Knight of Love (22 page)

“And you think it your duty to die under the banner of the revolution?”

He looked down, hating the flush heating his cheeks and glad of the night's darkness. “No, but a country needs its soldiers. A mother can take pride in her son's sacrifice.”

“You imbecile!” she nearly shouted at him. “You wouldn't make her happy by getting yourself killed in a stupid uprising.”

“The revolution is not stupid—it's important! My mother supports it. Her father and the line of Wolfsbach men before him fought to protect Germany as free imperial knights for centuries. The soul of the German people is crushed by the abuses of the ruling class. I have a duty to serve!”

“Yes, yes, of course”—she waved him down in angry dismissal—“I'm sure your family is all very noble: benevolent and enlightened toward your people, responsible with the power entrusted in you. But guess what, my romantic, nostalgic fool? Violent revolutions only breed more violence. They become an excuse for angry young men to thrash one another and light things on fire. Nothing's going to change that way. Do you think the French Revolution last century brought freedom and equality and brotherhood to France?” she scoffed. “No. Blood ran in the streets, and a lot of innocent people got their heads chopped off.”

He didn't want to hear any of it. “You should never have gone back to Rotenburg, Lenora. You shouldn't have risked your life like that. I had you traveling safely back home. And you shouldn't have killed Kurt.”

“Indeed,” she spat. “Then you'd be dead and I'd be spared this conversation.”

“I will still honor our marriage contract, of course,” he said stiffly.

“I don't need your condescension, thank you very much. Let's rip it up and pretend the whole disastrous episode never happened!”

He considered it. The offer was tempting. And yet . . . there she stood, glowing in the moonlight. Furious. Proud. Unyielding. Rather . . . glorious, one had to admit. Something stirred within him, a tendril of desire. It flickered back to life in a way he hadn't felt since their time together at Dremen.

He took her by the shoulders and tried to make her understand. “Don't you see?
You could have died that day!
You put yourself back in his hands; he hurt you again.” He shuddered at the hazy memories. Nightmares still gripped him most nights, not of his own near death, but of Kurt's sword almost cutting down Lenora, of the man's sick cruelty to her, and of Wolf's own inability to protect her.

“What I did that day was save your life!”

But the guilt of it ate at him: he hadn't kept her safe, hadn't kept the sick bastard's hands off her. His shame came out as a taunt: “Doesn't it bother your conscience that you killed a man?”

She raised her chin. “Is it supposed to bother me that I killed a wicked man whom I know to have abused many a woman and child before me and who used his sovereign power to deny all modern freedoms to his people?”

“You needn't be bothered for my sake, although I suspect many gently bred highborn ladies would be.”

She paused and stared hard into his eyes. “At that moment I killed Kurt to save your life. Not to free the people of the principality. Not to wreak revenge for what he did to me. Not to stop him from hurting another woman. I simply could not stand by and let him hurt you.”

Her words almost cut through his guilt and shame. He stepped closer, his shoes crunching the gravel. “Why couldn't you stand by, Lenora?”

But panic flitted across her features. “If it's a tender declaration you're after, you won't get it from me, knight.” She looked away. “Maybe saving your life wasn't worth it.”

He skittered away as well. “You were supposed to let me save
you
! You're supposed to be a delicate princess!”

She drew a deep breath. “You are like talking to a brick wall. A huge, infuriating brick wall. You can't see me at all! Where did you get this nonsense about a delicate princess? When you met me, I was covered in mud from having ridden through a warring countryside, surviving on my wits and stolen turnips.”

A muscle ticked along his jaw. “When I first met you,” he ground out, “you were tied to a lashing post, being beaten by your fiancé. But you stood up to him. I saw your strength right away, Lenora, and I loved you at first sight. I've never denied that iron core of will; it's what allowed you to survive and fight back.”

The angry tapping of her toe against the gravel showed her little mollified. “And so where, may I ask, does the delicate princess part fit in?”

He saw the absurdity of it himself, but couldn't think his way out of it. “You were my princess,” he repeated stubbornly. He'd built her up into the very image of docile sweetness, a doll for him to carry, a soul mate to protect. He didn't know what to make of a wife who planted a knife between a man's eyes.

“You sound like a sulky child,” she said, her eyes snapping green fire.

“You shouldn't have had to kill Kurt,” he muttered. “That's not how it's supposed to go.”

“So you're angry at me because I saved your life, and you're mad at yourself and the fates because you couldn't pull off an entire revolution all on your own.”

He looked at her with something close to loathing. “Are you always so bloody superior?”

“Are you always so bloody stupid?”

“Stupid, am I?” He dragged her to the side of the teahouse and pressed her back against it, looming over her, bracing his arms on either side to trap her.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

At least her voice held irritation rather than fear. If she turned afraid of him now, he'd be truly furious. “Proving how stupid I am,” he growled. He kissed her—a hard, angry kiss—slanting his mouth across hers. He feasted like the starving man he was, after months without the taste of her. He lifted his head to nip down her neck. “You like your Heine? Here's a line for you: ‘
I have remained a wolf, my heart and my fangs are wolfish.
'”

She squealed, tried to wriggle away. “There are people around!”

He laughed without humor, holding her in place with his bulk. “Silly wench. Is discovery your only compunction? Don't you disdain the touch of a traitor?”

“You're no traitor,” she scoffed.

“According to the ambassador, I am. And the foreign secretary called me to accounts last week. They're threatening me with the lord chancellor next. A traitor, a fool, and an oaf: isn't that what you called me at Rotenburg as well?”

“Goodness, you enjoy feeling sorry for yourself.” She wrapped fingers in his hair and tugged. “Why don't you kiss me again and cease your prattling?”

He kissed her until her cheeks glowed rosy in the moonlight with it, her lips pouty and her eyes wide and unfocused; pushed his weight into her until her little moans drove him to near distraction and to contemplate the most ungentlemanly behavior in a garden.

Bloody Christ.

He blew out a breath and forced himself to drop his arms from her. “I need to think this matter over. I will contact you at Lady Beatrice's town home once I've reached a decision.”

As with the cold snap of winter, the focus came back to her eyes. She reached up to pinch his chin between her fingers. “I, however, do not need to think the matter over. Shall I have my solicitor contact
you
at
your
town home? We could end this farce once and for all.”

“Fine,” he spat out, flaring to provocation again. He grabbed her wrist and towed her back toward the house, cursing his damn leg, the dark night, and pampered princesses. “You're right—I don't know what I was thinking, to call you a princess. You're obviously a common harridan and fishwife under those fine threads.”

If a quick glance over his shoulder caught a flash of whitened mouth or the glisten of tears, he wasn't pausing to see more. Best to end it here and now.

A body might mend—just barely—but not a heart.

Not when a princess had been lost forever.

Seated back among her friends and Lord Rexton, Lenora endured their
most
interested looks at her rather damp and ruffled toilette. She felt her cheeks redden and hastily reached for a cup of champagne from the tray of a passing footman.

“Where did you say you'd met Lord Ravensworth, Lenora?” Bea asked, frowning at her.

“I don't believe that she did say,” Callista said slowly, casting her own frown. “Is that a leaf on your dance slipper, dear?”

Lenora hid her feet under her chair and fought the strongest urge to drain her cup in one long gulp.

“He's certainly most impressive.” Bea snapped open her ivory-bladed fan. “Surely one would not forget meeting a man of such size. Did you take note of the width of his chest?” She began to fan herself most vigorously. “And the span of his hands? I wager he covers almost two octaves on the piano! Goodness, he's most . . . impressive.”

“I believe you already said that, Bea,” Callista said drily.

“But can one trust a man of that physical stature?” Bea turned to Lenora and laid a hand on her knee, smoothing out wrinkles in Lenora's skirts. “Do you plan to see him again?”

Lord Rexton raised an eyebrow. “Ravensworth has an unimpeachable reputation with the ladies—almost chivalric, in fact. I'd trust my sister with him, were she not already married. I'd probably not trust my mother, for she'd no doubt seduce him in a heartbeat, but Lady Lenora is in safe hands with him.”

In safe hands
.

The phrase sent a shiver down Lenora's back, prompting Callista and Bea to renew their worried inquiries about her health.

But it was her quarrelsome and quixotic Black Knight who had her worried—he and the thought that just when he'd finally reappeared in her life, she might never see him again.

Chapter 14

B
ea, Callista, there is something I need to tell you.” Lenora took too hasty a sip of tea, scalded her mouth on the fresh brew, and almost spilled her cup as she set it down.

Bea shook her head. “You've been nervous as a cat since the ball yesterday.” She handed Lenora a linen square to blot the drips. “Are you finally ready to tell us what it's all about?”

Callista put down her own cup and reached across the settee to take hold of Lenora's hand. She squeezed it reassuringly. “We'll help you with whatever it is, dearest. You needn't be afraid to tell us; we're your oldest friends.”

“It's about your time in Germany, isn't it?” asked Bea.

Lenora managed to nod. She rose to her feet on a sharp intake of breath and began to pace the length of Bea's elegant morning room. The three friends had been gathering most mornings for tea in the sunny chamber with buttercup silk walls and wide windows overlooking the chrysanthemum displays of the autumn gardens at DeBray Hall. While it felt odd not to have the fourth bosom friend of their childhood quartet with them, Genevieve had been out of touch in France for some time. They were all concerned about her welfare, given the furor in Paris, but had been unable to track her down. Meanwhile, Bea plotted her latest ventures for the Society of Love charity, Callista regaled them with tales of married life, and Lenora—until
he
had appeared back in her life—worked hard to say little of any consequence at all.

“The story is rather complicated,” Lenora began. She wrapped her arms around her middle as she paced. “And I'm afraid it doesn't end very well. In fact, it's not over yet.” She dropped into a gilt-backed chair next to her friends and covered her face with her hands. She couldn't bring herself to say the next words.

“Lenora dear, are you . . . in a delicate condition?” asked Callista carefully.

“No!” Lenora cried, looking up. It wasn't
that
, at least.

“Are you sure?” Callista laid a hand on Lenora's arm. “Would you know the signs?”

“Callista, I am not uninformed about such basic matters. My mother took care to fully explain all things related to ‘delicate conditions' long before we went over to Rotenburg.”

Callista withdrew her hand. “Of course. Forgive me.”

Too late, Lenora remembered Callista had lost her own mother—and her father as well—when she was quite young, soon after returning to England some two years ago. She'd had no guidance at all, and she'd endured scandals and the near ruin of her reputation while working as a library organizer for Lord Rexton before their marriage. “No—forgive
me
, Callista,” Lenora said, sighing. “I didn't mean to snap. Your guess, in truth, is not far from its mark. I do have a problem. And it does involve a man. And the matter is a rather intimate one.”

“For goodness' sake.” Bea, ever impatient, leaned forward in her chair. “Tell us, Lenora! What is this problem?”

Lenora's head sank back into the cover of her hands. She couldn't bear to look at her friends and speak of
him
at the same time. “I think I am . . . perhaps . . . somewhat . . .”

“Yes? What?” Bea almost slid off the edge of her chair.

“Somewhat . . . married!” The word burst forth from Lenora in a weepy howl. She clapped her hand over her mouth, horrified at the sound, but unable to stop the sudden gush of hiccupping sobs.

She sensed Bea and Callista both move in a flutter to either side of her.

“Did she say
married
?” Lenora heard Bea ask the question over her head.

“I'm not entirely sure,” replied Callista. “Lenora, dear, did you say you are
married
? To that horrible German prince? But he was killed in the uprising at his castle, wasn't he?”

“No, not to him!” Lenora managed to wail.

“You married someone else whilst in Germany?” asked Callista.

Lenora sucked in a gasping breath. “I didn't exactly marry him.”
Hiccup.
“We're not truly wed.”
Hiccup
. “At least, I don't think so.”

“Wouldn't you know if you married a man or not?” Bea asked, bewildered.

“Who is this man?” inquired Callista.

Lenora covered her face with her linen napkin. All she could do was shake her head and cry.

“Oh, no,” said Bea suddenly. “Oh, my. It's not
him
, is it?”

“Who?” asked Callista.

Bea traced out a form in the air, raising her arms high and then wide. “
Him!
You know—the impressive one.”

“Lord Ravensworth?” exclaimed Callista. “Lenora, my goodness! Did you marry Lord Ravensworth?”

“Not exactly,” Lenora said, sniffling.

“But it is to him that you are somewhat married?” Callista persisted, a hint of sternness entering her voice. She gave Lenora a little shake. “Is it to Lord Ravensworth?”

Lenora drew a deep and shaky breath. She nodded slowly and somehow found the words. “Yes—to him. The
impressive
one.”

Bea sank into her chair, picked up a fresh linen, and began to fan herself with it rapidly. “Oh. My. Goodness.”

It took them another three mornings of tea and plotting to work out a plan. At first Lenora could barely bring herself to talk to her friends about Wolfram and her time in Germany. However, once her confession of the marriage broke her dam of silence, the story began to flow. It proved such a relief to finally be able to speak about what had happened in Germany to friends who didn't judge her or panic at her tale. Callista and Bea took turns holding her hand or patting her back and pouring out fresh tea. Later, when she got to the parts about the skirmish at Rotenburg that ended Kurt's life, they broke out the sherry and poured generous glasses for everyone. Callista and Bea asked questions to clarify the time line and details of the sorry tale until the whole mess of it was laid out on the table.

And then they began to brainstorm what to do.

“We should consult with one of my solicitors,” suggested Bea. She managed a significant inheritance with the help of trustees and an in-house man of business and had a particular gift for turning new technologies and social reform movements into philanthropic business ventures profitable to communities in need. While it was Bea's, Callista's, Genevieve's, and Lenora's mothers who had cofounded the Society of Love years ago with a subscription hall and charity projects to help the poor, it was Bea who'd now turned the society into a major London philanthropy. “The first thing we must ascertain is whether you are legally married or not.”

“But your solicitors are so well connected among the
ton,
” said Lenora, worried. “I couldn't bear it if this got out.”

Bea laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “A lawyer is sworn to keep the confidences of his clients.”

Lenora shook her head. “Mr. Barrington, your head solicitor, consults for my father as well. He's often come out to our country estate. I simply couldn't explain this mess to him.”

“I have an idea.” Callista walked over from the windows, where she'd been staring out at a dripping gray sky of rain. “Let's contact Mr. Timmins. He was my father's lawyer and handled the will and payments to creditors after Father's death. He runs a very modest practice, quite unconnected with any of the families of the
ton.
And he's a very kindly and tactful man. He helped me out in some difficult moments last year.”

“Would Mr. Timmins be able to give an opinion as to the legal status of the marriage and my options in regard to it?” Lenora asked.

“Yes, I'm certain he could conduct the legal research and make appropriate, discreet inquiries.” Callista dropped onto the settee beside Lenora and squeezed her hand. “Let me write to him and request that we pay him a call.”

Lenora looked to Bea, who nodded. “It is a sound plan,” agreed their hostess. “We first need to understand whether the marriage is valid in the courts and Church. With that information in hand, we'll be able to devise a plan for how you want to deal with the situation.”

Lenora rose to her feet, too nervous to sit. More information was certainly all to the good. But Bea had identified the real problem. The question that Lenora had asked Wolfram about his intentions at the ball echoed back to her: What did
she
intend? How
did
she want to deal with the situation? Apparently, the time had come to decide.

For the past six months she'd concentrated on recovering in body and soul from the trauma of her experiences in Germany. She hadn't quite pretended that her time with Wolfram had never happened. She had, however, tried to push it far to the back of her mind. But now he was back.

Sky-blue eyes, massive shoulders, and the gallant sincerity of a medieval knight-errant were all well and good—all right,
very
well and good, she admitted grudgingly—but did she want to be married for life to a man foolish enough to profess belief in love at first sight? A man who claimed her on slight acquaintance as his soul mate?

Why not?
asked some imprudent inner voice.

The ridiculousness!
she tried to tell it.
The risk!

The possibilities,
it whispered back.
The pleasure
.

Lenora reached for the sherry and refilled her own glass.

To the brim.

Mr. Timmins made time to see the three young women the next day. He took copious notes, asked careful questions, and proved to be the very soul of discretion and compassion.

“A most trying situation, Lady Lenora, to be sure.” The avuncular lawyer rubbed his balding head with a sigh.

His clerk served tea, and by the end of an hour the women had told him the entire story.

“I have colleagues at the ecclesiastical courts whom I'll need to consult, as matters pertaining to Christian marriage span both civil and canon law. These documents”—he shuffled carefully in a large file and pulled out the settlement contract, dower agreement, and wedding certificate that Wolfram had given her in Germany—“will be very helpful in preparing our case. I will gather all relevant precedents and case law and scour the pertinent statutes to prepare our legal arguments. But there is one point that you must clarify for me, Lady Lenora.”

He paused to remove his pince-nez and polished it with his pocket handkerchief while he regarded her with kind eyes. “Do you want me to prepare a case that Lord Ravensworth is your legal husband, or do you wish to argue that any claim of marriage is null and void under law?”

Lenora looked to Bea, on her right, and to Callista, on her left. They both raised their eyebrows at her, ready to support her either way.

That was, indeed, the question.

One more conversation remained before she could face Wolfram again.

She dreaded it but saw no way to put it off further. She had to speak to her father.