Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01] by Desperately Seeking a Duke

“Oh, Papa …”
    Astoundingly, the vicar merely put his arms about her and patted her rather too firmly on the back. “There, there, my
dear. I suppose a bride is entitled to a bit of an exhibition, as long as she keeps it among family, eh, Brookhaven?”
    Brookhaven cleared his throat. “Might I assume there won’t be many such occasions?”
    The vicar chuckled crustily. “Oh, no need to worry about that. My Phoebe is a most sensible young lady.”
    My Phoebe. My dear. Words she’d ached for.
    She had inadvertently made her father’s dreams come true.
    What of your own?
    Despair and loss mingled with the desire for more of the vicar’s rare approval. Phoebe inhaled deeply of the vicar’s tobacco-scented weskit, then straightened, dabbing at her eyes with her demure-vicar’s-daughter smile upon her face. “Pray, pardon my excess, my lord, Papa. I am quite all right now.”
    And she was.
    No you’re not. This is not how it is supposed to be and you know it.
    Yes, she was. She was engaged to a fine, handsome, wealthy man who just might make her one of the richest women in London—and she was basking in the vicar’s unqualified approval for perhaps the first time in her life.
    What wasn’t fine about that?
    Something inside her gave a last despairing wail, and then finally, thankfully, shut up.

Chapter Eight
    The early sun still slanted through the windows of Brook House, but each moment passed like an hour in Rafe’s swirling thoughts. He’d tapped the brandy decanter immediately after Calder’s departure this morning, but the fragrant amber liquid wasn’t up to its usual ability to make him forget.
    Now he stood, white-knuckled fists braced on the window frame, staring unseeing at the street visible from the front of Brook House.
    Calder was engaged to Miss Phoebe Millbury.
    His Miss Millbury!
    Rafe had tossed and turned all night, trying to compose the perfect “this is romantic, not raving mad” proposal to present to Miss Millbury.
    He tried to shut out the memory of himself humming the latest off-color ditty as he’d tied his cravat and pulled one of his signature silver-buttoned blue coats on over his shirt and waistcoat.
    Downstairs in the breakfast room, Calder, of course, had been up for hours. Rafe had joined him silently, still pondering the best way to present his potential engagement to his brother. Calder had casually cleared his throat.
    “You should be the first to know, Rafe. I took your advice and this morning I received word that Miss Phoebe Millbury
has consented to be my wife. Her aunt has guardianship of her for the moment, but Lady Tessa believes there will be no objection from the girl’s father. Thank you for saving me much tedious study and consideration.”
    No.
    For an eternal moment, Rafe could not draw a breath. Then, through the roaring in his mind, he’d managed to speak. “It has been only hours since the ball.” His voice had croaked. He hadn’t cared.
    Calder had only chuckled, apparently oblivious. “That sort of thing does not take long if one employs the right people to investigate. She is entirely suitable; although her great-grandfather was in trade, there has been adequate rise in the family’s station so that the difference is not inappropriate. She brings no wealth, but then, I don’t need it.”
    Still Rafe could not breathe for the fury that consumed him. Once again, the ripest fruit fell easily into Calder’s oh-so-deserving hand.
    But wait … simply because Calder had proposed didn’t mean that—
    “She accepted my offer with dispatch,” Calder had gone on to say. “I find that admirably decisive, don’t you? Miss Millbury must be a very practical, nonromantic sort.”
    With dispatch. She hadn’t even hesitated, it seemed. And why would she? That moment in the garden, that soft whisper of possibility that had hung in the air between them … in truth, he’d been the only one to feel it.
    Cain and Abel—murder between brothers. Vengeance