A Belated Bride by Karen Hawkins Page B

arrival in Yorkshire.”
    Lucien forced himself to sip his tea, wishing it was brandy, something to banish the lingering cobwebs left by Aunt Jane’s infamous tonic; cobwebs that were trapping him into such unfamiliar feelings and frustrations. He glanced around the room, looking for some of Aunt Emma’s cognac.
    The thought gave him pause. It had been exceptionally fine . . . a very rare quality indeed. He looked more closely at the room, noting the darned curtains and the worn appearance of the furniture. Where had Aunt Emma gotten such prime cognac in the wilds of Yorkshire?
    He frowned. Free traders were a close-knit group, and it would be an easy thing to use already established smug-
    glers to move in something new—especially something as small as a pouch of jewels.
    But Lucien had to tread carefully. To many, smuggling was a way of life, seen as an honest occupation that had been unfairly singled out for prosecution by the crown. The attitudes of the nobility assisted the business, for they welcomed the better-quality goods, especially when they didn’t have to pay the high duties placed on all imports due to the war.
    Truthfully, he could care less about a little judicious free trading. His own father had supported the habit of several free traders, gaining quality port for half the usual price. But supporting Napoleon’s armies was another mat- ter. Lucien had seen the men who returned from the war, and he knew of the devastation, the pain many had paid. Just like Robert.
    Arabella set her cup down. “It is my turn to ask a ques- tion. Tell me about your wife.”
    The abrupt question should have removed his attention from Arabella’s mouth, where some of the crème clung to her lower lip, but it didn’t. He couldn’t stop staring, his whole body focused on the dab of sweetness. His gaze must have alerted her, for she touched her napkin to her mouth and then ran the tip of her tongue over the spot.
    His throat contracted painfully.
    “Lucien,” she said, frowning. “I asked you about Sab- rina.”
    He cleared his throat. Sabrina was the last thing he wanted to talk about. But he would much rather Arabella hear the story from him. Struggling to clear his mind, he took a sip of tea. “It was a needless death. She foolishly rode a horse that had never been ridden.”
    “Did she know the horse was dangerous?”
    “Yes.” He couldn’t tell Arabella the whole truth: that to
    Sabrina, riding a dangerous horse had been far preferable to staying in the same house with him. She had blamed him for every unfortunate event in her life and, by the time they had been wed a year, he’d begun to believe her.
    Even though he knew her anger stemmed from her madness, some small part of him had wondered if she’d been right—if perhaps he was partially responsible for her illness. He, who lived with her and should have recog- nized her wild antics and frantic moods were the result of something more than an indulgent lifestyle, had merely avoided her cloying company. The wilder she became, the more he stayed away, until eventually they were more strangers than man and wife.
    By the time Lucien realized that there was far more wrong with Sabrina than a mere excess of nerves, it was too late—she was too far gone in her madness to be saved. Had he been a steadfast husband, there was a chance that Sabrina might be alive today.
    Lucien absently pressed a hand to his shoulder where it throbbed. Such speculation was useless, he knew. He had wasted a lifetime on exactly that type of empty thought and had almost lost himself to it.
    He met Arabella’s curious gaze with a carefully guarded expression. “Sabrina is gone. There isn’t any- thing more to say.”
    Spots of color appeared in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to imply that you—”
    “I know you didn’t. I just didn’t want you to think . . .” What? That he should never have left Arabella? That he should have been more attentive to his own wife? That he seemed