Anabelle Bryant - Duke Of Darkness

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.