8

 

Justain thrust her door open.

“Lord Devonshire, what has occurred? You look pale.” Miss St. James sat up in her bed.

He gritted his teeth. “Maid, please step outside. I’d like to have a moment alone with Miss St. James.”

The servant looked at the vixen for permission.

“It’s all right. Please, wait outside.”

The moppet curtsied and left the room.

“Now, sir, tell me what’s amiss.” Miss St. James’s dark hair had been coiffed into ringlet curls and brushed until it shined. A pale green robe draped her long neck and shapely form.

He approached the bed. “What makes you think something’s the matter, Miss—”

“Madeline. You don’t have lightness in your step. Why so formal?” Her eyes grew wide. “You have bad news?” Her voice took a breathless tone. “Or have you found Mason and Mrs. Wilkins’s killer? Please, tell.”

“No.” It would calm the angst in his gut if that were true. His gaze descended upon her, slipping across her nightgown.

Fading bruises covered her arm. The spacing, finger-sized splotches looked as if she’d been manhandled. He balled his fist behind his back. Some blackguard had forced himself upon her. The poor lass.

Her lips pressed into a line. “Lord Devonshire? You don’t look well.”

Would Lady Glaston force a marriage, if she thought Justain capable of such a despicable act? The aunt couldn’t believe it wasn’t his doing. Justain rubbed his tight jaw. Perhaps the woman tried to pass off tampered goods. Great, a by-blow. And the bastard child would become his heir.

“I’ve not seen you sleeveless before.” He stepped closer.

“Aunt says that I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” She bit her lip, seeming to wince at her own words. She cleared her throat. “The air will help the bruises go away.”

“I see why someone thought…The marks are mere shadows but odd injuries for the accident.” His temper seethed, but from indignation. Romance was one thing, but no one had a right to force himself upon a woman. Soothing his battered ego wouldn’t be at Madeline’s expense. “You should rest. Good evening, Miss…Madeline.”

“Wait.” She pulled the sheet up over her arm. “Anyone who’s seen your bravery would never accuse you of a cowardly act.” There was fight in her voice.

“How do you know what I’m capable of? You hardly know me.”

“I know enough.” Madeline softened her tone. “You’ve renewed my hope in men. You’re not all intemperate and odious.” She motioned him to sit. “Something’s upset you.”

He dropped on to the edge of the mattress.

“Whew.” She put a hand to her forehead to steady herself. “Are you thinking of Mason? Missing his counsel?”

“Forgive me.” He searched her perfect jade eyes.

She held his gaze for a second then looked down. Her manner was demure, innocent. Manhandled, yes, but not tainted, not carnally abused.

Justain was a man of the world, and his gut guided him. He sighed with relief. If he must wed her, at least her virtue remained true. “I should be more careful.”

“Not going to answer me.” Her pert chin lifted. A quiet strength, a subtle dignity set in her countenance. “At least you don’t treat me like broken china.”

“Well, people don’t want to upset you.”

“You mean they don’t want me to start babbling again.”

“I don’t make you nervous.” He lifted an errant strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. One stroke, then another, he caressed her lobe. Her breath caught. Her strawberry lips looked soft, almost parting in invitation.

“Why? Should I be?” she whispered.

Justain laughed. “If you had more common sense, you would be. Goodnight, Madeline.” He kissed her hand then eased to his feet.

“When I’m better and return with Aunt to Cheshire, will you keep our acquaintance? I’m fond of letters.”

“If it’s permitted.” He smiled at her. She wasn’t party to the Lady Glaston’s extortion. Another testament to Madeline’s good character. “I’m fond of writing.”

Her gaze intensified as if she wanted to read his mind. “My lord, do you trust anyone enough to share your burdens?”

“Frankly, no. Good evening.” He crossed over her threshold and headed straight for his brandy.

 

****

 

Lord Devonshire seemed strange, stranger than usual. Madeline pulled the soft muslin sheet up to her cheek. It wouldn’t be realistic to hear from him once they parted ways.

Perhaps, it was best. Pain brewed behind those sky-blue eyes. Father bore similar shadows upon his face. The duke trusted no one and let no one, not even Step-mother, ease his yoke. It would be the same being the earl’s friend, witnessing his troubles and not being allowed to help.

The door to her room burst open. Aunt Tiffany marched inside. Her cheeks were cherry red, almost a match to her long walking gown. “The earl came to see you?”

“Yes.”

“Let me explain.” She paced from the threshold to the window. The buttons lining her long skirt clanked together like cymbals. She stopped and pivoted. “What did he tell you?”

“He came to see about me, as he always does.” Madeline fluffed her pillows. “What was he supposed to say?”

Aunt Tiffany released a blast of air as if she were a fireplace bellow. She walked to the window again and adjusted the curtains. Her colouring returned to normal. “It seems he fancies you.”

“He’s kind to me, Aunt. That is all.”

“I believe he will ask for your hand in marriage.” The words floated in the air. It was pure madness. “Will you accept?”

Madeline shuffled her blankets, tugging them about her stiff leg.

“How will you answer when the earl proposes?” As a veteran of love, Aunt had married and buried two husbands. She hunted for a third. The woman knew a man in love, but she had to be wrong in this case. It couldn’t be possible.

Aunt stopped fidgeting with the window dressing. She charged the bed in high strings. “Aren’t you in love with Lord Devonshire?” Her silver eyes slimmed to a piercing dot, singular in accusation.

Madeline released the scalloped edges of the woven coverlet. “I’m fond of him, but my heart doesn’t burst when I see him.”

Aunt picked up the delicate comb from the bed table. She played with Madeline’s curls. “Who told you love was like that?”

“You did, with every poem you ever read to me. In the books you sent for my birthday. Let’s forget this and venture to Italy. You will love Donatello’s bronze of Judith. Can you not relate to a cast of a vibrant widow?” Perspiration drizzled Madeline’s forehead, moistened her palms. Didn’t Aunt know what it meant to retain her freedom?

“You’re babbling, dear. Sometimes love is quiet, a warm feeling of contentment. You light up when Lord Devonshire walks in the room.”

Madeline’s head tugged to the right as Aunt parted a section of hair. “He amuses me, and sometimes he makes me want to box his ears. That’s not love.”

“You must accept him when he offers.” Her voice sounded deadly serious.

“Aunt, I haven’t had a season. I’m not ready to be engaged.”

The woman flustered, turning one shade lighter than her dress, then uncovered Madeline’s arm. “These bruises won’t let you have a season.”

She yanked at the sheet to hide the marks.

“Your father will request for you to be sent home to Avington as soon as you’re able. The only season you’ll have is to the dregs your step-mother will scrape up.”

“Go home?” Madeline slumped against the headboard. She couldn’t return to Avington.

Aunt grimaced. “You’ll have to go back to that gilded prison without any protection.”

“Kent will be waiting there. Don’t let me go back.” Terror pressed against Madeline’s lungs.

“And if he petitions the duke for your hand, what do think your father will say? You never told him about how the beast hurt you. Your father thinks Step-mother’s nephew is a fine young man with a fortune in mineral mining. The duke with his connections could arrange a barony or something to make the match more acceptable.”

Would Father make her marry Mr. Kent? To be made to endure his sweaty hands. No! Madeline forced air into her nostrils. Hot tears trickled down her face.

“Marry Lord Devonshire. He’ll protect you. I’m convinced of that now. He’s trying to rebuild his family’s fortune and reputation. A diligent pedigreed wife is what he needs. Dr. White says the earl’s estate, Trenchard Park, is in want of a woman’s care. It has the peace you seek.”

“Lord Devonshire’s confused. It’s not possible. He hasn’t known me long enough.”

“Your father lost his soul to Angelique the night he met her at Almack’s. And you know that love lasts beyond the grave.”

Madeline shook her head. She didn’t possess Mama’s beauty or grace. “The earl must feel obligated because of my injuries. Dr. White has probably told him that my leg will be slow to heal.”

Aunt squinted and hissed like a vent for the fireplace. “White hasn’t discussed this with me.”

“Or with me. Everyone moves about as if I’m crazed or oblivious, but it’s my leg. I won’t be a punishment to Lord Devonshire. I won’t allow him to marry an invalid. I’ll add no more burdens to his proud shoulders.”

“It’s his choice. And you’ll never be a burden. You’re too independent.” Aunt took a ruby pin from her dark locks. She reached under the covers and jabbed at Madeline’s toe.

The first poke felt of pressure. A second to her heel made her whimper.

“See? You’ll walk again.” Aunt settled the bed sheets. “The daughter of the Duke of Hampshire is to be admired. You’ve the connections the earl needs to be successful. You mustn’t deny him his choice for happiness.”

“I don’t know. Aunt Tiffany, how would it work?”

“You’ll learn to love the handsome devil. It won’t be hard. You need to trust the warm feeling of friendship. It will grow. He’ll be patient with you and protect and treasure you. The earl’s the kind of gentleman I would’ve tried to find for you. Promise me you’ll think about it.”

“I’m tired, Aunt. Let me rest.”

Aunt kissed her forehead and left the room.

Madeline settled on to her pillows, again. Did Lord Devonshire love her? Would a man who trusted no one, ever lend his heart?

 

****

 

The pounding upon the door refused to quit. It felt as if Athena kicked in Justain’s skull. He tried to block out the racket with the bedcovers, but the blasted noise continued. An empty brandy bottle clung to his stomach. The golden liquor romanced him last night, and now Justain’s head suffered the lover’s revenge.

“Devonshire. Are you alone in there?”

The voice sounded familiar. Justain pulled to his feet and slunk to the door. “A moment.” He forced his eyes to focus on the lock. He wrenched it open, then tumbled backwards onto the floor.

“Wellington has arrived.” A smiling face leaned over him. “You look worse for wear.”

“Devlin? Goodness man, did you grow another foot? Weren’t you tall enough?”

The indigo eyes of the reverend filled with humour. “You know it’s bad form to drink alone.” The six-feet-three-inch mountain dropped a sack and kicked the door closed.

“Who’d lift a glass with my worthless hide?” Justain closed his eyes and drew comfort from the cold floorboards.

His unsympathetic cousin tugged him to his feet, separating him from his icy respite. He helped Justain lay back onto the bed. “This is hardly the manner for the famed rake of the Gorge to act.”

At this, Justain opened his eyes. “Devlin, would I lose any appeal to Heaven if I cursed at you?” He brought a hand to his aching head. “What brings you here anyway?”

The reverend folded his arms. “I’ve been in Lancashire ministering. I’d hoped to rendezvous with you, when my bishop forwarded me your letter.”

“Let’s continue this in a few hours? I’m sure to be better company a year from now.”

“I’ll retrieve a pot of coffee. It’ll help return your sobriety. Then tell me all about your latest scandal.”

“Don’t you have some widow to save, some sinner to beat into repentance until evening?”

“No, I’m here to deal with this one called Devonshire.” He left and pulled the door closed with a thud. Mean man.

 

****

 

The strong aroma of steaming coffee wafted to Justain’s nose.

“The earl’s not feeling too well this morning, sir? If ya need help to strip ’im and put ’im in a bath, I’d be obliged.” The torrid and frightening tones could belong to no one other than the flirtatious Mrs. Blakeney.

She pushed past Devlin to enter the room.

Justain closed his eyes tighter, feigning sleep.

“No, ma’am,” Devlin answered. “I’ll manage my cousin. Please leave us.”

Mrs. Blakeney’s scent, a mix of wood polish and dishwater, floated over him. Devlin needed to hurry and get the woman to flee before Justain returned last night’s dinner.

“Ya sure? The Delveaux stock is solidly built.”

The lady should know she flirted with an apostle. A lecture on Acts could start at any moment.

“I’ll send for you, if we need assistance.” Devlin’s stern tone attempted to shoo away the innkeeper.

Justain peeked. Devlin’s kind but bone rattling condemnation should never be missed, especially if directed at someone other than Justain.

The reverend opened the door. His lips thinned producing his signature “repentance” look. “My dear, we won’t need your special attention.” Foolishness stood no chance.

“Yes, sir.” The sounds of the woman’s slippers almost running out of the room brought a smile to Justain’s face, but it hurt to contract those muscles.

Liquid poured into a container, burping against the sidewalls. “A nice cup of coffee will bring you to your senses.”

“Too late for that,” Justain mumbled. He propped up against the bed frame and took the offered mug.

Devlin threw off his stark grey mantle, tossing it across the footboard. The object floated and folded neatly over the wood. The man did everything right and in order.

Justain took a long slurp. The hot liquid hit the bottom of his stomach, stoking rebellion. He might lose his battle yet. He siphoned a deep breath from the stale air to avoid getting sick and showing more weakness to his cousin.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re celebrating?” Devlin asked as he steadied the cup.

“I’m to be engaged.”

“You proposed to Miss Lavis? She said yes?” The unflappable man seemed aghast. He ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair. “You’d sacrifice your happiness and propose to the golden-haired creature. Must you try to prove your worth to Devon by winning her admiration?”

“And don’t forget the inheritance. Every earl must keep the properties in Dorset and not endanger Trenchard. Can’t sacrifice the beauty of our home, but—”

“Any other woman would be happy to be the mistress of Trenchard, but not fair Caroline. She won’t make you happy. She won’t even try.”

“You and Richard know I’m a glutton for punishment.”

Devlin sighed. “You still speak of Richard as if he’s rounding the corner.”

Justain shed an uneasy chuckle. “Perhaps, I see him in my dreams.”

Devlin’s indigo orbs seemed to lance the veil between them. “You didn’t kill Richard. He made his own choices. You need to free yourself of that burden.”

Justain sank onto his thick blanket.

“Richard’s gone,” Devlin continued. “You can’t live in his shadows. Don’t let guilt destroy you.”

“But, Devlin, isn’t guilt the workings of life, particularly for you religious folk?”

“God gives freedom, but what Earl of Devon has ever known freedom?” The reverend refilled his own cup. “Between the inheritance and a lust for power and wealth, when have any known freedom?”

“You left out conquest. A man’s got to do something with his nights.”

“Be serious, Justain. Renounce the inheritance. Your holdings in Spain will eventually restore the loss of Dorset’s income. Trenchard’s still gutted from the fire. Rebuild her somewhere else.”

“Mama’s pride, Trenchard Park, will be finished. Only the west wing is left for renewal.” Justain sat up to level his gaze to his cousin’s. “I won’t let Richard die in vain. Won’t give his widow one more thing to hold over my head.”

Devlin took a sip. “Richard abandoned her the moment the ceremony ended. He married the sickly girl to satisfy the inheritance.”

“Shocked the devil when she got all healthy on him.”

The reverend shook his head. “Richard ruined her life with empty promises.”

“And now she adds to my guilt.” Justain sighed.

Devlin put his mug down. “You still love Miss Lavis?”

“You don’t understand.” He squinted at the reverend’s folded arms. He seemed troubled, never more human. “Devlin, my head is fogged, but did you not want me to marry or not marry Caroline?”