Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor

by Rue Allyn

  His lips turned up, but it was not a genuine smile. “Prettily put.” He continued advancing on her. “Will you be so kind as to allow my fingers to read your face as we talk, Jessica?”

  Withdrawing another step, she tried to think of an excuse to keep him from touching her. If he touched her, he would detect the heat of her rising blush, be aware of how she trembled when he stood so dangerously close.

  “As I said, Nightingale,” he crooned, drawing to within arm’s reach, “I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to marry John Lout.”

  She was not able to follow the erratic conversation. “You should encourage our union, Your Grace. Dedicated to honor as you are, you should insist on my keeping my word.”

  He reached for her. She sidestepped, dipping her shoulder to avoid his hand. He seemed uncannily attuned to the swish of her skirts, however, and followed her retreat, his stride never faltering as she scampered and slithered just beyond his grasp.

  “I said I cannot allow it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, I heard you clearly enough. Did you not hear me as well?”

  He grabbed for her with both hands. She slipped deftly to one side, beyond his fingertips, and darted toward the other door in the room, the one to the adjoining library.

  “Your Grace, you are only a lord of the realm. You are not God to dictate people’s lives.”

  He matched her stride for stride. “Ah, but Nightingale, I do not wish to dictate the course of the lives of everyone under my authority.” His voice dropped to a threatening hum. “Only yours.” He continued his skating gait, again closing on her. “I want you to stay here when I am here, and at Gull’s Way, when I am there. I want you within the sound of my call.” He stared at her with eyes dark, vivid gray-blue, the color of a stormy day. “I want you be, at all times, within my reach,” he flashed a taunting smile, “if not my grasp.”

  She glanced behind and realized he was driving her as a dog drives sheep, into a corner.

  “Under what pretext would you keep me, sir? Will you adopt me? No, I am too old. Perhaps retain me as your nanny? Your education is too advanced to name me your governess.”

  She skimmed lightly around the long couch. Her patter continued, an effort to combat her nervousness. “Do you think some night you will stagger in drunk from an evening of gaming at your club and, in the heat of the moment, force yourself upon the resident country maid? Transform me from servant to mistress?”

  Circling the wingback chairs paired at one side of the hearth, she shot another quick glance at the couch. Could she scramble over it before he caught her? What if he captured her mid scramble? He moved quickly for a blind man, his hearing honed to an astonishing level.

  Somehow, her last suggestion stopped him. What had she said? She didn’t recall. It was part of her nonsensical chatter. His handsome face twisted, looking as if he had been injured.

  “You trample my sensibilities, you ungrateful chit. Do you imagine me capable of such vile, loathsome behavior toward someone — a child — living under my protection?”

  Jessica felt her own volatile emotions bubble from simmer to boil. “I am not a child, Your Grace, as you well know.” She felt a victim to her own overwrought emotions. “Although I am not your equal, I will not be bullied or forced to endure your tempers, no matter how you might justify them in your own highborn conscience.”

  Patterson stepped to the library doors that stood open between the library and the corridor and peered at the noisy combatants.

  Neither the duke nor Jessica noticed him. A peculiar smile flitted over the old retainer’s mouth before he stepped into the room and collected both doorknobs. Soundlessly, he pulled the double doors closed. He then stationed himself in the corridor outside and folded his arms over his narrow chest, his body language effectively barring observers. Personally, the majordomo considered this confrontation long overdue and the adversaries, despite their individual strengths and weaknesses, evenly matched.

  Meanwhile, the tension in the room escalated as Devlin again began to stalk his unrepentant charge. Jessica dodged one way and another, avoiding his hands that periodically slapped at the air in front of her as he drove her relentlessly toward a far corner.

  “Mistress?” He chortled, firing Jessica’s indignation. “What would an unschooled infant like you know about being a mistress?”

  He heard the intake of breath as she prepared to flay him with her knowledge of the duties of mistresses. At that prospect, he lowered his voice, changing his tact to defuse her verbal explosion. He was, after all, a peer of the realm, compelled by rank and upbringing to be gracious to underlings.

  “Nightingale, I have no doubt that one day you will be a desirable, sought-after woman.” He stopped moving toward her and she froze, standing stiffly, not wanting to end this discussion cowering in the corner of the room. “Until that time, I do not want you to squander your unripened charms on John Lout. Even as an adolescent, you are too fine a match for him.”

  He waited for her retort, to evaluate how his less threatening demeanor might change the tenor of their exchange.

  As she delayed, he shifted, subtly realigning himself. Something distressed her. Initially, insisting she not marry John Lout, he intended to flatter, not frighten or offend her. She was still a child, a joy and a vexation, a puzzling bundle of contradictions.

  He wanted to maintain her refreshing naiveté. His purest instincts were to shelter and protect her for as long it was in his power to do so.

  He wanted to reduce his chaste intentions to words, but something restrained him. Perhaps his hesitation had to do with her pricking his pride with her vile suggestions.

  He opened his arms. “Dear Jessica, come here. Let me hold and comfort you as a doting father would console a well-loved child.”

  “A father’s well-loved child, am I? You are insufferable. How can you suggest assigning us those roles?” She stamped her foot and fisted her hands on her hips. “I am not a recalcitrant child who seeks your lap for solace, Your Grace. I am a woman grown, fully capable of coping with the rigors and responsibilities of husband and home.”

  His indulgent smile only heightened her temper. “There, there, little bird. I keep offending you when I intend to soothe.” His kindly tone stymied her; therefore, his lunge caught her totally unaware.

  She yanked her wrist out of his grasp, but not before his free arm wrapped and pinioned her waist. Pummeling his shoulders, she refused to yield, even knowing her struggle was futile against his superior strength and size.

  Ensnared, she recalled strategy that had worked on zealous fellows in the past. She went limp, allowing him to win their pulling match and, hopefully, put him off his guard, as he had done to her seconds before.

  Surprised, Devlin staggered but, unlike the others on which this ruse had worked so effectively, he did not yield his hold but pulled her with him as he staggered backward under the burden of her unexpected weight.

  Retreating, his heel caught the edge of the rug, throwing him off balance. He staggered several steps before he toppled.

  He dropped directly onto his backside on the floor, still holding firmly to Jessica’s waist. Their joint momentum propelled her down on top of him. The back of his head made a resounding thud as it hit the wooden floor beyond the edge of the thick Persian carpet.

  Then he went still, completely motionless. The deadly silence in the room was broken only by their respective gasps. Jessica disregarded Devlin’s arms firmly locked around her waist as she lay sprawled atop his unmoving body.

  “Your Grace?” She prodded, her voice breathless from exertion. “Devlin? Oh, please, say something.”

  She flattened her hands on the floor on either side of his recumbent body and attempted to push herself up to relieve him of her weight. His hands were locked and, oddly, he seemed unable or unwilling to release her.

  His eyelids fluttered, but he did not respond as she called his name. “Devlin? Devlin? Can you hear me?” Shifting her weight onto one
stiff arm, Jessica used her free hand to pat his face. “Oh, Devlin, tell me I have not murdered you.”

  Reluctant to summon help until she could reposition them, she spoke in an earnest whisper. “Devlin. Devlin. Please, say something.” Urging, she patted his face with more energy before deciding she had no choice. She must summon help. As she opened her mouth to wail, Devlin’s eyelids fluttered.

  “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 ro
cked 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, 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.