his skin to the satisfying pressure of his mouth on hers. It was unbearable. Worse yet was having to endure such blatant matchmaking from her aunts. Heat flooded her face. “I cannot think what my aunts are doing, forcing us together in such a manner.”
Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Don’t look so crest- fallen. Napoleon wouldn’t have stood a chance against such steely determination.”
Arabella managed to say in a quite normal voice, “They can be quite determined once they take a notion.”
“I noticed,” he said dryly.
Despite her irritation, a smile tickled the corner of her mouth. “They are as gentle as lambs, really. Just stub- born.”
“A family trait, I would say.”
Her smile disappeared. “If you are saying I am stub- born, then I—”
“I was speaking of the portrait.” Lucien’s gaze slipped past her to the picture of the Captain hanging over the fire- place. A far-off look entered his green eyes. “Now, there is a man who knew what he wanted. You can see it in his eyes.”
She favored the portrait with a brief glance. “He was a wastrel and a philanderer. Legend has it that his ghost appears to warn of impending danger and when one of the family marries their . . .” True love . She hesitated, then closed her mouth. Lucien did not need to know more.
“Have you ever seen the Captain?” His eyes were strangely bright, evidence of Aunt Jane’s tonic.
“Aunt Emma sees him quite frequently. Or so she claims.” She really should get up and go to her room, but the sight of the bandage on his chest stayed her. If he tore his stitches, he would be here that much longer. She shifted impatiently in her chair. “What can be taking them so long?”
Lucien captured her wrist and, before her astonished gaze, carefully uncurled her fingers one by one until her hand lay open before him. “You have dimples on your knuckles,” he murmured.
She wrinkled her nose and he laughed. The rich sound sent a tremor through her, warming her all over as if she had imbibed too much tonic.
Arabella glanced at him from under her lashes. She had not allowed herself to remember this part of Lucien—his quick laughter, his tenderness, the ease with which he could make her smile. She had even forgotten the heady sensuality that he wore about him like a cloak. It made her yearn to brush her fingertips over his cheek, his jaw, his chest.
Lucien lifted his gaze to hers. Moving ever so slowly, he lifted her hand and placed a kiss on her wrist, his mouth lingering on her bare skin.
Her every sense filled with him—the heady scent of cinnamon, the exquisite scrape of his stubbled jaw along her wrist. . . . Arabella caught herself just before she was swept over a waterfall of desire. She yanked her hand free and tucked it securely by her side. For added measure, she wrapped the memories of his betrayal tightly about her heart. “You should rest, Your Grace. My aunts will return soon.”
Something flickered in his green gaze and then was gone, replaced by a careless shrug that hurt worse than any words could. He yawned and snuggled farther into the bed, favoring her with a drowsy smile. “You may not remember as I do, but it doesn’t matter. We shall just have to find new memories, you and I.” His eyes slid closed and he murmured, “What fun that shall be.”
With that last, cryptic phrase, the infuriating Duke of Wexford fell into a deep sleep.
nm
Chapter 5
A
rabella grasped the handle of the damper and pulled. The rusted metal groaned as if mortally wounded, but didn’t budge. She gritted her teeth against
her irritation.
While she loved Rosemont, it was a Herculean task to maintain. Built in Tudor times, the rambling stone house possessed large, inefficient fireplaces, leaky windows, and rusty door hinges, just to name a few inconveniences. She tried not to think of the major repairs the house so desper- ately needed.
She planted one foot on the side of the fireplace, wrapped her hands
Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Don’t look so crest- fallen. Napoleon wouldn’t have stood a chance against such steely determination.”
Arabella managed to say in a quite normal voice, “They can be quite determined once they take a notion.”
“I noticed,” he said dryly.
Despite her irritation, a smile tickled the corner of her mouth. “They are as gentle as lambs, really. Just stub- born.”
“A family trait, I would say.”
Her smile disappeared. “If you are saying I am stub- born, then I—”
“I was speaking of the portrait.” Lucien’s gaze slipped past her to the picture of the Captain hanging over the fire- place. A far-off look entered his green eyes. “Now, there is a man who knew what he wanted. You can see it in his eyes.”
She favored the portrait with a brief glance. “He was a wastrel and a philanderer. Legend has it that his ghost appears to warn of impending danger and when one of the family marries their . . .” True love . She hesitated, then closed her mouth. Lucien did not need to know more.
“Have you ever seen the Captain?” His eyes were strangely bright, evidence of Aunt Jane’s tonic.
“Aunt Emma sees him quite frequently. Or so she claims.” She really should get up and go to her room, but the sight of the bandage on his chest stayed her. If he tore his stitches, he would be here that much longer. She shifted impatiently in her chair. “What can be taking them so long?”
Lucien captured her wrist and, before her astonished gaze, carefully uncurled her fingers one by one until her hand lay open before him. “You have dimples on your knuckles,” he murmured.
She wrinkled her nose and he laughed. The rich sound sent a tremor through her, warming her all over as if she had imbibed too much tonic.
Arabella glanced at him from under her lashes. She had not allowed herself to remember this part of Lucien—his quick laughter, his tenderness, the ease with which he could make her smile. She had even forgotten the heady sensuality that he wore about him like a cloak. It made her yearn to brush her fingertips over his cheek, his jaw, his chest.
Lucien lifted his gaze to hers. Moving ever so slowly, he lifted her hand and placed a kiss on her wrist, his mouth lingering on her bare skin.
Her every sense filled with him—the heady scent of cinnamon, the exquisite scrape of his stubbled jaw along her wrist. . . . Arabella caught herself just before she was swept over a waterfall of desire. She yanked her hand free and tucked it securely by her side. For added measure, she wrapped the memories of his betrayal tightly about her heart. “You should rest, Your Grace. My aunts will return soon.”
Something flickered in his green gaze and then was gone, replaced by a careless shrug that hurt worse than any words could. He yawned and snuggled farther into the bed, favoring her with a drowsy smile. “You may not remember as I do, but it doesn’t matter. We shall just have to find new memories, you and I.” His eyes slid closed and he murmured, “What fun that shall be.”
With that last, cryptic phrase, the infuriating Duke of Wexford fell into a deep sleep.
nm
Chapter 5
A
rabella grasped the handle of the damper and pulled. The rusted metal groaned as if mortally wounded, but didn’t budge. She gritted her teeth against
her irritation.
While she loved Rosemont, it was a Herculean task to maintain. Built in Tudor times, the rambling stone house possessed large, inefficient fireplaces, leaky windows, and rusty door hinges, just to name a few inconveniences. She tried not to think of the major repairs the house so desper- ately needed.
She planted one foot on the side of the fireplace, wrapped her hands
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