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Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01] by Desperately Seeking a Duke Page A
Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke
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on a biblical scale sounded good just then.
Rafe couldn’t kill his brother, but he could sure as hell pound his face into the marble floor of the foyer and relish every moment of it.
Phoebe.
Rafe’s hands had clenched into fists, snapping the fork’s
mother-of-pearl handle in two. He hadn’t noticed the stabbing pain as the edges dug into his flesh.
As much as he hated to admit it—and it took several snifters of brandy to make him admit it—he had no one to blame but himself. He could see so clearly where he’d gone wrong.
Hindsight was no comfort to the loser, however. The fact that he’d turned Calder’s attention to Phoebe like a well-trained pointer indicating a choice fowl to the hunter only made the facts all the more agonizing.
Of course, then he spent a good hour telling himself that one moonlit evening in a garden with a saucy and delightful angel didn’t matter at all.
Then he swung back to blaming Calder for yet again taking everything good for himself.
And she had accepted—how could she have accepted?
How could she not? A girl like that, a vicar’s daughter — what was she to do, turn down the richest man in London? “No, thank you, my lord. I don’t care to be your marchioness.”
Well, Calder wasn’t the richest man in London—quite. He wasn’t the most powerful either, although there were only about four or five others above him. He was handsome as well, since he looked a great deal like Rafe—and Rafe had never had any complaints. So how could one expect a young woman fresh from the country to say no to the Marquis of Brookhaven?
Perhaps none of that is the case. Perhaps she simply likes him better.
Everyone else does, after all.
The better man.
Their father, the previous marquis, had said that many times to Rafe in his wastrel days. “Thank God that Brookhaven will be in the hands of a better man than you!”
Hating Calder and despising Phoebe, while darkly entertaining, was not going to supply an answer for this dilemma.
What was done was done. Calder could hardly break his engagement without disgracing the woman and damaging his own closely protected reputation—something Calder wouldn’t do.
Phoebe, on the other hand …
He rubbed a hand over his face. She’d seemed the perfect answer. So sweet, yet full of earthy warmth.
And exhilarating. He smiled slightly. Sweet yet tart, dreamy yet spirited.
No. She’d never back out of the engagement. A girl like that didn’t change her mind once made. It killed him to think of all that loyalty and sweetness wasted on dour, automaton Calder.
Nor could he in good conscience say a word about last night. It had been innocent, for the most part. He would not compromise the lady.
He straightened, a quiet, despairing certainty settling over him.
Rafe looked down at his hands, which were still fisted and pale of knuckle. He willed them to open and relax.
So now Calder had it all. The estate, the title—
And her.
His fingers curled with old fury once more.
THE GUEST PARLOR in Tessa’s rented house was a formal room carefully decorated not to give offense, which only made the mingled bland floral and muted stripes jar Phoebe’s eye in their own way.
Or perhaps it was just her. Perhaps this was all some sort of ghastly dream, the sort one had when one overindulged on chocolates. No, it was all horribly real. The vicar was
beaming, Tessa was trilling, Deirdre was looking on in sardonic silence, and Sophie was gazing dreamily at the window.
Phoebe sat in perfect stillness on the settee next to the Marquis of Brookhaven and tried dutifully to listen over the buzzing in her ears. The world had an eerie sharpness, yet the color seemed leached from Tessa’s salmon-pink gown and the vicar’s dark coat.
Seated next to her, Brookhaven was garbed in perfect black and white. Phoebe herself was in proper virginal white muslin with nary a sprig or pattern. Together they seemed a proper indication of her life to come.
Black and
Rafe couldn’t kill his brother, but he could sure as hell pound his face into the marble floor of the foyer and relish every moment of it.
Phoebe.
Rafe’s hands had clenched into fists, snapping the fork’s
mother-of-pearl handle in two. He hadn’t noticed the stabbing pain as the edges dug into his flesh.
As much as he hated to admit it—and it took several snifters of brandy to make him admit it—he had no one to blame but himself. He could see so clearly where he’d gone wrong.
Hindsight was no comfort to the loser, however. The fact that he’d turned Calder’s attention to Phoebe like a well-trained pointer indicating a choice fowl to the hunter only made the facts all the more agonizing.
Of course, then he spent a good hour telling himself that one moonlit evening in a garden with a saucy and delightful angel didn’t matter at all.
Then he swung back to blaming Calder for yet again taking everything good for himself.
And she had accepted—how could she have accepted?
How could she not? A girl like that, a vicar’s daughter — what was she to do, turn down the richest man in London? “No, thank you, my lord. I don’t care to be your marchioness.”
Well, Calder wasn’t the richest man in London—quite. He wasn’t the most powerful either, although there were only about four or five others above him. He was handsome as well, since he looked a great deal like Rafe—and Rafe had never had any complaints. So how could one expect a young woman fresh from the country to say no to the Marquis of Brookhaven?
Perhaps none of that is the case. Perhaps she simply likes him better.
Everyone else does, after all.
The better man.
Their father, the previous marquis, had said that many times to Rafe in his wastrel days. “Thank God that Brookhaven will be in the hands of a better man than you!”
Hating Calder and despising Phoebe, while darkly entertaining, was not going to supply an answer for this dilemma.
What was done was done. Calder could hardly break his engagement without disgracing the woman and damaging his own closely protected reputation—something Calder wouldn’t do.
Phoebe, on the other hand …
He rubbed a hand over his face. She’d seemed the perfect answer. So sweet, yet full of earthy warmth.
And exhilarating. He smiled slightly. Sweet yet tart, dreamy yet spirited.
No. She’d never back out of the engagement. A girl like that didn’t change her mind once made. It killed him to think of all that loyalty and sweetness wasted on dour, automaton Calder.
Nor could he in good conscience say a word about last night. It had been innocent, for the most part. He would not compromise the lady.
He straightened, a quiet, despairing certainty settling over him.
Rafe looked down at his hands, which were still fisted and pale of knuckle. He willed them to open and relax.
So now Calder had it all. The estate, the title—
And her.
His fingers curled with old fury once more.
THE GUEST PARLOR in Tessa’s rented house was a formal room carefully decorated not to give offense, which only made the mingled bland floral and muted stripes jar Phoebe’s eye in their own way.
Or perhaps it was just her. Perhaps this was all some sort of ghastly dream, the sort one had when one overindulged on chocolates. No, it was all horribly real. The vicar was
beaming, Tessa was trilling, Deirdre was looking on in sardonic silence, and Sophie was gazing dreamily at the window.
Phoebe sat in perfect stillness on the settee next to the Marquis of Brookhaven and tried dutifully to listen over the buzzing in her ears. The world had an eerie sharpness, yet the color seemed leached from Tessa’s salmon-pink gown and the vicar’s dark coat.
Seated next to her, Brookhaven was garbed in perfect black and white. Phoebe herself was in proper virginal white muslin with nary a sprig or pattern. Together they seemed a proper indication of her life to come.
Black and
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