Love With an Improper Stranger (11 page)

“Including you.”  With a tear-filled gaze, Lenore stared at him.  “Lucy, go to the galley, and tell the cook I will make a lobscouse for the captain’s dinner.”

Lucilla appeared stumped, as she stuttered and started.  “But—”

“Go, now.”  Lenore stood, taking Lucy with her.  “I wish to be alone with Blake.”

At that revelation, and curious about her next move, he sat back in his chair.  Absent the younger Teversham, the cabin grew quiet and still, save the gentle list from the stormy sea and the accompanying whistle of the gale.  All remained calm, until his lady stepped between his legs and framed his face with her delicate hands.

“I should have known it was an act.  The sarcasm, the bawdy comments, and the irascible temper—it is a ruse to disguise your genuine demeanor.”  He should have disavowed her of the gallant but misguided notion, but he remained mute.  Then she pressed her lips to his and said, “Blake Elliott, excepting my father, you are the most honorable man I have ever known.”

CHAPTER SIX

A cold and blustery
day welcomed Lenore and Lucilla, as they huddled on the quarterdeck, while the
Tristan
glided to its berth in Deptford.  Three years had passed since they last gazed on the heart of the British Empire, and it was a bittersweet homecoming, in light of their father’s death.  Interspersed with fond memories of her sire, more recent recollections of another singular male charged the fore, resulting in further inner turmoil.

As Blake barked a rapid succession of orders, and the crew scrambled to execute the commands, she admired the angular profile of the man who occupied her dreams for the past sennight, and yet she could not reconcile the temperamental sea captain with the noble knight.  Despite thoughts to the contrary, fanciful reflections of an armor-clad hero riding to her rescue, musings to which she clung in an act of sheer desperation, he did everything in his power to convince her otherwise in regard to his character.  But she wanted to believe in him—needed to believe in him.

“All right, ladies.”  Blake sketched a bow.  “Shall we disembark and journey to London?”

“Indeed.”  Holding tight to Lucilla’s hand, and with a steely grip on Blake’s arm, Lenore descended the gangplank.  With her feet on terra firma, she breathed a sigh of relief.  “If possible, I would prefer to stop by our residence on Coleman Street, as some staff may yet remain in service, and I would not impinge on your hospitality any longer than necessary.”

“When your uncle arrives, I shall deliver you into his custody.  Until then, you and Lucy shall stay with me, as my guests, as you impinge on nothing.”  He steered them down the docks to a bustling yard, wherein a massive coach, bearing an impressive coat of arms and liveried footman, parked.  With nary a word, Blake opened the door and steadied her as she ascended the steps into the elegant equipage.  “In you go.  Make yourselves comfortable, while I arrange for delivery of our trunks.”

As she settled into the plush, damask-covered squabs, Lenore could not ignore the nagging suspicion that all was not as it appeared, when it came to her cantankerous sailor.  And the small tin foot stove only fueled her uncertainty.  Just then, the source of her consternation joined her.

“My dears, why do you not make use of the blanket?”  Frowning, he unfolded and draped a plush ermine throw over Lenore and Lucy.  “Better?”

“Indeed.”  Tucked beneath the opulent covering, she peered at the thick carpet, which matched the sapphire décor, and met his stare, just as the coach jolted forward.  “Blake, tell me the truth.  Is this your rig?”

“What a curious question.”  He leaned to one side.  “Why do you ask?”

“Because I have never seen, much less enjoyed, such extravagant transportation.”  Lenore pulled Lucy close.  “Even with your additional hazardous duty, how can you afford such luxury on a captain’s pay?”

“The answer is simple.”  Blake smiled and tugged on his coat sleeve.  “I inherited it from my father.”

“He must have been a man of some estimation, to own such a fine coach.”  She trailed her fingers along the padded interior.  “And he served in the same capacity?”

“It would not be inaccurate to say I fill roles identical to those of my father.”  There was nothing nefarious in his response.  So why did his smug smile irk her?  “But you are too polite to hold that against me.”

“You are correct.”  Oh, on what sort of rogue had she pinned her hopes?  “And do you live in London, proper?  Or do you reside in one of the naval port cities, like Plymouth or Portsmouth?”

“I maintain various lodgings.”  Arching a brow, Blake hiked a leg and reclined across the opposite bench.  “But I prefer the country and often escape to the simplicities of a rural existence.”

“That sounds lovely, and never would I have figured you for a provincial.  Given your mother dwells with you, Lucy and I would be happy to take a room at a local inn.”  Fear of the unknown set her nerves on edge, and Lenore focused on the passing landscape.  “I would not crowd you.”

“That is not necessary, as I believe my abode is large enough to accommodate you and little Lucy.”  To her sister, he said, “And I maintain a substantial library filled with books to keep you occupied until your relation arrives from America.”

“How divine, Cap’n.”  With unveiled interest, Lucilla perched upright.  “And may I peruse the logs of your past missions?”

For the next hour, Blake and Lucy traded bits of information regarding the finer points of sailing and the efficacy of blockades, while Lenore mulled an uncertain future.  But her prospective suitor’s ever-present scrutiny left her anxious for familiar surroundings.  So when the various outbuildings, barns, and other agricultural structures yielded to more industrial and metropolitan edifices, she struggled to contain her excitement.

Soon they entered the fashionable shopping district of Cheapside, and the telltale approach to Coleman Street loomed as the rig slowed.  When she spied the redbrick construct trimmed in Portland stone, with its latched black shutters, Lenore fought tears.

“It appears locked tight and uninhabited.”  Blake narrowed his stare and then pounded on the roof of the coach, at which point the equipage picked up speed and turned left at London Wall.  He drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket.  “Here, my dear.  Dry your beautiful eyes, as all is well, and you are welcome to stay with me.”

“I appreciate that.”  She daubed her nose.  “It is just that I can no longer deny Papa’s demise.”  In that instant, she tried but failed to stifle a sob.  “He is really gone.  And we were not permitted to view his remains before his body was shipped, so we never got a chance to say goodbye.”

“I am so sorry, Lenore.”  With an expression of sympathy, Blake compressed his lips.  “Do you know where he was buried?”

“Yes.”  She nodded.  “I requested he be interred at St. Benet Gracechurch, with Mama.”

“Then once you are situated, and the weather clears, I shall take you there.”  Then he peered out the window, as they passed through a majestic gate.  “Ah, we have arrived.”

When the rig came to a halt, Blake opened the door, turned, lowered the stairs, and handed her to the pavement.  After smoothing her skirts, Lenore glanced up and jolted alert.

“Oh.  My.  God.”  She blinked, as if the sight she beheld might magically disappear.  “Is this a joke?”

Stretched across one side of Grosvenor Square, the resplendent mansion, spectacular in its size and adornment, with a red brick façade and Corinthian columned entrance, manifested a grand gem among the more fashionable London residences.  A trio of footmen, sporting powdered wigs and the now familiar livery, hurried from the front door, along with a very proper butler.

“Welcome home, Your Grace.”  The manservant bowed.

Then she noted the tailored workers rushing to unload the trunks.  And maids scurried to stand in line.  The pageantry of what was, for her, a pedestrian task belied the prospect that her sea captain was, in truth, a not-so-noble nobleman.

“
Your Grace
?”  She gulped at the prospect.  “Blake, what have you not told me?  Is this possible, or am I lost in a nightmare?  Are you—”

“Yes.”  He cast the characteristic and always irritating cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.  “I am His Grace, the Duke of Rylan, but to you, Lenore, I am simply Blake.  Of course, my darling, my sweetheart, or my innocent angel will do nicely, too.”

“You did this on purpose to embarrass me.”  Anger surged, charging her nerves, and she clenched her fists.  “Why else would you deliberately withhold the fact that you are a member of the peerage?”  Then an awful reality dawned.  “
Oh
, I spent the night in your lap wearing nothing but my…my…and you saw me intoxicated.”

With a lusty growl, he waggled his brows.  “I did.”

“This is dreadful, and we cannot stay with you.”  To a passing attendant, she said.  “Please, return our belongings to the coach, as we will take a room at a local establishment.”

“Belay that order.”  Blake grabbed her by the arm.  “As my lady is going nowhere, and I have someone I wish you to meet.”

“But, Your Grace, that is unacceptable.”  Stumbling up the entrance stairs, she frowned as Lucy skipped alongside without a care in the world.  “In regard to society, we are not out, and your family would never consider me a viable candidate for a wife.”

“Is that your only objection?”  He doffed his gloves, greatcoat, and hat.

“You want more?”  Frozen stock-still with panic, she could only shiver as he unfastened the hook of her pelisse.

“Jennings, this is Miss Lenore Teversham and Miss Lucilla Teversham.”  Blake deposited their outerwear with the butler.  “They will be my guests until I command otherwise.”

“Welcome, ladies.”  The granite-faced manservant bowed.  “I will have your trunks delivered to your respective chambers, and if there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, I am at your service.”

“Thank you.”  Anchored at her antagonist’s side, she surveyed the imposing foyer, with its polished marble floor, walls covered with flock paper-hangings, featuring a repetitive mix of navy pastoral vignettes on a cream background, and rich polished oak trim.

“Where is Her Grace?”  Blake twined his fingers with Lenore’s.

“In the back parlor, Your Grace.”  Jennings flagged the servants, who paused for his direction.

“Excellent.”  With a swift yank, he steered her down an elegant hall, and she marveled at the Aubusson carpets, the bronze and gilt vases, and classical Greek ornamentation.

“Your Grace, I beg you, stop.”  She dug in her heels.  “Blake Elliott,
I mean it
!”

“How dare you raise your voice to me.”  He stared down his nose, but when Lucy elbowed Lenore, and they curtseyed, he winked.  “You know, I rather fancy this obedient aspect of your personality, and I intend to explore the benefits once we are married.  Now, come with me.”

As they stood before a door, he pressed a finger to his lips.  Then he threw open the oak panel, charged forth, swept some poor, unwitting woman into a hug, and twirled her about like a child.

“Blake, put me down.”  Gowned to perfection, and her coiffed chestnut hair sprinkled with gray, she defined style and poise, until he kissed her cheek, with a loud smack, and she laughed.  “My dear boy, it is good to have you back, safe and sound, on our shores.”  Then she turned her animated blue gaze, so similar to her son’s, on Lenore and Lucy.  “And who is this in our midst?”