Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01] (17 page)

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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]
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When Rafe returned to Brook House, too late to encounter anyone but the yawning groom who took the reins of his happily exhausted horse, he welcomed the dark and silent emptiness of the halls and rooms. His own valet had long since gone to bed, knowing that after a certain hour, Rafe would likely not come home at all.
In his room he threw off his jacket and waistcoat, yanked his cravat knot free and tossed the linen on the pile. He sat in the large chair before his fire and pulled off his boots, tossing the fine leather aside with all the care he’d give tattered rags. What did it matter? Fine things were only things after all. They would not make his life without Phoebe any easier to bear.
He’d stayed out late to avoid her—for how could he face her after that hideous scene outside the concert!—but there was no escaping her presence. She was so damned
everywhere
in this house. Her scent lingered in the halls, her name was on everyone’s lips, her damned cousins underfoot with their lighter and darker versions of the same blue eyes …
And although Rafe’s body ached, his stomach growled a protest. Off to the kitchens to slake at least one appetite.
His feet bare on the chill floors, he padded silently through the house in search of something more substantial than lovelorn frustration to put in his stomach.
He’d grown up in this house, at least for half of every year, so there was no need for a candle. The dark was an old friend to Rafe. Most of his finest moments—or worst ones, depending on one’s moral perspective—had been spent in the dark.
The kitchens were in the cellar, as in most large houses in town. There was the large pantry, the carving room with its vaguely alarming rack of cutting implements, the main kitchen where the stoves were, the scullery with its deep stone sinks and Rafe’s personal favorite, the larder.
It was a long narrow chamber, lined with marble shelves for the things that needed chilling, and cool stone floors that stung his bare feet. Since he was in the mood for savory, he easily avoided the sturdy worktable in the middle of the room and bent to feel along the lowest shelves for something of a ham or roast nature.
He found meat pasties, probably made for the lower servants, since the fastidious master would curl his lip at such common fare—although Rafe had never met a meat pasty he didn’t like. In spite of the call of the rich potato and meat filling he moved on, feeling his way carefully. He was really more in the mood for big, juicy slices of—
Thigh. Smooth … rounded … warm … lush …
“Eek.”
It was a small protest, hardly more than a whisper.
“Ah!” He snatched his hand back and straightened—and smacked the back of his head into the stone shelf above with great force. “Ow!” He staggered backward with one hand to his skull.
“Oh!”
Something moved on the shelf, there was a rustle of fabric and a metallic clank—and then light seared his expanded pupils.
“Bloody hell!” He slapped his other palm over his eyes. “Sweet Charlotte’s Ass! Are you trying to kill me?”
“I didn’t—I—who is Charlotte?”
“Phoebe?” He partially unshielded his eyes and blinked. Blurred afterimages still floated in the way, but he could see her before him, clad in nightdress and half-open wrapper, fishing her lighted candlestick out of a flour tin.
She scowled at him in the glow, trying to undo the knot in the belt of her wrapper in order to pull it tighter. “Goodness, my lord! You frightened the life out of me!”
“I? I think I just lost ten years! I was planning to put those to good use, you know.”
Her mood turning in a flash, she dimpled at him. “How? Doing good works?”
He grunted. “Absolutely. There are any number of charities working for the betterment of beguiling mistresses. I’m a regular contributor.”
Reminded, her humor vanished. She raised a brow. “I’ll wager you are. Men like you simply don’t know when to stop giving.”
She wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. “What do you know of men like me?”
“I know enough.” She attempted to look arch, but with her tousled hair and rebellious wrapper, she merely managed to look adorable. “Rakes and scoundrels aren’t exclusive to London, I’ll have you know.”
He grinned, absurdly happy simply to be with her. “Oh, you breed your own up there in Bump-arse-shire?”
She gave up on the knot and folded her arms over her exposed bodice. “I believe they are primarily imported, my lord,” she said sourly.
His smile faded. “You aren’t teasing, are you? What happened to you in Thornton? When did you encounter rakes and scoundrels?”
Something flashed across her expression for an instant and he thought she was going to speak. Then it was gone and she merely gazed at him evenly. “Did you come searching for something to eat?”
“Ham. Or roast. Or—”
Thigh
. But just as they were not talking about Lilah, they were carefully not talking about how he’d found her curled up on the shelf, hiding from the intruder with her nightdress rucked up over her knees, were they?
He could respect a good evasion, but he thought he ought to do his part somehow. “You shouldn’t wander the house alone. You don’t know it well.”
She lifted her chin. “It is my house—or it will be in a fortnight. I think I am entitled to raid the larder if I please.”
Her house … his brother’s wife-to-be. “Yes, thanks so much for reminding me. Soon there’ll be lots of merry little Calder-shaped brats to keep us all up at night.”
She lifted a tray of roast slices to the table which stood in the center of the room. “Cheese?”
He absently reached down a round from a higher shelf for her. “Did you hear what I said?”
She was humming slightly as she pulled half a loaf of bread from the shelf where she’d been hiding. Baked items weren’t kept here, so she’d brought it with her. She really was making herself at home at Brook House.
“I heard you,” she said. “You’re protesting my breeding capabilities.” She slanted a disgruntled look at him. “Some of the brats might be Phoebe-shaped, you know.”
Little Phoebes, cherub-cheeked and tousle-haired, pattering about the house, perpetually in trouble, charming their way out with dimples and long-lashed blue eyes …
For a moment, he was utterly captivated by the image in his mind. Then he remembered that it would not be he who fathered those blue-eyed darlings.
Uncle Rafe. Welcomed for holiday dinners and not much else.
She went on calmly preparing the food with competent
movements. If she’d been affected by this evening’s moment at the concert, she didn’t seem to be upset by it.
I want you to be upset. No, I want you to be devastated. I want you to fight for me, to throw everything away to please me, to cost yourself your family’s esteem and the life of a duchess so I won’t feel like my brother wins …
So what kind of man does that make me?
It makes you Uncle Rafe, because she’s smart enough to send you packing, even though she fancies you.
Which was precisely what he deserved.
If he had known what all his rebellious amusements would someday cost him, would he have done it differently ? Would he have fallen in with Calder’s plans, would he have studied harder, been more prudent, avoided cards and women and drink?
Why can’t you be more like your brother?
Had a day of his youth gone by without hearing that hated phrase from his father, or tutor, or even a local cleric? Every utterance had been like a brick in the wall between the brothers, shutting Rafe out—
Shutting Calder in?
No. Rafe shook off that preposterous idea. Calder had everything.
He gazed at Phoebe, who was carefully not looking his way at all. Yes, she fancied him, but she would never choose him over Calder. She was too intelligent to do that.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Rafe.” Her voice was low, but he could detect the pain in it.
“And I don’t want to be hurt,” he said, forcing a smile. “And see? We can spend time together without difficulty. We’re the only ones awake in the entire house, just the two of us, alone and isolated where no one knows we—”
He stopped, for the vastness of their solitude only made the night feel safer and more secret. Dangerous.
Across the table from him, she visibly shivered. “This floor is icy.”
“Then get off it.” He rounded the table in a swift movement.
“What—”
Wrapping both hands about her little waist, he lifted her to sit on the table before she could form a protest. Her gasp feathered against his cheek, mingling with her scent. He wanted to tighten his grip, pull her closer and make her forget everything but him—
He backed a step away and bowed deeply to hide his expression. “My queen’s royal barge is ready to depart. If Your Majesty will lounge appropriately?”
She laughed. “You’re mad.”
He straightened. “Lounge,” he ordered. “The floor is too bloody cold.”
She snickered again, but pulled her chilled feet up to tuck them beside her, then leaned on one hand. “There. I’m lounging. Can you hand me the tray? I cannot reach it from here.”
He snatched up the tray and held it out of her reach. “Your Majesty’s royal hands must not handle trays!”
“A girl could become accustomed to such a thing,” she murmured thoughtfully.
A poor vicar’s daughter had likely toted many trays in her life. “Then do so, my queen,” he intoned, in his best impression of Fortescue.
She laughed again and then assumed a bored and queenly air. “Very well, then. Serve me the bread.”
He pulled a shred of it off and popped it into her mouth, neatly avoiding her reaching hand. Her eyes twinkled as she chewed and swallowed. “So no royal handling of food either, eh?”
“Of course not.” He plucked a bite of cold roast from the selection and fed it to her.
She closed her eyes. “Why does stolen food taste so much better?”
“Keep your eyes closed,” he said. He fed her bites of bread, roast, and cheese for a moment more. She murmured appreciation as she chewed, reminding him of the way she’d enjoyed her chocolate on the street. He put down the tray and grabbed the candle. “I’ll be right back.”
The pantry was just down the way and he was back before she could make more than a token protest at being left in the dark. “Sorry about that. I didn’t want to put my elbow in the pie.”
She brightened. “Pie?”
“Better. Now close your eyes again.”
The trusting way she closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and opened her lips …
A decent man really ought not to have those thoughts about his brother’s bride. Of course, he’d never laid claim to decency, had he?
The treat he’d brought her was a rich chocolate sauce that was probably meant for dessert tomorrow evening. He spooned out the dark delicacy, letting it drip onto her tongue. She rolled it in her mouth and shuddered. “Heaven,” she murmured throatily.
Her husky appreciation made his groin pulse. The way her tongue flicked over her lips to catch the tiniest smear made the blood leave his brain and head for those nondecent parts of him.
He eased another spoonful into that rosebud mouth, the throb of his lust the only thing he could hear. His hand shook, losing a tiny drip of chocolate to land on her chin.
Before he could stop himself, he ducked his head and licked it off.
She gasped and went rigid, but her eyes remained closed and she did not move to push him away. Their play, meant
to distract them from the tingling heat between them, had lost the match.
Phoebe waited, unable to breathe, unable to think for the longing in her heart and in her rushing blood. Her belly trembled with need.
Kiss me.
Don’t. It isn’t right.
It cannot be wrong, not this.
Kiss me.
“You gave me the sweets, didn’t you?” she whispered. “How did you know?”
He swallowed. “I followed you,” he whispered back, his lips so close to hers. “I … watched you.”
She did not open her eyes. “I felt you there.” She sighed.
“Open your eyes, Phoebe. Open your eyes and see me.”
She lifted her lids and her eyes were like twin fires, blazing lust at him, drying his mouth, sending all virtuous thoughts straight to hell with smoke trails fading. “Phoebe?”
She was on him even as he moved toward her. He drove his fingers into her thick fall of hair and dragged her mouth up to his. She wrapped her arms about his neck, going up on her knees to press urgently against him.
He needed her closer. The belt of her wrapper caused a brief problem, which Rafe solved by reaching for the knife she’d cut the bread with. He sliced through the tiresome knot with one swift motion, then the wrapper fluttered to the floor behind them.

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