Prudence strained to hear the harsh, weak quality of his whispered words. Another sheen of dratted tears blurred his cherished visage. “You heard me.”
Her husband eyed her through thick, heavy lashes as though it were a physical chore to keep his eyes open. Then she blinked rapidly. “I should call for the doctor.” She swung her legs over the bed but he held up a frail, staying hand.
“I just want you now, Prudence. There will be time enough for a sawbones later.”
Prudence spoke so quickly her words spilled over one another. “But I must tell the doctor. And Maxwell is waiting outside. And my mother and—”
“Will you please, this once, do as I ask?” The faint thread of amusement in those whispered words filled her with elation and the sudden assurance—he was going to be all right.
She climbed back into the bed beside him, burrowing close to his side. With tentative fingers, she caressed the knot at the back portion of his head. He winced. “I am sorry,” she confessed. “Do you remember what happened?”
“I do.”
“Good.” Prudence pursed her lips. “Christian Villiers, you are never, ever to do anything so foolhardy as that again.”
“As foolhardy as save you?” The gold flecks in his brown eyes glimmered with amusement. “Isn’t that what heroes do? They save their lady love?”
Oh, the lout was finding amusement in all of this. If she didn’t want to kiss him for living, she would gladly throttle him for thinking there was anything at all humorous about leaving her alone in this miserable, cold world. Then his words registered. She blinked slowly. “You love me?”
The mirth died in his eyes. “How can you not know that? I love you,” he said, breathing the words into existence for the first time and joy exploded in her heart in a blast of heat and feeling. “I loved you from the moment I saw you tipping your head in Lady Drake’s ballroom in time to the music.” He brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “Do you think I could have ever gone on living if I had not saved you? I may as well have died in your stead anyway, Prudence. A world in which you are not in it, is a world I do not want to be in.”
The dratted tears fell freely once more. He captured them with his thumb, brushing back the salty drops. “You have lived your life thinking you are not a hero and striving to prove your worth, but don’t you see? I don’t want a hero for the pages. I want a husband who is real and who is flawed. For that is a real hero, Christian. Not the flawless, fictional figures who you think exist among us or on those battlefields you fought upon.”
The muscles of his throat worked and he slid his large hand around her neck and cupped the sensitive skin of her nape. “Oh, all these years I have pasted on a smile for the world, hating who I am, and what I did or did not do. It took you to show me that it is all right for me to be happy.”
Prudence leaned close and brushed her lips against his in a soft, fleeting kiss. “And are you happy?”
“How could I not be?” A grin played on his lips. “How when I am and have always been so hopelessly captivated by you?”
Epilogue
Final Lesson
All you need is love…
Three months later
From where Prudence sat beside him, Christian took in his wife as she intently worked over the sketchbook on her lap. Occasionally, she would pause, angle the book slightly, and then resume her efforts. Her fingers flew over the page as she sketched…He squinted and leaned closer.
Feeling his gaze on her, she shot her head up.
“A…a…?” God help him, he didn’t have a deuced clue.
She turned the book around for his attention.
It might or might not have been a rose bush. “I do not have my spectacles, love.”
Prudence angled around and reached for the wire frames resting on the mahogany side table. “Here,” she said, thrusting them under his nose.
With a sigh, he placed them on and attended his evaluation of her latest… “It is a tree.”
She gave a vigorous nod.
“Your elm.” Except the jutting branches did not display the same limb-like stretch of the pages he long remembered.
“Decidedly not,” she muttered. “I detest that tree.”
He tweaked her nose. “I thought you loved that tree.”
“That was before it tried to kill my husband.” She tilted her head back to receive his kiss. “I love you and now hate that tree. It was a very good day when it was decided they would take it down.”
Following the shocking tale of the Marquess of St. Cyr’s near death under the deadened branches, there was an outcry to see that great elm removed. By all, except one. He furrowed his brow.
His perceptive wife narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”
Christian coughed into his hand and turned over the sketchpad. “It was not truly dead.”
Not looking at the book, she tossed it behind her where it slid off the edge of the table and landed on the floor with a loud thump. “What did you do, Christian Villiers?”
Since he’d concocted his own scheme, he’d not truly thought she might protest. Of course he knew she spoke often of turning that great elm into kindling…but it was their elm.
“Christian?” she demanded.
He tugged at his cravat. “But it was not really dead. There were those leaves at the top branch—”
“Do you mean above the limb which nearly killed you?”
He nodded. “The same.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Oh, er, right. Well, as I said, it was not dead and so I managed to see that it remain standing with the promise to remove those dead branches.”
She stared at him, frozen, passing her gaze over his face and he braced for her explosive annoyance, but then she sighed. “Oh, Christian.” Prudence came up on her knees and took his face between her palms.
“I was quite content to celebrate its fiery demise alongside you, if that would make you happy, but then I thought of everything that happened under that tree. Patrina met her husband over by that very spot and he arranged for them to be married there.” Emotion filled her expressive, blue eyes. “It saw our chance meeting in Hyde Park.” He paused giving her a probing look. “They were not chance meetings, were they?”
“They were a little bit chance,” she said, a twinkle lighting her eyes.
“And that tree saw us wed.” He coughed into his hand. “Even if it was not the most romantic of wedding ceremonies.”
“It was the most romantic of all wedding ceremonies everywhere,” she countered.
Odd, the funny things love did to a person’s words and memories that his wife should forget the deuced foolish wager.
“All except the part about the wager,” she added as an afterthought.
“Er, right. Yes. As I was saying, I was happy to see the tree destroyed if it would see you happy, but then I realized it was something more.”
“Do you mean more than the tree that tried to kill you?” she asked with a droll edge infused into her words.
He nodded solemnly. “Indeed. I realized somewhere along the way it ceased to be your elm and became ours.” Christian ran his gaze over her face. Her lower lip trembled and dewy moisture misted her eyes. Ah, God, how he loved her. “But if you would rather I arrange to have it taken down…”
Her glare cut across his promise. “You are to do no such thing. That tree is ours. And there is so much more for it to see.”
“Is there?” he whispered, taking her in his arms with him as he lay down. He adjusted her slender form atop his frame and held her close. “And what will it see next?”
A slow, wide smile split his wife’s bow-shaped lips and she reached for his hand and drew it to her belly. His heart started at the gleam in her eyes. “Why, it needs to see our babe.”
“You are—?”
Prudence snuggled against his chest. “Yes, I am expecting.”
He stilled as emotion slammed into him. For years, he’d been convinced of his own lack of worth. He’d
seen his mistakes as failings. Until Prudence had shown him forgiveness within himself.
She nudged him in the side. “Well, usually this is where a father-to-be says how elated he is and plans the names of his future son and heir.”
“I am going to be a father?” he blurted.
His wife pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “I thought I’d been rather clear, but yes. You are to be a father, in approximately six months’ time, according to the doctor.” He would be a father. And she would be the mother of his babe. He imagined a world filled with precocious little girls who loved to sketch and dance every set.
Some of the teasing light went out of her eyes, replaced with hesitation. “You are happy, are you not, Christian?”
A slow, triumphant smile turned his lips. “I am happy.” How could he not be? He’d been well and truly captivated by his lady’s charms.
The End
Rescued by a Lady’s Love
By
Christi Caldwell
Dedication
When my son Rory was born, we acquired more specialists and therapists than we knew existed, for him. Too many doctors and therapists entered our lives with low-expectations and grim prospects for Rory’s future. Through the fear and uncertainty, my husband and I rejected all those professionals. And then we found Dr. Carlson.
Dr. Carlson, for all you were in those earliest days, and for everything you are now—thank you. This story is for you.
Author’s Note
When I was a graduate student at the University of Connecticut, I had the privilege and honor of interviewing men who’d served in World War II. These veterans, true heroes in every sense of the word were, in some cases, more than fifty-years removed from their battlefield experience. And yet, sitting in their homes and discussing the war with them, I came to find that those moments, for some were as fresh now as they had been years earlier. It forever shaped them.
When I met Derek Winters, the Duke of Blackthorne in “Captivated By a Lady’s Charm”, on the surface, I saw a snarling, angry man. And if you look at him on the surface that is all you’ll see. Which is why I was so intrigued by him. I wanted to peel back the layers, and when I did, I came to a man who bore the physical and emotional scars of his experience.
The Duke of Blackthorne and his heroine, Miss Lily Benedict, are two equally broken individuals whose lives intersect. Their story is one of struggle and darkness… but ultimately, I believe from some of our darkest moments, comes light.
I hope you enjoy Derek and Lily’s story.
Prologue
London, England
16 November 1813
Miss Lilliana Bennett was terrified.
She was also hungry.
Not, necessarily in that order.
Her stomach rumbled loudly in the nighttime quiet, muffled a moment later by a passing carriage.
Standing on the darkened, cobbled streets across from the lavish Mayfair townhouse awash in candlelight, huddling in her cloak, Lily really thought she preferred hunger to the terror that had gripped her the whole cramped mail coach ride from Carlisle.
For the pain of a nearly empty belly prevented her from thinking of the terror of being turned out by her parents; the two people who were supposed to love her above anything. On her sixteenth birthday, no less.
Terror licked at her senses, ultimately defeating the gnawing need for food. Just as it had twisted at her insides since she’d made the long ride by mail coach, alone, for the first time in her life. It had been with her through the leers and improper glances cast her way by the male passenger seated on the opposite bench.
And standing here, outside the London home of George Winters, the Duke of Blackthorne, it was even stronger now—fear. To calm the rapid pounding of her heart, she pressed her eyes closed a moment and drew forth the memory of his easy smile and gentle teasing.
I will marry you, Lily Bennett…
His pledge had not come after they’d been discovered by the parish busybody, Mrs. Rutgers, but before. Fury surged through her veins. That nasty gossip. Foolishly, Lily had clung to the hope that the woman would say nothing, if for no other reason than the Duke of Blackthorne’s identity. He’d been gone not even a day, on his way to London for business, when Mrs. Rutgers proceeded to share every sordid detail with Lily’s parents…and any villager who would listen.
Lily hugged her valise closer. When they were married, none of it would matter. If he intended to do right by you, why has he been gone more than two months…?
As soon as the poisonous thought slid in, she thrust aside the faithless misgivings.
It was not his fault.
Just as her parents had been powerless when the ruthless Duchess of Blackthorne had swept into their modest cottage, brandishing Lily’s notes to the young duke, and threatened Papa’s livelihood if he did not “deal with his daughter”. Mayhap Papa would have braved the whispers of the villagers, but he’d never brave the wrath of the venerable, revered Duchess of Blackthorne.
Lily curled her fingers around the handle of her bright floral valise. The wood handle bit into her hand and she welcomed the slight sting of discomfort. It prevented her from thinking of the haste with which Papa tossed her upon a mail coach and scuttled her off like yesterday’s refuse.
Wind howled mournfully through the darkened streets and she huddled deeper into her cloak.
Stop it! It was wrong to doubt George’s faithfulness because of the seeds of misgivings planted by their families. She steadied her trembling jaw. A man with the face of an angel, who’d given her gentle words of love, could never be guilty of treachery. No, she’d not allow them to cast doubt on what they shared. Just as Lily would be damned if she allowed his coldhearted mother to keep them apart.
Dukes do not wed the daughters of vicars, and they certainly do not marry whores who spread their legs without the benefit of marriage…
Her mind echoed with the force of her father’s booming voice. The muscles of her stomach knotted all the harder. He would marry her. For he’d promised it, along with his heart. He just did not know the day she’d given herself to him on the edge of the forest, they’d been observed in the most humiliating of ways.
Squaring her shoulders, Lily took a deep breath.
…And then it began to rain. She blinked several times, slowly, and then drawing her gaze away from George’s home, she looked up at the overcast London sky. Another drop, like a tear from heaven hit her eye, momentarily blurring her vision.
Thunder rumbled, in an ominous display from the heavens above.
“He loves me,” she whispered, as the wind whipped her modest, brown cloak about her ankles.
For the threats of his mother, the regal Duchess of Blackthorne, and her own parents’ volatile fury and seething disapproval, Lily knew he would not betray her. She’d given him her virtue and heart, and he’d pledged his name and love in return.
Some of the fear that had held her breathless for the nearly week-long journey abated. He would marry her. Because he loved her and because that is what he’d pledged. And when a gentleman gave his word, he honored it.
As Lily stepped out into the street, the skies opened in a deluge, momentarily holding her feet frozen there. Rain pelted her cheeks. Another gust of wind blew her bonnet back and yanked her curls free of her braid. Water soaked the strands and ran in rivulets down her cheeks.
Just then, lightning cracked across the night sky in an impressive display of nature’s fury and snapped her into movement.
Valise in hand, Lily sprinted across the cobbled roads. Her booted feet churned up water and the deep puddles soaked her leathered soles. Her teeth chattering loud enough to be heard over the roar of the storm, she dashed up the steps and, dropping the sack bearing her only possessions in the world, she knocked on the door.
Another rumble of thunder drowned out all hint of sound and wind continued to whip the wet fabric of her cloak. A chill ran through her. He will marry me. She pounded hard on the black w
ood panel. And her mother and father, and his mother with all their vile, ugly beliefs about love and rank above that beautiful emotion would be proven wrong. She raised her hand to again knock, when the door was suddenly thrown open.
A wave of warmth spilled out of the brightly lit foyer, momentarily blinding her with the glow cast by the candles.
She grabbed her valise…and then registered the flash of loathing in the old butler’s eyes. “Beggars around back,” the man said in frosty tones and made to close the door in her face.
Lily shot a hand out with such force, the wood panel knocked backwards. “I-I am no b-beggar.” The blend of fear and cold caused her teeth to knock with such ferocity her jaw ached.
The elegantly attired butler raked a stare over her rain-dampened frame. His lip peeled back in a sneer. “I don’t care who you are. Your kind is not wanted here.”
My kind. Fury rattled around, dulling the now distant hunger and fear.
Anticipating his movements, she jammed her hip in the doorway, just as he made to close it in her face again. She winced as pain radiated from the point of contact and shot down her leg. “I-I am here to see the duke.” She prided herself on that near steady deliverance. After all, it was nigh impossible to maintain one’s pride and dignity when soaked like the kitchen cat tossed in the bath water.
The butler gave another shove. “Go.”
Lily pushed back. “I must s-see him.” She’d faced the condemnation of George’s mother, her mother, and father. She would be damned ten times on Sunday if she let this stranger turn her out.
“I said leave.” He pushed once more.
With a burst of determined energy, she heaved her shoulder into the door with such vigor the old, reed thin man stumbled back and landed on his bottom. Propelled forward by the force of her own movement, she reeled forward, stumbling hard onto her knees. She grunted as her valise sailed forward, skidding across the smooth, Italian marble floor. Dazed by the force of her fall and the blinding perfection of the white floor, Lily blinked.
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