Nightingale

by Ervin, Sharon

  Devlin remembered grappling as they struggled through the thicket back to the horse, the intimacy of her rocking between his thighs on the ride to Gull’s Way, and, of course, he savored the memories of the picnic, and of their recent tussle on the library floor.

  During the time she had been his guide, his hand on her shoulder, he had been aware of her regal carriage, the swan’s long, graceful neck, her straight, strong shoulders and back providing a live crutch on which he had come to depend. “A woman brilliantly made” sounded right.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jessica trudged up the stairs. She hated leaving Devlin with those men, none of whom were his friends.

  She paused, suddenly remembering where she had seen Peter Fry, at least a silhouette of him. He was the man she saw walking with Martha, the maid who died at Gull’s Way.

  Jessica realized that she might have seen him even before that; in Welter, with John Lout and his ruffians. A strange coincidence that the man had been in Welter, then at Gull’s Way with Martha, and reappear here as a friend of the duke’s brother. Could he be the nobleman whose baby Martha carried? Might he have murdered Martha to keep his identity a secret? Jessica stopped in the upstairs hallway. Was this Fry a man who could dispatch a lover and his own unborn child with a murderous blow?

  Jessica felt new concern for Devlin. Closed in her own room, she paced. She was the duke’s truest friend, and he liked her. She admired the duke as she had never admired any man. She wished him able to see again. To see her, perhaps to enjoy looking at her as she enjoyed looking at him. When his sight was permanently restored, however, she must leave. Wasn’t she even now supposed to be packing the borrowed trunk?

  She threw herself across the bed to ponder an old thought. Was this longing she felt, the excitement when he appeared, or when she heard his voice unexpectedly, the heated breaths, the accelerated heartbeat … could the cause of these disruptions be love? The idea was outrageous, of course, but she suspected its truth the moment it first occurred, at Gull’s Way that first day when he lay fighting the fever.

  She doubted she was the first scullery maid to fall in love with a nobleman. Her rich imagination ran beyond that, for in her dreams, he returned her love. Devlin’s affection for her more probably resembled what he might feel for a kitten in the barn.

  Jessica had considered what it might be like to love a man, yet she was too practical for such frivolous speculation. She might have stayed out of love with the duke, if she had not first fallen for his friend and companion, Sweetness … er … Vindicator. Perhaps she should seek his counsel.

  Jessica got up, left her room, marched through the upstairs corridor directly to the kitchen stairs and down, hurrying, on her way to a rendezvous.

  Out the back door, she strolled to the paddock, suddenly eager to see her four-legged confidant. When the stallion saw her, he galloped into the lot and charged the fence, then came to a shuddering stop and stood, his eyes rounded, his ears straight up.

  “Oh, Sweetness.” Jessica launched herself onto the fence.

  • • •

  From the solarium, Devlin heard Jessica’s footsteps in the upstairs corridor to her room. He also heard her emerge a short while later. His curiosity piqued when her pace quickened as she neared the back stairs.

  As his companions filled his mother with gossip, Devlin stepped to the doorway to listen as Jessica trotted down the kitchen stairs and out.

  Where was she going?

  Without calling attention to his departure, Devlin stepped into the corridor, and then followed. Through the kitchen he heard the outside door slam. He followed, visualizing the way — three steps down, then the path.

  He heard her running. A sniffle, punctuated by an occasional sob drew him further than he intended to go. If she looked behind, might she see him?

  He heard a horse’s hooves, then Jessica croon in low, loving tones. He suspected at first she might be meeting a stable boy, until he heard the familiar nickering and snorts.

  Her assignation — his rival for her heart — was with Vindicator … or … Sweetness.

  Devlin’s flailing hand made contact with a tree, a place to observe without seeing or being seen.

  A duke might best a stable boy for a woman’s affection, but could he compete with a horse for a young girl’s love? Devlin bit his lips.

  A nobleman should not vie for a scullery maid. If he did, he should have the confidence, the experience, and the God-given gifts to woo and win her.

  He recalled a conversation once about how girls adored their fathers first. Some had trouble transferring love for a father to a younger man. The brother of a specific young beauty said his parents facilitated his sister’s transfer of affection by giving her a horse. Her love for the horse served as a bridge enabling her eventually to develop regard for a young man.

  Was Nightingale such a woman? She obviously loved Vindicator, but could a man use that to make her a loving, dutiful wife?

  Why should he care how she bestowed affection? What did that have to do with him?

  He exhaled and his shoulders rounded. Perhaps he esteemed her more than he should. Of course, his interest was probably stimulated by his mother’s regard for Jessica.

  As he stood behind the tree, less than an hour after his last glimpses of light, his sight returned, enhanced by the brightness of the noonday. He peered around the broad oak that was his refuge, to see Jessica use a dainty lace kerchief to mop her nose. The fragile swatch was not intended for such practical application. Devlin subdued a laugh.

  Smashing the handkerchief to her nose with one hand, Jessica patted Vindicator’s muzzle with the other, her murmurings muffled.

  “Oh, Sweetness, whatever shall I do? I was resigned to my fate.” She sniffed and tilted her head, murmuring words Devlin could not hear. Then: “I was glad to have work, even in Maxwell’s scullery.” She tugged her sleeve down to dab her eyes. Devlin smiled again.

  He lost her next words, muttered into the sleeve, then picked them up again. “ … different now. In Welter, I do as I am told … well, most of the time I do. Here Lady Anne and Devlin encourage me to think my own thoughts and exercise my own judgment; to proceed boldly.”

  The horse whickered as she continued stroking him. “I love who I am here. Oh, Sweetness, the me I was before is gone.” She sniffled again into the flimsy piece of lace. “I must leave, but I cannot abandon Devlin. How could they protect him — his fragile mother and his staff, ignorant of the wiles of people who pretend friendship — maybe his own brother.”

  Devlin strained to remain silent as her weeping turned into wrenching sobs. “Sweetness,” her voice quivered, “you are the only one who can share my feelings.” Her voice squeaked. “You have my heart, but he owns my soul. Oh, Sweetness, what am I to do?”

  Who was this he to whom she referred? A stable hand? A servant? Devlin ventured another look.

  The stallion stretched his neck and lifted his nose high as Jessica sobbed. She threw her arms around the horse’s offered neck and smashed her nose against his silken warmth.

  Devlin stepped from behind the tree trunk, wanting to comfort this tender shoot. He might have run forward and scooped her into his arms, but for his capricious eyesight, which chose that moment to desert him once again.

  Cursing quietly, he groped back to his place behind the tree and agonized listening to her choking sobs.

  The man to whom she had given her heart must be an imbecile. While Devlin did not want her to leave his home or his protection, he wanted to make things right for her, even if it meant losing her.

  If John Lout were the man, she would have him. Devlin Miracle, the Twelfth Duke of Fornay would see to it.

  After her comments, it seemed unlikely that Lout inspired this longing.

  Lattie? He grimaced. His younger brother was attractive eno
ugh, in a sturdy way, but Devlin doubted his brother had captured Jessica in those brief moments of their meeting. Who then?

  Peter Fry or Marcus Hardwick? She would hardly be impressed by those ridiculous uniforms designed by the wearers and adorned with those farcical ribbons and medals affixed as decorations. Hardwick might be all right, but Devlin never particularly liked Fry. There was something sinister about the big, lumbering fellow.

  There was a breathless quality to her voice when they were introduced. The younger men probably looked dashing, and she was an impressionable country maid. Devlin felt a duty to protect her where they were concerned. Someday she would thank him for not allowing her to throw herself away on either of those fellows. No, neither of them was worthy. Not of Jessica.

  Later, when she was feeling less emotional, Devlin would invite her to discuss her situation. He would console her; encourage her to consider more reliable chaps. An older man might be best for her, one willing to school her patiently in her wifely duties.

  Reared in the country, she naturally understood basic reproduction, but the girl appeared naive about the raptures of making love. He would be honored to tutor her on the fine points of physical expression between a man and a woman.

  He leaned against the tree. Now where had that come from?

  He bore no guilt when the girl wandered into his dreams at night arousing carnal desires, but this waking consideration was unconscionable. In his dreams, when he removed her clothing, one item at a time, he was not accountable. Those dreams likely resulted from his being so closely involved in the purchase of that clothing.

  Facing her mornings after such dreams, however, his fingers sometimes twitched with latent urges.

  Still pressed against the tree, Devlin realized he had a new problem. He seemed to be as emotionally overwrought as she, without the tears. Unseemly thoughts would vanish when his eyesight returned for good and he could observe her everyday features and expressions.

  He smiled, thinking how happy he would be to watch her lips when she spoke, particularly when she was vexed. He would like seeing her laugh, or study her rapt attention to her knitting, or watch intimate conversations like the one she was having with Vindicator.

  His desire to see an attractive woman’s face was not the primary reason he wanted his sight restored. He hadn’t thought of seeing the flawless face of Mercedes Benoit, a woman some thought a beauty.

  This was the first time he had thought of Mercedes since the note from her a fortnight back. For a time, Mercedes was important in his life. Pressed by his mother to take a wife, he had thought of making Mercedes the mother of the future heir to his title and estates.

  Now that thought seemed ludicrous. He had not mentioned it to the dowager. He understood that considering one’s mistress as a wife often displeased one’s mother.

  Mercedes might surprise him, but when she spoke of marriage, she sounded more interested in his fortune and title than in heirs.

  There was a remarkable difference between his feelings for the willowy Jessica and the voluptuous Mercedes.

  He peeled a piece of bark from the tree. Jessica had begun singing to Vindicator. As the sun warmed the day and birds warbled, Devlin was content, trapped against the tree.

  His attitude toward Jessica vacillated. Some days she vexed his soul with her feminine ways. When she wept as she had today, thinking she was alone, a primitive feeling rose in his chest, one that made him want to take her to some remote place where he could please her, perhaps for long days and nights. Alone. His motive was to nurture and encourage her, release her from every inhibition and influence except, of course, his own.

  He wanted her to remain as independent as she was and, at the same time, be totally submitted to him.

  She had begun speaking again in a low conversational tone.

  He could not hear her words, but her placating croon was clear. He continued to absorb the air. He loved the spiky breeze with its hint of winter coming. He needed to return the household to Gull’s Way. One of the things he loved most about winter in the country was the isolation, the feeling of being shut away from the world and its demands.

  The coming winter would be more enjoyable with Jessica there to play chess and with her determined attempts at the pianoforte. He loved her inflections as she read passages of poetry or Shakespeare’s plays. He imagined himself dozing by the fire listening to the click of knitting needles beneath quiet conversations between Jessica and his mother.

  When it came time for bed, he and Jessica would climb the stairs together, arm in arm.

  Where was the dowager in that image? Absent. He scowled at such inappropriate thoughts, yet, once his mind went there, he pursued the image, thinking of Jessica in the sheer nightgowns Mrs. Capstone had made and which had cost him so dearly. He had a right to see them on her, hadn’t he?

  No. No man not her husband deserved to see an innocent like Jessica in frothy confections, even the man who paid for their creation.

  Thoughts of marriage had seldom entered Devlin’s mind beyond his mother’s prodding, before he met the little hoyden from Welter. After that night, the idea of joining himself to one woman for a lifetime visited often. His mother loved Jessica as she would a daughter of her own; indeed, she wanted to petition the Queen to make her Jessica’s guardian.

  The child herself admittedly enjoyed living in his household. She was content at Gull’s Way. When the duke needed to be in London on business, he could continue his life and activities here unhindered, perhaps even see Mercedes, if he wanted.

  He scowled. Mercedes had not visited him, nor had she expressed condolences on the loss of his eyesight. In her only missive, she urged him to return to town in time for the season. She needed an escort.

  She could not visit the keep when his mother was in residence. Mistresses, even those whose existence and identity were known, were not welcome in the home of a man’s legitimate family.

  Thinking of Mercedes and his mother and Jessica together gave him an unpleasant jolt.

  Lady Anne was of untarnished character, a quality that seemed to encompass Jessica by association.

  Jessica and Mercedes. The one a breath of spring, the other sultry summer nights. One was gangly with arms that wrapped the neck of a horse and scooped up abandoned hens … and dukes. When Jessica asked a question, she listened to the answer, evaluating.

  Mercedes, on the other hand, lured him with fragrances and touching, teased until his physical need defeated thought. She knew the natures of men. When she asked questions, she rarely heeded the answer if the subject concerned anyone other than herself.

  Jessica genuinely thanked him for providing the clothes on her back. Mercedes considered it her due when he bought the jewelry she selected.

  While Mercedes expressed no interest in him during this difficult time, Jessica had set aside the duties of her own life to serve him.

  Of course, he would pay for Jessica’s devotion, yet he had not offered to do so initially. The robbers had left him nothing, yet she had helped him anyway.

  Knowing the dispositions of the two women, with which should a man share his title? His wealth? His bed?

  He heard the swish of her skirts and the accompanying thud of horse’s hooves moving restlessly in the paddock as Jessica came back down the path returning to the house. Scarcely breathing, Devlin maneuvered around the tree, keeping the trunk between him and the sound of Jessica’s footsteps, hoping Vindicator would not give him away with a whickered greeting.

  The stallion’s usual restless tamping stopped. Devlin supposed the stallion had seen him. Jessica continued her ongoing patter as she moved beyond his tree and toward the house.

  “I’m not going tonight, but when his eyesight is restored permanently, I will go.” She was silent for several steps, then murmured again. “I shall miss you, and Lady Anne, of course,
and Sophie and Odessa and Patterson and … well, I suppose I shall miss him, too,” her voice fell, “perhaps most of all.”

  The horse whinnied and pawed the ground.

  “I doubt I could bear never to see you again. Perhaps I will sneak back to see you some dark night.”

  Her voice dropped a third. “Oh, Sweetness, how shall I live without any of you? She is the mother every woman wants to become. And he … ” Devlin held his breath, hoping her words were about him. “I’ve already prattled on too much about him. I don’t see how I can ever marry another, when my heart and my soul will always belong only to him.”

  Marriage? She was entertaining thoughts of a less-than-joyous marriage, not to Lout, but to whom? Not to Devlin, of course. A noble did not marry a commoner. It simply was not done. What of bloodlines?

  On the other hand, it was within the prerogative of a duke to marry anyone he pleased. Conceivably he could argue that her father’s liaison with the German baron’s daughter created a link with nobility. It was rather sketchy, but might silence some.

  No. What was he thinking? Pledging himself to a scullery maid for the rest of their lives? To ride out with her surveying his lands, to take her to church, to waken beside her, to give her babes to inherit her dark coiling hair and laughing eyes. He smiled, having contemplated other eventualities with less pleasure.

  It might be a thought for when he lay restless in his bed at night. Or, perhaps not. Nocturnal thoughts of Jessica stimulated rather than lulled him.

  Her footsteps quickened as she neared the house, unaware of his overhearing her private revelations shared with Sweetness … that is, Vindicator.

  His mother wanted to dress Jessica in the grandest clothes, teach her the courtesies of society, show her off. Perhaps exposure to society would rid the girl of the idea of the inappropriate match with Lout or any man of his ilk. Perhaps the dowager might find a young, eligible man from a prominent family, someone worthy of a Nightingale.