Love With an Improper Stranger

by Barbara Devlin

  “Forgive me, Miss Teversham, but I must listen to your lungs.” To her surprise, Dr. Handley leaned over and set his ear to her chest. “Inhale a deep breath.” She obeyed, and he nodded once. “Excellent. Now, exhale and repeat.” After a few repetitions, the physician said, “Cough. Again.” Then he pressed his palm to her forehead. “No fever.”

  “What is your prognosis?” Blake inquired, as he hugged her about the waist.

  “She will make a full recovery.” Dr. Handley smiled. “And I should like to claim a dance at your wedding reception. But until then, I prescribe plenty of rest, fluids, primarily water and hot tea, but no wine, and we shall slowly introduce solid foods to her diet, beginning with breakfast.” The physician returned some items to his black leather bag, donned his coat, and adjusted the lapels. “I shall take my leave, but I will return to check her condition tomorrow. And I will order some dry toast and a bowl of porridge, for Miss Teversham, on my way out. If she keeps it down, she may graduate to heavier fare, as she wishes.”

  “Phineas, I owe you a debt I can never repay.” Blake tightened his grip, and she reclined against him. “I would show you out, but—”

  “Why should anything change, given your fiancée is conscious and improved?” The doctor chuckled. “However, I will summon Sir Ross, as he has been here, every day, seeking an audience, but do not let him overtire Miss Teversham.”

  As soon as the door shut, and they were alone, Blake slid his hand down, cupped her bottom, lifted her to his lap, and claimed her mouth in a searing kiss. The soothing warmth that marked their exchange seeped into her veins, spread through her muscles, and calmed her frazzled nerves. In a steady stream, the memories of the distant past faded, except for one lingering question.

  “Blake, you distract me.” She giggled, as he gave his ardent attention to the curve of her neck, yet her thoughts remained focused on the circumstances of her liberation, which eluded her efforts to recall. “And I have yet to see Lucy. How is she?”

  All voluptuous activity ceased.

  “Lenore, do you believe in me?” Blake shifted her in his hold, tipped her chin, and brought her gaze to his. “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course.” She framed his face. “I knew you would come for us. I never gave up hope, and you did not disappoint me.”

  “You have no idea how relieved I was when young Jasper appeared on my doorstep, with your betrothal ring, because until that moment, we had no clue where your supposed uncle took you. Given the real Samuel Teversham showed up the same afternoon, I knew not what to think.” Blake drew the thick counterpane over her legs and catalogued the resources employed in the effort to locate her and Lucilla. “Your father’s solicitor audited the accounts, and we learned there are no arrears, so we quashed that rumor. And we suspect the villain’s motive is money, but our aggressive tack may have clued the blackguard, which is why he moved you and Lucy. By the time we arrived at the inn, you were gone, but the proprietor overheard your captor, and an as yet unidentified accomplice, mention Twickenham and a wife sale to earn quick cash.” He toyed with a lock of her hair. “When we journeyed to Twickenham, the wife sale was prominently advertised, and Sir Ross sent his agents to the local pub to gather information. Our primary strategy was to stop the dubious activity, but the magistrate refused our petition, so we altered our scheme and allowed the event to occur, with Sir Ross acting as a bidder.”

  “I remember bits and pieces of my captivity.” No matter how hard she tried, Lenore could not order the fragments of her thoughts. “So how fares Lucy? She is blessed with a stronger constitution, which I have always envied, so I suppose she made a faster recovery, and I shall never hear the end of it.”

  “Sweetheart, you must be strong, as your sister will need you.” With a mighty frown, he sighed and caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Lucy was not with you. In fact, she was nowhere to be found, when Sir Ross and his men canvassed the village.”

  For interminable seconds, Lenore just stared at her fiancé, as he continued to speak. Yet she heard naught but the singular phrase: Lucy was not with you, and it came to her in a taunting refrain that echoed in her ears. And then there was pain.

  For an elder sister without her younger sibling, two matched souls so similar as to render their fates inextricably intertwined, there existed a chasmal emptiness so deep, so profound that it defied all efforts to contain it. As an insidious infection, the hollow torment blossomed and spread, skulked and prowled, investing those in its throes with an abiding loss so acute that it threatened its victim’s very existence. For Lenore, the intense vacancy nested in her belly, seizing her spine in a relentless clutch, and she screamed. In a long, piercing audial tapestry of gut-wrenching misery, she laid bare her injury and gave vent to her sorrow.

  “Please, darling, you must remain calm, as you have endured a terrible shock.” As she collapsed against him, Blake never yielded. Rather, he was her rock, unfailing and reliable as the rising sun. “We will never stop searching, until we find her. I swear on our firstborn, sweetheart. We will get her back.”

  “What will I do without Lucy?” Lenore shivered and sobbed. “Who will I talk to, as I have never been without her?”

  “Have faith in me.” One by one, he kissed away her tears. “I will spare no expense, and I vow I will bring her home to you.”

  After permitting her a good cry, her knight fed her, coaxing her with tender expressions of encouragement, until she ate the last morsel, and then she soaked in a hot bath, with the help of Her Grace and Dorothea. Some time in the late afternoon, Sir Ross arrived, along with Uncle Samuel, and she cooperated with the interrogation, giving a detailed description of the criminal, to the best of her recollection.

  “My dear, I am so relieved to see you.” Uncle Samuel sniffed and wiped his nose. “But I am distressed that Lucilla is still missing.”

  “I find it interesting that our fraud knew some intimate particulars regarding General Teversham’s affairs, while others our offender knew not.” The agent for the Crown rubbed his chin. “While I hate to consider it, history suggests I cannot ignore the obvious. Our blackguard may be a lobster.”

  “Oh, no.” Lenore pondered the possibility of such a betrayal and shuddered. “Do you suspect one of Papa’s own men committed these heinous deeds?”

  “I suspect anyone and everyone,” Sir Ross replied. “It would be the height of neglect to do otherwise, in my occupation.”

  “I do not wish to contemplate such an untrustworthy character in the uniform.” Uncle Samuel grimaced. “If so, he is a disgrace to the regimentals my brother wore with pride.”

  “So what is the plan?” Blake sat beside her, on the bed. “Where do we go from here?”

  “We tracked the miscreant to Sunbury, and I believe we are close to recovering the younger Miss Teversham.” Then the leader of the Counterintelligence Corps returned his pad and pencil to his coat pocket. “However, there are developments on the Continent, which may hamper my involvement in the investigation.” Sir Ross glanced at Blake. “And Your Grace may be summoned into action, without warning.”

  “What?” A sense of panic trembled through Lenore. “Is Lucy to be abandoned? Will no one continue the search, as I do not like the way that man looked at her, and she is in danger?”

  “I have resources committed to your sister’s case, and that will not change, as her future-in-law is a distinguished member of the peerage.” A kind man, Sir Ross winked. “And her elder sibling is to be a duchess. Felicitations, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” In that instant, Lenore yawned.

  “That is enough, for now, as my bride-to-be is tired.” Blake stood. “Darling, you must rest, and I will send Dorothea to watch over you, as I am in dire need of a bath and a shave.”

  “Pray, do not bother, as I wish to be alone.” At his expression of unmistakable skepticism, she blew him a kiss. “Please, Blake. I need a moment of peace.”

  “You will ring the bell if you require anything.” He arc
hed a brow. “And I will guard you as soon as I am groomed and dressed.”

  “That is fine, as I am going nowhere.” Lenore relaxed amid the small mountain of comfy pillows and studied the damask pattern on the canopy. Swaddled in the quiet solitude of her chamber, she thought of Lucy. Again, despair beckoned, and Lenore wept. At long last, she drifted in and out of a dream state, jarred from slumber by a mosaic of nightmarish imagery. For hours she languished in her own private hell, until she could withstand no more.

  When Lenore lurched upright, bolstered with new resolve, she noticed the drapes had been drawn, and the room was dark save the light from a roaring blaze in the hearth. “Blake, are you there?”

  The ticking of the mantel clock kept time with the rhythm of her heartbeat, as she flung back the covers, eased her legs over the edge of the mattress, shrugged into her robe, and stood. The plush carpet muffled the steps of her bare feet, as she strolled into the sitting room. So much had happened in so little time, and her stream of visitors kept her from making her position known to a particular duke.

  During her captivity, she realized she loved Blake. But society frowned on such attachments born of emotion, so she would not declare herself and embarrass him. Instead, she would tell him, in her own way, so he might understand the force of her devotion and how much he meant to her.

  In the hall, the flaxen glow of wall sconces cut a path through the darkness, and she strode with purpose to the new double-door entry. Lifting her hand, she poised to knock but hesitated. Instead, she turned the knob and peered into the renovated ducal apartment.

  The outer chamber featured the soft blue silk and white taffeta, with gold and lavender accents she chose before she was taken from Elliott House. The wall coverings of deep sapphire mixed with cherry wood trim aligned her tastes with Blake’s, and the furnishings extended the theme, with a single exception. A cushioned, two-seater bench perched near the sofa, and she did not remember ordering it. As she rotated, the portal to the inner sanctum flung open.

  “Lenore?” Wearing black satin trousers and a matching robe, with his hair still wet from a bath, Blake neared. “What are you doing here? If you wanted my company, you had only to ring and summon me.”

  “And you would have answered the call.” She smiled and smoothed a wayward lock.

  “Have I not always?” Settling his palms to her hips, he rubbed his nose to hers. “What do you think of our combined suite?”

  “It is magnificent.” Yet she was prepared to surrender everything, to make him happy. “I wish to speak with you, and I would have your promise not to interrupt.”

  “I am your most humble servant, sweetheart.” Arching a brow, he folded his arms. “What troubles you?”

  “It is no trouble—well, not really.” Now that she had his attention, her confidence waned, but recent events convinced her there were no guaranteed tomorrows, so she would make her stand. “From the moment we met, you have done everything to preserve my safety.” When he appeared on the verge of an interruption, she forestalled him with a vigorous shake of her head. “Remember your promise, as I must make my position clear.” Swallowing hard, she knelt before him. “While I may never comprehend how or why you decided I am worthy of your affections and the occupation of your mate, I would have you know the depth of my regard for you, and if you still want to marry me, I will honor our agreement.” Lenore inhaled a calming breath. “However, should you prefer a more flexible arrangement, one which grants physical benefits without the bonds associated with marital vows, then I shall be whatever you want me to be, and I will be grateful for your generosity, as I only want to be in your life.”

  For several seconds, Blake blinked. He opened his mouth and then closed it. Shifting from side to side, he narrowed his stare. “So you will be my friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will be my lover?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without argument, you will do whatever I ask?”

  “I will do anything.”

  Grasping her wrists, Blake pulled her upright and then lifted her in a reassuring hug. “Then you will be my duchess,” he said, against her lips. After several heated, desperately passionate minutes, he rested his forehead to hers. “It saddens me that you still do not understand the simple truth, which I shall attempt to explain, so there will be no more confusion.” He claimed another searing kiss. “My lovely Lenore, beneath the impressive title and fancy garb beats the heart of a living man, flesh and blood, who only wishes to worship you for all the remains of his days. It would be nice if you could let me do that.”

  “Ah, such are the trials of your future duchess.” She giggled and glanced over his shoulder, into their bedroom. What she spied knocked the wind from her sails, and she broke free. “Mama’s pianoforte.”

  “I intended it as a surprise on our wedding night.” He chuckled. “And as you are so accommodating, I shall make a special request, which is that you will play it for me, exclusively, and without benefit of clothing.”

  She could not help but smile, as she trailed her fingers along the custom-made, square instrument. Fashioned in the neoclassic style, the family heirloom featured veneers of mahogany and curly maple, five and a half octaves, with a fully developed double action, and Zumpe-style overhead dampers. The pièce de résistance was an intricate, hand-painted flower motif extending from the central cartouche, which bore the vendor’s illustrious name, Jacobus Ball & Sons.

  “So I must entertain you, in a state of complete nudity?” Telltale warmth invested her cheeks. “Is that proper?”

  “Probably not.” From behind, Blake squeezed her hips and nipped her ear lobe. “But we will not let that stop us.” Then he bent and swept her into his arms. “Now I must convey you to your temporary quarters, before I do something I shall regret.”

  “Why will you not make love to me?” As he retraced her steps, she tossed aside all the feminine precepts she had been taught and licked his jawline. “I am yours for the taking.”

  “Not until the vows have been spoken.” He stomped to her four-poster and conveyed her to the mattress with a gentleness that never failed to surprise her.

  “But I have it on good authority that more than one Brethren wife yielded her prize prior to the ceremony.” When he attempted to withdraw, she refused to yield. “Why should we be any different?”

  “Call me old-fashioned, but I believe a duchess should be lawfully wed before her duke docks in her honey harbor.” Yet he relaxed, and she pulled him down with her. “And I already told you that I have too much respect for you to treat you less than a lady is owed, so I will observe the proprieties.”

  “But you promised you would not leave me.” She mustered her most potent pout. “Do you renege, Your Grace?”

  “Lenore—”

  “Please.” Now she whimpered. “I am frightened.”

  He cast a wicked scowl. “I will sleep in the chair.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “How can I rest, as the doctor ordered?” In a small voice, she said, “I am cold, too.”

  “Oh, all right.” At last, he relented and slipped between the sheets. “Come here.”

  That command she obeyed in a flash. As she made to drape an arm over his waist, she inched a tad low and struck something hard. “Was that—”

  “Not a word, else I shall remove to the chaise.” When she shifted, he hissed. “For the love of all creation, stop moving.”

  Tucked beside Blake, in her rightful place, she pondered Lucilla and prayed for her safe return. The revelatory shiver, the nagging harbinger of fear, traipsed her spine, and she closed her eyes. Sleep beckoned, an alluring, invisible partner that accompanied the reassuring presence of her soon-to-be husband. As Lenore answered the call, she knew, without doubt Blake would not fail her. He would find Lucy.

  #

  The drawing room at Elliott House boasted gold damask wall coverings, elegant ceiling plasterwork by John Adams, a marble chimneypiece, and a renow
ned frieze of the legendary lovers Orpheus and Eurydice. So it was, perhaps, appropriate that Blake negotiated his marriage contract beneath the gaze of the illustrious couple.

  “According to my brother’s solicitor, Lenore’s dowry is five thousand pounds, the sum of which shall be deposited with your lawful representative, and I shall reimburse you for the trousseau you purchased in December, as is customary.” Samuel Teversham assessed the documents. “Your Grace is very generous, regarding the pin money, and you have made more than ample provisions for her welfare, and that of any heirs, upon the event of your death.”

  “Lenore’s well-being is of paramount importance, Samuel.” In fact, his stipulations ensured his future wife would want for nothing. Yet Blake could not quiet the discomfit that plagued him, and he had come to the realization that he had not simply fallen in love with her, although he also discovered there was nothing simple about love. Oh, no. In truth, he had been consumed by a power so compelling that even the minutest particle of his being had not escaped his lady’s touch, and he knew not how to manage his wayward emotions. Revisiting a past conversation with Damian, Blake decided if he had his way, he would most definitely lock her in their private apartment at Pembroke, forever. “Given my occupation, I would ensure she is provided for, along with any children our union produces.”

  “I would argue you have achieved that.” Teversham cast a sad smile. “My lone regret is that Lucilla is not here to celebrate with us. Is there any word of her whereabouts?”

  “There is nothing new to report.” And until the villain was captured and Lucy was recovered, Blake would not rest. “I am still amazed at his timing, given the date of the first message forwarded from your brother’s deathbed. It seems remarkably convenient, else it is rotten luck, that the blackguard anticipated your late arrival.”

  “Your Grace, I beg your pardon, but you labor under a misapprehension.” The ladies’ uncle wrinkled his nose. “I received only one missive, which informed me of Horace’s death and bade me journey to London, and it was from Lenore.”