Anabelle Bryant - Duke Of Darkness

“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?”