Free Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] by Duke Most Wanted Page A

structure. The difference between them lay entirely in attitude. Rafe’s brown gaze was lighter, nearly laughing, and the faintly besotted smile on his lips was a permanent one.
    Seated in a chair slightly before him, with her honey-gold hair down over one shoulder, Phoebe gazed out of the painting with a love-light in her summer-sky eyes that made Sophie’s heart thump just a little in envy. Rafe’s hand on her shoulder was a benediction and acaress, his fingers ever so slightly buried in his wife’s silken hair.
    Love at first sight, despite the fact that Phoebe had agreed to wed Calder and very nearly gone through with the wedding. Love forever, Sophie thought as she gazed at the tenderly lingering hand on Phoebe’s shoulder.
    “Papa gave me Mama’s portrait to hang in my room,” Meggie stated calmly. “I like it there and so does Dee.” The little girl gazed fondly up at her new mother’s face. “I used to wish that Mama had taken me with her, but now I’m glad she didn’t.”
    Sophie closed her eyes against the tragedy that Meggie had narrowly escaped. Calder’s first wife had died in a carriage accident while fleeing with her lover. Thank God the woman had had the sense to leave Calder’s two-year-old daughter behind! “I’ m glad, too, Nutmeg.”
    “I’m going to sit for a portrait, too, Papa said.” Meggie scratched her nose. “As soon as I learn how to sit.”
    Sophie smiled down at her. “I’d practice, if I were you. It looks like the Nameless One has it down to an art.”
    Meggie looked down at the leggy kitten dangling limply from her arms like a boneless cat suit. “Mortimer the Mighty.” She scowled. “No, that won’t do.” She heaved a great sigh and shrugged. The kitten drooped blissfully. A loud rasping purr rose on the air. “I don’t know what to call him.”
    Sophie stroked the girl’s hair with one hand. “That’s all right, my sweet. As long as he comes when you call.”
    Meggie looked up at Sophie and blinked. “Like Gray does with you?”
    Sophie glanced away casually. “Hmm.” It wasn’t until the girl had walked on ahead of her that Sophie wondered if Meggie had meant that Sophie came when Graham called—or the other way around?
    Which was ridiculous, of course. Graham didn’t need anyone. Ever.

Chapter Seven
    If a man’s status could be measured by the number of eyes upon him, then Graham should have been a king.
    Of course, the aforementioned eyes were but glass, gleaming lifelessly from the stuffed and mounted heads of the late duke’s victims—er, hunting trophies—so perhaps it was appropriate that Graham’s status was equally fragile.
    The study decor was an oppressive combination of dark wood, dark paper and dark death. Graham fancied that the glossy gazes followed him as he paced, their glinting opacity a plea for final release. The smell, unfortunately, was not born of imagination.
    Had this room always smelled of musty tobacco and dry, fusty decay? It was a scent that Graham permanently associated with his father. Add freshly fired gunpowder and whiskey and one would expect the old duke himself to stride in at any moment.
    The duke is dead.
    Long live the duke.
    Graham turned and snarled back at the giant brown bear looming in the corner. “I am duke now.”
    An hour later, Graham toasted his back-garden bonfire with his fourth . . . fifth? . . . whiskey. Antlers burned like dry wood, he’d found, and if one stood carefully upwind, one could even enjoy the fiery glow of relief in the glass eyes before they were lost in the flames.
    Graham raised his glass. “To my fallen comrades.” He staggered only a little, considering he’d drunk a lot. “You have been avenged. All hail the mighty phelemant . . .” Wait. That wasn’t right. “Ephalent.” Close enough.
    He tossed his whiskey back and wiped his arm across his face, for the heat from the fire made his eyes water. Or perhaps it was the smoke . . . except he stood upwind . . .
    Now the