Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01] by Desperately Seeking a Duke

Author:Desperately Seeking a Duke
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-eight

When Rafe returned to Brook House, too late to encounter anyone but the yawning groom who took the reins of his happily exhausted horse, he welcomed the dark and silent emptiness of the halls and rooms. His own valet had long since gone to bed, knowing that after a certain hour, Rafe would likely not come home at all.

In his room he threw off his jacket and waistcoat, yanked his cravat knot free and tossed the linen on the pile. He sat in the large chair before his fire and pulled off his boots, tossing the fine leather aside with all the care he’d give tattered rags. What did it matter? Fine things were only things after all. They would not make his life without Phoebe any easier to bear.

He’d stayed out late to avoid her—for how could he face her after that hideous scene outside the concert!—but there was no escaping her presence. She was so damned everywhere in this house. Her scent lingered in the halls, her name was on everyone’s lips, her damned cousins underfoot with their lighter and darker versions of the same blue eyes …

And although Rafe’s body ached, his stomach growled a protest. Off to the kitchens to slake at least one appetite.

His feet bare on the chill floors, he padded silently through the house in search of something more substantial than lovelorn frustration to put in his stomach.

He’d grown up in this house, at least for half of every year, so there was no need for a candle. The dark was an old friend to Rafe. Most of his finest moments—or worst ones, depending on one’s moral perspective—had been spent in the dark.

The kitchens were in the cellar, as in most large houses in town. There was the large pantry, the carving room with its vaguely alarming rack of cutting implements, the main kitchen where the stoves were, the scullery with its deep stone sinks and Rafe’s personal favorite, the larder.

It was a long narrow chamber, lined with marble shelves for the things that needed chilling, and cool stone floors that stung his bare feet. Since he was in the mood for savory, he easily avoided the sturdy worktable in the middle of the room and bent to feel along the lowest shelves for something of a ham or roast nature.

He found meat pasties, probably made for the lower servants, since the fastidious master would curl his lip at such common fare—although Rafe had never met a meat pasty he didn’t like. In spite of the call of the rich potato and meat filling he moved on, feeling his way carefully. He was really more in the mood for big, juicy slices of—

Thigh. Smooth … rounded … warm … lush …

“Eek.” It was a small protest, hardly more than a whisper.

“Ah!” He snatched his hand back and straightened—and smacked the back of his head into the stone shelf above with great force. “Ow!” He staggered backward with one hand to his skull.

“Oh!”

Something

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