Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (226 page)

The man thought her a child. That first night, riding Sweetness, he had run his hands over her shoulders, trailed them down her arms, had even fitted her hips snugly between his legs as she sat the saddle before him. In spite of that intimacy, he considered her an infant. He disregarded her initial claims that she was a grown woman, capable of experiencing the sensuous responses any woman might to such a man.

Holding her closely in this unguarded moment, he would be aware of her prominent breasts, which she had been able to keep from his sightless scrutiny. In spite of her earlier declarations, Jessica thought it better he not realize her maturity just yet.

Heated by a blush, embarrassed by the joy of luxuriating for those brief moments in his arms, Jessica wriggled until she broke free. Devlin seemed reluctant to yield his hold.

“Oh, Your Grace, I am so sorry. It’s a wonder I did not knock you down.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, your greeting may have provided a test of my recovery. I proved equal to the challenge, in spite of my surprise.” His face took on that mischievous look as he added, “You might say, I was doubly rewarded.”

She took his meaning. He had been made aware of her breasts. Perhaps they would no longer argue whether she was child or woman. The mystery of that misunderstanding was why other members of the household — his own mother included — who realized the duke’s mistake, did not enlighten him, explaining that Jessica was not the moppet he thought.

Tangled in her web of thoughts, Jessica retreated two steps and caught one of Devlin’s outstretched hands in both of hers to indicate her whereabouts, then she dropped a full awkward curtsy. She spoke breathlessly.

“Your Grace.”

He sobered and adopted her formality. “Was your journey successful, Jessica Blair?”

“Yes. I accomplished everything I set out to do.”

“Did you bring your mother home with you then?”

Tears threatened at his referring to his magnificent residence as
home
, speaking as if it were her permanent abode as well as his. He turned his face toward the carriage as if looking for her companion.

“No, Your Grace, my brother Brandon agreed to be responsible for our mother until you are recovered.”

Devlin’s expression became playful, but his unseeing eyes narrowed. “How much will Brandon’s attendance cost you, Nightingale?”

Her laughter burbled at his usual perceptiveness. “I told him you were paying me one hundred pounds. He and I haggled over what his share should be.”

“And?”

“He gets one-third of my purse, but believes that to be thirty-three pounds.”

“Of a hundred pounds rather than five hundred pounds?”

“That is correct.”

“Not thirty-three and one-third?”

She burbled another giggle. “Brandon is not particularly apt at sums.”

“So, you are willing to take advantage of him, are you?”

She stiffened, wondering if his taunt were part insult, until she again noted the mischief in his expression.

“He is older than I, Your Grace, and able to see to his own affairs. He has taken the advantage of me often in the past.”

Tugging her hand to pull her close again, Devlin turned her so that her back was to him and set his fingers on her shoulder indicating she should lead him into the house. Henry, the valet, retrieved the cane that had been tossed aside.

“Will he take proper care of your mother and your hens?” Devlin asked.

She assumed her usual guide’s position, one step in front and one to the side.

“I don’t know, Your Grace, but I realized today, Mum will be a fair match for him, even if the birds are not.”

“Should I send someone to fetch your poultry, Miss Blair?”

She frowned, not so much at the question as the designation. “Why are you calling me by my formal name again, Your Grace?”

“There seems to be renewed confusion about our identities. My Nightingale calls me Devlin, rather than sir or Your Grace.”

Before she responded, they were through the doors and into the great hall. The dowager duchess stood poised at the top of the staircase.

“Your Grace,” Jessica said, bobbing a quick curtsy. “Why are you still about at this time of night? Are you ill?”

Apparently unaware of his mother’s presence and thinking Jessica was addressing him, Devlin said, “I promised to be on the steps awaiting your return, darling, to demonstrate that I will always keep my word to you. Others trust me for that. You have not yet learned to do so.” He squeezed her shoulder affectionately. “But you will.”

The dowager looked from Devlin to Jessica, then back before she cleared her throat, giving notice of her presence.

“Hello, Mother.” Devlin raised his face to the stairs, as if able to see her there. “What are you doing up and about at this hour?”

“Like you, I was concerned about the safe return of our gosling.”

Gosling? Jessica realized the older woman’s references often reinforced Devlin’s mistaken image of her as a child. Why did the dowager help mislead her son into thinking Jessica was an infant?

Another curiosity to ponder later. Jessica seemed to be amassing a list of those.

• • •

When the ladies had retired, Devlin summoned Bear to his sitting room for an account of their journey.

Bear capsulized his report until he got to the part John Lout played in the day.

“Who is this John Lout?” the duke asked.

“A local ruffian from Welter.”

“What interest does he have in our Jessica?”

Bear looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. Devlin could tell the man was uncomfortable with what he was going to say next.

“It seems, Yer Grace, that our young mistress is betrothed to the blackguard. He goes so far as to refer to her as his wife.”

Devlin tried to hide his annoyance. “Describe this John Lout person.”

“He’s young enough, all right. Above average height, but soft around the belly. ’Pears to like his ale. The brigands riding with him defer to him. He bullies ’em. When me and the men went to the inn for a meal, I made inquiries. The man makes his living thieving and poaching. The keep said Lout’s not to be trusted. He’s a man little troubled with keeping his word or behaving in an honorable way. Knows nothing of the habits of gentle men and women.”

Devlin locked his hands behind his back and paced. “Betrothed, is she? To a ne’er-do-well. I suppose I shall have to do something about that.”

“Is that all you need from me, Yer Grace?”

Devlin turned his full attention on Bear. “When did you begin addressing me as ‘Your Grace’?”

He could hear the grin as Bear brightened. “Since ye’ve begun behaving the part, Yer Grace.”

“Does this change you detect in my behavior please you?”

“Aye. It does my heart good to see you maturing to the office you was born to.”

Devlin stepped in front of his old friend and opened his arms. The two men hugged one another like two great bears, and then broke the embrace, laughing.

“Thank you for your years of patient instruction,” Devlin said, clapping the larger man on the shoulders.

“It’s been my own pleasure to have a hand in watching the boy of promise grow into the man he was designed by his Maker to be.”

With a silent, unseen salute, Bear let himself out of the chamber as Devlin’s face darkened and he returned to his pacing to contemplate this new information.

• • •

Jessica had been back for two days, days in which she cajoled and baited the duke out of his occasional doldrums into trying things others thought him incapable or unwilling to do without sight.

With Job-like patience, she taught him to tat and knit. His fingers were thick and cumbersome, yet he persisted, determined to please her. She enjoyed the shared intimacy of the lessons, during which their bodies frequently brushed one another, light touches of little consequence to anyone else.

Devlin had visitors, both social and business associates. After supper one evening as he entertained such guests, Jessica strolled out into the twilight, walking to the paddocks to visit Freddie. The colt came at a stiff-legged run when he saw her. As she stood rubbing his nose, she noticed two figures walking together along the lane. Not wishing to interrupt, Jessica stood still and continued murmuring to the young horse.

As the walkers drew close, she recognized Martha, her figure, swollen with child, distinctive in the failing light. Jessica did not, however, recognize Martha’s companion, who wore gentleman’s attire. He was a grown man, tall, his stride uneven. The couple stopped near the top of the lane and the man appeared about to take his leave. Before he did, however, he brushed a hand over Martha’s protruding belly and laughed, rather raucously, before he put a light kiss on Martha’s forehead, mounted his waiting horse, and rode off toward the highway.

Jessica had seen the man before. In Welter. She stiffened. Yes. A man like this one had ridden with John Lout. He was notable in Welter, for he dressed and carried himself like a gentleman. If it were the same man, what link could there possibly be between John Lout, a gentleman, and a chambermaid from Shiller’s Green?

• • •

Early one morning, at the end of her second week at Gull’s Way, Jessica looked out to rejoice in the unseasonable warmth and a bright sun. The air was crisp, but there were bees and tiny spring beauties dotting the lawns, hints of summer coming. She found it invigorating.

She raised her chin with a new idea. She would take the duke out into this bracing day. He was accustomed to riding wherever and whenever he chose. Perhaps being confined to the house placed an additional, unnecessary damper on his spirits.

Jessica entered the dining room dressed in a vivid blue riding habit to find Devlin standing at the sideboard, his empty plate poised as he inhaled the fragrances of the breakfast selections before him.

She called a light “Good morning,” as she approached, but he was turning toward her before she spoke.

“Is it a good morning to you?” he asked. There was annoyance in his manner and his voice. “I’m glad you approve the day.”

“I do approve, Your Grace, and so will you.”

“Not I, Nightingale, for I cannot see it.”

“Not see the gulls circling?”

He set his rock hard jaw in a belligerent line. “No.”

“The gulls’ antics are clearly stored in your mind’s eye, are they not?”

He hesitated a moment before his jaws relaxed slightly. “Yes, well, I suppose so.”

“The brilliance of the sunshine chasing early morning fog from these rolling, manicured lawns? Have you no recollection of that?”

“Of course, Nightingale. I’ve spent most of my life at Gull’s Way. I am familiar with all the seasons here.”

“Then those pictures remain clear in your head?”

“Am I to live the balance of my years on memories?”

“I would say not, Your Grace.”

“Am I ever again to gallop Vindicator through the open fields, the sun and wind, rain or snow or sleet stinging my flesh?”

Jessica flashed the dowager a warning squint as the older woman entered the room to hear the wistful tone in Devlin’s voice.

“I should think you would be happy to have an excuse for missing all that, Your Grace, as unpleasant as you make it sound. I suppose you will count it as loss that you will not have to endure any of those when you ride out today?”

“What?” He looked as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. His mother held her silence.

“In spite of the glorious weather and your difficult attitude, sir, I think I shall take you riding this morning.”

Devlin set his stubborn chin toward her, and snorted his disbelief. “I hardly think a child — particularly a girl with so little experience riding — is competent to look after a blind man on a horse out in the open.”

“You have a short memory, Your Grace, if you do not recall that this child did exactly that one night quite recently, and subsequently delivered you safely into your mother’s arms under conditions hardly as inviting as these.”

All right, she was taking credit for having accomplished a feat for which the horse was responsible, but her comment had the desired result. She had learned that to motivate this haughty man, she need only prick his pride to draw him.

He fairly threw his half-filled plate onto the serving table, but she did not allow him to argue.

“Oh no, Your Grace, you need a proper breakfast. We’ll not provide excuses for failing to keep up with a child, and a girl at that.”

“If I am to ride today, Jessica, I shall do so in the able company of a groom rather than a snippy chit who refuses to demonstrate the proper regard for me or my station.”

“No, sir, you will not ride out with any groom, unless you prefer to ride Molly, that dottering old mare you assigned to my use.”

Devlin’s voice became thunderous. “This is my home, you impertinent baggage. The staff here, the villagers, everyone within the influence of these estates yields to my bidding.”

“Yes, well, they might be intimidated enough by your bellowing and bullying to do so, but I am not, and I, sir, am the one authorized by Dr. Brussel to serve as your eyes. Furthermore, he insisted that when you and I disagreed, as he expected we might, I should exercise my own sound judgment rather than defer to your demands.”

She did not allow him an interruption. “Not only that, sir, but your esteemed Dr. Brussel passed that command to your mother and others in this household. You shall either submit to me, you overbearing oaf, or, by heaven and by doctor’s orders, I will keep you prisoner within these walls for as long as it takes you to develop a proper regard for
my
authority.”

Jessica had braced for lengthy, difficult negotiations. She was not prepared for laughter.

Sputtering, spewing, apparently unable to speak, Devlin, the Twelfth Duke of Fornay, picked up the plate he had discarded and, groping, spooned eggs and meat onto it.

Apparently she had won.

“Mr. Patterson,” Jessica said, “please ask Cook to prepare a picnic luncheon. I shall be at the back door to collect it shortly.”

Disregarding the gaping stares, Jessica lifted her chin and set out to convince Figg that the duke should be allowed to ride his fractious stallion. To put the man on any other mount would undermine the confidence Jessica was determined to foster, even if it were risky.