Love With an Improper Stranger

by Barbara Devlin

  As the days passed in a blur of activities, Lenore accustomed herself to life as Blake’s partner, given they were paired for every fun-filled event, which she suspected was no mistake. And despite her previous trepidation and despair, she assumed her role at the head of the great collective, as was expected of her suitor’s lady. But she had yet to reconcile herself with her choice. It was, perhaps, no small coincidence that on Christmas Eve, when everyone assembled in the drawing room to mark the blessings of the special occasion, that she made her decision, without reservation.

  While Lenore sat on the chaise, Blake rolled on the floor with his oldest nephew. Little Welton squealed with joy, as the estimable naval captain crawled on all fours and roared like a lion. Then they collapsed into a heap, with unabashed mirth. For Lenore, it was a side of Blake she could not resist, as never would she have imagined him capable of such playful behavior. In that moment, she spied the man, without embellishment or rank, and she loved him.

  As sure as she knew her name, Lenore knew she was his. Insofar as the title was concerned, it mattered not, as she would take him without it. But as she could not separate him from his station, should would have to rise to the occasion.

  “All right.” Mrs. Jones clapped her hands, as the nannies collected their charges. “It is time for the adults to exchange their gifts, and then we will serve dinner, per Mrs. Randolph’s instructions.”

  When Blake attempted to release Welton, the boy burst into tears and clung to his uncle.

  “There, there. Buck up, lad, as you never cry in front of the women.” Blake glanced at her and shook his head. “Perhaps Uncle Blake should take you upstairs.”

  “It is your fault.” Caroline compressed her lips. “You spoil him shamelessly.”

  “Of course, I do, as I adore him.” With Welton perched on Blake’s shoulders, the two charged forth. “Up and away, we go.”

  “Wonderful.” Daphne stood. “If the men will carry in the Yule Log, the ladies can help me light the tapers on the fir, as we should open our packages before the carolers appear. And Dalton, fetch the lump of coal from last year’s fire.”

  Decorating a tree was an uncommon and rather new tradition, which Queen Charlotte, the wife of King George III, introduced during holiday celebrations at Windsor, in eighteen hundred. And while most English citizens limited the gifting of presents to children, Her Grace informed Lenore that the Brethren had their own ritual, which included the adults.

  That was her big break.

  As Lenore returned to her place on the chaise, Blake reappeared and sat to her left, while Daphne sifted through the various wrapped parcels.

  “Let me see.” Kneeling, Daphne read the labels and conducted a roll call, of sorts. “This one is from Lenore, to Blake.” Then she hoisted a vast deal more than decent sized box. “And this is from Blake, to Lenore.”

  After the revelers had claimed their treat, the great unveiling commenced, as everyone ripped into their bundles. Exclamations of delight heralded each recipient’s pleasure, along with unbridled expressions of affection. But Lenore waited, as she wanted to gauge Blake’s reaction to her homemade surprise. When he lifted the lid and parted the paper, he met her stare.

  “Darling, it is perfect.” From a bed of cotton, he retrieved a navy wool scarf. “Did you make this, yourself?”

  “I did.” She situated the neckerchief and was pleased with the fit. “All those afternoons I told you I napped were but a ruse, so I could knit something especially for you, and I worked hard to complete it. When we were aboard the Tristan, you never seemed to have a scarf handy, and I worry about you catching a cold. I hope it meets with your approval.”

  “Sweetheart, I shall treasure it, always.” He kissed her temple. “Now, open yours.”

  Lenore knew not what to expect from her suitor, as he seemed forever bent on surprising her. But when she discovered his offering, she gasped. The tears that formed, almost in a flash, bore a wealth of elation she simply could not contain. As she removed the hat, an exact replica, complete with the jaunty feather, of the one he destroyed on the day they met, from the box, she gazed at him and smiled.

  “How did you manage it?” She swallowed a sob, as she rotated the precious accouterment and admired the lavender felt. “How did you recreate the design?”

  “Lucilla helped me, as she described it, in detail, for the milliner. And while I know it is not your father’s original, I hope it makes amends.” Blake drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and daubed her cheeks. “Have I made you happy?”

  “You have, and I would do something for you.” That was her chance. After setting aside the treasured item, she inched closer and took his hands in hers. Inhaling a calming breath, she licked her lips. Summoning every ounce of her conviction, she pinned his stare and whispered, “Yes.”

  Amid the boisterous festivities, a cocoon of quiet euphoria swaddled Blake and Lenore in their own world. Myriad emotions danced in his expression, and she knew the instant her revelation dawned, and he comprehended the full import of her word, as he tensed. Then he lowered his chin but remained mute.

  “Yes.” To reassure him, Lenore nodded. “My answer is yes.” Then she added, for good measure, “I will marry you.”

  For a while, they simply sat there, conversing in a manner only they could understand. With his thumbs, he caressed her knuckles, and a gossamer web of warmth enveloped her, as he focused his attention on her mouth.

  After a few intensely silent minutes, in sotto voce, he asked, “Should we tell the others?”

  “Oh, no.” She nestled near, as he wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “Let us keep it our secret, just for tonight.”

  “Then we shall savor our confidential news, between the two of us, and I will make the announcement tomorrow, at the Christmas feast, just prior to the ball.” With a surreptitious glance at the Brethren, Blake blew out a candle on the side table and stole a quick kiss. “When shall we wed, my darling?”

  “I have no preference, so I will leave that to you.” Indeed, now that Lenore had made her commitment, everything else seemed inconsequential. “But I will need a dress, and I suppose a duke cannot just run away to the country and marry in a small, private ceremony.”

  “My dear, I can do whatever I want.” Then the now-familiar smirk made its return. “And you will have all of London clamoring to design your gown. Plus, Mama and Caroline will be only too thrilled to arrange the particulars, so you may rely on them.”

  Just then, Lenore discovered they were alone in the drawing room. “Where did everyone go?”

  “From the sounds of it, they are in the foyer, and I believe the carolers have arrived.” Standing, Blake pulled her from the chaise. “Shall we join them?”

  “I suppose, though I rather enjoy having you to myself.” How safe she felt in his company, and how bright her future seemed, as it peaked above the horizon.

  Bringing up the rear, they gathered in the grand entry, as locals serenaded Daphne and Dalton with a rousing version of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” Blake shifted, loomed behind her, and hugged her about the waist, and she rested her head to his chest. At one point, she peered at him, and he grinned, winked, and squeezed her. Yes, she was his, and nothing could change that.

  #

  Christmas Day dawned with beautiful blue skies and shimmering sunlight, as if even Mother Nature signaled her blessings of Blake’s impending nuptials. After attending a morning church service, with his stunning fiancée anchored at his side, the family returned to Courtenay Hall to visit, sing carols, and play several ridiculously competitive rounds of whist. And all the while, he and Lenore shared knowing glances and flirty smiles, which only intensified his excitement.

  As he donned his black formalwear, in preparation for dinner and the ensuing ball, to which Daphne and Dalton had invited the residents of the small island community, Blake mulled various versions of his announcement. While most noblemen of his stature traveled with their valets, he preferred to turn
himself out in trim when away from home. After checking his appearance in the long mirror, and making a minor adjustment to his cravat, he departed his quarters. At the head of the grand staircase, he met the object of his affection and almost tripped over his own toes, at the sight of her.

  “Hello, Your Grace.” A goddess in a gown of vivid aqua velvet trimmed in silver embroidery at the bodice, the hem of the skirt, and the long sleeves, with her thick brown locks piled in carefree curls, a sprig of holly just above her left ear, and an exuberant expression, she splayed her arms and rotated for his delectation. “How do I look?”

  “Yes.” Everything inside him came alert, and he clenched his gut. “I…am…fine.”

  “I beg your pardon?” With a giggle, she blinked. “Are you all right?”

  “I—that is to say—never have I seen—you are beautiful.” The world shifted beneath his feet, as he pulled her into a vise-like embrace and seized her mouth in a bruising kiss. After a few desperately intense minutes, he rested his forehead to hers. “From this day forward, I shall always count myself the most fortunate man alive.”

  “More’s the pity, as I feel the same about you.” She rubbed her nose to his. “Shall we go downstairs?”

  “I suppose.” With reluctance, he released her. “But as of this instant, I should rather act as the greediest miser, and keep you to myself.”

  “That would please me, greatly.” She smoothed his lapels and then settled her palm to the crook of his elbow. “But I do not wish to disappoint your mother, so we should make an appearance. There will be time enough to lock ourselves in our chambers, once we wed.”

  “Lenore, you tempt me beyond reason.” For a few seconds, he basked in her glory. What he would give to carry her to his room, strip her bare, and make love to her for three days straight, maybe a sennight or two. “But you are correct, so let us not delay.”

  Intent on showing off his bride-to-be, and surprising her, he escorted her to the dining room, where the Brethren had assumed their places. At the sideboard, Mrs. Jones directed the servants, and she glanced at him and dipped her chin, signaling the preparations had been made, and he relaxed.

  “Blake, you are seated at the opposite end of the table, as you are the head of this family.” Dalton sketched a mock salute. “And Lenore is to your right.”

  “Perfect.” As he held the chair, she settled herself.

  “Is this normal?” Lenore asked in a whisper. “Should Daphne not occupy that spot?”

  “Darling, this is family, and we make our own rules.” After draping the napkin across his lap, he clutched her hand. “And I always want you near me.”

  Again, she cast an ebullient smile. “Your Grace, that would suit me, just fine.”

  And so he endured the Christmas feast of stuffed and roasted goose, with potatoes, Brussels sprouts, carrots, and fresh baked bread, all while he languished in the throes of the most intense arousal of his existence. But he consumed every succulent morsel and sipped his wine, as would a gentleman. When Mrs. Jones rolled in the dessert trolley, Blake fought nervous anxiety.

  “Dear ones, if I may have your attention, I should like to make a toast.” Dalton stood, held high his glass, and cleared his throat. “On this most felicitous day, Daphne and I extend our humble thanks and appreciation for your estimable presence in honor of our inaugural holiday season as husband and wife. As ever, we are grateful for your unfailing love and support.” Then he gazed at Daphne and swallowed hard. “And we want you to know that we are expecting our first child.”

  A cheer erupted in the refined chamber, as Dirk and Rebecca leaped up and swamped Dalton and Daphne. In seconds, everyone converged on the young couple, and Blake reconsidered his plan, as he did not want to impinge on the host’s spotlight. But soon calm fell on the gathering, as Mrs. Jones dished portions of plum pudding.

  In keeping with tradition, each serving of the decadent treat contained a prize said to predict some aspect of the recipient’s forthcoming year. While a litany of trinkets were discovered, Lucy and Sabrina found a silver thimble, which represented thrift, Caroline and Cara claimed a silver coin, which signified wealth, Damian and George located a wish bone, which symbolized good luck, and Blake and Lance seized a small anchor, which bestowed safe harbor. But Lenore uncovered the best boon of all.

  Wrapped in a tiny piece of cotton rested her diamond betrothal ring, and she met his stare the second she revealed it. “Is it real?”

  “Indeed.” For as long as he lived, he would remember her face in that moment. He plucked the bauble, clutched her left hand, and slipped the jewel onto her third finger. Then he kissed her knuckles. “But it pales in comparison to your fire.”

  It was then he discovered they had garnered the unreserved attention of everyone present, and another telltale hush of anticipation invested the enrapt audience.

  “Blake, would it be presumptuous of me to assume you have something favorable to impart?” Damian flagged Hicks. “I imagine we have need of champagne.”

  “Right away, Your Grace.” The butler signaled Mrs. Jones, as he ran into the hallway.

  Still and silent as statues, generations of the Brethren stared, as Blake inched from the table, stretched to full height, and drew his bride-to-be from her seat. “I cannot believe that I managed it, despite my attempts to bungle the situation, but for some reason I can neither explain nor comprehend, Miss Lenore Teversham has graciously consented to be my duchess.”

  The ensuing roar reverberated off the walls, and he would have sworn the chandeliers shook, as Blake and Lenore were overtaken by a stampede of congratulatory hugs and kisses. To his everlasting bewilderment, in the midst of such jubilation and triumph, he thought of his father.

  It had been a long time since Blake recalled those youthful, carefree days when his sire reigned supreme in the Brethren. The great Benedict Elliott’s passing ushered in the heir apparent, and never had Blake taken for granted the responsibility that resided on his shoulders, as the weight of the world. But it was not until he decided to take a wife that he reflected on the breadth of his duties, as they would forever impact Lenore, which caused her hesitance. In hindsight, he understood her trepidation, as theirs was an awesome task.

  “She is quite charming, that girl of yours.” Ever the unfailing friend, Mark Douglas chucked Blake’s chin. “He would be very proud, son.”

  “I wish he was here.” Blake peered at Lenore, as his mother huddled with Lucy and burst into tears. “And I hope, wherever he is, he approves of my choice.”

  “I would wager he does too.” Then the admiral grinned. “And I know, wherever he is, Benedict most definitely would approve, as she is a fine lady.”

  “Thank you, sir.” And just as Blake mastered his wayward emotions, Cara and Lance added to the merriment, filling crystal flutes with champagne, one of which Lance thrust into Blake’s grasp.

  “Since this seems to be a night of confessions, Cara and I have a revelation of our own.” Lance glanced left and then right. “My beloved marchioness is increasing with our second child.”

  And once again unabashed merriment erupted, as a wave of euphoria swept over Cara and Lance.

  “This has been some evening, and the ball has not yet commenced.” With a chuckle, Daphne leaned against Dalton. “So, before we assume our respective positions in the receiving line, as our guests shall arrive shortly, I do not suppose we have any more secrets to report?”

  “Well, all right.” Rolling her eyes, Sabrina heaved a sigh and turned to Everett. “My shameless lord, I was going to tell you as we welcomed the New Year, but now is as good a time as any.”

  “Sabrina?” With arched brows, Everett opened his mouth and sputtered. “Are you pregnant?”

  Biting her lip, she nodded. Emitting a clamorous growl, Everett lifted his wife in his arms and twirled her about, as the family moved in yet another concerted effort to offer their best wishes. Soon infectious laughter echoed, and they strolled into the cavernous ballroom.


  At the side entrance, Blake lingered between Lenore and Damian.

  “You know, when Trevor boasted that you were in love, I told him to pull my other leg.” Damian, forever Blake’s partner in nefarious enterprises, shifted and leaned near to whisper, “But you have it bad, old man.”

  “Brother, you have no idea.” To be honest, Blake could not even describe what he felt—and, oh, what he felt.

  “And you do not deny it.” Damian whistled in monotone. “Given I just returned from my last mission, perhaps you can enlighten me. How did you meet?”

  “In the middle of a muddy road, whereupon I accidentally spattered her with grime, and she rained hellfire and damnation on my head for it.” To his relief, Lenore was distracted by a local and paid no heed to the conversation. “I could have married her right there.”

  “How romantic.” Damian elbowed Blake in the ribs. “But she does not strike me as your usual fare. Although, do not mistake my meaning, as she is beautiful.”

  “I know exactly what you reference.” Yet he could make no sense of it. “The only explanation I can extend is the one our shackled Brethren have often bemoaned.”

  “And that would be—what?” Damian inquired.

  “It happens when you least expect it, and do not even try to escape the noose.” Blake snorted. “Because once cupid’s arrow strikes, trust me, you are powerless to resist it.”

  “Strange, I always figured you would be the last to wed.” Frowning, Damian studied Lenore. “But I wish you merry.”

  “In case you did not notice, she has a sister.” Blake pondered that possibility but quashed it just as fast.

  “Bite your tongue.” With an expression of horror, Damian scoffed. “She wears spectacles—not at all my tastes. And she is forever lost in a book.”

  “Which means she is ripe for tutoring.” How Blake looked forward to schooling Lenore in the marriage bed. “Do you not love a challenge?”

  “That is not a challenge.” Damian paused to welcome a visitor. “That is an accident waiting to happen.”