Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (252 page)

Steen pivoted on the ball of one gouty foot and limped back down the garden steps without casting a glance toward Jessica who stood unmoving in the doorway, looking for all the world like the statue of some beautiful, tragic Greek goddess.

Chapter Twenty-Two

As he roused from a restless sleep the next morning, Devlin nursed the devil of a headache and wondered if he were quite sane. He had run an emotional gauntlet the previous night; from raging fury to delirious joy, and back to ire before being plunged into a debilitating funk which grew worse through the morning.

“You are a duke, Your Grace,” Lattimore reminded him solemnly. “You cannot marry an undowered, untitled wench. It is unconscionable.”

“It is because I am a duke that I can marry anyone I damn well please.” Leaning one arm on the mantle, Devlin propped a careless foot on an andiron that extended from the firebox a little distance onto the hearth. “Jessica is, however, well dowered, admittedly by me. Several of the most important, titled, most eligible bachelors in town have offered for her. Mine will simply be the suit I accept.”

Lattie looked as if he might smile, then stanched the grin that almost broke his gloomy facade. “What if she won’t have you?”

Devlin gave an astonished shout. “Give me one credible reason why she would not have me?” The duke’s anguish indicated his question was one he genuinely wanted someone to answer.

Seeing smoke curl from the sole of his boot, Devlin abruptly lifted his foot from the andiron and stamped the foot on the stone hearth.

Lattie smiled, but sobered quickly not willing to risk Devlin seeing his good humor. “Because, in the practical ways of the world, Jessica is wiser than you. She knows such a union likely will not succeed.”

Studying his foot as if trying to decide if he should remove the boot, Devlin said, “I thought she demonstrated great wisdom when she declined your offer, Lattimore. Surely her refusal then is not the basis for your opinion. Are you jealous that I might succeed where you failed?” Devlin peered at his brother’s face a moment before turning his attention back to his smoldering shoe.

Both men looked toward the doorway when they heard a feminine sneeze on the staircase. Lattimore slanted his brother a wicked smile. “Why don’t we pose your questions to her, Your Grace, and end our speculations.”

Devlin scowled before he arched his brows, shrugged, and nodded. He could not reconcile the girl’s response to his proposal with her earlier admission that she loved him.

Jessica entered the room, glanced at the brothers, then looked to the wing-backed chair the dowager duchess would have occupied had she been present. Seeing the chair empty, Jessica smiled at both men, then turned back to the corridor.

“A moment, if you please, Jessica.” Devlin’s words stopped her. She came around slowly. Her eyes were puffy and red, as if she had been crying, but her voice gave no indication anything was amiss.

“Yes, Your Grace. How may I be of service?”

“Take a moment to settle an argument between Lattimore and me.”

“All right.” She allowed a tolerant smile as she looked from one brother to the other.

Lattie was definitely the prettier of the two, with smooth, rosy cheeks and a delicate — even perky — nose and chin. If a woman were blessed with Lattie’s coloring, she would never need rouge. His eyelashes, like his raven hair, were enviable. She had heard ladies lauding his many physical attributes.

Although he was tall enough, Lattimore had a sturdier bone structure than his older brother. His hair was dark, apparently like his father’s and his eyes hazel. Taken altogether, he gave a pleasing appearance.

In contrast, Devlin stood taller but more stooped, as if the weight of his title was burdensome. He had the more distinctive, marvelous build. The duke had inherited his mother’s thick, fair hair with its curls, and the almost incandescent blue eyes, although the color of his irises darkened dramatically when he was angry, as Jessica had cause to know.

“Please, sit with us a moment,” Devlin said, directing Jessica to his mother’s wingback near the hearth. Without objection, she sat as directed and arranged her skirts. The duke motioned Lattimore onto a Chesterfield and he, himself, eased into a rather severe ladder-back chair directly across from Jessica.

Even after they were settled, Devlin delayed a moment. “Jessica, have you considered it is time — past time, actually — that you married?”

She regarded him coolly. “You, sir, are the greatest impediment to my marrying.”

He cleared his throat, was tempted to look at Lattimore, but dared not let his attention wander.

“I am not referring to your betrothal to John Lout, darling. I was thinking of someone infinitely more suitable to the poised, charming young lady you have become.”

Her eyes narrowed and she watched him suspiciously before risking a glance at Lattimore, then back. “You have turned away a dozen suitors who have or eventually might have offered for me, Your Grace.”

“What about someone you have known for a while?”

“Lattimore does not love me and, although I admire him, I do not love him either. I do not consider him a fit husband for me.”

“I am not talking about Lattie, Jessica, and you know it.”

“Then who?” Her voice broke slightly, but noticeably. “Not Mr. Hardwick, Your Grace, or that scoundrel Peter Fry, no matter how impressive their family holdings.” Suddenly she pulled to the edge of her chair, preparing to stand and perhaps to flee. “I will not do it, Devlin. Except for the wealth, I see little difference between my selling myself to John Lout or your bartering me to a future baron or even an earl.”

To allay her increasing discomfort, Devlin sat back a little in his chair and tried to look at ease. “Actually, Nightingale, as I mentioned last night, I thought you might do well to marry me.”

Silence enveloped the room as fog might have enshrouded their images, veiling the innermost workings of their hearts and thoughts from one another.

Jessica frowned hard at Devlin as both men steadied their gazes on her. Slowly a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Sir, you are far too old and too grand a match for me. As you so eloquently reminded me last night, you are a duke and I a scullery maid.”

“A scullery maid’s assistant,” he corrected, returning her quiet little smile.

She cut her eyes from his. “Have none of the other gallants, ones closer to my own age, perhaps second sons without hopes of a title, offered for me?”

“They have.”

“Do you not see yourself better served by palming me off on one of those?”

He chuckled and glanced at his boots, before raising his eyes to lock with hers. “As usual, you are most perceptive and probably right. Yes, such would definitely be the wiser course.” He smiled warmly. “But how could I live with my conscience, having misled one of those callow youths who thought he was acquiring a docile, obedient lady when, in fact, you are neither obedient nor a lady?”

She laughed. “If this your idea of a proper way to woo a wife, Your Grace, it’s little wonder you remain unattached. Perhaps you should consult with someone about sweet words spoken by men to women. Mrs. Conifer, my duenna, would consider your methods in need of repair.”

He smiled for a moment before his face became grave. “I am serious, Jessica. I want us to discuss this calmly and intelligently. Are you saying you have no desire to be my duchess?”

“That is precisely what I am saying. I have no desire to be anyone’s duchess.”

He frowned, taken aback and obviously perplexed.

She lowered her voice. “I have never aspired to any title. In truth, Your Grace, as you have reminded on several occasions, I lack the qualifications to be either your duchess or your wife.”

His expression softened. “You are mistaken, my dear. You qualify quite nicely. You meet all the requirements. With very little help, you have learned to ride and play the spinet. You make quite a nice appearance. You run this household and handle the servants enviably, as if they were your kin. You show compassion that inspires fierce loyalty among family and friends, including the dowager duchess, a duke’s younger brother, and the master himself.”

“Fierce loyalty? Is that what I inspire in you?”

A glimmer of understanding niggled at him. “That and much more, Nightingale.”

Rather than allow herself to harken back to his demonstrations of prurient interest, she stood abruptly. “Thank you, sir, for the lovely words. I shall remember them always.” She ducked her head, but as she bolted for the door, Devlin was on his feet and there ahead of her, catching her upper arm in a viselike grip before she could make good her escape.

“What is it, Jessica? What troubles you? Tell me and I will make amends. I have no idea how I offended you last evening. I obviously have done it again, even now.”

Tears stung her eyes, but she fought for control, at least until she could break free and flee to a safe haven. She tried to jerk her arm from his grasp, but he held fast and bent over, trying to see her face, to read her expression. “Dear Nightingale, tell me what is amiss and I will make it right.”

Hurried footsteps preceded the dowager duchess in the corridor. Quickly, she appraised the scene before her.

“Devlin, what in heaven’s name are you about?” She nudged her way between Devlin and Jessica, forcing him to release her. “What manner of ruffian have you become?” Pulling Jessica close, the duchess wrapped both arms protectively around her protégée and began clucking and petting her like a mother hen preening her chick.

Devlin yielded, casting fleeting, mystified glances from one woman to the other as he watched Jessica being shuttled to the stairs and up.

Returning to stand at the hearth, he glanced at Lattie’s face. Instead of the triumphant look he expected, his brother looked thoughtful and maybe concerned. Devlin pursed his mouth. “How do you think it went?”

Lattie hesitated, then his expression lifted with a sympathetic smile. “Probably as well as two men might have expected.”

“My proposal made her cry.”

“At least she didn’t dissolve into those embarrassing, hiccoughing sobs as some women might have done.”

Devlin looked toward the empty staircase. “No, she didn’t, did she? She exhibited exemplary control.” He remained thoughtful a moment. “They both did, actually.”

“Perhaps we should be grateful.”

“I think Mother is going to have more to offer on the subject.”

Lattimore laughed. “She did look rather fierce, didn’t she?”

Devlin gave a twisted smile. “Rather.”

“Do you think we shall be safe in our beds?”

“You might want to bolt your door.”

Both men smiled nervously before Lattimore sobered. “We may have miscalculated.”

“In what way?”

“I didn’t realize … ”

“What?” Devlin looked and sounded sincere.

“That she loves you so terribly.”

Devlin turned to look again toward the stairway. “You are not referring to our mother, are you?”

“No, you imbecile. I mean Jessica, of course.”

“She said as much last night — that she loved me. Later and again this morning, she seems to have changed her mind.”

“No. She definitely adores you.”

“How can you tell?”

“Your casual comments cut her too deeply. Obviously your proposal meant more to her than I imagined. I have seen her fend off zealous suitors. She does so in a lighthearted manner, each time the subject of matrimony rears its head, regardless of who is plighting his troth. This time her reaction was entirely different. This time it was important to her.”

“Then why did she refuse?”

“It is one of those peculiarities of the feminine mind — one of those idiosyncrasies few men can fathom — that seems to be impeding her.”

“How shall I know what troubles if she will not tell me?”

Lattie shook his head and shrugged.

“How shall I to know how to proceed?”

Lattie gave his brother an unbelieving look. “Is this truly the great Devlin Miracle, the man who has left highways and byways strewn with the broken hearts of highborn and lowborn ladies alike, asking advice on love from me?”

Devlin blinked at the flame burning low in the firebox. “Yes, well, the feelings of none of those ladies were as important to me as this one unpretentious little maid.”

“I can see that.” Lattie looked properly concerned. “Perhaps you should seek guidance from the dowager.”

“If she is even speaking to me.”

Lattie laughed. “If she is speaking to either of us.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

That afternoon, rumors ran rampant through kitchens of the ton. Peter Fry had been shot dead. Lord Robert Steen was being questioned regarding the matter. Members of Steen’s household confirmed that the two apparently had been involved in some business transaction that went awry. Fry had come to the earl’s home after Benoits’ ball to confront him. The two argued loudly in the earl’s study before shots were fired and Fry lay dead. Steen insisted his visitor fired first and he was only defending himself and his home from the Fry’s vicious attack.

• • •

When the Dowager, both of her sons, and Jessica gathered for supper at the usual time, Devlin and Lattimore Miracle saw no remnant of the emotional upheaval they had witnessed earlier. Rather, Jessica appeared smiling and collected, as did the dowager, although the older woman’s smiles and behavior were not quite as convincing.

During supper, they conversed about the usual inconsequential matters — the weather, upcoming balls and theater performances. When Devlin addressed Jessica directly over dessert, he would have sworn the others at the table held their breath.

“Jessica, I have a little gift for you.”

“Oh?” She appeared to look through him.

“It is a small necessity I planned to present for your birthday, but that being so distant, I decided to give it to you early.”

“How kind of you.”

He turned his attention back to his fruit. Jessica exchanged curious glances with the dowager and with Lattie, both of whom shrugged indicating they were not privy to the surprise.