Nightingale

by Ervin, Sharon

  “Devlin,” she pleaded. “Oh, please wake up. What should I do? How can I help you?”

  His voice was a rasp. “Kiss me.”

  She stared at his face, then at his mouth outlined by the narrow, neatly trimmed mustache and beard. Her gaze swept the hard planes of his face, appealing in his supine position, to his long, dark eyelashes feathered against his cheek, his unseeing eyes closed.

  This is not John Lout, she reminded herself curtly. This is a gentle bred man. A blind man. Perhaps not altogether harmless, but honor bound by birth. She was the one with no identity, a servant in this household — a position that required unquestioning compliance with this man’s wishes. Was it not her duty to meet his requests, without regard to her own preferences or misgivings?

  Wasn’t it?

  Gazing at his face, not wanting to examine her motives too closely, Jessica wriggled upward and carefully pressed her lips to his jaw, the part of him most accessible.

  His eyelids fluttered, responding positively to her effort. She repeated the gesture. He turned his head slightly away from her, as if avoiding her lips.

  Encouraged that he seemed unaware of what she was doing, she ran staccato kisses along one jaw earning hums of approval, a sound like a large cat purring.

  So caught up did she become in prompting the purr that she was not immediately aware of Devlin’s hands tugging, relocating her upon his fallen body until she was squarely fitted to him, except for her legs, which straddled boldly as she tried to shift some of her weight onto her toes. Her efforts forged a peculiar intimacy between them.

  She squirmed again, thinking to lever herself up and off of him, but with her movement, Devlin’s arms tightened. When she ceased to struggle, his hands caressed her back from her shoulders to her waist, and he murmured again, “Kiss me.”

  If that was a command and he was toying with her, she would not obey.

  He whispered, his voice like a summer breeze through saplings. “Please.” Then more quietly still, “Please, darling.”

  The words seemed not a command, but a request. Now that was altogether different.

  Her position, while untenable, was not exactly perilous, particularly since there were no witnesses.

  What if someone passed in the corridor?

  She raised her head to peer at the entry’s double doors to find them securely closed.

  When had that happened? No decent unmarried female would allow herself to remain in a closed room with the master of the house, unchaperoned. She was not exactly a servant to obey commands, was more like a friend of the family. In that role, she should heed the dowager’s teaching regarding the proper deportment of young ladies. While she continued puzzling, Devlin spoke again. His whisper sounded suspicious as he repeated, “Please.”

  She needed to get up, to pursue more productive activities, but she found this scandalous situation … well … stimulating. She tapped a quick little kiss on his cheek, then curiosity overcame judgment and she pressed her lips to the lobe of his ear, whereupon, he thrust his chin high giving her access to his throat. He looked vulnerable and terribly accessible, so she kissed him there as well, inhaling the marvelous scent of the man.

  Suddenly she recalled the resounding thud when his head met the floor. “Are you injured?”

  He didn’t open his eyes, but allowed a slight smile. “No, my little hen wit. Women have kissed me far more violently than this, and I have not suffered damage from it.”

  “I doubt the genteel ladies in society ever hurled you to the floor and leaped upon you before kissing you.”

  “No.” His eyelids fluttered again. “It could become quite the rage, once the landing is perfected.”

  Giggling, Jessica again tried to push herself up and off of him, but he groaned with her effort and she felt his manhood stiffen between her legs. She seemed to be inciting him. Hardly the response one might expect a man to have toward a nanny or a governess … or a child. She wondered if he realized what was occurring in his nether regions.

  One of his hands swept down her back again, then ventured lower to cup her bottom.

  He definitely was aware of his body’s interest and was even encouraging it. She reached back to slap the offending hand, but her movement cost her the prop and brought her chest down hard on top of his.

  “Umph,” he groaned, then smiled again, looking smug.

  “You great oaf, let me go,” she said, annoyed with her increasingly untenable situation.

  “Do you wish to alter our positions?” he asked with feigned concern. “Darling, you had only to ask.” With his usual catlike quickness, he rolled.

  Before she could recover, she was pinned beneath him, the prod pressing even more firmly between her legs that remained sprawled on either side of his. Was he playing, or was he seducing her?

  “Ah. You were right, Nightingale. This is better. That floor is rather hard.” He flashed a mischievous smile. “And that’s not all that’s hard, is it?”

  She had heard her brother and his friends crow about their manly erections, something in which men seemed to take inordinate pride. No woman with half a brain lavished compliments on a man who all but insisted upon them. At least, she did not.

  “Get off of me.”

  For his part, Devlin seemed to be enjoying their game. While the stumbling entry had not been a noble way to accomplish it, he did, finally and at long last, have her securely in his arms. The blow to his head as he fell had precipitated pinpricks of light that spread. With the sun-lighted windows at his back, he was able to see something of her, though she was concealed by his own shadow.

  Tussling on the floor with an innocent young female might catch on as an enjoyable afternoon pastime. It certainly beat wagering at the horse track — even when he won.

  Although he held himself braced over her, each time she wriggled, her breasts caressed his chest. His hips moved of their own volition, pressing more firmly to her. He no longer required eyesight to view this charming companion. Royals were famous for affairs with their servants, but he was not cut of that cloth. Also, Jessica was no servant.

  As she continued struggling, he shifted his weight to his knees. Unburdened, she flailed about to gain her feet, before turning the full force of her fury on him.

  He rolled to a sitting position, bent a knee to prop his forearm and regarded her. If he squinted, he could almost see her features, her dark hair limned by the sunlight, a short chin beneath a generous mouth. Huge eyes dwarfing her pert nose.

  “You are a bully,” she charged, her hands on her hips. “A brigand disguised as a gentleman.” He marveled at how provocative she looked. “Furthermore … ” Her harangue stopped. “Are you all right?” Her tone was tinged with suspicion and concern.

  “I am. As I recall, we were engaged in what was part minuet and part hand-to-hand combat when I fell. You leaped upon me and … ”

  “Leaped upon you? You scoundrel! You who knocked me down with all the grace of an overzealous wolfhound.”

  “I was a wolfhound, was I? You were the one licking her victim’s face.”

  “My victim?” She gasped. “Those, sir, were kisses. They were not bestowed voluntarily, but at your command.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully, secretly rejoicing that he could see blurred expressions — confusion, relief, pique — playing upon her face.

  “Do country folk learn kissing from the lapping of animals then?”

  She stamped her foot, wheeled and started for the doors. “You make me very angry, Your Grace.” She spat the title as an insult.

  His response only heightened her rage, for he rocked his head back, watching her from the corner of his eye, and barked a laugh at the ceiling.

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

  Patterson, jus
t 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 attem
pted 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.