Knight of Love (26 page)

Wolf sighed and rolled his eyes.
There was no stopping her now.

“Our head groom taught me, at my request and with my lady mother's blessing. I don't believe my father the duke ever knew, but Her Grace was quite prescient in deeming it a useful skill.”

“You are the daughter of a duke, raised as an English lady,” said Lord Grantham scathingly. “You are not a heathen Gypsy circus performer. I find it hard to believe that you could hit any target at that distance, let alone that you would kill a man.”

Undeterred, Lenora grabbed hold of the podium's wooden railings and raised her voice over the prosecutor's. “My lord Grantham impeaches my honor to suggest that I would lie while testifying under oath before my peers, here in the highest court in the land! I speak the truth! And I demand the right to prove it, both to clear this slur on my honor and to clear my husband of these false charges of murder. 'Twas I who killed Prince Kurt in self-defense as he attempted to murder both me and my husband!”

Lord Grantham stepped up to the woolsack. “My Lord High Steward, the lady seeks to clear her husband's name; that much is obvious. Her ladyship's loyalty is commendable—indeed, both Lord and Lady Ravensworth appear quite committed to the other's cause. I fear, however, that their loyalty leads less to truth and justice than to a mere display of marital devotion. It's touching enough to push us old bachelors to the altar, no doubt, but is not to the point of today's proceedings.” He waited for the chuckles to die down, tucking his thumbs into his vest lapels and circling the floor like a smug peacock.

“The fact remains,” the prosecutor continued, “that her ladyship could not have thrown the dagger to kill Prince Kurt at the distance from which she stood. No other possibility exists, then, save that Lord Ravensworth himself had access to the dagger and stabbed the prince at close range. In that case, Lord Ravensworth is—”

“I can prove it!” Lenora said, cutting him off. “Bring me knives and I'll throw to target right now!”

Once more the chamber erupted in howls and jeers. Wolf closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten. He could hear the stories now: he'd wed the woman who threw daggers in the House of Lords.

Notorious, gossiped about, and—the thought pushed through his buzzing annoyance—bloody amazing brilliant. Courageous. Bold in spades, when need be. Willing to stop at nothing to fight for those she called hers. Loyal, clever, beautiful, and, most amazing of all . . . his.

For the first time, the fact that she'd accepted their marriage began to truly sink in. The woman was publicly claiming him as her husband. Damned if she wasn't flaunting the fact in the House of Lords! She'd left herself no way to back out of the connection now. She'd not only accepted the marriage and claimed it as her choice, she was fighting for it. Fighting for
him
, warrior-princess that she was.

If he were to walk out of here a free man today, it would be with her on his arm.

As his wife.

“Let the lady prove her claim!” shouted the Duke of Torrington from his seat among the crossbenchers.

“Aye, bring her a set of throwing knives!” chimed in the marquess of Blaringshire from the Tory aisles.

Other peers began to yell out their agreement and encouragement, until the high steward was forced to call again for order and motion for Black Rod to bang his staff against the floor. “May I remind my noble lords of the need for decorum! We will not proceed until order is restored!”

“My Lord High Steward!” called out the earl of Thorpton. “I keep a pair of fine Spanish daggers in my chambers. 'Twas the gift of the last ambassador from Madrid, made of the best Toledo steel, he boasted. Let the lady throw them!”

“At what target?” asked Torrington. “Grantham's fine head?”

Guffaws filled the chamber, even from Lord Grantham himself. “She won't hit me. If the lady comes anywhere near, I'll eat my hat!”

“My lords!” Lenora's clear voice echoed above the din. “Your attention, I pray!” She waited until they fell quiet. “Please allow the earl of Thorpton to send for his Spanish daggers. I accept with gratitude their loan for this demonstration. I must, however, decline the equally kind suggestion that I use Lord Grantham as target, as our John Coachman taught me never to throw at a person unless I meant to fell him. But I will wager any of our noble lords here today that I come within three inches of my target at sixty feet. Should I win, any takers will pay as their wager an advance contribution to Lady Beatrice's Society of Love subscription ball two months hence.”

“And if my lady should lose?” Lord Grantham asked.

“If I lose, I will depart immediately and leave my noble lords to continue this trial without my
bedevilment
.” She shot a look over her shoulder at Wolf.

The high steward motioned again for Black Rod to pound his heavy staff as the lords broke into laughter and applause.

“We can't lose,” said Blaringshire. “Support a worthy cause or clear the chamber of a most unusual lady. I wager one hundred pounds! By damn, it's worth the price. I can't recall the last time I derived such entertainment from a session in the Lords.”

Bets began to fly. The high steward tried to object that the Lords House wasn't an Ascot racetrack, but the dignity of the House couldn't withstand the love of an Englishman for a good bet.

The Duke of Torrington offered to make book, and with him as the senior lord behind the scheme, there was no stopping it.

Lenora turned a circle before the lords and dropped into a deep curtsy, bowing her head. She was the picture of modest acknowledgment, although from Wolf's position at the defendant's table, he saw the satisfied smile curving the minx's luscious lips.

By that point, the assistant sergeants-at-arms were upending a long trestle table against a wainscoted wall at one end of the chamber. Black Rod hung a red silk tie from the table as a target.

The lords were clearing the way, moving en masse to the east side of the chamber, elbowing each other with jokes over the uncertain arm of a young wife in love and crowding around Torrington to lay bets. A runner was sent for the daggers.

“Ask my lady wife to honor me with a word whilst they set up this madness,” Wolf hissed at the sergeant standing guard next to him.

She arrived mere moments later. “Wolfram, I realize you're upset with me—” she began.

He cut her off with a raised hand. “You have no idea what I feel at this moment.”

She cocked her head, considering him uncertainly. “You want me to win, don't you?”

“Can you?”

“I believe so. I've regularly hit a harder target.”

“Then do it, lady. But you'll owe me when this is over.”

“Owe you?”

“Yes—a lifetime of wifehood. There will be no getting out of it after this. Do you remember our vows?”

The corner of her mouth twitched up. “I confess that I wasn't listening very closely at the time.”

“We vowed, Lenora—or at least I did—to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, to honor and sustain, and to be faithful unto the other, so long as we both shall live.” He cupped her face in his hands. “If you throw that dagger, you take up those vows and you live them without reservation. And you accept that I have done the same for you.”

He watched the pupils of her beautiful green eyes contract with the awareness that he was serious.

“I knew when I first saw you at Rotenburg that you were for me, lady.”

“You only felt pity for me,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “No, not pity. Rage at that bastard, yes. Admiration, marvel at your spirit, and the highest respect for your courage. You are for me, lady,” he repeated. “You are mine, and I am yours. If you claim me now, you accept all of my claim. You open yourself to me, fully. Body, heart, and soul: I want all of you. I want the dagger-throwing runaway who takes her fate into her hands and works her will, despite the rules of society. I want the bold beauty who takes her pleasure with me in the bedroom—or whatever dungeon we find ourselves in. You will be mine, and you will never fight it again.”

“Wolfram,” she breathed, never taking her eyes off him. Those eyes, gone huge, luminous. He hoped it was with love. It was enough for now.

“Good girl.” He quirked a smile at her and pulled her in for a hard kiss on the lips. She squealed. Several lords nearby snickered, but lords be damned—she was his. “Go show these doubting Thomases what a goddess can do. Only a fool would call you a kitten.”

“I won't let you down, my husband. And you are no fool.” Lenora walked, head high, to the table where Black Rod stood waiting beside the daggers. She picked one up and hefted its weight.

Silence descended on the House. Somewhere, a grandfather clock ticked.

Wolf watched her take her mark and draw a slow breath.

He'd never seen a woman more beautiful, more majestic. A Valkyrie. Freya, the German goddess of war and beauty. Athena on the warpath. His warrior-princess.

He'd never felt such love.

She let fly her dagger.

And the House erupted one last time.

Chapter 18

A
fter the episode in the House of Lords, the invitation to appear in chambers before the Queen ranked almost as an anticlimax. Both
The Times
and the society news rags carried the “Lady of the Dagger” story for days. Bea cut out all the illustrations—nineteen different ones in all—that portrayed Lenora throwing her knives in the House to the cheering lords waving their bets in the air. Bea had them framed as a wedding gift for “dear Lenora and her gallant knight,” she'd said, beaming with happiness at the love that her friend had found.

The ceremony of Wolfram's knighting made the papers as well. Indeed, between Lenora throwing daggers in the House of Lords and Wolfram becoming Knight Companion of the Order of the Garter—topped off by the grandest and most public wedding of any peer that season as they renewed their marriage vows—not a day went by for a month without the name of either Earl or Countess Ravensworth appearing in the papers.

The Most Noble Order of the Garter was the oldest and highest order of chivalry in all of England. The summons from the Queen's chamberlain had arrived the morning after Lenora's appearance in the House of Lords, requesting that Lord Ravensworth attend Her Majesty that very afternoon. Lenora had some inkling what it was about, based on a note she'd received from her father. The Queen, it seemed, had proven partial to the arguments made by His Grace.

Wolfram reported back as much. “I assured Her Majesty,” he'd told Lenora, “that my concern was only for the people of Germany, that they may enjoy the same rights and opportunities as any good Englishman under her just reign. She agreed with the judgment made by the lord high steward after your testimony; Becker's affidavit sent from Germany aided as well. I've been cleared of all charges, and Her Majesty has accepted a recommendation from the lords in the Order of the Garter to make me Knight Companion, for service to crown and country.”

He grinned broadly. “It helped, I think, that I requested the honor of making a donation in Her Majesty's name to one of her favorite charities, in recognition of my esteem for her beneficence toward her subjects.” He spread his arms wide. “Behold the newest vice president of the Royal Hospital for Consumption and Diseases of the Chest in Brompton. We're endowing the east wing, set to begin construction soon. Your kinsman Prince Albert laid the west wing's cornerstone a few years ago. It's quite a wonderful place—combines the latest medical, scientific, and technological advances; pipes warm air from a compression room in the basement throughout the building, and it even has a Turkish bath for the consumptives.”

Lenora had enjoyed robing Wolfram in his ritual costume for investiture as Knight Companion—although they'd had to return the first garter, as its blue velvet strap was too small to buckle around Wolfram's calf. At the ceremony in Windsor Castle's St. George's Chapel, the Queen—bless her royal heart—let it be known that she considered her most noble Earl Ravensworth to have acted not out of treason but out of love for the ties between Germany and England, in order to share the British embrace of freedom and modernity with our German brothers and sisters. It was after that commendation that the newspapers started calling Wolfram “the Knight of Love,” to Lenora's great amusement.

Kurt's heir surprised them all by showing up for Wolfram's dubbing as Knight of the Garter. Ernst Josef von Rotenburg-Gruselstadt, a wealthy industrialist from a junior branch of the family, had inherited the principality at Kurt's death. As new prince, he just as promptly ceded the territory to the Kingdom of Prussia.

After the ceremony, he'd pulled Lenora aside: “Unlike my cousin Kurt, I have no interest in playing lord of the castle and spending my days adjudicating peasants' quarrels. That era is long past, my dear. Prussia can annex Rotenburg-Gruselstadt and be welcome to it. The title and the Rotenburg castle will stay in the family; with the Prussian compensation funds, I'll renovate it for a summer palace. Finance and industry are the path toward improving the lot of the common man; it's my investments in breweries, banking, and railroads that will create jobs for the people. Now that I'm prince, even with a mediatized title and no territory to rule, I have marriage rights on a par with the reigning German royalty. The Prussian court is proposing a very advantageous marriage to a Bavarian
Prinzessin
whose family connections will help in my business dealings. The world is changing, Lenora; we must change with it.”

He'd walked Lenora over to a quiet alcove. “Kurt was a sadistic despot. I have the most unpleasant memories of him from childhood—a terrible bully he was, even then,” Ernst Josef said, shuddering. “As a token of the family's esteem, I beg leave to present you with a memento from the House of Rotenburg-Gruselstadt.” He pulled from a pocket a soft leather pouch. A sparkling emerald necklace set with diamonds spilled out. “Kurt mentioned at one point that your eyes were green.” He bent down to check, smiling kindly. “I see he got that right, although I expect he saw little else about you accurately.”

“I couldn't possibly—” she began, startled by the gift.

He wrapped his hands around hers, enclosing the necklace within their grasp. “Please, as head of the house, I ask that you accept this token as reparation, with my apologies, and with my thanks. I have some sense of what you must have gone through with Kurt. The emeralds are family jewels from the last century; they would have been yours to wear as Kurt's wife. Accept as well my assurance that I will work with King Friedrich Wilhelm
to see that the people of Rotenburg-Gruselstadt move into the second half of the century with more opportunity and freedom. And expect, my dear, to hear from the Prussian court yourself. Your removal of Kurt from the equation gains Prussia territory, removes a tyrant from a throne, and allows Friedrich Wilhelm to at least appear to be on the side of the revolutionaries. They want to make you Dame Companion of the Order of Louise, for your service to Germany. Her Majesty Elisabeth Ludovika will be bestowing the honor through the ambassador in London.”

He'd clicked his heels together and bowed deeply to her, disappearing into the crowd before she'd been able to close her mouth, which was hanging open in surprise.

Her medallion of the Order of Louise—a small golden cross enameled in black with a centerpiece in sky blue—now hung by its ribbon over the huge mahogany bedstead in the master chambers of Ravensworth House in London. She kept it there, hanging alongside Wolfram's garter, because, as she told her husband, both matched his sky-blue eyes.

“Look at this one, Wolfram!” said Lenora, laughing one morning as she leaned over to his side of the bed with the newspaper. “The illustrators must have dried up their inkwells sketching this breadth to your shoulders. Poor Queen Victoria looks a veritable fairy princess next to your knightly bulk. Even on your knees, your head still towers above her as she knights you. And look at the caption: ‘Wolfram, Earl Wolfsbach-Ravensworth, the Black Knight of Love.'
Ooh, I like that!
”

Wolfram smiled. “I still like best the illustration of you processing down the aisle of St. Paul's on your father's arm, pulling that train Mademoiselle Beauvallon designed for you, with a huge dagger dangling at your side.”

She swatted at him. “Yes, the fashion illustrators were in a swoon over that costume. Marie told me her dress shop had six demands for the very same gown the next week. She refused them all, but offered to design an original gown for each of the young ladies in question. She's quite a fashion genius, that Marie Beauvallon. Did you hear that Bea is going into business with her? The two of them are setting up a seamstress school for impoverished young women, to allow them to learn the trade.”

“An excellent idea—we should sign a contract with them to provide the uniforms and linens for our new hospital wing.”

“Medical care for London's sick and valuable work for women to support themselves—sounds like the Knight of Love is indeed accomplishing his quest for social reform,” she said teasingly.

“And yet the Knight of Love has another quest to which he must attend, my lady bride.” Wolfram peeled the newspaper from her hand. With another swift move, he lifted the breakfast tray off her lap and set it on a bedside table. “The quest for love, and for loving, goes beyond a charitable support of the good people of London. There is also the very specific love I bear for the princess-warrior who is my soul mate.” He braced an arm against the headboard and leaned over her pillow. “She stirs me to demonstrate this love in very different ways. I stand guard whenever my services are needed.”

“I do believe there may be a need for your services, my knight.” Lenora ran a hand along the rippling play of muscle across his arm and shoulder and sighed contentedly. What a truly wonderful man. Big like an ox and brutishly handsome, but so tenderly loving.

So made to be loved.

She slipped her hand under the linen sheets. “And I do believe you stand on guard for me.”

Their maid and valet knew by now not to reenter the master bedchamber after delivering the breakfast tray until called for again. Once Lenora had settled into her role as a well and truly married matron, she'd discovered the most delicious appetite for morning lovemaking. Rested from a good night's sleep, curled against Wolfram's warm bulk, and having broken her fast with Cook's excellent kidney omelets or poached eggs with cream, along with a plate of crumpets lathered in gooseberry jelly and a bracing pot of Irish tea, Lenora often found herself in the mood for love.

Wolfram, bless his heart, was ever ready to meet his lady's desire.

She considered him, this husband of hers, dark hair tousled and tumbling into his smiling eyes, crimson silk pajama shirt hanging open and unbuttoned over his furred chest. Those eyes—she never ceased to be fascinated by their crystal-blue depths. So open and guileless, the dark shadows now banished.

She pushed him flat on his back and rolled on top of him. “You are Her Majesty's Knight of Love, as she informed the court. But I must respectfully disagree. She may not claim you,” Lenora whispered into his ear. “She hasn't the right. For it is I who love you, my wolf. You are mine.” She bit his earlobe and sucked hard.

“Yes, lady,” he groaned. “I am yours. You have my heart, my sword arm, my very soul. I love you, Lenora.”

He shifted his head to claim her mouth. His fierce kiss tasted of salt bacon and cream tea and passionate love and the glory that was Wolfram. She kissed him back with mounting passion until he broke their contact.

“Lady.” He pulled back to smooth the ringlets from her face, his bright eyes shining. “How shall I serve your pleasure this morning?”

An excellent question. Through the silk of his night attire, his hard length already throbbed against her belly.

Yes
,
you serve my pleasure well
.

“You will first remove your clothing,” she said, deciding. She climbed off him to pull her own ivory satin night rail over her hair.

His gaze dropped to her breasts and belly as he obeyed, and she smiled to see him throb harder.

“That will have to wait, I'm afraid”—she gave his length a tap—“as I feel the need for a massage with that new lavender oil your lady mother sent.”

Wolfram reached for the oil from his bedside chest of drawers. “I'm sure my mother has no idea the use we've made of her herbal rubs,” he said as he warmed the scented oil in his hands. “She's quite pleased, however, at my reports of improved circulation.”

She laughed and lay down on her stomach to let him swirl his magic about her. His massive hands, round as their breakfast plates and slick with oil, kneaded up and down her back. The rhythmic pressure most delightfully relaxed and stirred her at the same time.

Her husband—how she still thrilled to that new reality! And in directing the love play she shared with this giant of a man. He took pleasure in placing his formidable body and quite splendid passion at her full and complete disposal. His hands, his mouth, that lovely hard shaft of his: all were hers to play with, as she pleased. The more she opened herself to this man—this unique and special man, infuriatingly idealistic, with tender feelings easily bruised despite the iron muscles cording his body—the more was opened up to her. In their love, through their love, she found a whole world.

A world of desire and pleasure, beyond what she'd ever imagined, freed from the shadows of any shame or pain. A world of emotion, of love and trust and the shared feeling of souls bound together. A world of work and meaning in the tide for people's rights reforming the democracies of Europe and bringing new hope and opportunity. And a strength of self, a self-confidence in the exercise of her will and of their plans for a life together.

The pleasure grew as he teased her by stroking farther down toward her derriere with each firm pass of his oiled hands. When the now-familiar craving grew too hot, too insistent, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Now, Wolfram—touch me.”

She felt him shift on the bed, move farther down the mattress, and pour more oil into his hands. The scent of sun-warmed lavender fields, of her own spicy arousal, of her husband's musk, filled her head.

“Touch me, there,” she said.

He slicked the oil across her buttocks and upper thighs. His hands easily spanned her hips, everywhere at once, his thumbs rubbing deep rings of pressure and release across her skin, circling closer and closer toward that thrumming core of her.

“Lady, your skin glows ivory in the sunlight. You grace me with your beauty.”

She lifted her derriere toward him, a silent demand. Compliments were pretty, but she was moving beyond pretty. What she wanted now was more.

He growled, understanding her need.

His first touch to her quim shot lightning through her. She bucked. “Wolf!”