Duke Of Darkness

Devlin’s lips twisted with a wry grin. Aunt Min’s butler was somewhat of a worry wart. Some things never changed.

“Grimley.” He nodded his head, a few stray droplets of water falling to the parquet floor tiles.

“Come in, Your Grace. Shall I order you a bath? And your valise?” Grimley stepped away as a footman stooped low to clear the water seeping from Devlin’s greatcoat. Was it not such a sombre situation, they might have shared a laugh at the puddle beginning to form.

“Later, thank you. I came as soon as possible. How is the staff holding up? I know Aunt Min regarded you as family. Her passing must be felt dearly throughout the household.” The uncomfortable subject sent his eyes downward once again. It would seem his dripping had ceased.

“My condolences to you, Your Grace. I know you have suffered the greatest loss.” The two men shared an awkward moment of silence before Devlin removed his coat and handed it to a servant.

“I have also come to enquire of my new ward. I am concerned about the effects of my aunt’s death upon Alex.” At odds with the question on the tip of his tongue, Devlin swept his gaze from left to right, the interior of his aunt’s home sparking memories buried long ago, yet alive despite his best attempt to suffocate them. He shook off the uncomfortable awareness and focused on how little had changed. Yellow chintz pillows angled atop velvet upholstered elbow chairs, an umbrella stand shaped like an owl between them. As a child, he’d hidden numerous treasures in its porcelain base. Again the past reached for a stronghold and he whipped his eyes to Grimley. “Where might I find my charge?”

Grimley studied him for a long moment, although his soft grey eyes gave nothing away. “Alex is at the stable house. One of the mares is having a difficult time with her delivery. The stable boys rely on Alex for help. There is a certain innate ability there to ease the animals when they are ill-tempered or suffering with pain.”

Devlin found his first smile of the day. Good news. His ward held a talent with horses. Perhaps his trepidation was for naught. They would get along fine. And surely the lad must possess considerable years to be called on to help with the birth of a colt. The only troublesome measure was the condition of the weather outside. The storm hadn’t lessened and Devlin reasoned only a lackwit would venture out in it, whether himself or his charge.

“My coat again, then. I will ride down to the stable house and see if I can be of assistance.” When the butler hesitated, Devlin continued. “I am already soaked through.”

“I will have a hot bath ready for your return, and a hot meal.” Grimley handed him the offending garment and assisted as he slid it on.

Outside, Devlin led Orion down the steep embankment and towards the stables. He scanned the sky for any sign the storm might cease. A quick flash of lightning and the deep rumble of thunder obliterated the optimistic thought. The barn held the telltale glow of candlelight and he tied Orion within the first stall and walked quietly to the rear of the building. A labouring mare’s heavy pants, interrupted by an occasional weak whinny, could be heard. Several stable hands huddled near a wall on the right, but other than animal sounds, the barn was as silent as a vacant church.

One of the young lads near the wooden partition glanced over his shoulder, muttered a “milord” and hopped out of the way, his boots hitting the earth to disturb the familiar scent of leather, soap and perspiration. Devlin peered down into the straw-lined booth. A handsome mare lay on her side, swollen with the oncoming birth, her long nose beaded with sweat, her eyes wildly dilated with the effort. No one seemed to notice him, so intent was everyone on the suffering animal.

A slight lad kneeled near the horse’s head. Devlin could only view him from the back, but even though the boy wore a coat, his clothing set him apart from any other hand in the stable and he knew at once he’d found his charge. His mouth quirked with a quick twitch of the lips as relief coursed through him. This lad was easily manageable, and all fear that a younger child might present a challenge evaporated. Alex appeared to be at least eighteen, maybe older. The harsh lighting of the dim lanterns offered few clues.

He studied the boy, his lean frame crouched tight to speak to the mare in whispers, while one hand rubbed the long nuzzle of the mother horse in comfort. Intense labour began and the animal nickered as the sharp pains rippled through her. Alex’s hands soothed the horse’s neck in a methodical motion meant to comfort. As Devlin watched, he became transfixed. By damn, if it wasn’t relaxing him as much as the horse on the stall floor. He tightened his focus on the motion. His ward had small hands for a lad. Perhaps the boy was not as old as he’d originally perceived.

The horse released a loud whinny and with a mighty push the colt emerged, as the true birthing began. Alex left his position at the head of the mare and rounded the opposite corner. Devlin could see his face now, although the lantern light burned shallow at best. For a boy, he certainly had fine features. Smooth skin, a graceful nose and very determined eyes. But he was young. Not a whisker to be seen on the slope of his chin. He wore a brown leather cap that concealed most of his hair, but if the telltale strands escaping the sides were proof, it was the same colour as the straw that lined the pen.

For some reason, his ward chose that instant to glance upward and their eyes held for several moments. Pale brown eyebrows arched over the most intense blue eyes Devlin had ever seen and his heartbeat hitched, as if he experienced the same piercing contraction as the mare struggling on the stable floor. A strange frisson passed through the air, as strong and fleeting as the lightning that ruined the night sky, and he inhaled a sharp breath, anxious to destroy the unsettling reaction.

“Alex, she’s delivering.”

The stable hand’s exclamation drew them apart and all eyes turned to view the labouring horse. Alex rounded the rear of the animal and grasped the exposed colt in a firm grip, timing a mighty pull with the next contraction. A breath later they all stared at the newborn foal. Devlin sighed with deep resonance.

Wobbly and wet, the healthy horse fell twice before it managed to right itself on the barn floor, while the mare puffed and snorted with satisfaction. A few of the stable boys whooped with joy. It was a memorable moment, considering the course of action that had brought him to The Willows in the first place. And then relief turned into celebration, many of the stable hands talking at once. Devlin stepped forward. As he approached, he watched Alex wash and dry his hands in a nearby bucket. Then the lad removed his coat, apparently just having the opportunity. Next off came his cap, letting loose a cascade of blond hair the colour of summer sunshine all the way down to the small of his back.

Very little affected surprise in Devlin’s near thirty years. Any of his friends would wager nothing could unsettle the Mad Duke of Kenley Manor, but he must have appeared stark with shock because the excited volume of the stable fell to utter quiet in less than a heartbeat.

Chapter Four (#ue668a58f-1832-5aef-9b17-3d2707c32383)

“Alex?” Devlin’s world tilted. How the he had become a she so very quickly made him wonder if he’d walked into a dream. But no, the tempting piece of baggage in front of him was definitely not male. Now with the coat and the cap removed, even a blind man could see a woman stood in the room.

“Alexandra. Aunt Min thought my name a mouthful and shortened it to Alex, but I much prefer Alexandra.”

Her voice was warm honey and he failed to form a ready response. Someone cleared their throat and helped him clear his mind.

“I am Devlin Ravensdale, Duke of Wharncliffe. Perhaps my aunt spoke of me. I was her sole blood relation.” When had he become so damned formal? As a reluctant member of the aristocracy, he couldn’t possibly desire to impress, could he?

She raised her head and matched his inquisitive gaze. Blue eyes, the colour of the sky at midday, clear and crystalline, stared back at him. This was no shrinking violet, albeit she barely reached his chin. She blinked, and lush mahogany lashes fanned her cheek in a sweep of elegance that contrasted sharply with the stable’s rustic interior.

“I am very sorry for your loss, Your Grace.” She lowered her eyes and struggled with visible emotion.

“As I am of yours,” he murmured. The stable hands had the good sense to disperse once introductions began, but Devlin knew they hadn’t wandered far. While he contemplated the woman before him, she reassembled.

“Thank you. Now that we’ve been introduced, we should return to the manor. Grimley will be calling dinner. Have you dined this evening, Your Grace? I’ve no doubt your journey has brought you fatigue and hunger.”

Invigoration and starvation would be more accurate. He offered a tentative smile and moved towards the open doors. Rain continued to beat a steady rhythm, but the worst of the storm had blown through.

“How did you come down the hill?” He turned, his eyes sharp, aware another predicament lay before them. She would get soaked before they travelled halfway to the house.

She let out a carefree laugh and smiled up at him.

His breath caught and his heart stuttered.

“Oh, I ran. The storm wasn’t nearly so severe earlier. I’ve been in the stable with Buttercup for hours.”

Her eyes harboured nothing more than crystal honesty and he wondered if she knew the ramifications of his visit. Was she aware he’d become her guardian with Aunt Min’s death? The question stalled on his tongue. Instead, he indicated Orion with a curt nod and untied the reins. In one quick movement he lifted her atop the saddle and caught the stirrup to mount behind her. Then with a sharp kick of his heels, he led them into the night as fast as his stallion would carry them up the hill, his body her only shelter from the weather aside from the shortcomings of their coats. Regardless of the wind, the relentless rain, and two thick greatcoats, Devlin swore every tap of her body against his resonated as if no barrier lie between them at all.

Alexandra frowned as her maid attempted a successful coiffure. Long and thick, her hair possessed a mind of its own. It followed her hair would be unmanageable. Life proved unmanageable.

Her lids fell closed in a weary blink of regret. How difficult to exchange pleasantries with Wharncliffe while her heart ached over the loss of Aunt Min. Just a week since her passing, Alexandra reconciled no choice made sense but to remain at The Willows, even though the uncertainty of her future eroded like an ailment of the worst kind. Wharncliffe had wasted no time in arriving. Surely, he loved his aunt, although he’d never visited the estate in the two years that Alexandra resided in house. Whenever Aunt Min spoke of him, Alexandra recognized a maternal quality in her voice, no matter their relation as aunt and nephew. That type of love should be cherished, a rare gift indeed.

The memory of her first meeting with Aunt Min brought a wistful smile to her face. It had been as simple as applying for the position of companion. Little did she know she’d come to love the dear lady as the mother she’d never had. If only Alexandra had possessed enough courage to confess the truth of her past. Aunt Min deserved that honesty. Now it was too late to bring the words forward.

Fleeing her home in Brentwood two years earlier under the secrecy of nightfall, Alexandra escaped an arranged marriage and miserable future. In his defence, her intended fiancé, Henry Addington, was a respected and honourable member of society. He was an excellent shot with a pistol and equally able with a sword, smart in the manner of investments, and witty with a jest. Alexandra memorized this litany of attributes in the precise order her father recited them each evening at the dinner table. Such a great love affair, between her father and Addington. She struggled to recall Henry’s features, surprised at the shadowy memory.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts. When she decided to marry, it would be for love; not convenience or to please her father. He had dismissed her wish for a love match as ridiculous, but many happy unions grew from true affection and not from arrangements sealed with a handshake between two males. Was it too much to hope for, to fall in love and spend a future building a family with someone who cherished her? She raised her chin a notch and her maid whispered a protestation. No one would dictate whom she would marry. A woman had a right to her own heart.

When her maid completed her coif in a soft style, the girl moved to the wardrobe to tend to her gown. Alexandra followed her movements with absent attention, her mind reconsidering the dim prospects of the future.

Now dressed in a simple black mourning gown with white pearl buttons, a high neck and straight sleeves, she regarded her reflection in the mirror. Perhaps it was not entirely necessary, but she wished to show the duke deep respect for his aunt’s passing. The gown’s simple design and absence of adornment echoed the hollow feeling left by Min’s death. She had no need to draw any further attention to herself. Dinner would be interesting, if nothing else, and a chance to gain information about the estate to aid in her plans.

She stooped to pick up Henry, her miniature white terrier. The dog was a gift from Addington, named by himself in his own honour. She let out a little grunt at the irony. Perhaps her father had played a hand in that decision, too. She dismissed the inane thought, gave Henry a little scratch behind the ears, and hurried to the staircase below.

Chapter Five (#ulink_41efc3da-8f84-513c-bc86-4891dd50a4f5)

Things were not as they should be. Devlin had never considered that Alex might be a young lady. He shook his head in exasperation. Unexpected complications were not his strong suit. Yet hell and damnation, his whole world shifted when that waterfall of shimmering hair fell down her back. He clenched his teeth and finished dressing in an effort to drive the inappropriate observation from his brain. Mourning clothes would not be a problem. He always dressed in black.

Fending off a case of self-loathing, he raked his fingers through his hair and a palm over his face. He knew how he appeared. A chinstrap beard outlined his sharp jaw, the ebony hair emphasizing the severity of his features. Eyes dark as pitch, an angular nose set off by prominent cheekbones, and dark slashed eyebrows, all gave the appearance of a villain or, at least, a man up to no good. He’d heard his appearance referred to as wicked. Right now he certainly fit the part, most especially in consideration of the news he planned to impart.

He approached the dinner table while a litany of self-condemnation played through his mind. Alexandra stood near the dining room entrance conversing with Grimley. If only he were home, he could invite his servants to dine and therefore dilute the conversation to the most mundane of topics. But no, the table was set for two. A sudden pang of sorrow coursed through him at the remembrance of Aunt Min’s absence.

“Lady Alexandra, I apologize, it would seem with all of the commotion I haven’t learned your full name.” She turned to him then, and he swallowed a sharp word. Even in black, she was lovely. She offered her hand as if to entreat him to enter, but instead he clasped it within his own and brought it to his lips. She wore no gloves, her skin silky smooth and warm to his lips. They were not dining formally and kissing one’s ward wasn’t proper, yet his actions seemed at war with his better judgement.

“Good evening, Your Grace.” Her eyes twinkled in the light of the candlelit chandeliers. A footman came forward and pulled out her chair. She sat and turned to him with a smile on her face. “Are you ready?”

His brows furrowed in confusion. “For dinner?” He took his place at the table and waited. His eyes did not miss the way her hair fought the silver combs trying with little success to contain those long tresses. Then she laughed and a dimple showed in her right cheek. Charming, that dimple.