Читать книгу Duke Of Darkness - Anabelle Bryant - Страница 11

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.