Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] (10 page)

Sophie, you were so right about me
.

Regret ate at him, but he knew he couldn’t take too much time for self-flagellation. After all, wasn’t that just another form of selfishness, wasting his energies on himself yet again?

He lifted his head from his hands when Nichols announced a visitor. “At this hour?”

Nichols cast him a sour glance, implying that if Nichols had to be up and about to tend his thoughtless master, everyone in the world might as well be up and about.

Poor old Nichols hadn’t taken the passing of the Edencourt torch well at all. Graham had hoped the man would take his retirement—though he had nothing to pension him off with—but Nichols doggedly continued to serve, albeit with many a disdainful sniff for punctuation.

The true test had come when Graham would not
schedule a grand lying-in-state for when the old duke and his sons arrived back in England after their three-week voyage by ship.

Graham didn’t think that the bodies would be viewable after the elephant and the long voyage. Nor had his father so many friends that might merit a great funeral. Graham planned on slipping them quietly into the family cemetery on Edencourt lands the moment the ship made port. The less fuss the better, although Nichols might never bring him hot bathwater again.

The caller was a stout man whom Graham had never met. The fellow’s name escaped Graham’s memory immediately, for introductions were followed by the presentation of the late duke’s IOUs.

Graham flipped through the signed sheets, hoping to see some sign of fraud, but it was evident from the scrawling signature that his father had borrowed against the estates profits several years in advance—profits that would never arise if considerable funds were not pumped into the lands at once! It was so much worse than he’d feared! Where was he ever going to find a bride whose family would not only shore up Edencourt, but pay back bloody decades of debt!

“Are you sure . . .” Graham rubbed at his face. “I mean . . . isn’t there some way we can come to some sort of agreement?”

His caller leaned forward and tapped at the documents. “Your Grace, these are the agreements! I’ve made concession after concession for your family. I have no choice but to call these due at once.”

Graham took a breath. “I have a lot of numbers to
tally before I can come up with any sort of . . . Well, there is a solution of sorts in the works—” Would the fellow take a possibility of a wealthy marriage as assurance enough? It sounded pretty damned weak to Graham.

The man gazed at him pityingly. “Your Grace, I’m not the worst of what’s coming. I know the men your family went to in the end when no honest man would extend them further credit. That’s why I came quickly while you’re still . . . here.”

Graham looked up at that hesitation.
While you’re still alive
. Was that what the fellow meant to say? Surely not. Surely his father had had better sense than to sink to dangerous levels?

Yet where would this better sense have suddenly appeared from, when the old duke had never exhibited a bit of it before?

Graham spread his hands helplessly. “I fully intend to meet all my family’s debts. How can I assure you of that fact?”

The fellow cast a glance about him, his eyes greedily taking in the art, the hangings, the fine if dented furniture. “Well, I’ve a cart outside, by chance—”

Chance. Right. Graham gazed at him with sour resignation. His heritage was going to be peeled right down to the walls before all this was done, wasn’t it?

An hour later, the fellow left with a cart full of valuables—including the silver, the loss of which had sent Nichols into fits of dour agony—and a satisfied look. In return, Graham had kept back several of the IOUs.

Now he knelt before the fire, tossing them slowly in, one by one.

Trying to make them last
—
make it seem like more? That’s pathetic
.

Ah, but pathetic he was, or at least that’s how he felt at the moment.

Right now, Edencourt’s people needed him. And he needed a rich bride. There wasn’t a moment to spare, for with the span of courtship and engagement, it might be months before he had anything to put into the estate.

There were only a few weeks left of the Season as well. All the charm in the world wouldn’t get his people through another winter. The weight of his situation threatened to bow him to the ground.

Returning to the desk, he rubbed at his face, forcing his eyes to focus on the reports spread before him. He took the chair again without a thought, settling unconsciously and easily into its size and grandeur.

Acres, groves, woods—the bared bones of Edencourt. Crumbling mills, decrepit stables, rotted silos—the tatty garments of the dying estate. The cottagers—the beating heart that slowed with every passing moment.

To save them he would marry a horse, provided it was a very wealthy one. If his bride merely looked and neighed like a horse, he would consider himself a lucky man.

The words and figures before him began to swim in his vision. Shaking his head, he pushed back from the desk. It wasn’t possible to learn in days what he ought to have spent a lifetime studying. The best he could do
for Edencourt now was to get some rest and be bright-eyed and ready to sell himself body, soul and title on the auction block of Society tomorrow night.

He glanced at the hour. Rather, tonight. It was surprising how much it bothered him to contemplate a loveless marriage of convenience. Odd, he’d never even realized he was such a romantic.

The sky outside the arched window had brightened. Another night without rest. He really ought to go to bed before he frightened off any potential heiresses. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet and left the study, grabbed his hat and gloves from the table in the entrance hall and strode out into the early morning light.

Without thinking, Graham allowed his feet to turn in the direction of Brook House.

GRAHAM WASN’T THE
only one who had a sleepless night.

In her bedchamber at Brook House, Sophie leaned forward to peer at herself in the vanity mirror. She was going to pay when Lementeur saw the circles beneath her eyes, but she simply hadn’t been able to close them all night!

Behind her, Patricia nearly danced with excitement as she brought in the gown for “Sofia’s” debut. “Oh, miss, it’s so elegant. You’ll look a treat, you will!”

Sophie stood, dying to see what had come this morning but hardly daring to look. If it was only an ordinary gown, if the result weren’t truly magical—if she
really was beyond hope—well, she simply wasn’t prepared to learn that.

Taking a deep breath, she turned—

A brisk knock on her bedchamber door interrupted her. Patricia, not realizing that Sophie hadn’t seen it, continued over to the wardrobe to hang the gown inside. Torn, Sophie hesitated. Patricia hurried to answer the door.

Fortescue stood outside, politely staring into space, not into the room. “Excuse me, Miss Blake, but the Duke of Edencourt is here to see you.”

Duke of—? Oh, of course. Graham.

Her stomach did a little flip. Now that she realized the depth of her attachment, she knew it was a very bad idea to spend more time with Graham. She’d had no intention of seeing him today, but now that he was here . . .

Well, it would be rude to refuse to see him, wouldn’t it? After all, she hadn’t actually told him not to come. He wouldn’t understand if she turned him away.

He’s not an infant. Let Fortescue do it. Your heart is too foolish
.

No, go see him. Soon he’ll have a wife and then you’ll be sorry you lost these last weeks with him
.

Well, she would see him, but she wouldn’t expend a moment of effort to make him comfortable. Or to look her best. Although her hair was sadly awry—she noticed things like that now, thanks to Lementeur—and it would be good practice to take such matters more seriously, wouldn’t it?

Something inside her threw up its hands.
Oh, go ahead. But don’t say I didn’t warn you
.

Her better judgment faded, neatly silenced by the silly excitement she felt knowing Graham wanted to see her. “Patricia, my hair!”

Downstairs in the parlor, Graham stood with his back to the room, gazing out onto the grand square with unseeing eyes. He was thinking of Lady Lilah Christie, beautiful, greedy, immoral and very, very rich. The daughter of an earl, she’d married the richest man she could find, then—some said—killed him with disappointment. She had enough money to save Edencourt, not to mention the valuable resource of an elite family.

He hadn’t sought her out since gaining the title. He told himself it was because he was too busy assessing the needs of the estate, but the truth was that he was no longer a harmless toy to divert the she-wolf. He was afraid she was going to come after him in earnest now.

Lilah was looking for another husband, though hers had passed quite recently. And this time, he knew, she was looking for a title.

Graham suppressed an inexplicable shudder. Or perhaps not so inexplicable, after all. Though he’d left her bed only weeks ago, that didn’t mean he could conceive of taking her home to Edencourt to be mother of his brood. Not that he would have any assurance that said brood would actually be his.

God, Lilah was no answer. He probably ought not allow his aversion to taking a stranger to wed to convince him to inflict Lilah on Edencourt. His family’s legacy was stained enough, thank you.

No, he would find a bland and proper young maiden,
possibly from one of the wealthy shipping families who were panting to be let into Society, who at least would come to him grateful for his rank. Heirs would happen—he’d prefer not to picture how—and his people would be saved, at least for one generation.

It might not be a bad idea to breed some business sense into the line, seeing how his father and grandfather had carried on.

His mind spun in circles. Brides, babies and business—three things he would have wagered he’d never have to concern himself with just a week ago!

Outside the parlor door, Sophie hesitated, her hand on the latch. Graham awaited her inside. She was dying to see him . . . but wouldn’t it be better for him to see her when the final transformation was complete? Wouldn’t it be better—wouldn’t it be marvelous!—if Graham were to see her for the first time as the grandly dressed Sofia?

She backed away a step, her palms pressing to her midriff, her fingers atwitch with longing. Yet wouldn’t it be perfect if the first time he saw her, she was wearing a mask? What things might she learn about him, about herself, if she could meet him again . . . for the first time?

As a beauty
.

Her breath left her at the thought. Not that all this was for Graham’s benefit, of course. She had every intention of finding herself a suitable, stable, hopefully not-too-dull position as some man’s wife—some
other
man’s wife.

Turning away swiftly, she nearly stumbled into Fortescue. “Oh! Fortescue, will you please tell Gr . . .
His Grace that I’m not available at the moment—but ask him if he plans to go to the Waverly’s masque this evening. Only don’t let him know that I asked. And if he isn’t, try to get him to go. But don’t tell him I’m going. Simply be . . . casual, do you see?”

Fortescue gazed at her evenly despite every indication that she was stark, staring mad. “Yes, miss. Is there anything else you wish me to pass on to His Grace?”

Ask him if he’ll be wearing blue
.

No. That was silly. Only . . .

“Point out that he looks very fine in blue!”

For the first time in Sophie’s experience, she saw a flash of rebellion in the butler’s gaze. “Ah, yes, well.” She shrugged in apology. “I suppose there’s simply no way to make that sound appropriate, is there?”

“I will do so if you insist, miss, but I think if I drop a word to his valet in secret . . .”

Sophie smiled. “That would be perfect!”

Fortescue gazed at her in unconcealed surprise for a long moment. Then he shook off his inexplicable moment. “Ah . . . yes, miss. I can also confirm his plans this evening with his valet, who, I’m sure can be counted on to pass along a recommendation to attend the masque.”

“My goodness, that’s a useful channel of communication!” Sophie nearly danced to the stairs. “Tell him to be on time,” she sang. “And tell him not to bring Lady Lilah Christie!”

Graham stalked out of Brook House, furious and frustrated once again, and strode unseeing down the gracious streets of Mayfair. What the blazes was Sophie up to? Did she think he had nothing better to do than to wait on her whims? Didn’t she know that he—enjoyed her? Enjoyed her company, yes. She was quite entertaining underneath that drab, bluestocking exterior. Damn it, he missed—

He missed the company, that was all. Cards and conversation and . . .

Snapping gray eyes, seeing him for the fool he was. The soft rope of her marmalade hair tight in his fist. Easy laughter, bright warmth, drawling irony that never ceased to surprise him into laughter . . .

Bloody hell
.

THE GOWN FROM
Lementeur wasn’t lovely. It wasn’t stunning.

It was
magical
.

Lementeur had told her that he’d been inspired by
Titania, Queen of the fairies—and Sophie wondered if Titania herself had waved her wand and bestowed the dressmaker with powers beyond the rule!

It was truly a miraculous creation, an enchanted gown, a shimmering, graceful fantasy of silk of the palest green somehow shot with tints of shimmering lavender.

The tiny sleeves, dropped off her shoulders, were really nothing more than loops of pearly beads. She strongly suspected that they were real, not glass, but dared not ask for fear she might be right—and then she would not have the nerve to wear it!

Also, Lementeur had done something suspicious to her corset, for surely she’d not been so endowed by nature! Yet the burgeoning creamy flesh that swelled above her neckline was all her own—a mystery indeed! Twisted strands of the pearls crisscrossed over and between her small high breasts, outlining and emphasizing them.