Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (234 page)

Chapter Twelve

“I cannot allow you to marry John Lout.” Devlin began their luncheon conversation by firing the opening salvo.

How could he know of her approaching nuptials? No one else knew. She had no idea who could have told him.

She looked to the dowager, but found no ally there. Lady Anne seemed fascinated with her soup.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

“One of my people overheard you speak privately with the ruffian at the inn before we left. The fellow suggested you planned to wed on Michaelmas.”

The duchess shot a quick glance at Jessica, and then returned to the hypnotic soup.

Jessica wasn’t certain how to respond. When the duke’s mother indicated by her silence that she did not plan to intervene, Devlin adopted a reassuring tone.

“As a peasant’s wife, Nightingale, you will be worn out with drudgery and childbearing before you are thirty. I can feel the softness returning to your hands in only the weeks you have been with me … with us. Your calluses are giving over to cool, smooth flesh. You cannot tell me you prefer life as a country maid to that of a lady.”

“Certainly I do not, Your Grace, but a girl born to a poor scholar has little opportunity to live in a great house where she is required only to coddle a sightless duke, and that a temporary position.”

Devlin rested his knife on his plate. “We will address coddle later. For now, what do you mean temporary position?”

“I mean when your sight is restored, you will have no further use for mine or for me.”

“Do you sincerely believe I would outfit you while intending that you should wear your new wardrobe in the kitchens at Maxwell Manor?”

“No, Your Grace. I supposed the clothes were … on loan.”

“Are they not fitted exactly to your figure? Is it not your coloring they flatter? Are they not designed and sewn to your preferences?”

“Yes.”

“Would your clothes fit any other female in my home?”

“Perhaps Sophie or Nan.”

“A lady’s silken finery for an upstairs maid?”

“A maid’s clothes were good enough for me when I arrived. Mine should do for them.”

Devlin drew a breath, and then hesitated. “Yes, well, I hadn’t thought things out quite that far. What a practical, frugal girl you are. Have you foreseen this eventuality from the first?”

“Of course.”

“When you were being fitted?”

“Yes.”

He lowered his voice, signaling change to a more intimate subject. “Jessica, do you fancy yourself in love with John Lout?”

A spewed, scoffing laugh exploded. “My father said I had a gift of imagination, but the talent is not sufficient to instill love in me for John Lout.”

“Then why do you entertain the idea of marrying him?”

“Truly, I do not expect to marry him.”

“Then why in God’s name are you betrothed to the man?”

“You have no way of knowing this, Your Grace, but John is a large man, nearly as tall as you, though heavier.” He nodded. “He was a large boy. When he was ten and I was six, he announced publicly that I would be his wife. To save my brother from a beating that day, I agreed.

“By the time I was twelve, he had repeated the statement so often and so broadly that even adults assumed we would wed. John bullied other children, particularly the boys, into echoing his declaration. He became an able hunter and fighter, although he never became in any way handsome. He is physically energetic, but intellectually lazy. He didn’t bother with reading or sums.”

“So he is illiterate?”

“Yes. He thought it a waste for both of us to develop the same skills when we would be husband and wife. He is an accomplished woodsman. They say he can track and kill or capture even the largest, wildest beasts. And, of course, he is a grand fighter, having grown up belligerent and having built his confidence by overpowering small animals and children.

“When he was sixteen and I was twelve, he beat Brandon severely for informing him, at my urging, that I had no intention of honoring the marriage promise he had announced when we were young.

“Soon after that, John bullied Brandon into publicly declaring that John and I truly were betrothed.”

“And so you were browbeaten into accepting him.”

“Well, that was the case until I was fifteen.” She saw a subtle, expectant change in Devlin’s expression. “Gypsies came to Welter peddling goods from wagons. You may recall my alluding to the incident. The son of the family took me, against my will, to a cave near the river.

“People who had seen me taken, screaming and clawing at the man, reported to John, before they even notified my family.”

Jessica paced to the windows that overlooked the rose garden where the buds popped blood red before they opened to crimson.

“John tracked us through the woods and came directly to the place with little delay. Deterred by my struggling, we arrived only moments before John.

“In spite of the circumstances, when I saw John’s face, I was terrified for my assailant who had not had time to subdue me.

“I had known John all my life. I had seen him furious, but I had never seen him as angry as he was in those moments.

“The trader’s son was not a large fellow, but he was strong and quick and wily. I am sure some women considered him attractive, but that was before he met John that horrible afternoon.

“I had been frightened for my virtue before John’s arrival, but that turned as John thrashed the gypsy. I did not intercede, at least not as soon as I should have. John beat the man long after he was defeated.”

Recalling the gypsy’s mangled face, she raised her eyes to the duke’s flawless features.

“Then what happened?” Devlin asked.

“Although I could have walked, the cave’s floor was rough and I stumbled as we began our return. John lifted me into his arms, as if I were an injured pet, and carried me all the way back to Welter.”

Devlin looked as if he could see her. “What became of the brigand who carried you off?”

“They say his mother, who had countenanced his abhorrent behavior toward other village girls, did not recognize her son when he returned to their wagon during the night.”

“Did that incident make you feel more kindly about marrying Lout?”

“I felt obligated to him, not merely by a promise coerced from a child and years of public declarations, but by honor. John saved my innocence that day. I am indebted to him in a sum I cannot repay.”

“Surely gratitude is not enough to induce you to sacrifice the rest of your life to the man.”

She rubbed her hands together. “It does sound rather extreme when you put it that way. In spite of his heroic effort, I have no real intention of marrying him. I do plan to give him a cash remuneration.” She rolled her index fingers into her gown, fidgeting, movement Devlin apparently heard and interpreted.

“If you prefer, Nightingale, we may change the subject.”

“All right. What shall we discuss?”

“Perhaps you should discuss my unique walk with my mother.” He flashed a playful grin. “Wasn’t that the subject the maids were discussing prior to my arrival in the bedchamber before luncheon?”

“This morning. Latch was in the solarium after breakfast, walking behind you, mimicking your stride. He didn’t imagine you would know he was in the room. Later, he was telling the maids.”

A scowl replaced the duke’s smile. “I distinctively heard the term ‘La-de-dah.’ Can you explain that?”

Jessica hesitated.

“Come, Nightingale, the whole sordid story, if you please.”

“Hardly a ‘sordid story,’ Your Grace. Latch has a rather inflated idea of himself. He needs bolstering.”

“At my expense?”

“He needs to feel superior, Your Grace.”

“And the snapping noise. What was that?”

“Nan was popping the spread above the sheets, making it flutter as it settled over your bed.”

“Is that the same girl you confronted in my bedchamber the first morning you were at Gull’s Way?”

“Yes.”

“What were her exact words to this Latch person, if you please.”

“It was silliness, Your Grace. No one considers the prattle of servants.”

“I want to know what they said, Nightingale, and I expect you to tell me.”

“All right, if I can remember such inane remarks. Nan said something like she could tell — by your walk — that you were a ‘la-de-dah gentleman.’”

“And … ”

“Sophie described how the ladies of the court fawn over you. She had never heard one rumor about your having an appetite for anything but ladies, and that something of a rapacious one.”

“And Nan’s retort?” he asked.

“Only that one can never tell about the appetites of a nobleman.”

He looked more satisfied than annoyed. “I gather they did not know you were nearby.”

“Nor you. I said they were behind schedule and suggested they would increase their productivity with less conversation.”

“What was their reaction to that?”

“Nan said I was as much a servant here as she. She often addresses me as ‘Your Highness.’ I suggested you might give her references if she wanted to look elsewhere for employment.”

“Let the wench go, by all means.”

“Nan likes it here. She says the atmosphere is pleasant as there is no threat to a girl, no matter how beautiful she may be, in a house where the master is ‘sissified.’”

His eyes narrowed with new understanding. “I thought you were using this Nan’s words to discredit her, Nightingale, but that is not the case, is it? You are challenging me.” He arched an eyebrow. “Are you trying to determine if I am the sissified man Nan believes me to be?”

“Certainly not. Why would I care whether you were as masculine as you appear? I relayed my conversation with her, at your insistence. If you did not want to hear it, you should not have been so relentless.”

The dowager rose with a clatter of silverware. “I think I shall retire.”

Devlin came to his feet. Likewise, Jessica stood. Seeing the look on his face, she retreated a step as Devlin walked his mother to the corridor. The sound of scurrying feet indicated some unseen person had been listening outside the door.

As the dowager moved into the hallway, the duke kept his hand on the door, then shoved it noiselessly closed and waited. The bolt snapped into place. With a feeling of foreboding, Jessica advanced toward that door, intending to exit the room before Devlin began chastising her.

Maybe she had baited him … a little. She hadn’t intended to imply he had anything to prove. Not to her. Had she not retreated quickly from his teasing on their picnic? Yet, she couldn’t help being a little curious, particularly hearing speculations from the women in the kitchen.

Devlin had never made any serious sexual advance on her, or on any of the females on the household staff, as far as she knew. Many of them, including Jessica, had wondered about that. It was common for the lord of a manor to foist himself upon the girls in service, particularly young, pretty ones. Did the duke lack the usual male predilection? Perhaps, as Nan suggested, his taste ran to young males, although no one had tales from the stable boys. Perplexing.

Jessica had not intended to interrogate him, exactly. Who was she to question the behavior of a duke? She had merely intended to slake her curiosity. At the moment, however, she did not like the look on his face. It was almost as if he felt challenged to prove something. Perhaps she had pushed too far.

Frowning at the floor, Devlin locked his hands behind his back and paced to the windows, looking for all the world as if he could see. Even safe in the knowledge that he could not, Jessica blushed and sputtered. “I need to be about my duties, Your Grace.”

He strode slowly back to the door and pivoted to face her. His expression was not exactly threatening, but neither was it altogether benign. “Not just yet, Nightingale. I need your assistance with something first. I need you to advise me, provide me the benefit of your usual candor.” He moved toward her, exaggerating his usual glide, keeping his body between her and the primary exit as he came. “Do you find my walk effeminate? Is it off-putting to you as a member of the gentler sex?”

“No, Your Grace, not at all. As I believe I mentioned before, I find your walk appealing. That is to say … ”

His lips turned up, but it was not a genuine smile. “Prettily put.” He continued advancing on her. “Will you be so kind as to allow my fingers to read your face as we talk, Jessica?”

Withdrawing another step, she tried to think of an excuse to keep him from touching her. If he touched her, he would detect the heat of her rising blush, be aware of how she trembled when he stood so dangerously close.

“As I said, Nightingale,” he crooned, drawing to within arm’s reach, “I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to marry John Lout.”

She was not able to follow the erratic conversation. “You should encourage our union, Your Grace. Dedicated to honor as you are, you should insist on my keeping my word.”

He reached for her. She sidestepped, dipping her shoulder to avoid his hand. He seemed uncannily attuned to the swish of her skirts, however, and followed her retreat, his stride never faltering as she scampered and slithered just beyond his grasp.

“I said I cannot allow it.”

“Yes, Your Grace, I heard you clearly enough. Did you not hear me as well?”

He grabbed for her with both hands. She slipped deftly to one side, beyond his fingertips, and darted toward the other door in the room, the one to the adjoining library.

“Your Grace, you are only a lord of the realm. You are not God to dictate people’s lives.”

He matched her stride for stride. “Ah, but Nightingale, I do not wish to dictate the course of the lives of everyone under my authority.” His voice dropped to a threatening hum. “Only yours.” He continued his skating gait, again closing on her. “I want you to stay here when I am here, and at Gull’s Way, when I am there. I want you within the sound of my call.” He stared at her with eyes dark, vivid gray-blue, the color of a stormy day. “I want you be, at all times, within my reach,” he flashed a taunting smile, “if not my grasp.”

She glanced behind and realized he was driving her as a dog drives sheep, into a corner.