THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  With trembling hands, she set down the last paper read aloud to her friends. The letter, a cordial correspondence from the Bank of England, declared an account had been established in her name upon which had been deposited the sum of fifty thousand pounds. The inheritance bequeathed to her by Count Alexander Petrovsky.

  The packet also contained a newspaper clipping citing Malcolm Vickers, former manservant to the late Earl of Bellewyck had been arrested in Westminster where he’d been living as Mr. Edmund Smythe. The charges included theft, conspiracy and attempted murder of a child, as well as the murder of Archibald Bertram, Lord Bellewyck. To all counts, Vickers had entered a plea of guilty.

  “He could not make his lordship pay,”—Bertie said in a weepy voice—“but God love the man for seein’ that monster Vickers will dance for the devil soon enough.”

  “Vickers will hang for sure,” Billy added.

  “God bless the Duke of Pemberton,” Gordon said.

  “His Grace risked his life when Snake tried to kill Miss Petrovsky in Folkestone,” Nash pointed out. “He’d be dead now if Henry had not appeared out of the blue.”

  Nash’s comment prompted everyone gathered to nod in agreement.

  Polly smiled at Christiana. “And there is no denyin’ he loves ye, Christiana. Seems mad we ever feared such a man.”

  Just then the sound of boisterous, masculine laughter resonated from the hall, prompting Christiana to look in that direction. How can he be having such a grand time with his friends when I can think of nothing else but our argument? And she certainly didn’t need reminding of all the wonderful things he’d done for her.

  “Sounds like they are goin’ into the Great Room,” Polly said.

  Bertie smiled at Christiana. “Do ye suppose they want some of Mr. Randolph’s, I mean, His Grace’s brandy?”

  Christiana studied the anxious faces of her friends. Each one stared at her with an expression of wide-eyed suspense.

  “No, get me the special ale,” she said.

  Polly and Bertie looked at one another aghast.

  “Not that special ale.” Christiana shook her head and smiled. “Fetch the White Monk blend Jasper invented. I want our guests to realize Bellewyck Abbey is not a ruin, but a respected brewery.”

  Nodding his approval, Tom Rooney stood. “Let me fetch it.”

  “Ye want me to serve?” Polly asked.

  “No, we shall do it together,” Christiana said.

  A few moments later Christiana and Polly entered the Great Room to see Devlin seated before the fireplace with his friends, each of whom had dragged a piece of furniture closer to the enormous hearth. As she approached, all five gentlemen stood.

  “Hello,” she said in a pleasant tone.

  “Hello,” they all replied, smiling in turn.

  “I am not sure if His Grace told you, but the servants at Bellewyck Abbey retire early. We are understaffed and, as you can well imagine, there is much work that must be done each day to maintain this estate.”

  Devlin bit back a grin. His friends looked about the Spartan room, apparently at a loss how to respond to Christiana’s cryptic remark.

  “Before we bid you gentlemen good night,” she continued. “I thought you might like to sit before the fire and enjoy a mug of our special ale.”

  With a ready smile and murmur of appreciation, his friends eagerly reached out to take a mug from the tray proffered by Polly. Devlin harrumphed to gain Christiana’s attention. “Is that your special ale, dearest?”

  Christiana smiled. “I daresay one cannot expect trust if one is not willing to give it, dearest.”

  “I quite agree.” He picked up a mug and sipped its contents. Pausing after a moment, he looked to his friends, all of whom were clearly baffled by his remark.

  “Drink up, gentlemen,” he encouraged.

  “Well, goodnight,” Christiana said. “Oh, there is a candle on the far table for each of you. Another candle lights the hall and the stairs. I trust that should be sufficient light for all of you to find your chambers.”

  As Devlin raised his mug of ale to his lips, he noticed Christiana staring at him in an odd manner.

  “It would be unfortunate should someone become lost and enter another person’s room by mistake. Unless, of course, that is their intent. That is to say, some people might want someone to come to their room…to talk.”

  Devlin gulped down his ale. Could she be any more explicit?

  Never taking his gaze from hers, he slowly approached. When he stood before her, he leaned forward as if intending to kiss her enticing mouth. He heard her breathing hitch; her rosebud lips parted on a quivering sigh. To her obvious surprise, he set his empty mug on the tray a now gaping Polly held. Then he turned away.

  “Sweet dreams, ladies.”

  Muffled laughter followed Christiana as she quit the room with Polly. Even worse, upon entering the now empty kitchen, Polly erupted in fits of laughter.

  “What, pray tell, is so funny?”

  Polly pressed her lips together, struggling to stop laughing. “What were ye tryin’ to do in there?”

  “I was trying to tell him we need to talk.” Christiana pointed toward the Great Room. “He is in there having a simply wonderful time, acting as if nothing unusual happened today, and I am...”

  “Ye’re what?” asked Polly.

  “Confused.” Christiana sat at the table, cradling her forehead in her hands. Her gaze lit upon the neatly tied leather packet with all the papers tucked safely inside.

  “Are ye still upset ‘bout his pretendin’ to be a steward?”

  “No, I would have done the same thing.”

  “Is it the wager then?”

  Another round of masculine laughter erupted from the Great Room, prompting Christiana to roll her eyes heavenward. “No, I cannot imagine Devlin being deliberately cruel to anyone. And, after meeting his friends, I believe the wager—however inappropriate—resulted out of boredom. I never should have made such an issue of it. And ‘twas most cruel of me to compare Devlin and his friends to Lord Bellewyck. They are different as night from day. I actually find them amusing and somewhat endearing.”

  “Endearin’?” Polly blinked like an owl.

  “Full of mischief, like little boys.”

  “Well, one of those little boys—the one they call Wessex—had best keep his rovin’ hands to himself. I almost kicked him when I helped Tom serve dinner.”

  Christiana smiled and clasped her hands together under her chin. “Yes, I saw the expression in your eyes.”

  The two friends sat together in the now hushed kitchen, their attention drawn to the packet of papers between them on the table.

  “Do ye still love him?” Polly asked.

  “Very much.”

  “Then what is there to be confused ‘bout?”

  “I do not deserve him, Polly. I did not think I deserved the man when I thought him a steward. How can I marry a duke and make him happy? I know nothing about his world.”

  “You already make him happy. And ye can learn ‘bout his world.”

  “Look at all the trouble I have been. When I think of what I said about the Duke of Pemberton—to his face, mind you—I could just die. I believed Pemberton cruel and selfish. And he was here all the time trying to find me—trying to save me.”

  “He did save ye. He saved us all.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Well then?”

  “I could do anything, be anything, if he said he loved me.” Christiana smiled through a mist of tears and tapped the soft leather packet on the table. “I would rather hear those words truly spoken in a heartfelt declaration than have fifty thousand pounds in the bank. All my life, I waited to hear those words. Without them, I will always wonder if he married me because he is the honorable duke who mistakenly compromised his virgin ward.”

  Polly reached out and stilled Christiana’s hand, then patted it for good measure. “He loves ye, and he may yet say the words.”

  Seat
ed on her bed, wearing one of the scandalous new nightdresses Devlin purchased for her in London, Christiana brushed out a length of her hair. No matter how hard she tried to think of something else, her thoughts were about Devlin.

  Surely he wasn’t still in the Great Room with his friends.

  Returning her brush to a bureau, she walked over to the window. Pulling back the blue and white toile curtains, she stared out into the night. “I will not go looking for him. If he wants to be with me, he will simply have to come to me.”

  “What if he is waiting for you to come to him?”

  Turning with a start, she saw Devlin wearing a royal purple silk dressing gown—and apparently nothing else. He looked so handsome and virile her heart skipped a beat. A wave of heat flooded her body, making it difficult to catch her breath. More telling was the pronounced quiver she felt deep inside, as if he’d summoned her honeyed desire with a single glance.

  He turned to close the panel, and she took a gulping breath of air—determined to not let him see the effect of his presence. She twisted her hands together and struggled to think of something to say.

  “Are you more comfortable using the Shadow Walk?”

  He faced her again yet made no reply. Instead, he walked toward her, each step slow, seductive.

  “I—um—did tell you it was called the Shadow Walk, did I not?”

  He studied her with a silent intensity.

  “I know I mentioned it in my diary which, by the way, you still have not returned to me.”

  He stopped before her, a wicked grin curving his sensual mouth.

  “Voila.” Like a clever magician, he pulled the little red book from the pocket of his dressing gown. When she tried to take it from his grasp, he raised it high above her reach in a teasing manner. “Perhaps I should hold onto this.” His low, velvet voice sent delicious ripples down to her toes.

  “What do you mean?”

  Devlin thumbed through the pages. “It contains a great many passages about me. Indeed, I have within my grasp sufficient evidence to prove you love me with a grand passion, or did at one time.”

  “I still love you, Devlin.”

  “With a grand passion?”

  Trying to calm her racing heart, she whispered. “Yes.”

  “Then I believe this belongs to you, my sweet.”

  She took the book and walked over to the writing desk. Keeping her back to him, she said in a tremulous voice, “You have never told me, you know.”

  “Told you?”

  Did he truly have no idea what she was talking about? She turned to look at him. Judging from the blank expression on his face, he mustn’t. She nibbled on her lip then caught herself and stopped. “You have never said you love me.”

  “I see,” he murmured. “Are the words so important?”

  “When one is faced with life-altering choices, yes, I suppose they are.”

  “I love your wit,” he said with a slow grin.

  She was not amused and, much to her surprise, he quickly became serious.

  “Christiana, to simply say I love you does not seem adequate. It certainly does not encompass the depth of what I feel for you.”

  He approached her again, keeping his gaze intent. “I listen for your voice when silence surrounds me. I look for your face when I am alone or in a crowd. I gaze at a deep blue sky and think only it reminds me of your eyes. I cannot help but dream of you when I sleep, and you fill my every waking thought. Your laughter is food for my soul, and a light in the darkness. Your smile warms me. Your courage humbles me.”

  Stopping before her, he pulled her close, and gently cupped the curve of her cheek with one hand. “I cannot remember my life before you. And I will not imagine my future without you.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, making it difficult to see clearly.

  She blinked, watching his mesmerizing gaze follow the trail of tears down her cheek. With his thumbs, he wiped them away.

  “Do I love you?” He leaned closer until but a kiss away. “Let me prove how much for the rest of our lives.”

  Try as he might to show some restraint, Devlin trembled with an urgent need to make love to Christiana. The moment he tasted her lips, he was lost. Their mouths melded, and their tongues explored one another with voracious abandon. The cadence of their breathing sounded frantic as his hands swept over her body in long, lingering caresses. The almost sheer material of her nightdress slid easily beneath his fingers, molding her body in ways that made his rigid sex pulse with every erratic beat of his heart.

  He broke the kiss yet didn’t release her from his arms. Her jewel eyes sparkled. Her lips—plump, red, and wet from his plunder—made his throat dry.

  “The shadows and secrets between us are gone,” he rasped. “And since I can stand no more of this torture, I will have your answer now. I am the notorious Duke of Pemberton, former rake and impudent steward of Bellewyck Abbey. My darling Christiana, are you brave enough to marry me?”

  “I will not share you with other women.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, well, that rumor about a harem of mistresses is false, you know. In any event, you are the only woman I want—now and always. You possess my heart, my devotion, and my eternal, undivided, insatiable attention.”

  “I want lots of babies.”

  “As do I.”

  “I will try to be obedient, but I shall always speak my mind.”

  “As will I,” he said with a roguish wink.

  “Can we spend time at Bellewyck Abbey each year?”

  “I look forward to it,” he whispered against her mouth.

  Looping her arms about his neck, she smiled. “Then yes, I will marry you.”

  “Thank God.” Seizing her mouth again, he used every bit of skill he possessed as a lover until she moaned and trembled in his arms, completely oblivious to the removal of her nightdress until it pooled about her feet.

  With ragged breathing and on the brink of being too aroused to stand, let alone walk, he lifted Christiana into his arms and carried her across the room, lowering her gloriously nude body upon the bed. He stepped back. “You recall the vow I made not to make love until your situation with Pemberton has been decided?”

  “Yes,” she sighed, her tongue darting out to moisten her passion swollen lips.

  “It has been decided.” He untied the sash about his dressing gown, watching Christiana’s wide-eyed gaze as she studied his movements. The panels of silk parted. As the garment fell from his shoulders to the floor, the full heat of her gaze swept over his aroused body. When she stared brazenly with wanton wonder at the engorged length of his cock, it proved more than he could stand.

  He slowly climbed onto the bed, arching over her body with his weight balanced on the outstretched palms of his hands. “Just to set your mind at ease, I had the foresight to obtain a Special License before my journey back to Kent. Rest assured, my love, we marry without delay. However, I fully intend to prove just how much I love you beginning here and now.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Happiness is at once the best,

  the noblest, and the

  pleasantest of things.”

  ~ Aristotle

  (384-322 BC)

  “I daresay this is the most unusual masked ball I have ever attended.”

  No sooner had the Dowager Duchess of Pemberton tactfully whispered her observation than an enormous gentleman galloped by dressed as a one-eyed pirate.

  “Good heavens,” she exclaimed.

  Amused by his mother’s reaction to the boisterous merriment in the Great Hall of Bellewyck Abbey, Devlin laughed. Still, despite her rather shocked sensibilities, he noticed his mother found the evening quite enjoyable.

  For that matter, so did everyone else.

  Aglow with candlelight, the secrets and once foreboding shadows of the Great Hall had been completely vanquished. Instead of tomb-like silence, an orchestra played selections lively and at times hauntingly beautiful. The guests, resplendent in costume, were all amiable. With
the exception of the smithy Giles Yates—posing as the ungraceful pirate—it proved an intriguing challenge for Devlin to identify each guest.

  Suddenly, his gaze caught and held that of his beloved bride. He certainly had no problem identifying her, despite the jeweled domino. Raising his glass of champagne, he saluted her. The longer he stared, the more telling her reaction. Even from across the room, she knew what he had on his mind. With a low chuckle, he finished off his drink and turned to see his mother had been watching him with a curious expression.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “For a man who once told his sisters he did not believe it necessary or even prudent to marry for love, you are quite the besotted husband.”

  “You think me besotted?”

  “Devlin, you are so enamored with your darling bride that when the sun rises you likely perceive it as a tribute to Christiana.”

  “Is it not?”

  With a soft laugh, his mother looked across the room to where Christiana conversed with some guests. “I have always believed the best marriages are those based on mutual respect and love. Your father and I were blessed to have that in our marriage. Your sisters were equally fortunate to marry for love. And I am inordinately pleased that my only son has learned this truth—before he made the wrong choice in a bride.”

  She turned to him then, her expression one he’d not seen since before his father died. “Love is precious, Devlin. Cherish it. Nurture it. Most of all, never take it for granted. With all my heart, I wish you and Christiana a long and happy life together.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” he said and kissed her cheek.

  She smiled and turned back to observe the dancing then struggled against another laugh. “Good heavens. Who is that brash rogue dressed like a wolf?”

  Following the direction of her gaze, Devlin saw the wolf. In an excessively dramatic, lascivious manner, the wolf begged to partner an indignant, buxom shepherdess in the next dance.

  “That would be Wessex,” he said. “And the shepherdess is my wife’s maid, Polly.”