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.
“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