Free A Belated Bride by Karen Hawkins

like that man.”
    “Mr. Francot? Why not?”
    “He’s dishonest. I can see it in his eyes. Lady Melwin don’t like him, either.”
    “Aunt Jane dislikes everyone who is not a member of our household or who is not an eligible bachelor with an income of at least two thousand pounds a year. Mr. Fran- cot has assisted us more times than I can count, and he refuses to take so much as a shilling in payment.” In fact, now that Arabella thought about it, Mr. Francot was much more worthy of her servants’ attention than a wastrel duke.
    “Hmph,” Cook said. “The only reason that sniveling whelp hasn’t seen fit to give ye a bill is because he has his sights set on ye.”
    “Nonsense!” she said, astounded. “Why, he is almost fifteen years older than I!” Arabella untied the broad apron and carefully removed it from her dress. Despite her best efforts to protect her gown, soot dotted the right side of the skirt. She brushed at the spots and only succeeded in making them larger. “Lovely. Now I shall have to go upstairs and change.”
    “If ye’re doin’ that fer Mr. Francot, ye’re wastin’ yer time. He would think ye looked like a princess even if ye wore sackcloth and ashes.”
    “He is being kind and nothing more,” Arabella said with great certainty, deciding suddenly not to change her dress after all.
    Mr. Francot’s continued attendance was due solely to the fact that he felt an obligation to Father, who had helped him establish his practice when he’d first arrived in Yorkshire. “If you don’t need me in the kitchen, I am going up to my room to wash.”
    Cook shooed her on her way, her attention now focused on Ned’s formidable efforts to loosen the damper.
    Arabella mumbled under her breath as she went. She had half a mind to march into Lucien’s room and demand to know what he was doing here in Yorkshire. But that would only put her at the disadvantage, for it would mean she had to see him—and she didn’t think her shaken com- posure was quite up to such a thing.
    She reached the top step and turned the corner, still lost in thought, when the door to her aunts’ sitting room opened. Arabella came to an abrupt halt. There, standing in the doorway, his bare chest only partially covered by a bandage and a makeshift sling, stood Lucien. The sunlight from the room outlined his muscular body in vivid relief.
    Arabella took in the expanse of broad chest that tapered to a firm, flat stomach. A tantalizing line of hair dusted his chest and then narrowed to a thin line that drew her gaze to the snug waistband of black breeches that clung lovingly to his hips and powerful thighs.
    Her heart thudded an extra beat, and her mouth watered as if she were looking at a plate full of Cook’s famous apple tarts.
    His gaze flickered over her, resting on her face and traveling down the front of her dress. A sudden crease appeared between his eyes. “What in the hell have you been doing? You are covered in soot.”
    Lovely. Facing a half-naked Lucien had made her for- get all about her fight with the damper. She clenched her hands into fists and resisted the urge to lift the hem of her skirt and scrub her face. “I was assisting Cook in the kitchen.”
    “How? By climbing into the fireplace to stir a pot?”
    There was nothing more lowering than meeting the man of one’s dreams while looking as raggedy as a chim- ney sweep. “Never mind how I look; you shouldn’t be in the hallway without proper clothing.”
    He leaned one hand against the doorframe, a faint hint of amusement sparkling in his eyes. “You are fortunate I had on my breeches. Until Hastings arrived, I was com- pletely nude.” He lowered his voice to an intimate level. “A pity you didn’t visit me then.”
    “I’ve been busy,” she replied shortly, wondering if he could tell how wildly her heart was beating against her ribs. She remembered how he looked without his clothing all too well—every detail was etched in her mind in