He reached one hand to grasp her rounded bottom and pull her tighter against his groin, holding on to the image of Phoebe in his head. Phoebe in his arms, Phoebe in his bed, Phoebe—
A startled gasp brought him back with a jolt. He opened his eyes.
Phoebe in the hall, staring at him groping the most diligent whore in Mayfair. He dropped his hands as if Lilah had turned into a slimy insect.
Phoebe’s gaze locked with his, just as in his fantasy, but the only thing flooding through her seemed to be revulsion.
And hurt.
Which was ridiculous. What had she to be hurt about? She was engaged to marry another man! It would be best for them both if she never looked at him that way again.
Rafe wrapped a purposeful arm about Lilah’s waist and forced an irritated glare at the interruption. “Do you mind?”
Phoebe’s slack jaw snapped shut. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Damn it, she saw through him, even now!
“I have been assured of the validity of your reputation, my lord,” she said primly. “You did not need to prove it to me.” Then she turned away as if she’d seen something no lady ought to sully her vision with.
Lilah looked over her shoulder and giggled. “Who’s the Puritan?”
Phoebe heard her, for her shoulders jerked slightly. She didn’t turn back, but only raised that bloody stubborn chin higher and increased her pace.
“No one,” Rafe said, unable to take his eyes from every injured and furious inch of her as she disappeared around
the corner. “Just my sanctimonious brother’s sanctimonious fiancée.”
Lilah laughed, a tinkling scornful sound. “Then they deserve each other, I think.” She turned back to nuzzle his neck. “Now, where were we?”
It was no use. “We were done.” Rafe stepped back. “Sorry. I guess this time Lilah doesn’t get what Lilah wants.”
Her silver eyes flashed a warning that would have brought another man to his knees. “Take care, my lord. I
never
offer twice.”
Rafe bowed slightly. “Then I hope you never run out of men, my lady.” With that he turned and walked away from the most beautiful woman in London—and never looked back.
“I’m in love with Lord Raphael Marbrook!”
Oh, bother. The secret had barely made it home from the concert and up the stairs to Sophie’s room. Phoebe clapped one hand over her mouth and waited for Sophie’s reaction. Her cousin merely raised her eyebrows slightly.
“Well, that does pose a pickle, doesn’t it?” Sophie turned to look at her properly. “Does he love you in return?”
Phoebe felt her cheeks color.
Does he love you in return?
She sat abruptly on the bed, wrapping her arms about her middle. The quivers in her stomach were only half caused by unfulfilled desire. Some of the largest were coming from a darker place of fear. Was it only desire on his part? Was he the rake he claimed to be? Was she being a fool?
Again?
“I think he wants me,” she said tightly. “But he has not spoken of love.” She could not put her faith in what might merely be hot blood. The vicar had warned her many times that such impulses were not real. Hot blood was a lie and sensible girls would want nothing to do with it.
Sophie sat across from her. “I see.” She regarded Phoebe for a long moment. “Cousin, are you sure … you have made a very advantageous match with his brother. You would be giving up a great deal if you broke the engagement to choose Marbrook. The scandal alone would—”
Phoebe ducked her head. “Oh, heavens. I cannot think on it.” The vicar would never speak to her again. The look he would have in his eyes … she felt the ashes of old pain curl and blacken with new heat. The quivers in her gut became tremors. She looked up at Sophie helplessly.
Fortunately, Sophie seemed to have experience with helplessness. She stood and strode to a chest and removed a brandy decanter. “I found it in the library. Actually, I took it away from the vicar. He isn’t spending all his time reading, you know.” She poured a hefty portion into a glass. Returning to Phoebe, she pressed it into her shaking hands.
Phoebe took a gulp, shutting her eyes against the medicinal fumes of the liquor. It burned all the way down, but after only a few moments she felt the tension in her shoulders ease. “That was repulsive,” she said, with a small breathless laugh.
“Good.” Sophie took the glass away. “Then you’re not likely to take it up as a habit.”
The brandy eased a bit of the panic, but it did nothing to remove the reasons—either of them. Both tall, broad-shouldered reasons continued to loom over Phoebe, stealing the air from any room she was in.
“Lady Lilah Christie.”
“Who?”
“That’s her name. I asked … afterward. She is—or perhaps was—Marbrook’s lover.” She sniffed. “
Lilah.
It suits her … all sleek elegance and catlike mystique. The memory of Marbrook’s hands on that silver silk gown …”
“Oh, my,” Sophie breathed. “You have had a night.”
Phoebe shook her head defiantly. “I’m not jealous—not precisely. I knew immediately that Marbrook was only trying to prove a point.”
The brandy was making her head swim. “But … that moment in the hall, when I saw another woman in Marbrook’s arms, I realized that it would never be me.”
“Because you’re marrying Lord Brookhaven,” Sophie reminded her gently.
Phoebe waved that off. “Yes … but that it would someday be
someone.
I’m going to marry Brookhaven and fulfill the vicar’s dream and Marbrook is going to go on without me, having lover after lover and possibly even someday a wife …”
Her face began to crumple. “And it will never be
me!”
She grabbed the bed’s dust ruffle and blew her nose mightily.
“Milksop.” Sophie gave her a wry smile. “No more brandy for you.”
Phoebe flopped back onto the bed and gazed at the design worked in plaster around the ceiling.
“Be careful, Phoebe. You have given your word to Lord Brookhaven. The scandal—”
Phoebe covered her eyes. “I know. I cannot—I will not—fall again. I will not go through that again—the pain, the recrimination, the constant constraint for fear of exposure! Always wondering, do they know? Are they whispering about me? Has the end come at last? Am I ruined?”
She rolled over on the bed. “The worst is the secret, shameful hope that it
will
come out,” she whispered. “That it will be public knowledge, that I would be ruined in truth and would never have to live masked again.”
Sophie put a hand on her shoulder. Phoebe started, for she’d nearly forgotten Sophie’s presence.
“Phoebe, I don’t really know what you’re speaking of … and perhaps you ought not to say. If you truly, honestly want to avoid scandal, perhaps it might be wise to avoid Lord Marbrook until the wedding is done … and perhaps a bit after.”
Phoebe sat up and brushed at her cheeks. “Avoid him. Yes. That is precisely what I will do. It will be easy.”
She desperately hoped.

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