Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 02] Page 11

  FOETESCUE STOOD BEHIND the desk in his small but precisely neat office. He’d taken this room, which was once meant for a lady’s morning room, as a private workspace when he’d first succeeded his mentor. Since her ladyship didn’t seem inclined to ask for it back, it would do as a classroom for Patricia as well.

  The fact that it was a charming room with a delightful aspect of the garden had nothing to do with it—unless perhaps it was the fact that the large window provided good light.

  Then again, he’d planned the lessons for evening, so the only thing one would see might be moonlight on roses …

  You’re a bad fellow, John.

  True. He’d honestly never realized he had such a calculating streak, but he refused to allow shame or propriety to stand in his way. He could not bear a day without Patricia in it.

  Now he waited, showing not a fragment of his quivering anxiety as he waited for a response to his proposal—er, her ladyship’s proposal.

  “Me, Mr. Fortescue? Learn to read?”

  Fortescue kept his hands folded before him and his gaze properly on Patricia O’Malley’s face. Her own gaze had been properly downcast—saucy she might be, but Patricia knew the proprieties—until her startled green eyes had risen to meet his.

  As green as the hills of Ireland itself …

  He cleared his throat and nodded. “You, indeed. Her ladyship believes you more than capable of learning—as do I.”

  She blinked. “You do, sir?” Her cheeks grew slightly pink.

  Was she blushing from his compliment—as if he’d concocted rhymes about hair like fire and eyes like emeralds and spoken them aloud?

  Not that he would. Ever. Particularly not to a pert lady’s maid who worked under him—er, beneath him—er, oh damn. He cleared his throat again.

  “I have a spare hour every evening after supper.” Actually, it had taken an entire afternoon to rearrange his strict management schedule. “Her ladyship has no engagements scheduled … for the moment. We will work in here.”

  She fixed her gaze upon him sharply. “Here, sir? In the evenings? Alone?”

  “Did you expect her ladyship to ship you off to school?” He raised a brow. “I appreciate your hesitation, Patricia. It shows you possess a modest bent. However, I am old enough to be your father—”

  “A bit older, actually, sir. Me da’s not yet forty years of age.”

  Her blasted da must have had an early start indeed. Well, it was a good thing to remember, wasn’t it, when he thought too hard upon the way the curve of her waist was revealed beneath the proper black gabardine when she moved? “Then there is nothing to worry about, is there?”

  She still gazed at him doubtfully, a tiny wrinkle between her auburn brows.

  “What is it, then?” He hadn’t meant to speak sharply, yet she did not so much as flinch at his terse tone. She had a spine, this one.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t want to disappoint her ladyship, but I don’t think I can do it. It’s not right, is it, that you take so much time away from your duties, when I likely won’t learn a thing, big country cow that I am.”

  He begged to differ. “Patricia, I have worked in the houses of the nobility for many years. If you vow never to quote me, I will swear to you that many a child, much stupider than you, has mastered reading and arithmetic and gone on to make us all miserable with their idiocy.”

  She tried to press her lips together but the smile won out. “Yes, sir. I see what you mean, sir.” She took a breath and nodded. “All right, sir. If you think I can do it.”

  “Very well, then. We shall start tonight, immediately after the family has finished supper.”

  She bobbed smartly at him and left, her face glowing and her eyes bright.

  A clever girl. No, better than clever. Brave. She had the heart of a lion, to step from her tiny Irish dale into such an unfamiliar world as London and try to better herself the way she had.

  “You’ll do fine, my Patricia,” he whispered to the empty room, his tone a caress. “Just fine.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  When the guests walked down the steps of Brook House, the cousin, Miss Blake, boarded the Brookhaven carriage with that Lord Cavendish, who was some sort of relation, and that drove away, leaving the three young men behind to make their own way home.

  From a doorway down the street where he watched the house, Wolfe could clearly see as two of them, the bright-colored dandy and the one who smiled too much, began to stroll away, their expressions already becoming bored once more.

  Only one lingered. He was a mournful-looking bloke—not long of face so much as having a lost look about the eyes. He was the sort who searched for artistic inspiration in liquor and opium but never seemed to find it.

  The fellow stared longingly up at Brook House for quite a bit longer than was proper for a “friend.” Wolfe smiled. This one would do. He was good-looking in his melancholy way, and his love was pure—that was written all over his face, the pathetic sap.

  It had taken Wolfe a while to sober up enough to conceive this particular plan. After all, the marriage had already taken place. The trick now was to end the damn thing before the old Duke of Brookmoor gasped his last. An annulment might do the trick, if the marquis could be provoked into it. But how? A woman would have to embarrass a man like that nearly to death—

  Runaway wife. Runaway fiancée. And now perhaps a runaway bride … .

  “Well,” Wolfe grunted with a coarse chuckle, “they do say the third time’s the charm.”

  Finally the lovelorn man turned to amble reluctantly away from Brook House. Wolfe followed. It took far too long for the fellow to reach his destination, due to him taking many dramatic pauses and deep sighs. Good God, the bloke had it bad!

  At last, he turned to enter a decent if not top-drawer gentlemen’s club. Wolfe increased his pace to match his target’s just as the fellow drew even with the doorman, who bowed.

  “Good evening, Mr. Baskin.”

  Perfect. “Baskin!” Wolfe called out. “May I have a moment of your time?”

  Baskin turned and blinked at him. “Do I know you, sir?”

  Wolfe put an expression of desperate concern across his face. “I thought she might have mentioned me—did you see her? Is she well? I worried so when I was turned away—”

  Baskin’s brow cleared at the introduction of his favorite subject. “Ah, you are acquainted with Miss—with the Marchioness of Brookhaven?”

  Oh, someone was having a bit of trouble accepting the marriage, was he? Wolfe nodded, letting just a touch of frantic seep into his voice. “We are great friends—or at least, we were. Tell me all is well with her! I cannot bear to think of her alone in that house with that—”

  Baskin cast a worried glance at the doorman, then grasped Wolfe’s arm to draw him into the club. “Be careful!”

  Wolfe suppressed a sneer and allowed himself to be dragged to a private corner of the main room within. Once seated, he leaned forward. “Pray, do not prolong my worry! Tell me you saw her!”

  Baskin nodded. “I have seen her. She admitted me only this afternoon. She is holding on tolerably, but she is not happy.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Oh, woe! She ought not to have given in to that demon’s coercion … yet how could she have resisted such a powerful man?” He shook his head. “I warned her, but what could she do?”

  Baskin blinked. “Coercion? What do you mean?”

  Wolfe sat back in feigned alarm. “Oh, dear. I have said too much. It was all in confidence—”

  Baskin narrowed his eyes. “I flatter myself that I am in Miss—in her ladyship’s confidence.”

  Wolfe shrugged helplessly. “I’m sure, I’m sure. It is only my long connection with the family, you see. My father was quite close to her grandfather. I have been involved nearly all my life.”

  Baskin nearly glowed green with jealousy. “And you wanted her for yourself.”

  Wolfe blinked rapidly, doing his best imitation of Stickley. Next tim
e he ought to adopt some spectacles to clean. “What? Me? Heavens, no. I am not nearly worthy. If I were, I should never have let her wed that monster! I would have stolen her away, but I feared him too much …” He jabbered on in that vein for a while until the suspicion faded from Baskin’s eyes.

  Baskin leaned forward. “You must tell me of this coercion. How could Brookhaven force her to wed him? She is not without friends.”

  Wolfe shook his head sadly. “I fear he has no reason when it comes to his obsession.” Much like you, my useful friend. “Once he lost Miss Millbury to the brother he hates, he became fixated on Miss Cantor. Why else wed so quickly? A man with enough influence to slide a swift ceremony past the bishop—why would he let a bit of feminine objection stop him?”

  Baskin frowned. “She objected? I thought—”

  Wolfe waved a hand, being sure to include Stickley’s limpness of wrist. “She is so brave. She could not bear to let her family name endure more scandal, as he threatened—” He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh, in my worry I do run on!” He blinked wistfully at Baskin. “Yet you, too, seem so concerned for her. Perhaps … perhaps I have finally found a champion worthy of—” He gave a nervous laugh and leaned back, visibly turning off the waterfall of words. “I daresay you think me mad—”

  Just as he’d ensured, Baskin was hooked hard and fast.

  “No!” Baskin glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Please, sir, you must tell me everything. I want to help her—I need to be … be near her …” The fellow’s voice faded away, choked with emotion.

  Oh, brass balls, the twit was nearly in tears! Wolfe suppressed the powerful urge to slap the young man. Women were for one thing and one thing only—and that stuck-up Brookhaven bitch probably wasn’t even any good for that!

  Bored now, Wolfe twitched with impatience to be on his way. Baskin was a goner. Better to let the information sink in so that when he elaborated on the lie later, it rang even more true.

  Besides, he needed a drink. All this sugary shite was enough to make a real man gag.

  “I—I cannot break her confidence—I’m sorry—” Dragging his arm across his eyes, he bolted from the table and was gone before Baskin realized he wasn’t coming back.

  Give the pathetic sod a day to get righteously worked up on milady’s behalf. Then aim him at Brookhaven. If he was truly fortunate, he could get the blighter to duel the marquis. Baskin would die, of course, but Brookhaven would be hanged for it—before he ascended to become the Duke of Brookmoor.

  Wolfe checked his gold watch and sneered. Not bad for an hour’s work, by God. Not bad at all.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Calder made sure the house was quiet before he emerged from his study at last. His patience was to no avail. Deirdre was lurking outside his door like a hunter in a blind.

  “My lord, you are a dodo.”

  “How unfortunate for me.” Calder forced himself to bow briskly and keep moving. “Good afternoon, my dear.” It was a handy little maneuver he’d happened upon years earlier with his mother and then perfected with Melinda. Usually, it had the effect of leaving an irksome woman sputtering in his wake as he made a smooth getaway.

  Deirdre, it seemed, was made of sterner stuff. She darted lightly to stand before him again, blocking his progress. He automatically repeated his bow. “I shall see you at supper.” He stepped smoothly to the right, intending to slip past her.

  She matched his movement instantly, popping up before him once more. He halted, momentarily perplexed. He could hardly bob his head again, mouth another meaningless greeting and then lunge past her like an escaping wildebeest!

  She folded her arms and smiled wryly at him. “Penned you.”

  He attempted hauteur. “I have no idea what you mean.” Her smile widened. He could have sworn the hallway warmed instantly.

  She leaned forward. “I’ll give you a hint. The same trick rarely works twice on me.”

  He caught her scent. Sweet jasmine and warm, clean woman. She’d bathed again. I missed it? I missed the suds and the gleaming creamy skin and the pink nipples? “I … ah …” What the hell? He’d meant to retort with something dignified and imposing. She had him stuttering like a lad with nothing more than the thought of her in the bath!

  Bath. Soap. Breasts.

  Pull yourself together, man! She was gazing at him with one perfect brow raised in amused patience. “I forgot what I was going to say.” Except he hadn’t meant to say that! “What I mean is … I …”

  Now her brows drew together in a frown. “My lord, are you unwell?”

  Yes, I am unwell! I am about to burst my trousers from a mere whiff of your skin!

  Please, God, don’t let her look down.

  She didn’t, but kept her sapphire gaze locked to his. Her eyes were so beautiful. He’d seen bluer, although not many. He’d even seen the most fascinating shade of aquamarine—but he’d never seen eyes so perfectly clear and direct. Truthful eyes.

  A ridiculous notion. Eyes were simply eyes. Blue or brown or green, eyes showed nothing more or less than what a person chose to see in them. He’d chosen to see purity and affection in Melinda’s, simplicity and propriety in Phoebe’s. He’d been wrong on both counts, hadn’t he?

  “My lord, is there something amiss with me?”

  He yanked himself back to the moment. “Of course. I mean, no, of course not.” She was frankly frowning at him now. Who could blame her? He was acting like a lunatic.

  “You are the oddest man sometimes.”

  You have no idea, lovely Deirdre. And he had no intention of letting her know it. Letting out a gust of air, Calder forced his thoughts into something resembling logical order. “You had something to say concerning a dodo bird?”

  She blinked. “Oh. Yes.”

  He could almost see the clockworks rewinding in her head, gearing up for speed.

  “You lay your eggs in other birds’ nests and expect them to raise your young,” she stated triumphantly.

  “Cuckoo.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  He sighed, for he was in no mood for a lecture on his paternal shortcomings. “The cuckoo bird is the one who lays eggs in another bird’s nest.”

  “Oh.” She waved her hand negligently. “An insignificant detail. The point is—”

  “I grasp your point.” He held up one hand to forestall further harangue. “You believe Lady Margaret’s misbehavior is an attempt to corral my attention. You think she would settle down immediately if I took her for rides on my horse and read storybooks to her at bedtime.”

  That stopped her in her lovely tracks.

  He went on. “Your brilliant, life-changing proposition is that I abandon my responsibilities in order to be at the beck and call of the same small, willful being who has frightened off more than a dozen nurses and half again that many governesses—grown women, mind you—experienced professionals with astounding credentials and impeccable references, none of whom made it more than a week—most less than that.”

  He folded his arms and gazed down at his stunningly beautiful, gobsmacked wife. “Why in the world do you think that I—a man completely lacking experience and aptitude with children—could possibly do better for Lady Margaret than those many intelligent and accomplished women?”

  It was a brilliant argument delivered in his best high-lordly manner, one that had swept the rug out from under many an interfering governess and sent several of the above-mentioned hardened nurses sniffling piteously from his presence.

  Beauteous Deirdre, Lady Brookhaven, gently reared and indisputably ladylike, looked up at him with limpid blue eyes …

  And blew an incredibly crude noise through her lips.

  “What a cartload of horse-apples,” she said, and rolled her eyes.

  Then she stepped forward until she was close enough to wrap into his arms, to pull hard against him until she felt his desire press into her, to kiss that damp mouth until she lost the power of speech. He felt a dull pain
and looked down to see her index finger poking him in the chest.

  “Lord Brookhaven, you are a coward. What’s worse, you are a liar, as well.”

  Anger flared, mingling with the lust. “You tread dangerous ground, my lady.”

  Another roll of her eyes. “What will you do, lock me in my room and forget to feed me? I’ve already survived that, thank you very much. You would have to go a long way to outdo Lady Tessa’s punishments, and I don’t think you’re that kind of man.”

  Calder frowned. Could that be true? He truly ought to look into Lady Tessa further. That decided, he filed that tangent away and focused on the real issue at hand—his bride’s defiance. “Be careful, my lady.” He fixed her with his most baleful gaze. “Are you quite prepared to toss away every single social event until next Season?”

  He thought she’d quail or at least hesitate. Instead, she matched his menacing gaze and raised him another poke in the chest.

  “Brookhaven, you can chain me to the battlements and I’ll just shout you to sleep every night about Meggie. You claim to have responsibilities? What in the world could possibly mean more than your responsibility to your own child?”

  “My father was the Marquis of Brookhaven as well. He was far too busy and important to spend time sprawled on the floor playing with toy soldiers with little boys. Yet somehow I managed to grow to adulthood without attempting to ride a washtub down the stairs or setting fire to the draperies or any other of Lady Margaret’s latest offenses.”

  She looked perplexed. The expression was delightful sketched upon her features. “Did that work?”

  She’d lost him. “Did what work?”

  “Riding a washtub down the stairs. It seems to me that the bottom of the washtub has the wrong sort of configuration to handle the unevenness of the stairs.” She looked thoughtful. “A copper bathtub now—that ought to do the trick.”

  He blinked in surprise. Actually, a bathtub might indeed work—

  “Ah!” He pressed his fist to his forehead in a vain effort to keep his brain from exploding. “Enough about tubs, bath or otherwise! My point is—”