Love With an Improper Stranger

by Barbara Devlin

  “Well, Your Grace, it is a rare opportunity afforded to few individuals, but you are to make your coming-out at the most prestigious address in all of London.” Blake led her to the drawing room, where the Brethren gathered. “And I could not be more proud of my duchess.”

  “Where have you been?” Caroline gasped as she scrutinized Lenore. “What happened?”

  “Jennings said you departed with Sir Ross.” Damian shook his head and frowned. “But he knew not your destination.”

  “I will tell you all about it, later, during the ball.” Blake rolled his eyes. “But you should fortify yourself with a healthy dose of brandy, as it will turn your hair white, and I am not yet recovered.”

  “Oh, Lenore.” Cara’s mouth fell agape. “Your sleeve is torn at the shoulder, and your tiara is crooked.”

  “Alex, have the butler fetch a needle and thread, and bring it to the ladies’ cloak-room, posthaste.” Caroline clutched Lenore’s wrist. “Hurry, as there is little time.”

  “Worry not, Lenore.” Sabrina snorted. “I held my first fete as the countess of Woverton with a similar mark, and here I am, the epitome of feminine deportment.”

  “And if you believe that, I have some oceanfront property in the heart of Mayfair I should love to sell you.” Cara giggled, as she spun her magic. “My powder worked wonders, and the bruise is all but invisible.”

  “Here is the needle and thread.” Alex rushed into the room. “Loosen the bodice, and I will tack it from underneath, as the sleeve is ripped at the seam, to our advantage. And if we shift the ducal riband a tad, it will conceal the damage.”

  As Alex made a makeshift repair, Caroline and Rebecca fussed over Lenore’s hair and restored the tiara to its place. Ensconced in the protective custody of the Brethren wives, Lenore heeded their advice and tutelage, as never had she mingled with royalty. Her performance would reflect on the entire family, and she would die before she disappointed them.

  “Lenore, you must come, now, as you have been called.” Elaine paused, then took Lenore’s hands and splayed wide her arms. “You look beautiful, and we are thrilled for you.”

  “Ladies, let us escort her, as the prince waits for no one.” Rebecca clapped twice. “Sabrina, mind the threshold, as you stubbed your toe and took a tumble, on our last visit.”

  “And never will you let me forget it.” How Sabrina elicited fond memories of Lucilla, and Lenore longed for her younger sister. “But we have a much better story, as who could fail to recall the black-eyed duchess of Rylan?”

  “Stop it, as Lenore is nervous enough without your teasing.” Cara humphed. “And mind your manners.”

  In the reception hall, Blake spied her and smiled the sensuous smile that always inspired a delicious shiver. Garbed in a stunning black coat festooned with gold braids about the edge of the sleeves, lapels, and hem, a gray waistcoat, black knee breeches, and white stockings, her husband was devilishly handsome.

  “Ready?” he inquired, with a wink, and extended an arm, to which she rested her palm.

  “As ever.” She inhaled a deep breath, as they approached a double-door portal, where a pair of footmen set ajar the oak panels and bowed.

  At the edge of the red carpet, a proper butler perched upright. “The Duke and Duchess of Rylan.”

  And then there was silence.

  It was a long walk across the presence room, which featured an allegorical fresco ceiling and majestic pastoral tapestries. At center, the Prince Regent sat in a lone chair, amid a red damask backdrop and canopy, boasting the royal coat of arms.

  As they neared the throne, Blake whispered, “Now.”

  He stepped to his left and bowed, and Lenore curtseyed.

  “Our Nautionnier Knight is late.” The Prince Regent stood and approached, and Lenore gulped.

  “I apologize, Your Majesty.” Blake drew her to his side. “It was an unavoidable emergency.”

  “Her Grace is injured.” The Prince Regent chuckled. “And our servant appears to have engaged in fisticuffs, as his knuckles are swollen. I expect a full accounting when next we play billiards, and if His Grace lets us win again, we shall strip him of the duchy.”

  “Yes, sir.” Blake dipped his chin.

  “One more thing.” The Prince Regent stared at Lenore, and she feared she might swoon. “If Her Grace can manage, we would request the honor of the first dance.”

  “On the contrary, the honor is mine,” she replied.

  “She is charming, Blake.” The Prince Regent inclined his head. “You are dismissed.”

  Had her husband permitted it, she would have sprinted down the hall, under the arch, and straight to their coach.

  “Lenore, you were magnificent.” Blake steered her down a narrow side passage and into a dark alcove, where he kissed her—and kept kissing her. The usual fire ignited, fanning the flames of desire, yet his stubborn refusal to escalate the tryst kept her at a slow burn, and soon she relaxed in his embrace. In a low voice, he asked, “Better?”

  “Much.” The rapid pounding of her pulse slowed, and she sighed. “How do you always know what to do to put me at ease?”

  “Sweetheart, you were made for me.” Even in the dim light, she sensed his cocky grin. “And I can read you like a book.”

  “But I prefer it when you play me as a finely tuned instrument.” She nipped his chin. “And you do play well, impossible man.”

  “Ah, I love it when my duchess flirts with me.” He smacked her bottom. “Let us adjourn to the ballroom, and tonight, when we return home, I will play you till dawn.”

  She scored her fingers to the back of his neck, and clutched the hair at his nape. “Is that a promise?”

  “My unutterably charming wife, you may depend upon it.” Her knight kissed her hard and fast, and then he escorted her to a breathtaking chamber.

  Gathered in the shadows of crystal chandeliers, the Brethren offered their congratulations.

  “The first dance is always a minuet,” Rebecca explained. “When the Prince Regent is ready, he will walk to the center, and you will meet him there. Curtsey, and then he will lead.”

  “Oh, I am so nervous.” Lenore squeezed Blake’s fingers and whispered, “Can you take me back to the alcove?” To wit he burst into laughter. Just as he made to reply, the court orchestra, from their perch in the music gallery, performed the march from Handel’s Judas Maccabeus, which signaled the Prince Regent’s arrival, and the crowd made their obeisance.

  As Rebecca predicted, the prince strolled into position. Without hesitation, Lenore walked to her place and curtseyed, and the musicians transitioned into Bach’s Minuet in G Major. Executing a series of perfect pas menus, she glanced at Blake, who smiled from ear to ear, baring his teeth. And as the dance progressed, she gave herself to the notes and soared.

  After a few minutes, the other guests joined in the rotations, and the Brethren of the Coast formed a protective circle, with Blake partnering Elaine. In those glorious moments, Lenore could not help but ponder her father and Lucilla. After Papa’s death and Lucy’s departure, Lenore had anticipated loneliness and despair, as she could not fathom her life without her two staunchest allies. But her new relations provided unshakeable support, acceptance, and love.

  Such was the way with great families. Unencumbered by the earthly imperfections of rivalry and envy, bereft of preconditions or restraint, and harboring naught but glad tidings, they offered affection in its purest form, and she knew, without doubt, they would defend her to the bitter end. And so she would protect them.

  When Blake claimed her for the second dance, from Lenore’s perspective, the seemingly innocuous gesture marked a momentous occasion. For in that very instant, she assumed the daunting mantle of matriarch to the Brethren, with a remarkable refrain echoing in rhythm with the music: For love and comradeship we live.

  #

  The pale light of dawn cut through a separation in the drapes, as Blake, naked as the day he was born, stretched across the mattress and admired his duches
s. Sitting at her pianoforte, wearing naught but her shy smile, Lenore tapped a new and unfamiliar tune.

  And as he focused on the notes, a haunting, quiet melody, which ebbed and flowed like the incoming tide, the music inspired a host of emotions, none of which he could master, and it dawned on him that his wife seduced him with her singular talent, when he thought he initiated another prelude to connubial bliss. So he closed his eyes and let her speak to him on a level unique to her.

  As a pebble tossed into a pond, the rhythm teased his flesh in a slow rippling caress that left nothing untouched, and oh, what he felt. A thousand times more erotic than any maneuver he could employ, he savored the irony, shifted his hips, inhaled a deep breath, and relished the soft intonations, so similar to the gentle brush of her lips, and she carried him on a priceless journey.

  A series of recollections charted their courtship, from the street in Brussels, when she upbraided him for crushing her hat, to the shock in her expression, when she learned of his true identity, and he reveled in that reminiscence, to her sweet acceptance of his proposal, when they celebrated Christmas on Portsea Island, and to her angelic countenance on their wedding day, when she took her vows and became his duchess. But the most precious memory, which he coveted, was of her declaration on the docks at Deptford, when he returned from what the papers now referred to as the Hundred Days War.

  Passion shimmered and flared, swirled and soared, until it erupted in an all-consuming inferno, and he luxuriated in his arousal. Resituating to his side, he pleasured himself as he admired the curve of Lenore’s waist, the fine lines of her neck, and the classical perfection of her profile.

  Just then, she glanced at him and ceased her siren song.

  “Why did you stop?” He woke from his delicious reverie.

  “It appears as though you have need of my services.” She scooted back the bench. “Shall I come to bed?”

  “Yes.” Blake sat upright, extended an arm, and reached for her. “It would seem you have stimulated my baser instincts.”

  “I should hope so, as that was the intent.” She favored him with a charming giggle, as she settled beside him.

  Without warning, he rolled her onto her back and covered her, and she shrieked. “What was that piece?” he asked.

  “Bach’s Prelude and Fugue Eight in E-flat minor.” She framed his face, as he joined their bodies. “I should motivate you more often.”

  It occurred to him then that, although he vowed no woman would ever change him, and he would manage the marital state with minimal alteration in his habits, the opposite happened with no effort on Lenore’s part. But it should not have surprised him, given he had witnessed the same strange miracle plague six estimable men of his set. Prior to his wedding, it was a mystery he could not solve, but somehow he had surrendered, in every sense of the word, to his duchess.

  Yes, as the bachelors chased skirts, indulged in too much brandy at White’s, boxed their brains out at Jackson’s, and opted for foolhardy risks in pursuit of prizes while at sea, he would endure the none-too-polite ribbing as he patronized the hot house and rushed home to his wife. Yet, in exchange for the confinement, of a sort, he won the most precious boon of all, so he counted himself fortunate.

  And as Blake moved over, on, and within his bride, somewhere in the recesses of his mind still capable of coherent thought, everything fell into place. Indeed, he understood the Brethren husbands, with their hapless expressions and obsessive enthusiasms, as he had joined their merry cadre, but he would pay the costs with no complaints, because he was happy.

  Such was the way of love, was it not?

  EPILOGUE

  April, 1816

  A piercing shriek shattered the tranquil quiet, as Blake sat in his study at Elliott House. Flipping through the yellowed parchment of an ancient leather-bound journal, he scanned the private musings of his ancestor.

  The impending arrival of his child had given rise to an insatiable urge to know more of his past, more of his legendary origins, and in Lucy’s last letter, she recommended he investigate the oldest holdings in his possession.

  Another impressive wail reverberated through the walls, and he perused a particular passage, which seemed to reach through space and time to appraise his current condition.

  This morrow, with a shimmering sunrise, my sweet Isolde gave birth to our first son, my heir, and I shed tears of heretofore-incomprehensible joy as I write these words, but I do not intend to stop there, though I have fulfilled His Majesty’s command. As I love my honey flower, and she is equally attached, I hope to get many warriors on her, and create a large family, to carry on our estimable legacy long after we are gone from this earth, so some small part of us will remain. The task will not be easy, but I do not expect it to be so, as often the best things in life require a bit of work, thus they are worth the effort, and I shall endeavor to teach my boy the same, that he might never take happiness for granted. –Arucard de Villiers

  A long, drawn out scream jolted Blake, and he closed the book and set it atop the blotter. “I suppose it should be any time now.”

  “Yet you long to go to her.” With a heavy sigh, Damian stretched his booted feet. “You are much changed, my friend.”

  “Shut up.” Blake reached for the crystal decanter, which he kept in close proximity throughout the more than eleven hours Lenore labored. “I am fine.”

  “Of course, you are, brother.” Damian smirked. “All evidence to the contrary, as you perspire, and your fingers shake, such that I am amazed you managed to pour yourself a brandy without spilling a drop.”

  Groaning, Blake rolled his eyes and stood. “You may find it hard to believe, but the truth is I am happy.” He paused before the hearth, gazed into the blaze, envisioned his fiery bride, and smiled. “Never have I been so happy.”

  “You are serious.” Damian chuckled. “Not that I am surprised, as you sport the same useless puppy dog expression, whenever your wife is near or her name is mentioned. But I must say, of the married Brethren, you are the worst, also not unexpected, as you do everything in grand style.” A mournful bellow rattled the rooftops, and he said, “Go to her.”

  In a handful of strides, Blake grasped the knob but drew up short. Turning on a heel, he pinned Damian with a narrow stare. “How much?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Damian blinked.

  “Brother, I have known you since the cradle.” Blake folded his arms. “How much did you wager, and what are the terms?”

  “Now I resent that—”

  “Give over, else I will return to my comfortable chair and have another drink.” Of course, there was no chance of that happening, especially as Lenore vented another spectacular howl.

  “One hundred pounds that you would not last until midnight.” With a huff, Damian checked his timepiece. “I have but ten minutes. Trevor has stakes on one, Dirk has two, and Everett has three, respectively, but if Lenore delivers early the bet is off. Lance and Jason took the split; as neither believes you will venture into the breach, no pun intended. Dalton, George, and Lucien thought it bad luck, so they declined to participate.”

  “You make sport of my wife’s suffering? I am shocked.” As usual, Blake considered the opportunity and resolved to make the best of the situation. “Half.”

  “Excuse me?” Damian appeared confused.

  “I want half.” He shifted his weight. “The clock is ticking.”

  “Oh, all right.” Damian frowned but started, when Lenore distinctly shouted Blake’s name. “We have a bargain, now, go.”

  With that, Blake flung open the oak panel, ran down the hallway, skidded into the foyer, veered right, and bounded up the grand staircase. After sprinting through the gallery, he navigated the winding passages of his home and burst through the door to the suite he shared with Lenore.

  The scene that played before him looked like some sort of strange horror story, as his mother sat in an arm chair, offering encouragement, while Caroline held one leg, Rebecca clutched another, Sabr
ina wiped sweat from Lenore’s brow, Alex supported Lenore’s back, and Dr. Handley barked orders, as he hunkered between Lenore’s thighs.

  When Lenore spied Blake, she extended a hand and flicked her fingers. But just as fast she scrunched her face, clenched her jaw, and gave vent to an ear-splitting bellow. Without hesitation, Blake loosened and removed his cravat and charged the fore. “Give me an occupation.”

  “Here.” Alex scooted from the bed. “Take my place, but you must be unfailing in your support, as she needs it.”

  “I have you, sweetheart.” He inched forward, as he cradled his wife. “Lean on me.”

  “Blake, I am frightened.” She rested her head to his shoulder, and he kissed her damp temple. “And I know not how much more I can take.”

  “I see the crown.” Dr. Handley adjusted his spectacles. “This is it, Your Grace. Bear down.”

  “Everything will be fine, my love.” With his heart pounding a salvo in his chest, he stiffened his spine. “And I am right here with you.”

  “Push, Your Grace, as the babe is coming.” Dr. Handley snatched a towel. “Again.”

  Lenore tensed in Blake’s embrace.

  “Give her something on which to bite down,” Sabrina suggested.

  Without warning, Lenore grabbed Blake’s wrist and sank her teeth into the fleshy underside of his thumb, and he winced. “Bloody hell.”

  “I have it,” the physician announced.

  Benedict Horace Arucard Elliott entered the world with a spectacular squall, a name reflective of his estimable lineage, and an imposing scowl, and his proud papa thought he might burst with joy at the first glimpse of his newborn son.

  “Thank you, Lenore.” Blake caressed her cheek. “Our boy is beautiful.”

  “He is us.” As she relaxed, she yawned. “I love you.”

  “And I you, my darling duchess.” Now they shared a thorough kiss, as the staff filled the large tub with hot water and cleaned the room.

  “Blake, if you would repair downstairs, Mama and I will wash Lenore, while the maids change the linens.” Caroline collected bloodstained cloths from the floor. “And I will fetch you when she is tucked between the covers.”