London, 1817

The Duke of Wharncliffe, Devlin Ravensdale, is devastated when he receives a missive announcing the death of his only relative, Aunt Min. Consumed with guilt, he regrets not having visited her in years, despite he’s chosen a reclusive lifestyle to hide his secretive past. Saddened by the loss, he dutifully honors his aunt’s last wish, to take responsibility of a young ward, Alex, and arrange a suitable marriage.

Reluctant, yet determined, Devlin sets off to collect his young charge, only to discover the he is a she, and Alexandra is stunningly beautiful…posing an unexpected temptation.

Tasked with finding an eligible bachelor, Devlin is forced back into society, a world where he has something of a dark reputation. Worse yet, it seems the beguiling beauty has a secret of her own to hide. Still, finding a husband for Alexandra shouldn’t prove difficult as long as he’s able to let her go.

Also by Anabelle Bryant

To Love A Wicked Scoundrel

Duke of Darkness

Anabelle Bryant

www.CarinaUK.com

ANABELLE BRYANT

began reading at the age of three and never stopped. Her passion for reading soon turned into a passion for writing and an author was born. Happy to grab her suitcase if it ensures a new adventure, Anabelle finds endless inspiration in travel; especially imaginary jaunts into romantic Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her clever characters live out her daydreams because really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl?

Though teaching keeps her grounded, photography, running and writing counterbalance her wanderlust. Often found with her nose in a book, Anabelle has earned her Master’s Degree and is pursuing her Doctorate Degree in Education. She proudly owns her addiction to French fries and stationery supplies, as well as her frightening ineptitude with technology.

A firm believer in romance,Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do.

She enjoys talking with her fans. Visit her website at AnabelleBryant.com.

For anyone who believes in happily ever after. ~ This one started it all.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

London 1817

“You’ve gained a little weight.” Devlin’s observation broke the silence as he slid from the bed and moved to the sideboard intent on pouring a brandy. He glanced over his shoulder to see the reaction his words had caused, then reached for the decanter and raised a crystal glass.

“Do you think so?”

Amanda’s question revealed concern more than upset, and he watched with half interest as she sat upright in bed, pushing the sheets and velvet coverlet to her waist. She flicked her eyes in his direction, then down to her bare breasts as if trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

“Are you sure?”

Devlin Ravensdale, Duke of Wharncliffe, was always sure but he did not voice the knowledge. Instead he pushed off the far wall, swallowed a healthy amount of brandy, and meandered towards the bed. He moved without a care, because he hadn’t one. Coming into the dukedom at a young age, he’d grown more comfortable with his title than his aristocratic peers, learning to manipulate its use with an innate ease. Entitlement brought many things, including the lovely Widow Penslow, lounged atop the silk bed linens like a pampered, well-kept pet.

He took another mouthful of brandy and leaned in for a kiss. A rush of liquor filled her mouth as she tangled her tongue with his in hungry enthusiasm. Anxious to please. Always anxious to please.

With an abrupt turn, he pulled away and reached for his underclothes and trousers. “Perhaps a tad.”

“Must you leave already?”

Amanda extended her bottom lip in what she believed portrayed an appealing pout, equal parts naïve innocent and sophisticated temptress, but he wanted none of it. His interest slack, visiting her townhouse had become an exercise more in tedium than in enjoyment. If handled correctly, the entire situation could end without issue. The last thing he needed was another knot to untangle.

He buttoned his trousers and reached for his shirt. “I have business to address at Kenley Manor. My solicitor will be left waiting.” He wouldn’t share more.

As the last in the Wharncliffe line, he did what he wanted as desire struck, with no one to call him to task or question his assorted interests, no matter how indulgent. While some would mourn the sole responsibility of propagating an heir, he harboured no pressure to fulfil his obligation. He would write the final chapter of Wharncliffe history. A measure of defiance ignited his temper. Who would venture to marry the Mad Duke of Kenley Manor anyway? It was easier to avoid the undertaking.

Still, there was no way to evade the task at hand. A fast break would be virtually painless. Amanda’s emotions were of no consequence.

“Did you notice the new silk wall coverings, Darling?” She indicated the room with a swift wave of her hand.

She had no idea what was about to happen. Pity that.

“I was just between your thighs. Let’s hope I wasn’t contemplating the wall coverings.” He stifled a chuckle because he had noticed. He was unsure exactly when the observation arose, but it occurred during the sex act and that one unimportant fact confirmed his decision to end their liaison. Of course, he’d already paid her exorbitant decorating bills. Amanda amassed them in the same manner females collected hair ribbons, but that remained a small price in the larger scale of things. He could never spend his wealth in this lifetime or another after. What mattered a few hundred pounds on wall coverings?

“But I want you to stay.”

She inflected her voice in a show of desire, a calculated seductive purr, and Devlin released an impatient exhale. He finished tying his cravat and reached below the bed’s counterpane to retrieve his boots. Having the matched pair in front of him, he wasted no time in pulling them on then completed his dress with a superfine black waistcoat. He picked a minuscule speck of lint from his left coat sleeve and steeled his patience in preparation for a tantrum.

“Our time is done.” He stared at her with meaningful intent. Clearly she didn’t understand the magnitude of his statement. Or was she taking it well? Might he be so lucky? Doubtful.

“When shall I expect you next, Darling? There is a new show to premiere at the Drury Theatre this Friday. You will take me to see it, won’t you?” She chose a plump fruit from the tray of sweets and strawberries resting on the bed table and held it out to him. A demure smile offered an additional enticement.

“No, I will not.” Bluntness had its purposes and this was one of them. He’d a meeting in forty-five minutes, and while he prided his excellent horsemanship, there was no accounting for the crowded London streets. “We are done. Finished. I won’t be coming back. It’s been delightful, but this is goodbye.” She’d have to be daft not to understand now. He’d never considered her so.

“Darling, why? Did I not please you? Was there something you wanted? Something else I need do?”

He clenched his teeth at the rising emotion in her voice and the realization their disentanglement would not proceed as he desired. A more severe tactic was necessary.

“No, you misunderstand. It’s not you. Not in the least. I’m sure you’ve heard the whispers. I’ve a proclivity for solitude.” He hated to molest one of the most common rumours bandied about in reference to his personae, but it offered the wisest choice. Perhaps they would be able to part with civility if she blamed it on his madness and eccentric tendencies. The oddity of his nature. He would admit to any of the ton’s beliefs to be out of the townhouse and back on his horse. “Naturally I will settle an exorbitant sum upon you, as you’ve been most amenable.” The mention of money mollified her temper and her expression changed the slightest degree. He ventured a step towards the door.

“Damn you, I don’t want you to leave.” Her brow furrowed with a mixture of disappointment and indecision, torn between the mysterious dark man in her bedchamber and the promise of a generous settlement.

He schooled a smile. Widow Penslow would choose the money. He doubted his appeal would trump a handsome sum. She was a woman accustomed to getting her own way. Perhaps that evoked the rub. He almost chuckled, until the rustle of sheets evoked a cursory glance towards the bed.

Her eyes glistened with the threat of tears. Bloody hell, he hated tears. What did he have now, thirty minutes to cross London?

“I’m no good for you. Believe me, you’ll feel better when the settlement arrives.” He pulled the door open and swept through, relieved to be gone before the hysterics began.

Yet there was no mistaking the clatter of the fruit tray striking the wall as he left, or the thud of the champagne bottle as it followed. So much for the new wall coverings.

Chapter Two

“Your solicitor awaits you in the green parlour, Your Grace.” Reeston, a man of sixty years and impeccable training, had served as butler at Kenley Manor for Devlin’s entire life. Every servant from head cook to scullery maid was of the finest training and the most congenial nature. It made sense to surround oneself with servants who served a dual purpose due to the long stretches of time Devlin remained in house. The servants constituted his community as well as his employed. If the ton got a hold of that tidbit, without a doubt they’d add it to his ever growing list of idiosyncrasies. It was rather unheard of for any master of the house to play chess with his valet or invite his servants to dine; but the people who cared for Kenley Manor and accepted his superfluous existence were vital to his well being. They protected his privacy as if their own.

And well they should. Any one of the older servants could easily expose the horror of Wharncliffe history in intricate detail, and yet he slept with the utmost confidence that no one under his roof would betray him; at least on the rare occasion sleep beckoned and the tremors did not hold him captive.

With a nod in Reeston’s direction, Devlin took the long hall to the green parlour, swept into the room, behind his desk, and eyed the ormolu clock where it sat on the mantel. He’d made it with two minutes to spare.

“Good afternoon, Derwent. Now, what is so important you needed an appointment with urgency?” Impatience got the better of him and he strode to the far window of the parlour and picked up a small crystal paperweight to toss between his palms.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I realize the insistent nature of my note, but it was imperative I see you with haste.”

The tone in his solicitor’s voice, more than the rush of his words, caused Devlin to pin him with a wary stare. “What is it?” A moment of apprehension stretched his patience thinner. He replaced the paperweight and advanced. “Out with it.”

“Yes, of course. It is your aunt. I have bad news, I am afraid.”

The solicitor paused but a moment; long enough to confirm his suspicion.

“She has passed. It was the end of last week. I understand she did not suffer, although she succumbed to a rather severe illness.”

The solicitor’s words rushed past in a blur of colliding memories.

“Her staff acted on her wishes and she has already been placed in the ground. Naturally, the legal proceedings, the will and her estate ...” Derwent’s voice dropped off as if waiting for some signal to continue.

Devlin digested the news with solemn acceptance. Aunt Min was his only blood relative; feisty dear woman and sister of his late mother. While she lived only two days’ travel from London, he hadn’t seen her as often as he’d liked. He should have made more of an effort. Blast, he’d never even known she’d fallen ill, never mind he’d not visited her estate in over three years. A fleeting pain whipped through his chest. She was one of the few people in his life who accepted him for who he was and did not try to make him bend. He would truly miss her.

Unanswered questions tangled with remorse at the unexpected news of her passing. He walked to the sideboard and poured a short drink.

“Brandy, Derwent?” The solicitor would not remark on the emotion heard in the words, not if the man valued his position.

The solicitor shifted in his chair, indecision evident on his sallow face. “It is highly unusual for me to accept—”

“Do you want it or not?” He wouldn’t waste energy standing on convention.

When the man gave further pause, Devlin strode forward and pushed a snifter into his hand. “It’ll do you good.”

He sat in the leather chair behind his desk and stared at the fire another moment before he returned his attention to the solicitor, his face clear of all feeling.

“Is my signature required somewhere?” Only a simpleton would miss the controlled tone of the question. The meeting would be all business from here out.

“Actually, I only have a partial amount of the paperwork. There seems to be a complication.” Setting the untouched snifter on the desk, Derwent picked up his brown leather case and fumbled through a ridiculous amount of folded paper and well-worn files.

In an exercise of patience, Devlin removed the snifter from the mahogany desktop and returned both glasses to the tray on the sideboard. An undercurrent of anxiety scratched at his skin from the inside out, to grieve, if only a little, for the loss of his aunt. She had lived to eighty-two. A rich, full life.

When he spoke, his voice sliced the air, as he was anxious to dispatch the man and reclaim a little solitude. “What kind of complication?”

Derwent’s Adam’s apple bobbed with unnatural vigour as he suffered an audible swallow. He mustered the courage to reply despite the indecision that sketched worry lines across his face. Indeed, Devlin heard the man’s voice crack.

“There is her estate, The Willows, and all entitlements that follow to you.”

Again the solicitor hesitated and Devlin’s temper steeped. “Continue.”

His stern order reverberated across the quiet room. Why was there need for all this secrecy? His aunt was the kindest person he’d ever known, and that included all memories he held of his mother. Aunt Min proved a loving, generous woman who stalwartly refused to believe an iota of ill feelings of anyone. What could cause Derwent to stall with such trepidation?

“And then there is the matter of your aunt’s ward, Your Grace.”

If Devlin hadn’t been staring at the man, drilling him with the intensity of his obsidian eyes, he might have believed he’d misheard, yet the words had been processed with the utmost clarity. He needed another brandy. “Her ward? You must be mistaken. My aunt never mentioned a ward. Besides, who in their right mind would entrust a child to a woman of advanced age? Granted, Aunt Min was the very picture of gentleness, but still …” His voice trailed off as he considered the absurdity of the situation. It had to be a mistake. A ward? Unlikely.

“No, I have the documents here.” Derwent flustered through his leather bag. “The papers do not explain much, I will admit, and the whole arrangement seems a bit vague, but it is valid nonetheless.” The solicitor paused and pulled a large file full of papers from his satchel. He opened it at an awkward angle on his lap as if in fervent search of something. “Aha.”

Upon hearing Derwent’s triumphant exclamation, Devlin raised his eyes from where he studied the flames in the firebox.

“I knew I would find it. There is a letter to you, left in your aunt’s bedchamber and discovered upon her passing.”

The solicitor offered a long thin envelope in his direction. Devlin peered at the foolscap, debating whether or not to accept it, but then palmed the document and tucked it into the blotter of his desk mat. The action troubled Derwent.

“Aren’t you … aren’t you going to read it?”

Unsure of exactly what the envelope might contain, Devlin was damn well sure he wanted to open it in private. With the goal in mind, he made quick work of dispatching his solicitor, ringing for Reeston, and reclaiming his seat behind his desk with the efficiency of a sword parry.

He stared at the envelope in contemplation then finally broke the seal. He smoothed the vellum out before him. His aunt’s familiar penmanship met his eyes and for a moment, a tiny niggling of emotion welled in his chest. He clamped it down without question and began to read.

Dearest Devlin,

If you are reading this letter, then I must apologize. I am sorry I have left you alone in this world. The Wharncliffe history has not been kind to you. You have weathered the scorn and scandal of many years, none of which you brought upon yourself. I hope over the years our relationship has served as a balm for the harsh realities that have made up your short thirty years.

When you are old, like I am, and you stop to reflect on your life, I hope you have little to regret, little that you’d wish to alter. Time moves so very quickly, it seems only a short time ago that I held you close as a tiny lad. But I no longer have the energy to express the joy you’ve brought to me over the years; instead I ask one final favour.

A few years ago, I was entrusted with a responsibility I’ve kept close to my heart. I now ask you to serve in my absence. Alex has had a troubled past and needs a kind and understanding guardian who offers acceptance and does not beleaguer with questions. I ask that you offer the same kindness I’ve shown you and guide my ward into society, help to arrange a respectable, agreeable marriage match. It is a large responsibility but one I can depend on you to carry through. Thank you, Devlin.

With loving gratitude,

Aunt Min

Devlin stared at the foolscap long after he’d finished reading. He knew without a doubt his aunt had cared deeply for him, as if he were her son, and yet to entrust him with this responsibility jarred his brain. Nothing in the letter indicated the age of the child, the moniker Alex, the only clue.

Still the idea was not completely undesirable. He liked children well enough. That is, as long as they went home after an hour or so. Years ago, a few of his acquaintances succumbed to the parson’s mousetrap and found marital bliss. Their children littered his lawn during summer picnics and romped through the gardens. Their antics could almost be considered charming. Of course, he’d never contemplated having one of the little creatures himself. In fact, he’d taken every measure to ensure it never happened.

How bad could it be? He would teach the lad to play chess and fence; to perfect the ideal golf swing. Reluctance faded and Devlin Ravensdale, only Duke of Wharncliffe, warmed to the idea with a wry smile, and relished the thought of what the ton would say of his newfound responsibility.

Chapter Three

The following morning, Devlin’s booted feet clipped a persistent rhythm on the cobbles as he walked with purpose to the stables, a man on a mission. He’d instructed Reeston to have his most comfortable carriage made ready, his finest team, and a footman to accompany him to Aunt Min’s estate. Two days’ ride was not worthy of his biggest barouche as its cumbersome construction would hamper his travels, but he wished to make the best impression upon his new ward and did not know what baggage the young man might possess. Out of use for a number of years, the barouche appeared worse for the wear. Nevertheless, it would serve his purpose.

London wasn’t known for favourable weather, and the grey haze that filtered sparse rays of sunlight reminding him of the poor sleep he’d suffered the night before. After receiving such distressing news in twofold yesterday afternoon, he should have anticipated he would suffer the tremors. And yet even though he’d taken a late night brandy and retired early, he doubted thirty minutes passed before the episode began.

It was the same every time, although the degree to which the attack gripped him varied on occasion. He inevitably awoke with little remembrance, aside from his sweat-drenched night clothes and knotted bed linens. Reeston interceded when possible, his butler ever alert since Devlin suffered his worst episode a number of years ago.

On that evening he’d awoken the entire household with his nightmarish sounds, his thrashing causing the water pitcher and vase of flowers on the nightstand to crash to the floor. Unfortunately the episode occurred during a house party at the country estate of a friend. The details of his experience whipped through the servants like wildfire to extend to every guest in attendance and perpetuate the rumours of his madness.

And while there was no way to prevent an episode, Devlin surmised the tremors were prone to thrive when his underlying thoughts, more than his most immediate worries, were at unrest. Perhaps whenever he faced an unpleasant situation or butted nose to nose with a problem he could not solve. The few doctors whom he’d bothered to consult offered little advice. Instead, the episodes enabled him to become more comfortable within the life he’d established on his estate and supplied another reason to rarely leave home.

As he neared the stable, the barouche pulled forward, the Wharncliffe crest lacklustre in the mocking morning haze, a shadowy echo of his disposition. Orion, his horse, led the team. He was a prime example of a stallion and not just a fast ride, but a significant investment. When put to stud, the stallion would produce a stable full of excellent horseflesh.

Devlin reached up with his left hand to offer Orion’s nose an affectionate rub, as his right worked to check the bridle. Then he climbed the extended steps and settled inside just as the coachman fastened his case. With a sharp whistle, they lurched forward.

The ride proved uneventful through most of the first day with only his muddied thoughts for consideration. Saddened by the reason necessitating the journey to The Willows, he was curious of the lad he’d meet upon arrival and more than a bit plagued by his neglect.

How inexcusable that he’d practised such selfish complacency in his familial duties. His aunt deserved better; and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t had the time to spare. Often hours, days, blended together in monotonous routine with only an occasional chess game with Reeston or late dinner conversation spent in the kitchen with Cook to separate one week from another. Yet he had no ready answer aside from his desire to remain withdrawn within the sanctity of his dim existence.

Now, not far from his destination, the view from the barouche window appeared ominous. Black clouds obliterated any attempt at sunlight and the wind threatened a storm. Perhaps if he ordered the coachman to push the team harder, they would outrun the oncoming weather.

And then the worst happened. A sudden boom of thunder startled the horses and they reared, forcing the clumsy barouche to sway heavily to the right, a resounding crack was heard soon after. It was unmistakable to anyone familiar with vehicles. The carriage wheel had splintered and broken. The coachman jumped down into the steady rhythm of rain to make quick work of assessing the damage, only to report they could proceed no further.

Damn it all to Hades. Devlin scowled at no one in particular, and welcomed the foulest of moods. Determined to make it to The Willows before nightfall, he disconnected Orion from the team and barked directions to the coachman. Then donning his greatcoat and beaver hat, he galloped through the wind gusts like a man bent for hell. He travelled for more than an hour when he discerned his aunt’s estate perched on a small hill north of where the road turned. It appeared much as he remembered, a shadowy memory of the proper tutor house he knew as a child. He urged Orion through the pelting rain, aware the horse needed rest and anxious, too, to be out of his sodden clothes. His black hair whipped about his head as a strong burst of wind stole his hat and he tightened his jaw with determination, his clothes drenched for no help of the greatcoat that hung like a heavy burden across his shoulders.

Were anyone to view the rider who rode like a demon towards the little manor on the hill, they might experience an intense premonition of dread. They would wonder at his intentions, as lightning flashed brilliant and jagged through the sky, and thunder vibrated through the earth with tremulous anger, and they would label him insane for pursuing his journey in such miserable weather, but Devlin was not to be stopped. He leapt free before Orion slowed, and paused only long enough to lead the animal to shelter near the side of the estate, as no one came out to greet him. Then he moved with sure steps to the front door of the manor house, and dropped the knocker twice, eager to be out of the elements.

Grimley opened the door with haste and Devlin stepped inside. The wind followed on his heels to unsettle a few calling cards that remained on a salver near the entryway.

“Your Grace, we were not expecting you in such weather. You are drenched to the bone. You will catch the ague.”

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

“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

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.

“No, are you ready for my name? My father believed I was destined for great things. I am called Alexandra Elizabeth Patricia Grantchester. It is no wonder your Aunt Min preferred Alex.”

Devlin followed her glass as she took a small sip of wine. “With no disrespect to my aunt, there is nothing about you that is an Alex, Lady Alexandra.”

“You may be right, although I must confess my full name sounds rather old and stodgy. I didn’t mind the alternative.” She laughed again. A very pretty sound.

“Interesting. I will think on the matter then.” He matched her eyes over the rim of his goblet. She really was a delightful creature. Shan’t be any trouble to find her a match. A disquieting sensation settled in his stomach and he took another swallow of claret.

“We don’t stand on formality here and as Aunt Min often said, it is just too much of a mouthful.” She paused in wait of his reply, but he offered none. “Are you enjoying the soup, Your Grace?”

Had he tasted it?

“Delicious,” he murmured with effort.

A sudden yipping pulled his attention to the corner of the room where a white dog waited, a small bowl of food before him.

“Never mind my dog, Your Grace, he’s a jealous little fellow when excluded from the conversation.”

“By your own rules, you must call me Devlin.” He sat back as a footman removed his soup bowl and set a steaming plate in front of him. “Should I be afraid to ask your dog’s name? I am gripped with curiosity.” He’d anticipated uncomfortable conversation, so the playful banter that ensconced them with comfortable ease left him more than a little surprised.

“Oh, that’s just Henry.” She smiled with affection at the dog. “A spoiled little pup accustomed to demanding most of my attention.”

“I take it your father didn’t name your dog.” The humour wasn’t lost on her and she let out a sweet little laugh before glancing in his direction with a flick of her eyes. The exchange offered yet another glimpse of that fetching dimple in her right cheek.

Very nice. She proved clever as well.

He forced himself to focus on the meal. While far from extravagant, dinner tasted delicious, properly seasoned and freshly prepared. Hashed venison with shredded turnips evoked reminders of his childhood, and the second course of raised fowl pie with artichoke bottoms, proved the perfect cure to satisfy his hunger. He savoured the last bite and noted the steady rhythm of annoyed barking that continued from the corner. Alexandra set her napkin aside as Grimley appeared with impeccable timing.

“Dessert will be served in the grand salon.” He waited for neither acknowledgement nor direction, pausing only to gather the dog and remove him from the room much to Devlin’s pleasure.

“Well, Just Henry seems angry I’ve monopolized the conversation, but there is a matter of importance that needs to be addressed. Would you prefer we wait until after dinner?”

Alexandra stalled. Her eyes held his for a long stretch and something in her gaze caused his heartbeat to falter. He sat at the opposing end of the long dining room table, yet within the candlelight, without another soul to make conversation or interrupt the pleasant silence, their dinner seemed intimate as if a prelude to something more enticing or a promise offered. He banished the thoughts as they surfaced. Aunt Min must have been delirious to assign him this task. If he wasn’t mad already, and many days existed when he believed the gossipmongers’ opinion of his sanity, the thought of guardianship to this incredibly beautiful woman would be the one task that accomplished his journey into hell.

Chapter Six

The remainder of dinner passed in much the same manner. Devlin found Alexandra to be pleasant and witty, her company enjoyable. Now seated in his aunt’s elegant salon, he felt obliged to inform her of the situation. Yet it seemed the more he learned of her, the less keenly he anticipated having to share the fact that he was there to uproot her, return her to Kenley Manor, and see her married. She struck him as an intelligent creature, one who would not be over pleased to find her future no longer remained in her control.

He vowed to face the matter head on and walked to the sideboard for a fortifying brandy. Port was not going to do it. Grimley entered with a tray of sweets: biscuits, sugarplums and Shrewsbury cakes, their inviting lemon fragrance filling the air. He placed the platter on a round table between the two velvet settees. Devlin watched his ward sit down with grace and use the silver tongs to place a sugar biscuit on each plate. Ah, she enjoyed dessert as much as he.

What a plague to love sugar as he did. It required him to keep a rigorous schedule of exercise in order to avoid extra weight. Alexandra seemed to support all her weight in the very best places. She was slim but not without appreciative curves. He turned to his brandy with forced interest.

“What was it you wished to speak to me about, Devlin?”

Her use of his Christian name jolted him to attention and the liquor in his glass almost splashed over the rim.

Best have it out. Alexandra had to possess some idea, now that Aunt Min passed on. Perhaps Min had told her of the plan. Likely all this fretful consideration was for naught. He should state the facts and get on with it.

“Devlin?”

He realized he sat staring at the biscuit as if he’d never seen one before, lost in concentration about how to proceed until her soft-spoken enquiry broke him loose. He liked the sound of his name on her lips.

“We should discuss your relationship with my aunt. Her note was brief and her passing has ramifications. There is the will, of course, and the estate that reverts to me, but another matter exists.” His voice held a note of urgency that he fought to conceal. “In regard to your position and future.”

It was too much to hope she would supply the words to excuse him from the bitter explanation. If she already knew he’d been named her guardian, forced to relocate to Kenley Manor, much emotion and discussion could be avoided. Avoiding emotion was one of the things he did best. He finished the biscuit and reached for another.

“I’m not sure I understand. As you are aware, I served as your aunt companion’s for over two years. It was a very enjoyable time.” Alexandra dropped her eyes to her lap then picked up her dessert plate in a hesitant motion. She took another bite of the sugar biscuit before wiping her mouth daintily with the linen napkin. “At only one and twenty, I could look for another position.”

So very young. “What of your family, Lexi?”

Her lovely blue eyes flicked to his at the shortened form of her name, but she did not offer a remark. Devlin swore he saw the corner of her mouth curl.

“Oh, I really have no ties. That’s how I came to The Willows. I should seek another companion position with haste.”

He chose his words with caution. “Perhaps I am here to offer you a solution.” She would not like his next statement. He attacked another biscuit, determined to have out with it now.

“My solicitor met with me only days ago in regard to my aunt’s will. Everything was in order and, if you are not aware, Min arranged for a large settlement on your behalf.” Her only indication of surprise was the lift of her elegant brows. If he was a wagering man, and he never wagered, he’d bet it all she had no idea, and yet an even larger surprise awaited. She commented before he finished the thought.

“Your aunt was very generous. Her concern for my welfare proved she kept my best interest at heart.” Alexandra took another sip of her tea. Her eyes reflected genuine sorrow.

Devlin cursed under his breath. Having no family to speak of, the girl was truly alone. If he hadn’t arrived, if Aunt Min hadn’t arranged his guardianship…with disgust his feeble reasoning did little to assuage the statement he needed to deliver.

They both reached for the last biscuit at the same time. For a moment, they simply stared at each other and a subtle silent communication passed between them. Devlin wished he could read her mind, so clear were her eyes. Then she grinned at him, that troublesome dimple making an appearance, and she snapped the biscuit in half. They shared a chuckle and he returned her smile in kind. He doubted she would be smiling in another minute, though.

“I take it you are unaware my aunt arranged for your guardianship? For you to become my ward until such time as a suitable marriage can be arranged?” He spoke with tentative caution so one could only assume he was no more pleased with the delivery of the news than she might be.

Alexandra coughed, choking on the remainder of the biscuit.

Grimley’s timely appearance served to relieve the tension in the room. He swept in with the grace of an ever efficient servant and made quick work of clearing the service. Alexandra and Devlin sat in silence. And then her noisy little dog reappeared and launched himself upon the settee, failing miserably and flailing backwards. He rebounded and tried again, until Alexandra took pity and lifted the dog to her lap to stroke his fur. The pup answered with an eager jump to lick her chin.

Grimley left soon after, the only sound now the panting of a ridiculously energetic terrier.

“Just Henry seems to think you are his dessert.” Devlin envied the little animal. His declaration had chased away all conviviality and Just Henry remained a welcomed addition to the room, unlike himself.

“I must tell you, Your Grace, I’m surprised by your news.”

So he was Your Grace again. He grimaced, aware he needed to explain the more intricate details of the request within the documents he’d received.

Alexandra rose to pace the room, dumping Just Henry unceremoniously at her feet. “Marriage? And that is a condition to the settlement?”

“I believe it would serve as your dowry, the use of the money to be determined by your betrothed.”

Alexandra scoffed, a flush of anger warming her cheeks. So lovely. Who would have guessed Aunt Min kept such a stunning English rose hidden away at The Willows?

“And I am to accept this? I have no say in my future again.” Emotion riddled each word as she paced, her black skirts swishing around the panting dog who matched her every step.

Ah, so the English rose did have a past. It was an interesting twist in the unfolding story. He watched her strides slow, could almost see her mind at work. Truly, he’d underestimated her intelligence.

A determined glint lit her enchanting blue eyes as she strode forward. “I don’t accept. I refuse.”

She stated the five words as if they weren’t laughable and, devil take him, he laughed. He transformed the misplaced reaction with a gruff cough and regained his composure in a swift act of better judgement. “I don’t believe you have a choice. Not only was it my aunt’s dying wish, but it is legally binding. You are now my responsibility.”

Her answer clipped the final syllables of his response. “I’ll wager you for my freedom.”

“What?” He almost missed her meaning, ensconced in determining how she would fit within his unusual existence. “Oh, I never wager. Sorry, Lexi. It is what it is.”

“Don’t call me that, Your Grace. You claim I am your charge now. I would prefer Lady Alexandra.”

An aborted snort of amusement escaped before he could think better of it.

“That was uncalled for.”

Wounded eyes glanced in his direction and an apology bloomed on his tongue. Ridiculous. The Duke of Wharncliffe never apologized.

Yet she persisted.

“One game of chess. Or the best out of three. Winner decides my future.”

With due understanding, she would not let the matter drop, but her challenge immediately gained his attention. “You play chess?” Now that intrigued him. “How did you come by the skill?” He strode to the chess table near the far window and palmed the black king. He always played black. He always won. Hadn’t found an opponent yet daring enough to take the risks he did with his pieces. And so the game grew stale. Even he didn’t like to win every time. Where lay the challenge in that?

“Your aunt taught me, of course. We played often.”

His brow climbed in question. Aunt Min despised chess. Or at least she led him to believe it so. True, one’s interests could change over time. Temptation whispered in his ear. He hadn’t had a good opponent in ages. How well could she play? He surveyed her stance near the fireplace. She met his assessment with an inborn confidence and a challenging gleam in her eye.

So she would stake her future on the game. If nothing else, it would prove entertainment for the evening and deflect unwanted feelings linked to Aunt Min’s passing; although the notion paled when he considered the redundancy of forging the bargain when one already knew the outcome.

He picked up the white queen and tossed it across the salon. She captured it in a smooth arc of her hand.

“Let’s play.”

Chapter Seven

Alexandra’s body swayed with the steady jarring of the coach, yet her glare never wavered as she eyed Devlin under lowered lids. The barouche, newly repaired, had arrived on cue that morning as if summoned by the devil himself. That devil, Wharncliffe, sat across from her now. Neither of them had spoken a word since last evening when he’d made quick work of winning their chess matches.

He’d extended her another opportunity, a tournament of three out of five games and gone so far as to claim he enjoyed their wager, ready to offer new stakes, but she was no fool to fall further into his debt.

He proved a masterful chess player. She watched his adept fingers move the pieces about the board through intricate plays exceeding anything she’d read in a book or practised on her own. How foolish she’d been to bargain with him. And she had lost.

When he did not appear at breakfast, Grimley informed her of Devlin’s desire to leave and she’d walked to the foyer alone with her single valise and small travelling bag. Henry followed, yipping at her heels. She’d picked him up with a wry smile, confident and pleased the combination of the confinement of a barouche, two days’ travel and a rambunctious terrier would annoy the duke tremendously.

And yet for all her misery, there was no denying Devlin Ravensdale composed a breathtaking sample of a man. He rested now, his head against the velvet cushion of the back bench, his eyes closed. Did he sleep? She could not be sure.

She’d heard Grimley enquire of his night’s rest in a manner overly concerned, but then too, she’d been distracted by her own situation to give the comment due attention. He did look weary when they’d first entered the barouche.

She continued her perspicacious perusal of his person. His body, long and lean, was proportioned to the perfect cut of his clothing. Impeccable clothing, made by a very precise tailor, no doubt. For all the biscuits he seemed to enjoy, his physique showed no trace of fat. She blinked away the thought of all his strong, hard muscle. Nothing at all like Henry Addington.

Odd, that sudden and obtuse comparison. Henry seemed a boy compared to this man, a simple respectable gentleman. His Grace likely sent a string of ladies into a swoon on a regular basis. When she first met him in the stable, the dim light and newborn colt saved her from embarrassment as her breath came up short and her hands trembled. The visceral reaction proved difficult to ignore and unsettled her usual levelheaded demeanour. And when he’d lifted her atop his horse, as if she was nothing more than a bag of feathers, and rode with her back to the manor house, the muscles of his legs pressed against the horse, pressed against her—

She shook her head to stop her wayward thoughts.

Her gaze travelled to his hands placed atop his waistcoat, his fingers folded in repose. He wore a gold signet ring on his right hand and his fingernails were well trimmed and polished. She’d watched them reach into his waistcoat pocket in search of a little metal tin, of which she hoped was not tobacco or snuff. She hadn’t seen evidence of such use, but could not fathom what else he’d keep captive there. His watch fob and chain were golden, linked from one end of his pocket to the other and not visible where his coat hung open.

Abandoning all propriety and convinced he must surely be asleep, she raised her eyes to his face, enthralled in examination of his person. His hair could not be blacker if he bathed it in soot. Its glossy richness reflected sunlight in blue, and no doubt felt silkier than satin to the touch. It wasn’t overly long and definitely not stylish. A sudden jolt of the barouche sent a lock rakishly over his brow and her fingertips itched to tuck it into place.

How unfair for a man to possess such ruggedly entrancing good looks. His dark brows slashed straight to give the appearance of seriousness, although at the hearty rumble of his laughter when she proposed her challenge last evening, she surmised he enjoyed humour well enough. His nose was chiselled in proportion to his sharp chin, wrapped with the thinnest beard she’d ever seen. How might it feel to kiss a man with whiskers? She shifted on the bench and reached for Henry, offering a rub to the sleeping pup’s belly in a familiar habit. Devlin’s whiskers could not possibly feel the same.

She raised her eyes to his face. Devlin stared back with such clarity he likely never slept at all. A shiver passed through her with the realization, still she couldn’t look away. His eyes, framed with lashes black as midnight and twice as thick, held her with hypnotic strength as if striving with unsettling intensity to peer inside her soul. Mortification crept up her neck and further to her ears in the form of a deep blush.

He cleared his throat with an audacious chuckle.

Luckily Henry interceded with a sharp bark, a clear signal the dog needed to make use of a nearby field.

Devlin tapped the carriage roof and signalled to stop. Once outside, he spoke to the footman and Alexandra hurried down the steps and into a grassy area with Henry, although she swore she heard Wharncliffe’s laughter chase after her.

He waited by the stairs to hand her up when she returned.

“Just Henry can ride atop with John. Your dog will be in good hands and it will allow the pup fresh air.”

He handed Henry atop the seat before she objected, although it did make sense and would serve Henry well. Having begun the trip so early, they’d travelled more than halfway to London, and it was as if Devlin read her thoughts when he mentioned his intentions.

“I’ve advised the driver to travel straight through if that is agreeable with you. Given your lack of maid or chaperone, and the haste we make in an effort to return to London, I thought it best to complete our travels as soon as possible.”

He handed her into the barouche and settled on the other side. Again good sense prevailed. The sooner she reposed in the privacy of her own bedchamber, the sooner she could plan the next step in her life. No matter Aunt Min’s well-intended gesture, Alexandra knew with assurance she would salvage the situation yet.

Devlin reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced the same tin she’d puzzled over earlier.

“Cinnamon candy?” He enquired in an amused tone. Could he read her mind? Divine her thoughts? There was something persistent and unsettling about how neatly his questions aligned with her own.

The next afternoon, Alexandra’s restless anticipation escalated as the carriage approached Kenley Manor. She would give her little finger to exit the confinement of the coach and breathe open air. They’d travelled at a breakneck speed through the night, with only necessary stops. After much effort, she’d found an awkward form of sleep, and settled into a fitful slumber, but now the remnants of their haphazard travel wore her temperament to the bone.

His Grace appeared no better. He’d deliberately dozed during the day with the intention of staying awake throughout the night. She could only assume he did so for a measure of safety, but she hesitated on drawing any obvious conclusions. She’d never mixed much in society, yet prided her ability to decipher the male mind, her father and Addington simplistic in their thinking. Yet Devlin proved something altogether different; the man’s reasoning as mysterious as his appearance. She would need to work harder to decipher his manner of consciousness.

At least Henry proved no bother and found a comfortable blanket and a new friend on the top bench with the footman.

The barouche made a turn onto the long drive leading to Devlin’s estate and Alexandra could no longer contain her impatience. How she yearned for a hot bath and a comfortable bed. With restless anticipation she peered out the window, the drive lined with walnut trees, their leaves a mottled green. There was not another house for as far as the eye could see, the property so expansive. Right at the center stood Kenley Manor, if one could label the large building as a single household. Her breath caught and she dismissed it as need for fresh air, yet with each revolution of the carriage wheels, her mind spun faster.

Brick upon brick, the home rose to the sky, each level marked by varying sized windows, the tallest at the top to accommodate the high ceilings indicative of the most opulent rooms. Concrete balconies complimented the upper sash windows, a few overlooking a cobblestone walkway, and pilasters outlined the massive front doors. The grounds were impeccably manicured and instead of appearing over-run by the verdant green ivy that crept up the north wall, the blanket of green appeared perfectly placed.

She exited the coach and a line of servants assembled to angle up the manor steps in a makeshift processional that echoed a formality she’d never have paired with Wharncliffe. Again, she amended her thoughts. He was a member of the aristocracy, after all.

Much to her surprise, Devlin had sent a messenger ahead and she was introduced to each member of the household. Considering the series of events that led her to Kenley Manor in the course of two short days, her heart softened at the unexpected gesture.

Perhaps her stay would not prove so terrible. She glanced over her shoulder to see her new guardian in discussion with Reeston, the butler. He held Henry captive at his side in an attempt to prevent the pup from tearing through the long hall on an adventure to explore the new surroundings. Henry’s tail wagged with furious enthusiasm. Such a striking contrast, the angry little white pup in the arms of the dark duke. His butler said something and a smile graced Devlin’s lips. For an odd moment, he appeared vulnerable and her breath caught. He must have sensed her attention as he turned in her direction. His eyes caught hers and held for longer than was proper, her heart hammering in her chest triple time. Surely everyone on the steps could hear it. With a little gasp of surprise at her sudden rush of emotion, she averted her attention and followed the housemaid upstairs.

Chapter Eight

Tillie was the most talkative individual Alexandra had ever met. The petite maid, whose dark brown curls bobbed with as much energy as her conversation, spoke non-stop all the way to the west wing, quite a distance from their point of origin. Oh, it was refreshing to hear everything the young girl shared, but to have it rattled at such speed and quantity after the long confinement of her travels was enough to send Alexandra to bed for the night. But of course, that would be unacceptable. Tillie had already informed her of the menu, the guests in attendance, and of the expectations for the evening. The young maid was a force to be reckoned with, of that Alexandra was sure, yet she meant well and possessed the smile of an angel.

“Well, here we are. It is a wonder His Grace ordered this wing opened for your arrival. No one stays in this part of the estate. Well, not since his parents.” Tillie paused and took a much needed breath, although the silence lasted only that long. “In you go, then.” The maid pushed open the door and stepped aside as Alexandra entered a large guest bedroom decorated in varied shades of pink. Floral tapestries decorated the walls and evoked an instant smile.

“I’ve gone ahead and arranged for your bath in the next room, milady.” Tillie opened the compact travelling valise placed on the bedchamber floor. How a footman had visited her room so quickly caused Alexandra to wonder at the efficiency of Wharncliffe’s servants. Impeccable, of course, in tune to his clothing. She set her personal bag on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed.

“Please, Tillie, you must call me Alexandra. Everyone does.” Well, almost everyone. A sudden flash of Devlin’s amused grin shot to mind. She pulled the pins from her hair and ran her fingers through the knotty mess. It would present a challenge to untangle her hair in any semblance of order before dinner. She hoped Tillie was as skilful with the toilette as she was in information dispersal.

“I could never do so, milady, but I thank you for your kindness.” The maid curtseyed and turned to leave.

“As you wish, although I am sure we will be great friends. A bath is just what I need.” Alexandra walked across the room and picked up her travelling bag. “Shall I ring for you when I am ready to dress for dinner?”

“Of course, milady. You will have a grand time at dinner. Viscount Fenhurst is expected as well as his sister, and they are lively company. Lord Fenhurst is His Grace’s very best chum. They grew up side by side. His sister, Lady Julia, was quite the tagalong through all their adventures. I suppose she still follows a bit now, but then that’s to be expected when you see the way she admires His Grace.” Tillie took a necessary breath. “But I keep you from your bath with my chatter.” The maid curtseyed again and left the room.

Alexandra smiled in relief. She collapsed against the back of the door to enjoy the solitude. Then she fairly skipped to the next room and sank into the steaming hot tub of bubbles.

Devlin stared at the Oriental rug and focused on the small leather bag resting on a makeshift holder. He arched both arms backwards in a long, swift stroke and brought the wooden club down through to completion. The ball shot forward, out through the opened terrace doors, as an enthusiastic bark sounded in the distance below.

“Nice shot, I say. Have you improved or does my eyesight fail me?” Phineas Betcham, Viscount Fenhurst, strode into the study and veered left to the brandy decanter. “Reeston no longer bothers to announce me. This whole laissez-faire attitude with the servants is going to come back to haunt you some day.” He poured himself a healthy portion and settled on the brown leather sofa while Devlin set for another shot.

The slice of the club sheering the air was the only sound in the room for the next moment. Then Devlin turned and smiled. “My staff is my family as much as you are, Phin. You know that. I can’t stand on tradition when there are many evenings Reeston might be in here chatting about golf instead of you.” He fixed another ball on the well-worn strip of carpet used as a beginning point. “Besides, they’ve all seen me through so much, what difference does a title make when you consider the bigger picture?” He glanced out of the terrace doors, lowered his head and took another swing. A series of deep barks could be heard after the ball launched.

“Don’t tell me King is outside cheering you on?” Phin viewed him, amused.

“I’ve taught him to retrieve the bags. Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Devlin angled his club against the corner of the sofa and walked to the sideboard to pour a drink.

“You have entirely too much time on your hands, Dev.”

“I know. Isn’t it great?” He chuckled, although his expression faltered. “And where is the lovely Lady Julia? You did speak to her, did you not?” Devlin tried to sustain a nonchalant air but in truth, much depended upon his friend’s answer.

“Of course I brought my sister. She’s flittering about somewhere downstairs. Did you think Julia would stay home if she knew I planned to visit?” Phin didn’t say more. They were keenly aware of the comment’s implication. Julia held a long-running entendre for Devlin, and while no one was supposed to acknowledge it and the lady in question did her very best to hide her feelings, Phineas and Devlin had known about the crush for years. At times it was uncomfortable. Still there was nothing to be done about it. Phineas introduced her to dozens of bachelors, aside from the attention she drew herself, yet as far as Devlin knew, her ardour had not lessened over the years.

“Well, what did she say about my ward? Did you explain the situation? Ask her to do me the favour? Help launch Alexandra?”

“You are an audacious scoundrel, Devlin Ravensdale. Sending me to do your dirty work. As if she’d refuse. Julia is exceedingly enthusiastic about the entire notion. She asked me dozens of questions of which I had no ready answers. Meanwhile, I am sure in her mind she anticipates all the time she will spend here with the off chance you might meander through the parlour or invite her to stay for tea.”

“I don’t drink tea.”

“Not the point. I just don’t want to see her hurt. No matter what I do or say, she still entertains the thought someday you will look at her and … uh, I can’t even say it.” Phineas finished his brandy and set the glass down, anxious to change the subject. “So tell me about your ward, what’s she like?” He waggled his brows and Devlin returned a severe scowl.

“There will be none of that.” The finality in his statement caused his friend to chuckle.

“Oh come now, you went to The Willows expecting a lad and instead discovered a young lady awaiting your protection. You’re going to tell me you didn’t notice what she looks like? How old is she anyway?”

“One and twenty.” Devlin’s retort was half answer, half growl.

“Oh, so young. And you’re to see her married? That could take years.”

Phineas had the insolence to laugh again. Despite his friend stood taller and broader, Devlin wanted to hit him. He finished his brandy instead. “It won’t take years, and you and I are not that much older than one and twenty.”

“Ridiculous. It seems like that part of my life, the carefree easy days, are quite some time ago.”

There was a bit of commotion outside, King’s rough bark followed by a sharper, high-pitched yip.

“As if you aren’t carefree now. Who do you think you’re talking to?” Devlin strode to the terrace doors and out onto the balcony. He scowled as Phineas took his place beside him.

Below, Devlin’s English sheepdog pursued Alexandra’s white terrier; the two engaged in a merry chase. The small pup was quicker and able to dart and change direction with the agility of a rabbit. Meanwhile King was overweight and cumbersome from partaking of too many sugar biscuits with his owner. His bark was the most energetic portion of his effort.

“King! Henry! Stop that at once!”

The twittering of laugher that floated up to the balcony caused the men to peer over the railing.

“Hell’s teeth.” Devlin’s scowl grew darker. Directly below, Ladies Alexandra and Julia stared up at the two of them, their laughter barely contained, not just at the scene before them but at the ridiculous nature of his exclamation, too.

Meanwhile, at his left, Phineas eyed Alexandra and muttered with emphatic appreciation, “Oh my.”

Chapter Nine

“I think we should plan a ball or some kind of social.” Julia’s eyes lit with her suggestion and Alexandra smiled in amusement at her new friend’s overflowing enthusiasm.

Devlin did not intend to be the wet hat, but the thought of anyone other than the few chosen people that frequented Kenley Manor descending upon his home was out of the question. Alexandra may be unaware of the rampant gossip attached to the Wharncliffe name, but he would not have her opportunity to make a match sullied by the rumour mill.

“Absolutely not. I do not want anyone coming here. This is my home.” The finality in his tone stunted Julia’s usual rebuttal. They reclined in the study having finished an enjoyable dinner filled with light-hearted conversation. After which they’d chased down the dogs and separated them. Ridiculous, really. King would not leave Just Henry alone.

Just Henry.

Devlin enjoyed the quip, most especially as every time he used it, he was guaranteed another glimpse at the adorable dimple in Lexi’s right cheek.

“Don’t be unreasonable, Dev. Somehow we are going to have to get social.”

Devlin was confident Phin knew better than to share his reasons for dropping from each season’s activities. He’d made an honest effort to appear at social events over the years, but it soon became evident that the draw to such events was the Mad Duke of Kenley Manor’s attendance. It was his character, his family history, and the exaggerated story attached to it, that provoked whispers in the corner, as if catching a glimpse of him was a rare and sought after experience. The whole thing turned Devlin’s stomach and he withdrew from society the same way one dropped a poker resting in the fire too long. Eventually the invitations stopped coming. He was in no hurry to see them renew. For the most part, the life he led suited him without complaint.

“Dev?” Phin reached across the mantel and rapped his arm. “Are you with us this evening?”

“Yes. Excuse me. Of course, we’ll get social.” Devlin took a moment to exhale and clear his thoughts. “Let’s just do it somewhere else.”

“I can ask Mother to plan a ball for Father’s birthday, Phin. That’s only a week away and if we make a concerted effort we can arrange a small affair with the most selective guest list.” Julia leaned forward, more animated with each word. “I know all the most eligible bachelors, Alexandra, and I will be sure to see my mother invites each one of them.”

Separating from where the ladies sat on the settee, Devlin turned to Phin with dark suspicion. “What is your sister up to? I don’t trust that look in her eye. I’ve seen it over the years and it never leads to anything good.”

“I don’t know.” Phin glanced to his sister. “You don’t suppose she’s trying to make you jealous, do you?” Both men shared a withered look.

“Good God, I hope not. Talk of eligible bachelors and the choicest men is exactly the conversation I want to hear. Maybe your sister can find herself a match while we seek a husband for Lexi.”

“Lexi?” Phin raised his brow in question as a mocking smile broke loose.

“Never mind the name. Figure out a solution. I have it in mind we get both girls wedded so we can enjoy some peace and quiet. Then I can continue to work on my golf game.”

“And you think it’s that easy? I tell you, it is highly unlikely unless you are considering marriage yourself. My sister has a one-track mind. Make that a one-man mind. Do something to discourage her, for heaven’s sake. Golf and your other eccentric tendencies fail to mar your appeal. Take to drinking too much or chewing tobacco. Claim your seat in Parliament and oppose the Corn Laws. Stop looking so damnable dashing.”

“Why, Phin, I had no idea.” Grinning, Devlin strode to the corner and lifted one of his clubs from the case. His friend followed, enjoying the foolishness of their banter.

“How much do you spend on clothing anyway? It isn’t a masculine trait to be so preoccupied with one’s appearance.”

Devlin pivoted, his club at rest by his side. “Oh, you remind me. Could Julia take Alexandra to a modiste? She arrived with the smallest valise in existence. I can’t imagine much is in there besides the horrid black gowns she keeps producing. There is no way she is going to any function, never mind your father’s birthday party, dressed like the Dowager Duchess of Darkness.”

“Very clever.”

“Not really. I just switched the name out. One of my old labels in the gossip rags. Mad Duke of Darkness. You remember?”

To another, there wouldn’t have been notice, but Phin reached out and touched his shoulder, and Devlin knew his friend could read his emotion as easily as he knew his own.

“By the by, you failed to mention how becoming your new ward is.”

Devlin answered his comment with a malevolent stare and Phin stepped back with palms raised.

“A simple observation.”

His friend almost chuckled but better judgement changed his mind.

“Don’t get any ideas.” Devlin’s growled response caused Phin’s eyebrows to climb; yet it was hard to deny his friend’s classic profile and rugged appeal irritated. “And stop looking at me like that. She’s too young for you anyway.” The well-known fact that a gaggle of women twittered over Phin’s golden brown hair and unique amber eyes at every social affair deepened Devlin’s annoyance.

“Earlier today you said we weren’t much older than one and twenty.”

Devlin knew his friend was jibing him but all at once he was in no mood. “That’s not what I meant. You should pay better attention.” And then he rapped Phin in the leg with his golf club, because it felt good to do so.

“Ouch. What was that for?” Phineas leaned forward and rubbed his shin. “What are you going to do about a chaperone? Propriety dictates your ward have a respectable chaperone.”

Devlin grimaced in visible disgust. “Propriety is overrated. I refuse to invite some doddering old maid in here to oversee every move I make.”

“But you will have to do something once Alexandra enters society.”

Was it necessary for Phin to belabour the subject? “I don’t know. I’ll just make someone up if anyone asks.”

Phineas began to chuckle until he realized his friend was serious. “You can’t do that.”

It was said in such an incredulous tone, Devlin found humour instead. “Of course I can. I make my own rules. Remember?”

“Devlin, Phineas, come over here please, I think we have it all worked out.” The men shared a glance before they moved across the room to join the ladies. Devlin knew Julia’s level of determination once an idea took hold of her brain. It was damn near impossible to dissuade her. At times her vociferous manner proved overwhelming.

“Alexandra and I have it all planned.”

It was easy to get lost in Julia’s chatter and Devlin took to comparing the two ladies seated across from him. They couldn’t be more dissimilar. While both ladies were attractive in their own right, their colouring was different, their poise. Even in that horrid high-necked black dress, Alexandra’s beauty shone apparent. Julia tried too hard; her hair curled and cut in the most popular style, her gowns as current as possible. What would Alexandra look like in a fashionable gown, ribbons in her hair, diamonds around her neck? She had a graceful neck, lithe and smooth, the perfect pathway for kisses.

With an abrupt shake of the head, he stopped himself. What was this foolish game he’d indulged in the past few days? She was his ward, not a subject for his fantasies. He had a job to do, an obligation to his dear aunt. Viewed in its true light, it seemed incredibly selfish he might entertain improper thoughts … but damn it, his mind had no trouble at all conjuring erotic dreams with little effort. He passed a hand over his face and forced his attention to Julia. If he stared at her long enough maybe he would forget who sat beside her, but the outcome of his plan seemed doubtful.

“I am so excited. This will be the event of the season and we only have a week to get you ready.”

Julia could rival Tillie in a conversation competition. Did the girl need to breathe? Granted the thought of a social gathering, of new gowns and accessories, thrilled Alexandra. At The Willows, Aunt Min rarely entertained, and when she did, the median age of her social circle tripled Alexandra’s years. Few exchanges with anyone remotely familiar with current fashions were offered. She smiled ruefully at the memory.

Attending a few social functions and becoming acquainted with people in London would not be altogether unappealing. It could prove enthralling if she allowed herself the emotion. Of course there was the whole notion of finding her a husband and seeing her wed with utmost expediency, but that consideration was unthinkable. She would cross that bridge when needed. Julia appeared determined to prepare a list of eligible bachelors and Alexandra would make a concerted effort to meet the gentlemen. It wasn’t as though she was averse to the idea of marriage. It was the forcing of her hand that caused the rebellion.

Her thoughts wandered to Henry. He wasn’t a distasteful man. In truth, most of her father’s listed traits for an admirable husband rang true. And her father fell hard, completely smitten, with the man. Despite Henry’s respect and favour, Alexandra felt nothing for him other than a vague friendship. She was not so shortsighted that she could not understand her father’s deep desire for a son. Yet to sacrifice one’s only child’s happiness in an attempt to gain a selfish wish; that solitary fact of having no choice in her future ignited her desire to leave Brentwood. How could she remain when her father regarded her own happiness as unimportant?

She hadn’t been a difficult child to raise. Even without a mother’s guidance, she’d been an obedient and respectful daughter, eager to please her father. How dismaying to realize her wishes mattered so little. When her father mentioned securing a special licence to have her wed quickly and it became clear he would no longer discuss the subject or listen to her objections, Alexandra panicked. Were she to stay, she knew she would live a life of regret and remorse forced upon her by a decision she had never made. The thought of that bleak future caused her heart to ache. If she knew her father as she believed she did, he probably courted Henry still. She hoped they lived happily ever after.

“So, I will return tomorrow morning and we’ll be off to the modiste. Devlin says you are to have whatever you want. Can you just imagine, Alex? Think of the gowns!”

Alexandra’s eyes flared with compunction. Caught in the web of her own thoughts, it appeared her entire week had been segmented into an overwhelming list of appointments at the dressmaker’s, milliner’s and boot fitters. Devlin must have sensed her hesitation because he interjected without pause and politely escorted his friends to the door.

“A bit of a whirlwind, isn’t she?” Devlin returned and pulled the bell pull to summon Reeston. “I hope she hasn’t monopolized all your time this week. I thought you would enjoy a rematch.” She watched as Devlin picked up the white queen from his marble chess board and tossed it playfully in his left hand.

“Oh, I doubt Julia left even one minute of my daily schedule unconsidered. I only hope I have the stamina to endure the rigours of her plans.”

Alexandra took a few steps closer, her hair once again loosened by the silver combs sliding out of place. She pushed back the thick coil at the base of her neck in hope to forestall the inevitable. She couldn’t know that Devlin stood there watching her, wondering what it might feel like to slide his fingers into the silky lengths of her hair, to pull out the pins and combs and bury his face in its glorious waves. Instead, she slanted him a sceptical glance and waited as he tossed the queen, his eyes intent on hers. Slowly his expression changed. The fire cracked in the box and the air around them became charged with unsaid emotion. Her breathing slowed and she warmed from the inside out.

Someone had to breech the silence and dispatch the unsettling feeling that the two of them were forging some type of relationship, yet she was reluctant to do so. If only when she stared into his eyes she could read the dark emotion she saw there, but his gaze remained indecipherable, lost in a wary sweep of lashes. With the next breath she gasped, broken from the spell as he tossed the white queen in her direction. Her laughter punctuated the moment as she caught the queen with ease.

“Well then, I suggest you get plenty of rest, Lexi.”

The intensity of his gaze never wavered and he stared at her, perhaps looking for some kind of acknowledgement that she didn’t hear the raw need in his voice. But she did hear it. Some kind of unnamed emotion laced his words as they stood motionless with only firelight to cast flickering shadows between them.

When he spoke again, his voice fell low and husky. “Julia is a force to be reckoned with when she is on a mission, and you are her favourite project at the moment.”

“I am not altogether sure I will be able to rest knowing my fate for the morning.” She attempted to keep the mood light-hearted, but an unfamiliar current whispered through the room. She reached forward and extended her arm, offering him the chess piece.

At first she didn’t think he would take it. He stood there and stared at the ivory piece lying in the palm of her hand for several heavy heartbeats, making little inclination he would move at all. But then he came forward with a powerful stride, and his left hand snatched the chess piece while his right grasped her hand underneath. He brought her palm to his lips in one smooth movement, yet the kiss he placed there was slow and deliberate, almost tender. As he withdrew, the line of his beard brushed the pads of her fingertips and her fingers curled in reflex as if to capture the caress and hold it safe.

She didn’t see his eyes as he excused himself with nothing more than a curt goodnight. She didn’t have to. Something had changed in the time they’d remained in the study. Alexandra could not name it, but she knew without a doubt it existed.

Chapter Ten

“Reeston.” The butler reversed mid-step at the sound of his name and pivoted as Devlin entered the main hall. “I expect Derwent at any moment. I will be in my study. Show him up directly.” He strode towards the mahogany staircase and only paused as Reeston replied.

“Of course, Your Grace. Shall I have a room prepared? Are we to acquire another house guest?”

It served well that his back was turned to his butler’s droll enquiries and Devlin stopped an appreciative grin with sufficient speed before he spun to counter the jest. His mood seemed much improved of late. For that matter, so did the butler’s. It would appear his ward was not only lovely, but infectiously kind. Her ever-affable nature affected everyone who came in contact with her, whether they liked it or not.

He offered the servant a belated nod. “No, but it is a matter of great importance. We will take coffee. Send it up immediately. I hope this meeting is not a waste of my time.” The latter was said more to himself than anyone else, but then he raised his voice as he remembered another directive that need be given.

“And do not allow Fenhurst to interrupt us. This is serious business. Somehow whenever Phineas enters a room, things go awry.”

“Very good, Your Grace. If Lord Fenhurst arrives, shall I suggest he spend time with Lady Alexandra in the gardens?”

“No.” It may have been a dose of male competitiveness that invaded his tetchy answer. Devlin did not ponder it further. Instead, he made his way up the stairs and into his study. He settled behind his desk set to accomplish the accumulated paperwork, but Derwent arrived less than ten minutes later. The solicitor appeared more at ease than the last time he’d visited, and he took a seat after accepting a cup of hot coffee.

“I received your reply to my enquiry and expect you have answers to share. As I expressed in my letter, if I am to serve as Lady Alexandra’s guardian I need to know as much about her background as possible. Does she have any family? Brothers or sisters? If so, why doesn’t she ever speak of them? What circumstances brought her to The Willows? That sort of thing.”

A palpable impatience laced his words. He’d hardly dispensed with pleasantries before requesting the results Derwent uncovered. Meanwhile the solicitor did not miss the cue and replaced his cup in the saucer before he reached for the packet of papers he’d previously set beside the leg of his chair.

“I am afraid there is not much to share, Your Grace. Apparently, your aunt was not one to ask many questions. Her staff has been kind enough to speak to me on your behalf, but they knew very little about your ward. Grimley noted your aunt had no desire to pry into Lady Alexandra’s background and that she sensed the young lady possessed a good heart and a gentle soul.” Derwent cleared his throat after the last bit.

Devlin would be hard put to argue with his aunt’s assessment, although it would have been prudent for Min to insist upon knowing more before she welcomed a stranger into her home. He cursed himself for the umpteenth time for not being more diligent in his visits. Had he ventured to The Willows at any time in the past two years the situation today might be entirely different. The notion gave him pause. Then he blew out a short breath and continued to interrogate the solicitor.

“What of the reference list she offered pursuant to the position of companion? Were you able to discover anything about her past? Why am I paying you if you’ve shown up here to tell me absolutely nothing?” He made no effort to disguise his frustration, more than a little curious as to Alexandra’s past and how it might affect her future. He noticed whenever the topic arose, Lexi was rather circumspect about her years spent prior to The Willows, and she proved far too clever to get caught in any of his little conversational traps. It left him with few alternatives. Aunt Min specifically asked him not to beleaguer her with questions, yet hiring another person to uncover information seemed to fall into a sketchy area that neither bothered nor laboured his conscience.

The sum of the facts didn’t make sense. What type of circumstance would prompt a young lady to leave home and apply for a position of companion to an elderly woman living in the countryside, virtually cutting herself off from the rest of society? Disappointment narrowed his eyes as he slued his attention to the solicitor. He’d hoped to learn more about his ward. Instead, Lexi remained a perplexing little mystery.

“If you discover anything of importance, pursue it vigorously. It is inconceivable that Lady Alexandra originated out of thin air one morning on my late aunt’s doorstep. Look harder, Derwent, and uncover the answers I seek. Then act on them. Coming here to report nothing is a waste of time for both of us.” He stood to signal their time was at an end and the solicitor gathered his things and left.

Devlin returned to the chair behind his desk and sat down with heavy thoughts. He steepled his fingers and stared into the vivid flames ablaze in the firebox. Answers. He needed answers. Perhaps Lexi confided in members of his household. It was a legitimate consideration. She did spend a bit of time with Cook on occasion and although Reeston would never admit to it, the butler had taken a liking to her. They chatted more often than not after breakfast before everyone began their busy day. Would it be so wrong to ask the man for a few answers? Reeston wouldn’t be easy to read, but at this point it was worth a try.

With his decision made, Devlin stood up and made his way to the main hall intent on finding his butler. Unfortunately, when he arrived the area was empty. He glanced around the room, one dark brow arched at his quick observations, nary a detail unnoticed. A looming hallstand complete with mirror aligned against the far wall. A tapestry chair, overstuffed and upholstered in a faded print shot with sage green and goldenrod, complimented the hallstand’s position. A fringed pillow with a white floral design now graced the seat.

There was no mistaking a female resided at Kenley Manor. Alexandra had hardly been present during the past few days due to shopping excursions and gown fittings, yet little traces a woman lived in the manor were now evident. Devlin donned a knowing smile at the vase of fresh pink roses gracing the entryway lowboy and summoned Reeston with a bellowing shout.

“You need me, Your Grace.”

Cocky fellow. He stated it rather than asked. “Yes, I do. I’ve noticed a few things …” His voice trailed off as his stare rested on the bouquet, two such bouquets actually, placed at opposite ends of the foyer.

“Yes, the flowers. One of the maids heard Lady Alexandra comment on their beauty as she sat in the garden yesterday afternoon. I believe the maid thought it pleasant to bring them indoors.” When Devlin didn’t comment, Reeston continued. “It is a little thing.”

“I suppose. But they are pink. Perhaps the yellow or white can come in tomorrow.” He brushed past his butler, slowing as he heard Reeston’s soft spoken enquiry.

“And did you sleep well, Your Grace?”

It was so like Reeston to enquire about his health, his sleep habits, the old man a makeshift father to him over the years. In truth, Reeston proved better. His father was nothing more than a source of disappointment.

“Oddly, I have experienced only one episode since the news of my aunt’s death. It is a welcome respite with all the activity that has besieged my home.” He grimaced and tried to don a look of annoyance, but Devlin was no fool and knew Reeston could detect his reluctant pleasure.

“She does add a bit of brightness to the manor, wouldn’t you say?” The butler cleared his voice and adjusted a flower in the vase to his right in an attempt to feign disinterest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He would be damned if he would admit how much the house had come alive with the addition of his ward and her slightly crazed puppy. “Remember yellow or white roses in the future. I won’t have people entering my home and thinking me a Mary.”

He might have stormed off with that edict, as it was definitely a suitable exit line, but the knocker sounded. Reeston received the caller and several footmen were summoned to accept the multitude of packages flooding the foyer. And there were a ridiculous number. Gowns, shoes, boots, hats, the foyer filled faster than Reeston or any other servant could manage to pile them in order.

“I would venture to say Lady Julia has been successful in aiding Lady Alexandra’s shopping expeditions.” Reeston grabbed a hat box as it teetered precariously atop a high pile of packages ready to tumble into disarray.

“Indeed.” Devlin smiled. He liked the idea of Alexandra enjoying a little extravagance. If her luggage had been any indication of her belongings, she scarcely had anything at all. Thank heavens, she’d taken to wearing simple day gowns at the insistence of Lady Julia, and vanquished those horrid black mourning frocks. It hadn’t been necessary for her to wear them in the first place, but he appreciated her devotion to Aunt Min.

“Lady Alexandra didn’t strike me as a spendthrift, Your Grace.”

He chuckled aloud. Reeston was one of a kind. Any master of the house would dismiss their servant for his bald insolence, but Devlin considered his staff as family, and Reeston was correct. Alexandra only ordered eight gowns at the modiste and that again under the duress of Julia’s insistence. It was a very good thing he’d visited the shop not an hour after the ladies departed. He had tripled Alexandra’s request, choosing the finest fabrics and styles, and taken his time with the ordering of an assortment of under things. Then he had continued on to his tailor and purchased himself an ensemble worthy of social functions. He enjoyed a well-cut coat as much as a well-aged brandy. If he was going to be forced to endure a limited thrust into society, he would need his armour. Nothing could distract from one’s inner emotions like the fine presentation of clothing. People rarely looked into one’s eyes if they were busy admiring the workmanship and style of one’s waistcoat.

“No, she is borderline frugal, Reeston. I amended her orders and added to her purchases. She is clearly uncomfortable spending my money, but I’m not. Let’s hope she is having a little more fun on her outing this morning.”

“Yes, I agree. Would you like me to have the footmen deliver these packages to her bedchambers?”

“Perhaps you should open the yellow drawing room and have the packages placed in there until she can sort them through.” Devlin flicked his eyes towards the staircase, lost in reflection before he continued. “Actually, have the entire west wing reopened for Lady Alexandra’s use. It is time we aired out those rooms. Do you think they need to be refurbished?”

“It has been some time, Your Grace.”

Both men realized more was being discussed than a portion of the manor.

The west wing had been sealed after his mother’s tragic death. She had loved that part of the house with its early-morning sunshine and unique design. Feminine and fresh, every room –– the conservatory, drawing room, parlour, guest bedrooms and her personal library –– boasted warm, bright colours. The drawing room doors led to extensive gardens lush with rose bushes, imported tulips and rare varietals in every colour. These flowerbeds wrapped around the house and followed a walking path past a small duck pond and further still, to the main gardens behind the estate. There one discovered a fountain, birdbath and collection of small marble statues, complete with ornate sundial, to complement the array of foliage and fauna. It was almost as if the space comprised a little house within a bigger one, and not until this very moment did Devlin question why his mother would desire such a retreat. Wasn’t she content in the main living area?

Once she died, everything was closed, furniture covered and doors locked. What could have made her so desolate that she took her own life?

Devlin was a child when his mother committed suicide. His father’s behaviour remained hidden well from him as a youth, but not so much he wasn’t aware of the lack of normalcy in his parents’ relationship. He rarely enjoyed his father’s company even at a young age. His father was short tempered, argumentative and unusually strict. While his mother was apt to intercede, she was not always able to protect him from his father’s anger and certainly not from his cutting deprecation.

A sharp memory forced its way to mind and Devlin clenched his jaw, the brief remembrance hurtful on some unexplainable level he’d rather not consider closely. Decades had passed, yet the pain existed over a few trivializing moments when his father and not his mother had answered his bedtime plea. Had his father paused, listened to his heartfelt request and empathized with his childhood fear of the dark, his angered perception may never have festered. But no, on a laugh rich with mockery, his father had dismissed his request for a story and confirmed the shadows on the wall were indeed malevolent monsters meant to steal his breath if he did not go to sleep. He had then removed the only lantern and sealed the door tight so not a pinprick of light could be seen.

How ironic that the darkness provided Devlin more solace than pain now; at least when he escaped the tremors. And where had his mother been that evening? She would have soothed away his concerns and spared him anxiety. Why hadn’t she come at his call? Had his father offended her that evening as well?

In the morning, things had appeared as normal and Devlin had dared not mention the episode. Yet a child does not empathize with the emotions of their parent, tied too closely to the immediacy that comprises childhood. Instead Devlin lived each day as if separate, never pausing to string together the endless weeks, months and years of his father’s aberrant behaviour or to consider the terrible unhappiness it caused his mother.

And yet, Devlin had only known happiness in his time spent with her. His mother never allowed her despair to overflow into their outings. He remembered her lovely smile, gentle laughter and comforting hands. Most of all, he missed her innate ability to make him feel extraordinarily special.

Still he hadn’t been enough to ease her pain or to nourish her desire to continue living. Perhaps that barb cut the deepest. It haunted him over the years without answer and created a well of guilt and vulnerability no matter how hard he attempted to bury his emotions. At times he’d deluded himself into believing she did not take her life at all, that there existed another explanation, some cause still unknown, to explain why she would leave him so utterly alone. As years passed, he discarded the fanciful notion.

Now painful memories contrasted sharply with the cheerful images of his mother’s rooms. The loss of truthful information concerning her passing festered, bitter and unsettled. For years he sought any tiny fact to lead to a better understanding of his past, but discovered nothing. As a child, he’d missed the moments every child favours: a bedtime story read, a picnic shared. Yet as a man, he mourned not just a life grown without a mother, but a true understanding of what had taken the relationship from him. It cut twice as deep to have the first loss and lack of explanation to follow.

The maudlin mood could not take hold. A streak of white fur flashed, followed by King’s insistent bark. Not a blink later, the sheepdog lumbered forward and with a clumsy lurch knocked into two large towers of boxes, sending the entire foyer into disarray with nothing more than the bulk of his body. The puppy raced over the boxes in frantic escape, climbing, sinking and struggling to accomplish the foyer floor before King pursued him. Reeston, his butler austere lost, picked his way among the boxes and lids in an attempt to grasp the tiny terrier without disrupting additional piles. Devlin bit back a guffaw and took pity on his old friend.

“Reeston, get King. He is much easier to catch. I’ll go after Henry, the little rodent.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Devlin bounded up the staircase with the same agility the little pup showed only seconds before. He checked left and right when he reached the top, and after hearing a distant yip, turned towards the west wing. It made sense that Henry should seek his own bed. Only the devil could instigate such havoc as both dogs escaped their confinement in a matter of minutes. At least peace would be restored once Lexi took the offending little pup to her new home.

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