Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor

by Rue Allyn

  “What would you have first, meat and bread, cheese, or fruit?”

  He ignored the question and new resonance in his voice alerted her to something changed.

  “Will you marry for love, Nightingale?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Do you mean to say you love this John Lout person?”

  She giggled. “John Lout? No.” Suddenly, realizing what his question revealed, she sobered. “What do you know of John?” Before he could answer, she added, “Furthermore, what business is he of yours?”

  “Bear mentioned your meeting with Lout and his men. Bear enlightened me regarding your betrothal. I was disappointed you had not mentioned your lover.” He paused, but she offered no explanation, nor did she correct his assumption. “Of course, such commitments can change when they involve someone of your tender years. I was merely curious.”

  “And you, Your Grace? Will you marry for love or will your marriage suit your sovereign?”

  “Victoria is my sovereign. If you are correct and she married for love, I doubt she would demand less of those in her court.”

  “Would you like some grapes?”

  “No.” His expression turned serious. “What I would like is to see your face, Nightingale.”

  She lifted her chin, posing, casting her eyes heavenward. “Look all you like.”

  “While I cannot see you at this moment in the usual way, perhaps you would allow me to view your countenance by touch.”

  She lowered her chin, drew one breath, then a second before exhaling. She studied his face, looking for unwelcome intentions. She saw none. He appeared to be sincere and to harbor no evil design. She swallowed hard, the effort clearly audible in the quiet afternoon.

  “All right.” Her voice had a whispery quality that surprised her as much as her nervousness appeared to please him.

  Devlin rolled onto his knees, gained his balance and reached for her. He advanced both hands at shoulder level, wiggling his fingers, inviting her to come within his grasp, then he ceased his suggestive motion and waited.

  Rising onto her knees, mirroring his position, she bumped forward, a difficult maneuver as her riding habit tightened about her legs. Adjusting it, she inched closer.

  When he made no attempt to grab at her, she took his right hand in both of hers and guided his fingers to her face. He raised his left hand with his right as he began, benignly enough, surveying her hairline, measuring with his thumbs to her brows.

  “Some say a high forehead is a sign of intelligence,” he murmured as he brushed his fingertips down her temples.

  “An old wives’ tale, Your Grace.” Her voice sounded unsteady.

  “Devlin,” he corrected.

  “Devlin,” she repeated, her volume less than his.

  “In your case, the old wives are correct. You are quick-witted, Nightingale.”

  His fingers followed her brows and traced her nose, making her extremely self-conscious. She twitched.

  “Your nose is not nearly as long or as angular as I imagined. It is rather pert. Are you a comely girl, Jessica Blair?”

  She felt the heat sweep upward and warm her face.

  Feeling the heat, he smiled. “Ah, I’ve made you blush.”

  “Perhaps we should eat.”

  “But, my dear, I have not concluded my survey. Ah, I see that you have wide, round eyes. Tell me again their color?”

  She recalled quite distinctly his mother telling him her eyes were hazel. Apparently he had not considered it information worth remembering. Her shoulders rose and fell with disappointment.

  “No, Your Grace.” She watched his expression closely. “They are rather drab — sometimes green, sometimes brown, sometimes a soulful gray, I’m told.”

  He didn’t seem disappointed. “They change with the light or the color of your clothing?”

  “Yes.”

  He bent forward a little, his face closing on hers as he reached for her hair. She turned her head and shrank back to remove the country maid’s kerchief securing her coiling tresses. When she again put herself within his reach, he wound both hands into the long, unbound abundance.

  “Did the milliner not design one of those ridiculous little hats to match your riding habit, Nightingale?”

  “She did. Yes. A delightful bit of fluff, and very costly.”

  He slanted a disapproving look. “You did not choose to wear it for me?”

  “I do not do it justice, and you are not able to appreciate it yet anyway.”

  “Ah.” He smiled and nodded. “I see. What color is this wild tumble of hair?”

  Before she could answer, he took a fistful to his nose and inhaled. “You smell of the out-of-doors, Jessica, of the woods and the flowers and the earth. The scent of you inspires me.”

  “Inspires you to what, Your Grace?”

  He flinched at the title, but did not correct her as his fingers resumed exploring. “The color?” he repeated.

  “Disappointingly, it is not as fair as new-mown hay, like yours or the dowager’s. It is brown.”

  “Your cheeks feel warm, Nightingale.” His playful expression turned to concern. “Are you ill, darling? Do you have a fever?”

  He started to rise, but she put a staying hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to hold their positions kneeling before one another. She was again aware of the difference in their sizes as he loomed above her. She might be feverish, but the heat had nothing to do with her health.

  “No, Your Grace, I am quite well. It must be the sun warming my face. Or the wind. Or the exertion of the ride. I am fine. Are you finished?”

  He appeared to doubt her explanation, then the confusion left his face.

  “No, dear heart. I find this game fascinating. I want to continue familiarizing myself with your features. Besides, I do not yet have an appetite for food. Have you?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Is there some other activity you would prefer?”

  She gazed toward the stream. “We could fish, if you like.”

  He grinned broadly, as if her flimsy attempt to distract him had been just that — flimsy.

  “First I would like to finish my study.” He held his fingers poised, waiting for her to place her face again within his reach. “I have established that you have large, inquisitive eyes, which are green, gray or brown, depending on your garb, the weather, and your mood, and that you have a profusion of dark, coiling hair. Are you sometimes mistaken for a gypsy, Jessica?”

  The word ‘gypsy’ raised bad memories. Jessica barked a sharp denial. “I am not.” The words emerged clipped in a tone higher than her usual speaking voice.

  Devlin caught her face between his hands, steadying her. “You have had an unpleasant experience with gypsies?”

  She twisted, an effort to free her face, but he held her fast.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “No, Your Grace, it was a long time ago.”

  Devlin gave a strand of her hair a playful tug. “Was your problem with a man?”

  “Yes.” Her brusque retort extinguished his teasing grin.

  “Did he steal you?”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes.”

  The duke’s smile vanished. “Did he … ?”

  “No, he did not violate me, although that was clearly his intention.”

  Devlin’s jaws flexed and his expression became granite hard and unyielding. “How did you avoid the assault?”

  “John Lout, the man to whom I am betrothed, rescued me. John followed when he heard of my capture. He is a hunter and the best tracker around Welter. He arrived in time to save me.”

  Devlin lowered his hands to his sides and silence hung thick between them. “I wish I had been there, little bird. I wish I had ridden to your rescue and earned the devotion you feel for John Lout. I have been curious about your reason for promising yourself to him.”

  They remained like that, kneeling face to face, neither touching the other, for se
veral moments before Devlin placed his hands again on either side of her head and ran his thumbs over her lips.

  Closing her eyes, giving herself over to his gentle study, Jessica drew a deep breath.

  “You have a broad, generous mouth,” he murmured, “though it’s often given to an excess of words.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, so I’ve been told.”

  “A pointed chin, perhaps too short to make you bewitching. More cherubic, I imagine.”

  “Yes.” She continued with her eyes closed, caught in the hypnotic cadence of his voice, the smooth appraisal of his fingers that followed the rims of her ears and down her lobes. Gently, he stroked the nape of her neck, before following the line of her shoulders out and back to her throat. As he drew his fingers to her collarbones and started to explore lower, she jerked away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am looking at you.”

  “You’ve seen enough.”

  “Not so, my little gosling. If I had my eyesight, I would have looked you over far more thoroughly than this.”

  “I would never have given permission for that, Your Grace.”

  He seemed oddly sober. “The eyes look where they will, with or without leave. Furthermore, I thought we agreed you would call me by my familiar name when we are alone.”

  “I think perhaps we should continue observing the amenities.” She eased back to sit on her feet, “Particularly when we are alone. Perhaps, too, we should not ride out unchaperoned.”

  His voice was low and taunting. “Do you want me to kiss you, Nightingale?”

  His confidence put her off. Her answer was brusque. “No, I do not want you to kiss me.”

  “You would tempt any man, darling. Your innocence, your candor. I have known you were a lovely young woman from the first night.”

  “You did not suppose anything of the kind. You thought me a child.”

  “I have some experience with women, Nightingale. I realized immediately that you were an attractive young woman.”

  “Then why have you pretended to think me a moppet?”

  “Prudence at first. I felt vulnerable and thought you might be in league with the thieves who attacked me.”

  “Later, then? At Gull’s Way, when you practically ordered me into your bed.”

  He flashed a roguish grin. “I wanted to see if you would accommodate a man of wealth. I wanted to know how far you had gone with other men.”

  “Once you realized my … lack of experience? Why did you not admit then that you knew I was a woman grown?”

  “I didn’t want to frighten you away.”

  Of course. He enjoyed toying with her, did not want to make her bolt while he had a use for her.

  She yearned at that moment, to prove her womanhood; to throw her arms around his neck and press her lips to his, to rouse his manly instincts, which seemed to lurk close to the surface in most men. She could entice him, encourage him to roll up on top of her and do those things that occur in private between men and women, things she had heard of and read about.

  Her behavior at this moment might dictate a direction for the rest of her life. She did not intend to be deflowered by any man, noble or not, and left by the wayside. Not like Martha. … His hands shifted to her waist and he grinned as he tugged, pulling her forward and off balance. Rolling onto his back, he carried her with him.

  Sprawled on top of him, Jessica braced her hands on his chest and pushed herself away, but he held fast. They struggled before he caught her face in his hands and brought her nose to his nose. Chuckling, he tilted her face down and planted his lips firmly against her forehead.

  “You are my own angel, Nightingale, sent to me from God in Heaven. I would not defile you, had you the allure of Salome and Bathsheba combined. Although I am totally enamored, you are safe from my base appetites and shall remain so.”

  He rolled, pushing her off to the side, away from the food.

  “You might have squashed our lunch,” she admonished, clambering to her feet and straightening her clothes.

  “I would never have done such a vile thing. Our food is on my left, well away from our tussling. I knew exactly where it was. I may not be able to see, my darling little twit, but there is nothing wrong with my sense of smell.”

  Under the circumstances at that moment, Jessica was not certain whether she preferred his considering her a temptress or a twit.

  Chapter Nine

  The dowager duchess regarded them curiously as Devlin and Jessica came through the front door of the house. Devlin swung the basket containing the remains of their lunch. He appeared windblown and disheveled, but moved with a light, jocular step.

  With a quick greeting, Jessica dashed up the stairway.

  Lady Anne couldn’t be sure, but their friendship was developing precisely as she had hoped it might — her primary concern that it not progress more quickly than was seemly.

  “Devlin, I want to go to London.” Receiving no adverse reaction, she continued. “I want Jessica to accompany me.”

  A pall settled over the foyer and its two occupants. The dowager thought Devlin’s frown an inappropriate response to her happy announcement.

  “No.” His curt tone surprised her. “Jessica’s trip to Welter and our outing today were enough to curb her appetite for travel. She’s had quite enough gadding about.”

  “At her age,” the dowager said, nullifying his objection with a wave, “Jessica has energy to sustain her on a dozen jaunts like those.”

  He squared his shoulders. “She stays with me.”

  “Here? Without a chaperone? That would not do. Today is an example. It is not proper for the two of you to go traipsing off alone, even here at Gull’s Way.”

  He puffed up. “I will have you know, madam, that I was there to chaperone, ready to protect our young lady from any threat, man or beast. I consider seeing after her my solemn duty.”

  She wondered if he were trying to misdirect her or if his statement indicated an effort to mislead himself.

  “I see. Well, you’ve explained away my concern in that regard.” She wanted to be diplomatic. “In that case, I suppose Jessica and I shall have to allow you to accompany us to town.”

  “Hmm.” He frowned. “I don’t recall your ever requiring my protection on your trips to town before, Madam. Why do you consider it important for Jessica to go to London?”

  Her hauteur waned. “Oh, Devlin, first because she has never been to town. Oh, darling, it would be such fun. Also, of course, she needs proper clothes. Although she is delightful in the frocks made with the limited resources available locally, she is going to require fashionable attire, the latest styles from a London modiste. Something befitting her rank.”

  “Precisely what rank is that?” He sneered.

  Disregarding his question and his disdain, Lady Anne pursued her own thoughts. “I want to introduce her to people in town, smooth the way for her entrance into society.”

  “Madam,” Devlin said, raising his voice, “might I remind you that Jessica has no rank for her clothes to aspire to.”

  “She is too lovely, Devlin, too winsome, her mind too quick, to remain buried in Welter. Also, I might point out that, just as you yourself have said, she is not yours to control. She is neither your child nor your ward nor any relation to you whatsoever, so please do not dictate to me how she should be outfitted or introduced.”

  As Devlin shook his head and frowned, the dowager studied her son and contemplated not what he had said, but the significance of what he had not said. While he artlessly granted that Jessica was a nobody, he did not suggest she continue to live in anonymity. With that in mind, Lady Anne thought she needed to tread carefully on his feelings and proceed tactfully.

  “Of course, darling,” she cooed, smoothing the feathers she had ruffled, “to be accepted, she must be seen with you.”

  Having changed her clothes, Jessica came back down the stairs. Lady Anne beckoned her to join them, preceding them into Devlin’s study as s
he continued talking.

  “As an added benefit, Devlin, if you travel with us, we shall have an opportunity to consult with Dr. Connor, the ophthalmologist, about your eyes.” She addressed herself to Jessica, as if signaling for her assistance. “Ophthalmology, my dear, is a brand new area of medicine specializing in diseases of and injuries to the eyes.”

  Jessica touched Devlin’s arm. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Devlin. Your mother wants to go to London and it would be an opportunity for you to see this specialist.”

  “You are my eyes, Nightingale. If I go, you must go also.”

  Jessica hesitated. She had not been out of her own river valley until she brought Devlin home. Likely, she would never have another chance to visit London, certainly, never an opportunity to travel there in luxury.

  “I would be happy to accompany you and your mother to London.”

  Devlin pursed his lips and appeared to consider the plan that had the endorsement of the two most influential women in his life. Finally, he raised and lowered his shoulders and gave what appeared rather an indifferent nod.

  “All right. We shall all go to London.”

  “When?” his mother pressed.

  “Could we allow time to prepare, madam?”

  “Of course. Let us plan to leave on Tuesday next.”

  • • •

  After a good night’s sleep, a result, he supposed, of the ride in the fresh air and flexing wills against an able, and thoroughly delightful, opponent, Devlin rose with a new sense of well-being. His could see the forms of furnishings and even Henry’s narrow physique as the valet moved about the room.

  At the breakfast table, light drew the duke’s eyes to the chandelier. He could see the candles flickering. He shifted his gaze to Jessica as she entered the room. He was eager to see the waif, the female whose importance increased daily, not only to his household, but to him personally.

  As he attempted to focus on her, however, his erratic sight failed and he was again plunged into darkness.

  Still, brief glimpses of light several mornings in a row indicated Jessica’s original optimism might be justified. His sight seemed to be returning, if only in annoying, fleeting snippets. He resolved again to keep the incidents secret until he could be more certain they signaled recovery. He did not want to arouse the false hope in others that was taking root in him. Also, he did not look forward to females fussing or any other repercussions.