Free A Belated Bride by Karen Hawkins Page A

indelible ink, from the hard plane of his stomach to the bronze of his skin.
    It was just one of many memories she fought every night. But those hot, scorching reminiscences were noth- ing compared to the relentless reality of the man who stood before her.
    Arabella pressed her damp palms against her skirt. “I’m glad to see you are so well. Shall I have Wilson sad- dle your horse? I’m sure you are anxious to be on your way.”
    His gaze narrowed a moment before he took a step for- ward, his legs brushing against her. “Your Aunt Emma says Rosemont is renowned for its hospitality.”
    “You lost your rights to our hospitality ten years ago.”
    He flinched as if she’d slapped him, but Arabella knew him too well to believe she had hurt him. He was a con- summate actor, able to breathe words of passion and deliver hot, ardent looks with an air of sincerity that many a player would kill to possess.
    “Bella, we need to talk about what happened—” “What happened ten years ago belongs where it is—in
    the past. Leave it there.”
    His face darkened. “But I want to explain. It wasn’t—” She turned on her heel and marched to her room, painfully aware that his dark gaze followed her every step
    of the way. She had no desire to revisit the mistakes of her past. At sixteen, she’d been a bit wild, the product of being left to her own devices after the death of her mother. Father had rarely been home, always off chasing a dream, and leaving her to care for Robert and watch after affairs at Rosemont. The responsibility had been onerous until Lucien had freed her. For one brief summer, she had left her inhibitions behind and been young and careless. And she had regretted it every day since.
    Once she reached the safety of her own room, Arabella closed the door behind her, turned the key in the lock, and sank onto the edge of her bed. Her knees quivered, her heart pounded in her throat.
    No matter how hard she tried, she could not stop the way her body reacted to his. It was a weakness, an illness she could not overcome.
    Fortunately, whatever mischievous imp of fate had brought Lucien Devereaux back to Rosemont would soon spirit him away. And this time Arabella was determined to watch him leave with her chin held high, her pride intact. Taking a deep breath, she crossed to the washstand and caught a glimpse of her ash-covered face. She grimaced at the sight. For one day, just one simple day, she wished her life would be easy. Sighing, she plunged her hands into
    the icy water and began to scrub her face clean.

    nm

    Chapter 6

    “B

    loody hell,” Lucien choked. “What’s this?”
    Hastings paused in the middle of unpacking a valise to regard the glass Lucien held at arm’s length. “I believe it is a restorative beverage of some sort. Lady Mel- win brought it early this morning while you were still abed.”
    Lucien gingerly sniffed the contents, then snarled a curse. “Cinnamon.”
    “Ah,” said Hastings, as if that explained everything. “Cinnamon is the devil’s own spice, is it not, Your Grace?”
    “You don’t know what’s in this potion.” Lucien set the glass onto the nightstand so hard that liquid sloshed over the sides. “Take it away.”
    The valet picked up the glass and carried it to a tray by the door. “I suppose I should return the plate of tea bis- cuits to the kitchen as well. They seem to have been fla- vored with . . .” he took a cautious sniff, then shuddered. “Nutmeg.”
    66
    “Very funny,” Lucien said.
    Hastings bowed. “I try my best, Your Grace.”
    “You wouldn’t laugh if you had been under the care of those two harpies. Trust me, Hastings—have nothing to do with anything either Lady Melwin or Lady Durham prepares for you.”
    Hastings’s mobile face folded into a frown, all traces of humor gone. “Are you suggesting they are attempting to poison you?”
    “Those dainty old ladies kept me drugged for two days. I missed meeting my contact, and now I don’t