She glared at him, her blood roiling, angrier than she had ever been in her life. “As I recall, when you and I met, I was quite literally invisible to you, your haughtiness.” Her voice took on an ugly, sneering quality. “You were cowering in the leaves and foliage. You did not appear superior then. You didn’t bother asking if I were worthy to deliver you. You were happy enough then to welcome a scullery maid’s assistant into your life.”
For all his raging, arrogant disavowals, Devlin admired her, respected her, particularly as she stood there defying him, a veritable temptress of the first stare, flushing, vibrant, magnificent, swaddled as she was in righteous indignation.
Yet her words knifed into his soul and bled his spirit. When had her opinion of him become so important?
She had entered his life as his eyes and had insidiously attached herself to every vital part until he scarcely wanted to breathe without her near.
Here he stood hurling unforgivable insults at the one person who gave his life meaning.
He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Could you love me, Jessica Blair?”
She couldn’t believe he had said those words at the height of their furious exchange. She must have misunderstood. “What?”
“Could you ever bring yourself to love me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Are you saying you could not?” He locked his fists at his back and turned toward the shadowy forms of distant trees.
“No, you … hen wit.”
Her using that ridiculous term in addressing him made him turn. Without any warning, he exploded with whoops of bellowing laughter. Hen wit! He had never before heard the term used addressing a man. The insult flew beyond reason all the way to absurd. Looking at her, he shouted noisy guffaws, releasing his rage and sending pent-up emotions into the silent night in raucous, unbounded hilarity. Jessica wore a mischievous, satisfied expression. She had committed the faux pas intentionally, of course, a realization that made him laugh all the harder.
Finally, as he blotted tears streaming from his eyes, he sputtered. “Did you say ‘No,’ meaning you could not love me, or ‘No,’ you could not not love me?”
Scarcely controlling her own hilarity, Jessica stammered as she considered how to answer the convoluted question.
When she found appropriate words and was able to speak, her answer came quietly. “Yes, Your Grace, I could and I do, though saying so defies my own best judgment.”
“Love me?”
“Yes.”
He started toward her, but she stopped him with an open hand. “Truly, Your Grace, I did not know anyone like you existed in the world. You set me raging one moment, in black, murderous fury. With the next word, you send me to the heights. You have me shaking with laughter in one breath, and dissolved to tears with the next.”
In one fluid movement, he stepped up, wrapped his arms about her, and sealed her to his chest.
Finally, feelings incubating all these weeks had escaped, prompting her revelation and clearing the confusion between them. At last, she was where she belonged, with no pretense that this embrace was anything other than a man holding the woman he loved.
Holding her, he noticed a garden gate ajar midway down the fence that paralleled a dark side street. Devlin nudged Jessica’s shoulders to turn her around and said, “Look.”
Reluctant to disengage, she held fast. He clamped both hands on her shoulders and forced her to pivot until her back was spooned against the front of him. Then he put his mouth to her ear. “Do you see the open gate?”
She peered into the night. “Yes.”
“What do you see beyond it?”
“A coachman on his box. The carriage door is open and the outer lanterns alight.”
“Yes. That is Steen’s carriage. The interior is under full wraps, as if against the weather. As you may observe, this is a fair, perhaps overly warm evening.”
She nodded. “Do you wonder why the carriage is enclosed?”
“I know why. It is to muffle a lady’s screams and conceal her struggle as she fights her abductors. The coachman is to go as soon as Steen and his hirelings force the man’s ill-gotten prize inside.”
Jessica turned unbelieving eyes on her companion. “Lord Steen is too decrepit to be a rake or a highwayman, assuming he ever was.”
“He has hired help for tonight. He planned to lure you into this very garden, Nightingale.”
Her eyes grew large as saucers, but he did not allow her to interrupt.
“He would take you through that gate and into that carriage, whisk you off and hold you overnight. On the morrow, I would have to accept his offer for your hand to save your reputation.” Devlin released her. “Or, I could call him out and kill him, which I might be inclined to do. A duel, however, would destroy your reputation as surely as spending a night with the man.”
So that’s what Fry meant by his threat, and his invitation to walk with him in the garden. She turned wondering eyes to Devlin’s face. “You thought to avoid all that by forbidding my attendance here?”
“Precisely.”
“Whyever didn’t you tell me?”
“I am not accustomed to explaining myself, Nightingale. Normally, my orders are obeyed.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid you have spoiled me to the point I no longer feel bound to obey what appear to be unreasonable commands.”
“I see. Are you saying your disregard of my edict was in some way my fault?”
“One might see it that way. Yes.”
“What of your declaration of love?”
She gave him an unbelieving look. “Do you think you could demand I say I love you and I would do so, if I did not? I am the same person who defied your lesser command not to attend a ball?”
He grinned. Her reasoning made perplexing sense. “Will you marry me?”
She regarded him skeptically. “Why?”
“So you may continue to live under my protection and in my homes. So you may continue knitting and reading and playing the spinet evenings with Mother and me, and live in peace, without a constant parade of suitors.”
“Are those your most compelling reasons why we should wed?”
“They seem adequate. The three of us are compatible. We are comfortable together. You say you love me. You enjoy my family, my homes, the gardens and the stables. As my wife, you will share my title and may have anything money can buy.”
Her chin quivered. “I already have access to your family, your homes and your holdings. You already provide all I need or want. I would not marry you for the reasons you have named.”
He reached for her hand, but she sallied back. His mercurial mood took a decided turn.
“All that I possess is not enough? You say you love me. Is love not enough?”
She blinked at him and swallowed hard, but did not respond.
“You entertained thoughts of marrying John Lout, whom you did not love, a man who could not give you any of the things I can. Do you deny my suit because I offer you the world?” He looked genuinely perplexed.
Swiping at determined tears, Jessica did not answer. Her chin dimpled. She turned back toward the ballroom. Devlin growled unseemly words as he pivoted to follow her inside.
His frustration became full-blown rage when he met Lord Steen sauntering up the terrace steps from the garden, trying to appear casual as he scanned the area. Devlin’s voice was menacing. “I will murder you here with my own two hands if you advance one step more in her direction.”
Those within the sound of his words withdrew several paces. The Duke of Fornay’s infamous temper obviously was restored to its legendary vehemence and unleashed.
Steen pivoted on the ball of one gouty foot and limped back down the garden steps without casting a glance toward Jessica who stood unmoving in the do
orway, looking for all the world like the statue of some beautiful, tragic Greek goddess.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As he roused from a restless sleep the next morning, Devlin nursed the devil of a headache and wondered if he were quite sane. He had run an emotional gauntlet the previous night; from raging fury to delirious joy, and back to ire before being plunged into a debilitating funk which grew worse through the morning.
“You are a duke, Your Grace,” Lattimore reminded him solemnly. “You cannot marry an undowered, untitled wench. It is unconscionable.”
“It is because I am a duke that I can marry anyone I damn well please.” Leaning one arm on the mantle, Devlin propped a careless foot on an andiron that extended from the firebox a little distance onto the hearth. “Jessica is, however, well dowered, admittedly by me. Several of the most important, titled, most eligible bachelors in town have offered for her. Mine will simply be the suit I accept.”
Lattie looked as if he might smile, then stanched the grin that almost broke his gloomy facade. “What if she won’t have you?”
Devlin gave an astonished shout. “Give me one credible reason why she would not have me?” The duke’s anguish indicated his question was one he genuinely wanted someone to answer.
Seeing smoke curl from the sole of his boot, Devlin abruptly lifted his foot from the andiron and stamped the foot on the stone hearth.
Lattie smiled, but sobered quickly not willing to risk Devlin seeing his good humor. “Because, in the practical ways of the world, Jessica is wiser than you. She knows such a union likely will not succeed.”
Studying his foot as if trying to decide if he should remove the boot, Devlin said, “I thought she demonstrated great wisdom when she declined your offer, Lattimore. Surely her refusal then is not the basis for your opinion. Are you jealous that I might succeed where you failed?” Devlin peered at his brother’s face a moment before turning his attention back to his smoldering shoe.
Both men looked toward the doorway when they heard a feminine sneeze on the staircase. Lattimore slanted his brother a wicked smile. “Why don’t we pose your questions to her, Your Grace, and end our speculations.”
Devlin scowled before he arched his brows, shrugged, and nodded. He could not reconcile the girl’s response to his proposal with her earlier admission that she loved him.
Jessica entered the room, glanced at the brothers, then looked to the wing-backed chair the dowager duchess would have occupied had she been present. Seeing the chair empty, Jessica smiled at both men, then turned back to the corridor.
“A moment, if you please, Jessica.” Devlin’s words stopped her. She came around slowly. Her eyes were puffy and red, as if she had been crying, but her voice gave no indication anything was amiss.
“Yes, Your Grace. How may I be of service?”
“Take a moment to settle an argument between Lattimore and me.”
“All right.” She allowed a tolerant smile as she looked from one brother to the other.
Lattie was definitely the prettier of the two, with smooth, rosy cheeks and a delicate — even perky — nose and chin. If a woman were blessed with Lattie’s coloring, she would never need rouge. His eyelashes, like his raven hair, were enviable. She had heard ladies lauding his many physical attributes.
Although he was tall enough, Lattimore had a sturdier bone structure than his older brother. His hair was dark, apparently like his father’s and his eyes hazel. Taken altogether, he gave a pleasing appearance.
In contrast, Devlin stood taller but more stooped, as if the weight of his title was burdensome. He had the more distinctive, marvelous build. The duke had inherited his mother’s thick, fair hair with its curls, and the almost incandescent blue eyes, although the color of his irises darkened dramatically when he was angry, as Jessica had cause to know.
“Please, sit with us a moment,” Devlin said, directing Jessica to his mother’s wingback near the hearth. Without objection, she sat as directed and arranged her skirts. The duke motioned Lattimore onto a Chesterfield and he, himself, eased into a rather severe ladder-back chair directly across from Jessica.
Even after they were settled, Devlin delayed a moment. “Jessica, have you considered it is time — past time, actually — that you married?”
She regarded him coolly. “You, sir, are the greatest impediment to my marrying.”
He cleared his throat, was tempted to look at Lattimore, but dared not let his attention wander.
“I am not referring to your betrothal to John Lout, darling. I was thinking of someone infinitely more suitable to the poised, charming young lady you have become.”
Her eyes narrowed and she watched him suspiciously before risking a glance at Lattimore, then back. “You have turned away a dozen suitors who have or eventually might have offered for me, Your Grace.”
“What about someone you have known for a while?”
“Lattimore does not love me and, although I admire him, I do not love him either. I do not consider him a fit husband for me.”
“I am not talking about Lattie, Jessica, and you know it.”
“Then who?” Her voice broke slightly, but noticeably. “Not Mr. Hardwick, Your Grace, or that scoundrel Peter Fry, no matter how impressive their family holdings.” Suddenly she pulled to the edge of her chair, preparing to stand and perhaps to flee. “I will not do it, Devlin. Except for the wealth, I see little difference between my selling myself to John Lout or your bartering me to a future baron or even an earl.”
To allay her increasing discomfort, Devlin sat back a little in his chair and tried to look at ease. “Actually, Nightingale, as I mentioned last night, I thought you might do well to marry me.”
Silence enveloped the room as fog might have enshrouded their images, veiling the innermost workings of their hearts and thoughts from one another.
Jessica frowned hard at Devlin as both men steadied their gazes on her. Slowly a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Sir, you are far too old and too grand a match for me. As you so eloquently reminded me last night, you are a duke and I a scullery maid.”
“A scullery maid’s assistant,” he corrected, returning her quiet little smile.
She cut her eyes from his. “Have none of the other gallants, ones closer to my own age, perhaps second sons without hopes of a title, offered for me?”
“They have.”
“Do you not see yourself better served by palming me off on one of those?”
He chuckled and glanced at his boots, before raising his eyes to lock with hers. “As usual, you are most perceptive and probably right. Yes, such would definitely be the wiser course.” He smiled warmly. “But how could I live with my conscience, having misled one of those callow youths who thought he was acquiring a docile, obedient lady when, in fact, you are neither obedient nor a lady?”
She laughed. “If this your idea of a proper way to woo a wife, Your Grace, it’s little wonder you remain unattached. Perhaps you should consult with someone about sweet words spoken by men to women. Mrs. Conifer, my duenna, would consider your methods in need of repair.”
He smiled for a moment before his face became grave. “I am serious, Jessica. I want us to discuss this calmly and intelligently. Are you saying you have no desire to be my duchess?”
“That is precisely what I am saying. I have no desire to be anyone’s duchess.”
He frowned, taken aback and obviously perplexed.
She lowered her voice. “I have never aspired to any title. In truth, Your Grace, as you have reminded on several occasions, I lack the qualifications to be either your duchess or your wife.”
His expression softened. “You are mistaken, my dear. You qualify quite nicely. You meet all the requirements. With very little help, you have learned to ride and play the spinet. You make quite a nice appearance. You run this househ
old and handle the servants enviably, as if they were your kin. You show compassion that inspires fierce loyalty among family and friends, including the dowager duchess, a duke’s younger brother, and the master himself.”
“Fierce loyalty? Is that what I inspire in you?”
A glimmer of understanding niggled at him. “That and much more, Nightingale.”
Rather than allow herself to harken back to his demonstrations of prurient interest, she stood abruptly. “Thank you, sir, for the lovely words. I shall remember them always.” She ducked her head, but as she bolted for the door, Devlin was on his feet and there ahead of her, catching her upper arm in a viselike grip before she could make good her escape.
“What is it, Jessica? What troubles you? Tell me and I will make amends. I have no idea how I offended you last evening. I obviously have done it again, even now.”
Tears stung her eyes, but she fought for control, at least until she could break free and flee to a safe haven. She tried to jerk her arm from his grasp, but he held fast and bent over, trying to see her face, to read her expression. “Dear Nightingale, tell me what is amiss and I will make it right.”
Hurried footsteps preceded the dowager duchess in the corridor. Quickly, she appraised the scene before her.
“Devlin, what in heaven’s name are you about?” She nudged her way between Devlin and Jessica, forcing him to release her. “What manner of ruffian have you become?” Pulling Jessica close, the duchess wrapped both arms protectively around her protégée and began clucking and petting her like a mother hen preening her chick.
Devlin yielded, casting fleeting, mystified glances from one woman to the other as he watched Jessica being shuttled to the stairs and up.
Returning to stand at the hearth, he glanced at Lattie’s face. Instead of the triumphant look he expected, his brother looked thoughtful and maybe concerned. Devlin pursed his mouth. “How do you think it went?”
Lattie hesitated, then his expression lifted with a sympathetic smile. “Probably as well as two men might have expected.”
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