Nightingale

by Ervin, Sharon

  He fairly threw his half-filled plate onto the serving table, but she did not allow him to argue.

  “Oh no, Your Grace, you need a proper breakfast. We’ll not provide excuses for failing to keep up with a child, and a girl at that.”

  “If I am to ride today, Jessica, I shall do so in the able company of a groom rather than a snippy chit who refuses to demonstrate the proper regard for me or my station.”

  “No, sir, you will not ride out with any groom, unless you prefer to ride Molly, that dottering old mare you assigned to my use.”

  Devlin’s voice became thunderous. “This is my home, you impertinent baggage. The staff here, the villagers, everyone within the influence of these estates yields to my bidding.”

  “Yes, well, they might be intimidated enough by your bellowing and bullying to do so, but I am not, and I, sir, am the one authorized by Dr. Brussel to serve as your eyes. Furthermore, he insisted that when you and I disagreed, as he expected we might, I should exercise my own sound judgment rather than defer to your demands.”

  She did not allow him an interruption. “Not only that, sir, but your esteemed Dr. Brussel passed that command to your mother and others in this household. You shall either submit to me, you overbearing oaf, or, by heaven and by doctor’s orders, I will keep you prisoner within these walls for as long as it takes you to develop a proper regard for my authority.”

  Jessica had braced for lengthy, difficult negotiations. She was not prepared for laughter.

  Sputtering, spewing, apparently unable to speak, Devlin, the Twelfth Duke of Fornay, picked up the plate he had discarded and, groping, spooned eggs and meat onto it.

  Apparently she had won.

  “Mr. Patterson,” Jessica said, “please ask Cook to prepare a picnic luncheon. I shall be at the back door to collect it shortly.”

  Disregarding the gaping stares, Jessica lifted her chin and set out to convince Figg that the duke should be allowed to ride his fractious stallion. To put the man on any other mount would undermine the confidence Jessica was determined to foster, even if it were risky.

  An hour later, galloping into the day, Jessica realized all her brassy decisions were correct.

  To begin, Sweetness exhibited exemplary behavior. As before, the huge animal seemed to sense Devlin’s limitations and waited until his rider was well seated before he began to prance, demonstrating his usual eagerness to be off. Devlin laughed aloud at his mount’s vigor.

  “I doubt you and Molly will be able to keep up today, Nightingale,” Devlin said, not bothering to veil the challenge in his voice.

  He did not know she was not on Molly, but Dancer, a long-legged, eight-year-old gelding, one of the few horses in the duke’s stable with quality to match Vindicator. Dancer also was the stallion’s familiar stable mate which Figg thought might encourage Vindicator’s proper behavior.

  “Lead off, Your Grace. We will attempt to keep you in sight.”

  Laughing again, for no apparent reason, Devlin yanked Vindicator around, sent him on a course heading east and gave the horse his head. The mount kicked his heels, as excited as his rider. Luckily, the duke was familiar enough with the course to adjust as Vindicator gathered himself and jumped the stone wall at the far end of the field. Devlin’s laughter resonated as man and horse flew over the barrier.

  Jessica smiled. She didn’t know where they were going, nor did she care. More sure of herself in the sidesaddle after several riding sessions from Figg mornings and afternoons, Jessica easily held Dancer in check.

  The duke and his mount waited for them at the edge of a small lake. Devlin’s fair hair was tousled, his face flushed. His broad grin exposed large teeth that gleamed lustrously white. Jessica couldn’t help smiling at how hale and hearty he looked.

  “Is this the spot for our picnic, Your Grace?”

  “Please, Nightingale, indulge me. Call me Devlin, at least while we are away from the house … and alone.”

  She wondered at the curious hesitation. Was he as conscious of their isolation as she? “Dismount then, Devlin, and secure the horses.” She jumped down, rather gracefully, she thought, under the circumstances, and handed Dancer’s reins into Devlin’s hand.

  “But I can’t … ” he began before he apparently remembered to whom he was speaking. “Oh, I see. This is your attempt to make me more self-reliant. Is that it?”

  He seldom secured his own mount when he had his sight, so the work was unfamiliar. If he did not perform the task, however, it would fall to her.

  He muttered and fumbled with the horse’s reins while he dismounted. Jessica removed the pack containing their luncheon secured behind the cantle of Dancer’s saddle.

  Humming lightly, because she was happy, as well as to give Devlin an idea of her whereabouts, Jessica spread the cloth over a grassy patch near the water and arranged the assorted meats — chicken and slices of beef — and cheese. As she opened the loaf of bread, she wondered if the loaf was that fresh, or if it retained its heat by being so close to the horse’s body.

  “What horse are you riding, Nightingale?”

  She smiled that he had guessed. “Dancer. He is more a match for Vindicator’s range.”

  “Hmm. You have had instruction?”

  “Yes, mornings while you hid yourself away in your study and afternoons when you met with business associates.”

  “I see.”

  After a brief silence, the duke introduced another subject. “What do you think of our young queen, Nightingale, or have you any interest in politics?”

  “I have, and I admire her.”

  “Of course you do. She is not yet twenty herself. It is only natural that she would appear attractive to a female of your tender years.”

  Jessica set out grapes, opened a bottle of wine and wondered at his words, which reflected a man’s haughty attitude.

  “The queen is already a shining example of the dignity we have missed in our royals in recent years,” she said.

  “You did not approve of King William?” It looked as if Devlin were making a valiant effort not to wave his hands to feel for obstructions as he made his way toward her.

  “Victoria is much more dignified.”

  “In rather a frumpish manner.”

  “Attractive enough to entice a prince.”

  “He is her cousin.”

  “Yet I think they are in love.”

  “What? Royals do not marry for love, dear child. As the dowager would say, it simply is not done.”

  “You are practically stepping on me, Your … Devlin. You are on the quilt and may sit directly on that spot, if you like.”

  He dropped to his knees on the blanket, used his hands to determine his location, rolled onto his hip and stretched out on his side. One leg crossed over the other, he propped himself on an elbow. He looked completely at ease.

  “What would you have first, meat and bread, cheese, or fruit?”

  He ignored the question and new resonance in his voice alerted her to something changed.

  “Will you marry for love, Nightingale?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Do you mean to say you love this John Lout person?”

  She giggled. “John Lout? No.” Suddenly, realizing what his question revealed, she sobered. “What do you know of John?” Before he could answer, she added, “Furthermore, what business is he of yours?”

  “Bear mentioned your meeting with Lout and his men. Bear enlightened me regarding your betrothal. I was disappointed you had not mentioned your lover.” He paused, but she offered no explanation, nor did she correct his assumption. “Of course, such commitments can change when they involve someone of your tender years. I was merely curious.”

  “And you, Your Grace? Will you marry for love or will your marriage suit your sovereign?”


  “Victoria is my sovereign. If you are correct and she married for love, I doubt she would demand less of those in her court.”

  “Would you like some grapes?”

  “No.” His expression turned serious. “What I would like is to see your face, Nightingale.”

  She lifted her chin, posing, casting her eyes heavenward. “Look all you like.”

  “While I cannot see you at this moment in the usual way, perhaps you would allow me to view your countenance by touch.”

  She lowered her chin, drew one breath, then a second before exhaling. She studied his face, looking for unwelcome intentions. She saw none. He appeared to be sincere and to harbor no evil design. She swallowed hard, the effort clearly audible in the quiet afternoon.

  “All right.” Her voice had a whispery quality that surprised her as much as her nervousness appeared to please him.

  Devlin rolled onto his knees, gained his balance and reached for her. He advanced both hands at shoulder level, wiggling his fingers, inviting her to come within his grasp, then he ceased his suggestive motion and waited.

  Rising onto her knees, mirroring his position, she bumped forward, a difficult maneuver as her riding habit tightened about her legs. Adjusting it, she inched closer.

  When he made no attempt to grab at her, she took his right hand in both of hers and guided his fingers to her face. He raised his left hand with his right as he began, benignly enough, surveying her hairline, measuring with his thumbs to her brows.

  “Some say a high forehead is a sign of intelligence,” he murmured as he brushed his fingertips down her temples.

  “An old wives’ tale, Your Grace.” Her voice sounded unsteady.

  “Devlin,” he corrected.

  “Devlin,” she repeated, her volume less than his.

  “In your case, the old wives are correct. You are quick-witted, Nightingale.”

  His fingers followed her brows and traced her nose, making her extremely self-conscious. She twitched.

  “Your nose is not nearly as long or as angular as I imagined. It is rather pert. Are you a comely girl, Jessica Blair?”

  She felt the heat sweep upward and warm her face.

  Feeling the heat, he smiled. “Ah, I’ve made you blush.”

  “Perhaps we should eat.”

  “But, my dear, I have not concluded my survey. Ah, I see that you have wide, round eyes. Tell me again their color?”

  She recalled quite distinctly his mother telling him her eyes were hazel. Apparently he had not considered it information worth remembering. Her shoulders rose and fell with disappointment.

  “No, Your Grace.” She watched his expression closely. “They are rather drab — sometimes green, sometimes brown, sometimes a soulful gray, I’m told.”

  He didn’t seem disappointed. “They change with the light or the color of your clothing?”

  “Yes.”

  He bent forward a little, his face closing on hers as he reached for her hair. She turned her head and shrank back to remove the country maid’s kerchief securing her coiling tresses. When she again put herself within his reach, he wound both hands into the long, unbound abundance.

  “Did the milliner not design one of those ridiculous little hats to match your riding habit, Nightingale?”

  “She did. Yes. A delightful bit of fluff, and very costly.”

  He slanted a disapproving look. “You did not choose to wear it for me?”

  “I do not do it justice, and you are not able to appreciate it yet anyway.”

  “Ah.” He smiled and nodded. “I see. What color is this wild tumble of hair?”

  Before she could answer, he took a fistful to his nose and inhaled. “You smell of the out-of-doors, Jessica, of the woods and the flowers and the earth. The scent of you inspires me.”

  “Inspires you to what, Your Grace?”

  He flinched at the title, but did not correct her as his fingers resumed exploring. “The color?” he repeated.

  “Disappointingly, it is not as fair as new-mown hay, like yours or the dowager’s. It is brown.”

  “Your cheeks feel warm, Nightingale.” His playful expression turned to concern. “Are you ill, darling? Do you have a fever?”

  He started to rise, but she put a staying hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to hold their positions kneeling before one another. She was again aware of the difference in their sizes as he loomed above her. She might be feverish, but the heat had nothing to do with her health.

  “No, Your Grace, I am quite well. It must be the sun warming my face. Or the wind. Or the exertion of the ride. I am fine. Are you finished?”

  He appeared to doubt her explanation, then the confusion left his face.

  “No, dear heart. I find this game fascinating. I want to continue familiarizing myself with your features. Besides, I do not yet have an appetite for food. Have you?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Is there some other activity you would prefer?”

  She gazed toward the stream. “We could fish, if you like.”

  He grinned broadly, as if her flimsy attempt to distract him had been just that — flimsy.

  “First I would like to finish my study.” He held his fingers poised, waiting for her to place her face again within his reach. “I have established that you have large, inquisitive eyes, which are green, gray or brown, depending on your garb, the weather, and your mood, and that you have a profusion of dark, coiling hair. Are you sometimes mistaken for a gypsy, Jessica?”

  The word ‘gypsy’ raised bad memories. Jessica barked a sharp denial. “I am not.” The words emerged clipped in a tone higher than her usual speaking voice.

  Devlin caught her face between his hands, steadying her. “You have had an unpleasant experience with gypsies?”

  She twisted, an effort to free her face, but he held her fast.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “No, Your Grace, it was a long time ago.”

  Devlin gave a strand of her hair a playful tug. “Was your problem with a man?”

  “Yes.” Her brusque retort extinguished his teasing grin.

  “Did he steal you?”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes.”

  The duke’s smile vanished. “Did he …. ?”

  “No, he did not violate me, although that was clearly his intention.”

  Devlin’s jaws flexed and his expression became granite hard and unyielding. “How did you avoid the assault?”

  “John Lout, the man to whom I am betrothed, rescued me. John followed when he heard of my capture. He is a hunter and the best tracker around Welter. He arrived in time to save me.”

  Devlin lowered his hands to his sides and silence hung thick between them. “I wish I had been there, little bird. I wish I had ridden to your rescue and earned the devotion you feel for John Lout. I have been curious about your reason for promising yourself to him.”

  They remained like that, kneeling face to face, neither touching the other, for several moments before Devlin placed his hands again on either side of her head and ran his thumbs over her lips.

  Closing her eyes, giving herself over to his gentle study, Jessica drew a deep breath.

  “You have a broad, generous mouth,” he murmured, “though it’s often given to an excess of words.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, so I’ve been told.”

  “A pointed chin, perhaps too short to make you bewitching. More cherubic, I imagine.”

  “Yes.” She continued with her eyes closed, caught in the hypnotic cadence of his voice, the smooth appraisal of his fingers that followed the rims of her ears and down her lobes. Gently, he stroked the nape of her neck, before following the line of her shoulders out and back to he
r throat. As he drew his fingers to her collarbones and started to explore lower, she jerked away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am looking at you.”

  “You’ve seen enough.”

  “Not so, my little gosling. If I had my eyesight, I would have looked you over far more thoroughly than this.”

  “I would never have given permission for that, Your Grace.”

  He seemed oddly sober. “The eyes look where they will, with or without leave. Furthermore, I thought we agreed you would call me by my familiar name when we are alone.”

  “I think perhaps we should continue observing the amenities.” She eased back to sit on her feet, “Particularly when we are alone. Perhaps, too, we should not ride out unchaperoned.”

  His voice was low and taunting. “Do you want me to kiss you, Nightingale?”

  His confidence put her off. Her answer was brusque. “No, I do not want you to kiss me.”

  “You would tempt any man, darling. Your innocence, your candor. I have known you were a lovely young woman from the first night.”

  “You did not suppose anything of the kind. You thought me a child.”

  “I have some experience with women, Nightingale. I realized immediately that you were an attractive young woman.”

  “Then why have you pretended to think me a moppet?”

  “Prudence at first. I felt vulnerable and thought you might be in league with the thieves who attacked me.”

  “Later, then? At Gull’s Way, when you practically ordered me into your bed.”

  He flashed a roguish grin. “I wanted to see if you would accommodate a man of wealth. I wanted to know how far you had gone with other men.”

  “Once you realized my … lack of experience? Why did you not admit then that you knew I was a woman grown?”

  “I didn’t want to frighten you away.”

  Of course. He enjoyed toying with her, did not want to make her bolt while he had a use for her.

  She yearned at that moment, to prove her womanhood; to throw her arms around his neck and press her lips to his, to rouse his manly instincts, which seemed to lurk close to the surface in most men. She could entice him, encourage him to roll up on top of her and do those things that occur in private between men and women, things she had heard of and read about.