A Belated Bride by Karen Hawkins

half the number of ewes.”
    “It is a very healthy mixture,” Jane added. “A little chamomile, some St. John’s wort, a goodly dash of rose hips.”
    “And some laudanum,” Emma said. “There is no laudanum in the tonic.”
    “Not usually, but I added a drop,” Emma managed to say around a mouthful of plum pudding. “Thought it might help the duke to sleep.”
    Lucien closed his eyes. “Bloody hell, I’ve been poi- soned.”
    “Nonsense,” Jane said briskly. “You will be up and about in no time at all.”
    Emma pushed her spectacles back up her nose. “Sooner than most men, I would imagine.”
    “For the love of—” Arabella’s hands fisted at her sides. “Lucien Devereaux is no different from any other man.”
    That hurt. Lucien opened his mouth to protest, but Jane
    leaned close to her niece and whispered loudly, “Trust me, dearest. This one is a bit better than average, even for a duke.”
    “Sweet Sampson, yes,” agreed Emma, fanning herself. Her gaze wandered toward Lucien and he could have sworn she stared at his leg.
    Arabella placed a hand on her forehead, where the slightest ache was beginning to pinch. It had been a long and arduous day, filled with a visit from her steward regarding the shambling state of the barn in the west field, and Wilson’s dire predictions about having a wounded duke in the house. She wanted nothing more than to seek out the quiet of the library and lose herself in a good book.
    Instead, she was arguing with her aunts, while a drugged Lucien watched with an amiable, witless grin. It was more than she could bear.
    Well, if Aunt Jane and Aunt Emma wanted to keep their precious duke, they were welcome to him. They could tend him until they were sick and tired of his autocratic ways and ready to kick him head over heels all the way back to London.
    His complete victory over her aunts caused a pang. It was rare that they championed anyone’s causes over hers. Of course, they did not know about Lucien and his deser- tion all those years ago. At that time, both Jane and Emma had had households of their own in faraway Devonshire, and rarely visited Rosemont.
    Arabella sighed. Come what may, he would be gone in a week. Surely one simple week wouldn’t hurt her. “If you are so determined to keep him here, then so be it. But let me warn you—I am far too busy to care for him. You will have to do it yourselves.”
    “Of course, dear,” soothed Aunt Jane, coming to lead
    Arabella to a chair by Lucien’s bed. “In the meantime, you sit right here and eat something.”
    Arabella locked her knees in place and refused to sit, despite the pressure her aunt placed on her shoulders. “No, thank you. I’ve already—”
    Aunt Emma stepped past Aunt Jane and shoved the tray into Arabella’s lap, forcing her into the seat. “Here, dearest. You must be famished and I— Oh, my! No bread!”
    Jane was already standing by the door. “We’ll be right back with hot bread and the duke’s gruel. Don’t leave the poor duke alone, Arabella. He is drugged, you know, and may move and tear his stitches.”
    Before Arabella could protest, two sets of feet scurried down the stairwell. She looked down at the heavy tray and her disgusted gaze fell on a plate of hot bread, steam gen- tly wafting from the top piece. “Damn,” she muttered.
    “Such language,” a low, sleepy voice mocked.
    Arabella jerked her gaze to Lucien. He regarded her through half-closed eyes, his mouth curved in a lazy grin. She had an instant impression of his warmth sur- rounding her, the firm line of his jaw scraping against her chin just before he claimed her mouth with his, the possessive feel of his hands as he molded her body against his. . . . Damn the man. She thought she had quelled her unruly memories years ago. But ever since Lucien had kissed her in the carriage, it was as if a door had been thrown open. To her horror, she discovered she could remember every nuance of his touch—from the texture of