A Belated Bride
Karen Hawkins
For my mother Damaris Evelyn Berry Smith—
who blessed me with a lust for life,
a love of laughter,
and a very strange imagination.
Mom, thanks for just being.
And to all the readers who sent tons of
cards, letters, and emails after reading
The Abduction of Julia—don’t worry!
Nick’s story will be next.
Thank you for all of your support.
Contents
Chapter 1
“Lawks, Wilson! Why’d ye go an’ do that?”
Chapter 2
Lucien awoke slowly, adrift in muted sensations. His head lay…
Chapter 3
Lady Melwin sat knitting, her needles clacking through the red…
Chapter 4
Lucien awoke slowly, pulled from deep sleep by a pounding…
Chapter 5
Arabella grasped the handle of the damper and pulled. The…
Chapter 6
“Bloody hell,” Lucien choked. “What’s this?”
Chapter 7
“What do you want, Lucien?”
Chapter 8
Hours later, Arabella entered her aunts’ room with an impatient…
Chapter 9
Buoyed by the duke’s brooding glances at her niece during…
Chapter 10
Lucien stepped onto the terrace and lifted his face to…
Chapter 11
“By yonder blessed moon I swear…” said a deep, mocking…
Chapter 12
Dinner that night was grueling for Arabella. Lucien took every…
Chapter 13
Sir David Loughton swung out of the saddle. “Damnation,” he…
Chapter 14
Night was her favorite time. Arabella loved the endless black…
Chapter 15
The Red Rooster was unremarkable in that it offered moderately…
Chapter 16
“Don’t look at me like that,” Arabella muttered at the…
Chapter 17
Arabella closed the barn door and went to pat Sebastian,…
Chapter 18
Arabella rested until noon, waiting impatiently for Lucien to return.
Chapter 19
Arabella frowned at the snow-covered road. “This isn’t the way.”
Chapter 20
Arabella turned back toward the fire, afraid to look too…
Chapter 21
A brisk rap awoke Arabella from a deep, languorous sleep.
Chapter 22
Lucien and Arabella rode up to Rosemont on Sebastian and…
Chapter 23
Aunt Jane was determined that the wedding would be the…
Chapter 24
A soft knock sounded. Startled, Arabella sat bolt upright in…
Chapter 25
There had never been a lovelier bride, decided Aunt Jane,…
Chapter 26
Lucien heaved a heavy sigh of relief as the door…
Chapter 27
Lucien checked his pocket watch for the fourth time. The…
Chapter 28
Liza stared up at the tree, whose huge branches swayed…
About the Author
Other Romances
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Yorkshire, England
November 1815
“Lawks, Wilson! Why’d ye go an’ do that?”
The carriage jolted to a sudden halt, sending a basket of raspberry jam crashing to the floor. In alarm, Arabella Hadley threw open the carriage door and peered through the night gloom. “Ned? What’s happened?”
“Come quick, Miss Hadley!” the stable hand called. A stout, simple lad of seventeen, he also served as footman, errand boy, cook’s assistant, and did every other odd job Arabella could not afford to hire out. “Wilson’s done it agin.”
The old groom’s voice lifted in protest. “Hush your blatherin’, boy! There’s no need to call the missus.”
Arabella stepped across the spilled jam and clambered out of the carriage. She only hoped Wilson hadn’t run over another hapless pig. Lord Harlbrook still hadn’t recovered from the loss of his prize livestock from last month. She halted when she came to the front of the carriage. “Why have we stopped?”
Ned pointed to Wilson, who stood muttering to one side of the coach. “He was drivin’ the coach like a madman agin, and—”
“I was not,” Wilson protested.
“Were, too. As we came ’round the corner, it musta frightened the man’s horse cause it jus’ bolted up and—”
“What man?” Arabella interrupted.
Wilson pointed with a grubby hand to the side of the road.
Arabella turned with apprehension. In the dim light, she could just make out the form of a large man lying prone in the dirt. Her heart sank when she noted his multi-caped coat and the unmistakable gleam of a costly pair of Hessians, shined to mirrored perfection.
“Heavens!” she managed in a faint voice. “Is he…dead?”
“Lawks, no.” Wilson jerked his thumb toward a fat, craggy tree. “He jus’ smacked his head on that branch when his horse reared.”
The low-slung limb quivered as if still recoiling from the blow. Thank God Wilson hadn’t run over the poor man; the last thing she needed was the attention of the local constabulary.
The old groom poked at the man with the tip of his worn boot. “Must not have much of a seat, to lose control of his mount.”
“A green ’un,” agreed Ned. “Pity his horse ran off. Master Robert would have liked such a prime goer.”
“The last thing my brother needs is a horse that rears at the slightest provocation,” Arabella said in a dry tone. “Give me the lantern. I must see how badly this poor man is injured.”
“Don’t get too close,” warned Wilson from a safe distance. “He might come awake and be none too happy to find hisself a-lyin’ on the ground.”
“If he lunges at me, I give you full permission to shoot him.” Arabella bent to examine the man by the lantern’s light. “Judging by the quality of his clothing, he must be a gentleman of some means.”
Wilson snorted. “He may look a gent, but ye ne’er know. Don’t get any closer, Miss Arabella. Lady Durham and Lady Melwin would never forgive us if anything happened to you.”
Arabella thought her aunts would be more upset that they had not been present for such an exciting episode. Aunt Emma and Aunt Jane were both addicted to flights of romantic fancy. Fortunately, life had cured Arabella of that fault long, long ago.
She bent closer to the fallen man. He lay on his side, his broad shoulders rising and falling in a reassuringly steady rhythm. Black as midnight, his hair fell across a large purple lump on his brow, while the rest of his face remained obscured by the folds of a woolen muffler.
The wind rose, carrying with it the faintest taste of snow. Arabella shivered and tugged her cloak closer. She had little choice but to take their guest back to Rosemont. Her aunts would look after him until the doctor could be sent for.
As Arabella was turning away from the fallen man, something caught the light. A gold signet ring set with a huge square-cut emerald glittered on the stranger’s shapely hand. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she set the lantern on the frozen road and sank to her knees.
Sweet heaven, it can’t be—Every thought in her mind froze.
“Look at that gewgaw!” Wilson said, awed. “Must be a nabob, to have a ring like that.” His brow creased. “Ye don’t think he’ll be angry at me fer scarin’ his horse, do ye?”
Her heart pounding in her ears, Arabella bare
ly heard the groom’s words. She reached for the muffler, numbed as if she were in a dream. Just as her fingers closed over the wool, a powerful hand enclosed her wrist like a band of warmed steel. The man’s eyes opened and met hers.
Slumberous and seductive, his gaze held her prisoner. Framed by thick curling lashes, his green eyes were as beautiful as an angel’s.
She knew those eyes. Knew them better, perhaps, than her own. She knew, too, what she would see beneath the muffler: golden skin and a bold, patrician nose over a sensuous mouth designed for forbidden pleasures.
“Lucien.” The forgotten feel of his name whispered across her stiff lips. Though his hand still gripped her wrist, she pulled the muffler free, her knuckles brushing against his stubbled jaw. A bolt of raw heat lanced through her fingers and settled in her breasts, then slid lower.
Arabella hunched her shoulders at the strength of her reactions, panic rising. God help her, but she was still under his spell. With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she yanked her hand free, cradling it to her chest as if burned.
His gaze flickered and his mouth curved in a lazy smile.
But Arabella refused to respond. Whatever she may be, she was no longer an inexperienced miss of sixteen. “Damn you, Lucien. Why did you come back?”
His mouth parted as if he would answer, but then his eyes slid shut and his head fell to one side as unconsciousness once again claimed him.
“Ye know him, missus?” Wilson’s voice quavered between hope and fear.
Arabella stumbled to her feet, her hands clenched in the folds of her skirt. “He is Lucien Devereaux, the Duke of Wexford.”
“A duke! They’ll hang me fer certain.”
Ned gawked. “Jus’ fer scarin’ his horse?”
“It don’t take much with the gentry.”
Arabella glared down at Lucien, hating him anew for disrupting her life yet again. For an instant she contemplated leaving him where he lay, alone and helpless.
But the brisk wind cooled more than her burning cheeks. Neither her conscience nor her aunts would allow her such a luxury. With a heavy sigh, she picked up the lantern. “Help me get him into the coach. My aunts can tend him until we locate his mount.”
Grumbling at the inconvenience, Wilson and Ned carried Lucien to the coach and pushed and pulled him onto the leather seat. Arabella had just gathered her skirts to climb in herself when Ned stopped.
“Gor’, mistress,” he whispered hoarsely. Eyes wide, he held out his hand.
Blood glistened on his fingertips.
Wilson blanched as Arabella pushed Ned aside and climbed onto the seat. She fumbled with Lucien’s greatcoat, tugging at the heavy material. Ned hurried to assist her, and between them, they removed it and the tight-fitting coat beneath.
From the snug fit of his breeches to the intricate folds of his cravat, Lucien Devereaux looked every inch the Duke of Wexford. Only the rip in his shirt and the bloodstain around it marred the perfection.
Ned shook his head, disgust wrinkling his nose. “Ne’er knew a duke to bleed so. Must not eat much bread puddin’.’”
From the door, Wilson watched as Arabella struggled to undo the mother-of-pearl buttons on the waistcoat, his face pale with anxiety. “If’n he dies, they’ll hang me.”
“He will not die,” Arabella said sharply. “I’ve waited ten years to tell this pestilent cad what I think of him and I’ll not wait longer.”
Wilson managed a weak chuckle. “Aye, that’s the way to talk him into livin’, missus. Ye jus’—” He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What’s that?”
Above the sound of the wind came the baying of dogs on the hunt. The howling echoed across the mist-shrouded moor and dissipated into the black night.
Wilson turned a white face to Arabella. “Constable Robbins’s dogs.”
Not now. Please, God, not now. She had been so careful, so cautious that no one learn the reason for her late-night jaunts. Heaven help them all if she was discovered.
Unaware of the tension, Ned rubbed his chin where a small layer of red fuzz had lately begun to grow. “He’s probably out lookin’ fer smugglers. I heard tell he’s made a vow to catch ’em all afore winter.”
Wilson swallowed noisily. “Perhaps we should be gettin’ under way, missus.”
The dogs bayed again, the sound bone-chilling and ominous. Arabella turned back to Lucien. “To Rosemont, Wilson. And quickly.”
She heard him barking orders to the hapless Ned. The stable hand scurried off, Wilson hard on his heels, and within seconds the coach was careening down the road at breakneck speed.
The lantern swayed, the light flickering across Lucien’s pale face. Arabella set to work loosening his cravat, but the stubborn knot held. Frustrated, she shoved it to one side and pulled his shirt free, ripping it open when it resisted her efforts. She faltered at the expanse of naked skin.
He was more muscular than she remembered. Not that he’d ever been anything other than fit and beautiful. But the Lucien Devereaux she had known had been a self-indulgent viscount kicking his heels in the country while waiting for the season to begin.
Wildly handsome, he had been a shameless hedonist and a Corinthian of the highest sort, excelling in every sport from fencing to riding. Still, he hadn’t possessed the raw strength and power evinced by the man bared before her.
She used the edge of his torn shirt to wipe the blood from his shoulder so she could see the wound. The tree branch had inflicted more damage than a bump on the head. A long, jagged gash followed the curve of his shoulder across sinew and muscle. Though it bled steadily, it didn’t appear to be very deep. Relieved he was not mortally wounded, she looked about for something to serve as a bandage, but found nothing.
“Wonderful,” she muttered. “I suppose I shall have to use my new petticoat. I should have left you in the road, Lucien Devereaux, and let the mice have you.”
Scowling fiercely, she lifted the edge of her skirt and ripped a long strip free. Then she folded it into a neat square and strapped it into place with the thick muffler, tying the ends as tightly as she dared.
“There. That should hold you until we get to Rosemont.” Arabella pulled the heavy carriage blanket from beneath the seat and tucked it around him, more for her peace of mind than for his comfort. It was disconcerting to sit in the same carriage with all those rippling muscles and smooth, golden skin only an arm’s length away.
Holding her cloak closer, she sank into the corner of the carriage and fervently prayed that a rabbit would cross the path of Constable Robbins’s well-trained hounds.
A faint smile tugged her mouth at the thought, though it did little to untie the knots in her stomach. She was so close to success. If things continued to progress, everything would be taken care of within the next year—her father’s debts, Robert’s doctor bills. She might even have enough left to complete the improvements on Rosemont. All she needed was time. Time and a little luck.
Of course, luck did not seem to be favoring her just now. She stole a glance at Lucien from beneath her lashes. He lay sprawled in the corner, muttering restlessly at each bump and dip. Though she knew it was childish, Arabella only wished he were fully conscious so she could enjoy his discomfort.
The lumbering coach struck a particularly deep rut and Lucien let out a low groan, his hand reaching for his wounded shoulder. Arabella dived across the coach just as his fingers settled about her hastily tied dressing. His brows lowered and he struggled to free himself from the bandage.
Refusing to give way, she held tight, wrapping both of her hands about his. After a moment, he subsided and slipped sideways until his head rested in her lap, his breathing shallow but steady.
Arabella waited until his brow had smoothed before she carefully pulled the blanket back into place. He looked peaceful, his thick lashes resting on his cheeks, as innocent and guileless as a boy.
But she was not fooled. She knew him too well. Leaning forward, Arabella whispered into his ear, “If you
live through this, Lucien Devereaux, I just may kill you myself.”
Chapter 2
Lucien awoke slowly, adrift in muted sensations. His head lay nestled in a warm, soft cushion while the delectable scent of raspberries sparked visions of lazy summer days.
Except for the occasional sway and creak of a poorly sprung coach, he could almost believe himself to be ensconced in a wondrously soft bed, suffering from no more than an enthusiastic night of brandy.
He shifted and an icy cold stab dispelled his pleasant fantasy. No night of overindulgence had ever hurt this much. He raised a hand, his fingers instinctively reaching for his shoulder.
“Be careful how you move,” commanded a feminine voice. Husky and low, the faint Yorkshire accent sparked a distant memory. For an instant, Lucien had a clear vision of warm brown eyes and petal-soft lips.
Distracted from his pain, he forced his eyes open. A sweet, heart-shaped face stared down at him, the delicate sable brows lowered.
His heart thudded an extra beat. He knew those eyes, had felt those rosebud lips beneath his, long, long ago. His gaze dropped to the soft, rounded breasts that loomed above him. “Bella.”
Her hand, once lying so trustfully beside his cheek, balled into a fist. “Perhaps Your Grace would find it more expedient to address my face and not my bosom.”
Frost crackled along the prim voice and Lucien winced. Steeling himself, he dragged his gaze to hers and offered an apologetic grin. But he knew there would be no forgiveness; he had sinned against her in ways much worse than a thoughtless comment.
She pointed to the opposite seat. “Move.”
There was nothing for it but to comply. Lying with his head in her lap was not an advantageous position from which to argue; not to mention the effect her nearness was having on his unsteady senses.