Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (236 page)

Muttering, she stomped to the doors, grabbed the handles of both and threw them open.

Patterson, just on the other side, jumped, startled by her abrupt, untidy appearance.

Equally astonished to find the majordomo immediately on the other side of the doors, Jessica staggered back into the solarium.

Witnessing — able to observe — the stunned, mirrored responses of Jessica and Patterson, Devlin shouted renewed laughter at the ceiling and flopped back, bracing himself on his elbows, sobering only a little beneath the girl’s venomous glare.

Instead of the invectives he expected, she seethed, “I pray you get your eyesight back before the sun sets this day. It will serve you right!”

The words hurled as the worst kind of threat, only added to Devlin’s hilarity, as he dropped flat on the floor, and howled.

Chapter Thirteen

Devlin had not mentioned his brief glimpses to anyone but the ophthalmologist, so he maintained his silence regarding his sight during his tussle with Jessica.

Although his vision returned for longer periods each day, it was not fully restored; he rationalized in not sharing the news.

After Jessica left the library, Patterson helped the smiling duke to his feet and tidied his clothes. Devlin sobered as he thought of other aspects of his returning sight. He wanted to see again. He should be grateful that Jessica and others prayed for the restoration of his eyesight.

He smiled recalling her pique, and then grew thoughtful. His recovery would cost him dearly if it cost him her. As she said, without his handicap, he would no longer need her. She would return to Welter — to her ailing mother, her shiftless brother, her hens, and John Lout.

She should realize that as long as she remained with him, she had many alternatives.

What a ridiculous coil. He had lost his eyesight, but she was the one blind to what the future might hold for a bright, beautiful woman with intelligence and an enchanting face and form.

He raised his eyebrows remembering her curvaceous form. That was unexpected. Perhaps eating and sleeping at Gull’s Way and here in town had put meat on developing bones. He had been misled by her long arms and legs and narrow waist. Originally, he had mistakenly concluded that she was young and sparingly made. Her figure — and her clothing, too — made her a scarecrow to a blind man that night.

Why hadn’t anyone corrected his error?

She tried to tell him, of course, but none of the others in his household had verified that. Why had they not?

“Patterson?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Why did you not tell me Jessica was a fully developed young woman?”

Patterson, intently straightening the hem of the duke’s trousers, hesitated for a brief moment, long enough to raise Devlin’s suspicions.

“Quite naturally, Your Grace, I assumed you knew.”

“How would I have known when I could not see?”

“When you arrived, you were wrapped together rather … shall I say … rather intimately. I assumed you had taken the liberty … that is, the opportunity … to, ah … That is … I supposed you were aware of her dimensions.” Patterson finished with the trousers and stepped back, studying the duke’s countenance. He saw bewilderment as Devlin nodded.

“Had my prior reputation with ladies anything to do with your conclusion?”

“Yes, Your Grace, it had.”

“I see.”

• • •

Devlin’s eyesight returned the next morning and lasted until noon. He did not mention it to either his mother or Nightingale. Nor did he speak of it the next day, when his sight continued into the afternoon.

He felt guilty about the ruse, but each time he started to confess, he stalled, thinking one more day might be enough for Jessica to realize she had changed. Like a caterpillar metamorphoses into a butterfly, Jessica had transformed, from peasant girl to noblewomen, a fit companion for a peer of the realm.

In the next several days, the three of them — Jessica, Devlin, and the dowager — took open carriage rides in the park. Jessica drove the matched pair of grays, so the trio dispensed with a driver.

Shyly at first, Jessica responded to the waves or called helloes of other members of the ton as “the Miracles” became a familiar sight on the riding circuit. Occasionally Devlin or his mother introduced Jessica as a distant cousin from the west, near Shiller’s Green.

One afternoon, Lady Anne pleaded a headache and declined to go, though Jessica argued the fresh air might ease her pain. Vindicator and Dancer had been brought to town. When his mother begged to stay behind, he suggested he and Jessica ride mounts rather than drive the buggy. Their riding unchaperoned did not raise an eyebrow.

The girl had a place in his family. He liked his household the way it had evolved. In spite of his occasional rants to the contrary, Devlin liked the way she made fun of him when he became what she termed, “overly majestic.”

One evening when he had been particularly obnoxious, as Jessica prepared to go up to bed, she said, “Sleep well, Your Pomposity.”

“What did you call me,” he asked, looking toward her.

“Your Pomposity. It seems an apt title when you behave as you have this evening.”

“The title I carry was bestowed on my ancestor over two hundred years ago by a grateful king. Historically such a title commands respect.” Devlin was trying to maintain control of his temper and impress Jessica with the importance of his background.

“You were born into a titled family.”

Swelling to sit more erectly, he gave her a regal nod.

“Just as I was born to a scholar.”

His lordly posture relaxed. “Well, yes, I suppose.”

“Do I brag that I can read and write when those abilities are rare among villagers?”

He held hard to his anger. “It is not the same.”

“How is it different? We were each born from a mother’s womb. Does any babe receive credit for a feat that everybody who breathes achieves? No,” she answered without allowing him to speak. “We who survive share a common achievement that is neither to our credit nor our blame. We arrive without so much as swaddling, blessed only with our individual gifts. Will you argue with that?”

He rose and began walking toward her voice. If only his eyesight might return at that moment, his anger might propel him to do more — to take the waif across his knee and school her in the proper regard for the difference in their stations.

She wasn’t, however, through antagonizing him. “You were born a second son who could anticipate living on the generosity of an elder brother or the hope your father might purchase you a commission in the military. Isn’t that correct?”

Damn her eyes and that quick little mind. Why didn’t the snip stand still? He continued to slide his feet in what he hoped were unnoticeable steps. If he got his hands on her, she would learn a valuable lesson regarding his sensitivity and his position, aspects she determinedly ignored.

He heard her gown rustle as she attempted retreat. Was she frightened or merely moving on instinct? He did not imagine her afraid.

He moved toward the rustling. “But my older brother died and I fell heir to the title and its inherent responsibilities.”

“A title earned by a long-ago ancestor who did murder or thievery or some other scandalous act to earn his liege’s pleasure,” she taunted. “What have you done to deserve the homage you demand?”

“Demand? My staff here and at my estates, the villagers and the overseers in the manors to Welter and beyond, have sworn their fealty to me.”

“To you? Do people even know you? Would they recognize you if you walked into a pub in Welter without your ducal crest announcing your identity?” She hesitated a moment. “Or, perhaps, you are recognized. Perhaps they did know who you were that night on the highway, riding a grand horse, clothed in finery. Perhaps they resented that you had so much and they so little and they attempted to beat you, or perhaps take your life.”

He bristled. “The brigands who attacked me were after my purse, not my life. Had they known it was I, they might have offered assistance.”

“Not bloody likely.”

His tone exploded in a shout. “You will not use that common language in my presence.”

“Have I offended your sensibilities again, Your Grace? I have overheard you swear using words that fairly scorched my tender ears.

“Furthermore,” she continued, not allowing him time or space to respond as she continued dodging his grasp, “your title is only what you make of it. No one honors a word, which is all ‘duke’ is. People subject themselves as they choose. If your subjects choose to hold you in high esteem, they are exercising their God-given free will, not the dictates of some puffed-up prig who, by accident of birth, is heir to a title.”

She spun away from him as he grabbed close, and continued her verbal attack.

“A parent, a man, even a duke, must earn the regard of his children or friends, not demand it. Neither your name nor your title are enough to make one uneducated villager pay homage.”

Suddenly her bombardment ceased. There was no sound in the room at all, except that of their heavy breathing. He stood still, stung by her words. Was what she said true? Had his father and grandfather, all the men in his background, received the title, and then set about earning obeisance?

He did not know about prior generations, but his father had prided himself on dealing fairly with the people who worked his lands. Lady Anne still drew shouts of praise — villagers threw flower petals occasionally — when she passed. Her answering smiles and waves reflected her regard for them. The duchess had risked her health in the past to take poultices and elixirs to treat the ill or injured. She sent beef and vegetables from estate stores to help in times of famine or poor harvests.

The people responded in kind. They grieved as if they shared the family’s loss when Roth and then Devlin’s father, the old duke, died. Their sympathy was heartfelt as they showered the new widow and her remaining sons with bouquets, food and gifts.

Perhaps Jessica had a point. Perhaps there was more to a title than accepting admiration. The title did not bring allegiance. The holder of the title needed to demonstrate an answering regard.

He had not forgotten Jessica as he digested this new aspect of his authority. Feeling chastised, he grumbled. “Furthermore, I do not swagger, and I resent your saying I do.”

Her lilting giggle washed the anger from his soul as a glass of wine might clear his thoughts. His self-effacing laugh joined her heady one. Humor often soothed harsh words between them.

Unschooled as she was in the ways of court, Jessica knew how to plow into his soul, wring his heart, and tickle his fancy with a gesture, a musical laugh, or an aptly worded argument.

Over time, she had interceded between him and staff members in both residences, softened his edicts by volunteering an occasional explanation, or clarified a servant’s reasons for why something was done differently than he prescribed.

He found her too sympathetic with the staff, an attitude he considered inappropriate. She made the effort to be as understanding with them as she was with him and his mother. Yet, although she had neither title nor authority, people within and without the walls at Gull’s Way and here in town adored her.

She had captivated Patterson and Odessa from the beginning. Sophie, and even Bear, no longer complained about her. She had a surprising rapport with everyone, from the stablemen to the villagers, to the peddlers outside the gates. And with his own mother.

What of Devlin himself? Wasn’t he, too, one of her devotees?

What other explanation for the stirring he felt as he awoke each morning, pleased at the prospect of seeing her? She had stimulated him when she sat before him on Vindicator’s back that first night — her willowy body warm, her hands cool and comforting when he burned with fever the following day in his own chambers.

He was surprised that she bore no grudge toward Nan, the upstairs maid who had been officious with her in his rooms that first day. He harbored more resentment toward the haughty chambermaid than Jessica did.

Such thoughts mellowed him. “Come here, Nightingale. Let me see you.”

He heard the familiar rustle and sensed her before him. He lifted his arm and she curled under it, putting her back to him in anticipation of leading. He swept his hand across her back from one thin shoulder to the other before he clamped that hand upon her neck. She allowed herself to be pulled snugly to him.

Her face against his shoulder, her warm, sweet breath on his neck, he wrapped her tightly in both arms and smiled when her sigh preceded his own. Smoothing over an argument with her was like the early morning calm after a night of storms. He rocked, aligning her body with his. This was perfect contentment. Ease spread through him, bringing to mind the look on his father’s face when the old duke held his duchess close and watched their young sons romp. Devlin experienced such tranquility.

As he and Jessica stood silently locked together, light filtered through Devlin’s unseeing eyes. He blinked. It was nearly twilight. Since the accident, he had not seen a single sunset. Here it was. He looked around, unwilling to disturb the woman snuggled against him.

The gilt mirrors reflected chandelier candles so bright he had to squint. The pattern in the wall covering was distinct. He had never properly appreciated the beauty of glorious, everyday things taken for granted.

He bent his head to Jessica’s hair, able to see that dark mass, candles reflected in its highlights. She tilted her face. Her eyes met his and she started, almost pulling out of his arms. He tightened his hold. “Stay, Nightingale.”

“You’re looking at me.” Her words rang with amazement, accusation and reverence. “You can see!”

“Yes. Your face is the first thing I have seen clearly in long weeks of darkness.”

She wriggled out of his arms to stare into his face and he into hers.

“Is this a miracle?” Her smile was tentative. “I have prayed for this moment, Your Grace.”

He stared, unable to draw his gaze from her enchanting face, her perfect features, the intelligence — and something more — shining in her gray, fathomless eyes. In her innocence, she awaited his answer, expecting the truth.