Rescued By a Lady's Love (Lords of Honor #3)(5)

All right? Her world had been ripped asunder. She’d been cast out of her family, betrayed by the man she’d given her virtue to and now had nothing but a handful of coins given her by her father and the duke. She would never be all right again.

“Miss?” he repeated.

Lily looked up at the kindly gentleman with thick, white whiskers and concern in his eyes. She shook her head, dazed. What did he want? And more, why was this stranger outside George’s home speaking to her even now?

“My name is Sir Henry.” He knelt beside her and made quick work of stuffing her entire life’s possessions into her satchel. With the valise in one hand, he held his other out. “Let me show you to my carriage.” He gestured behind him and she followed the slight movement to an elegant, black carriage. “It is too cold for you to remain in the street.”

By the cut of his elegant, black cloak and hat and by his very presence here alone, he was a member of the lofty ranks the Duke of Blackthorne kept. It marked his soul as black and evil, and yet...

“Come,” the older gentleman urged. “Let me help you.”

Help her? He wanted to help her? She peeled back her lip in a sneer. What did any of these powerful peers know of kindness? “I do not want your help.” Lightning cracked overhead, aching to make a liar of her.

Still, he remained, staring with gentle concern. “What other choice do you have, miss?”

She stilled and her gaze crept back to the front door through which she’d been summarily tossed. Fear curled inside her belly, once more.

“Miss?” the man repeated, as rain fell about them.

With nearly frozen fingers, she took his hand, and allowed him to help her upright. Wordlessly, she let him guide her to his carriage, help her inside, and climb in behind her. The man doffed his hat and beat it against his leg. “What is your name?”

Her words emerged faint and breathless. “L-Lillia—Lily,” she quickly substituted. She’d not give him more of her identity than that. After all, it was as much folly being in this stranger’s carriage than in giving herself to George. Then, desperation made people do desperate things. “I-I must go,” she said, forcing a thread of strength into her words. “It is not p-proper to be here.” Thunder rumbled and shook the carriage, as though mocking those words from a woman who’d shown up on a duke’s doorstep expecting marriage.

The old gentleman continued to smile at her in that benevolent manner. “I’ve a brief meeting inside with the duke. I’ve no intention of hurting you, but given your exit from Blackthorne’s home, you are just another one subject to his ruthlessness.” The frown on the man’s lips met his eyes and hinted at a person who’d also been somehow victim to that powerful peer. “If you choose to remain, I’ll help you.”

She eyed him through narrowed eyes. Hadn’t George proven gentlemen were only driven by their own motives? “Why would you do that?”

“Because you need help,” he said simply. The stranger motioned to the door. “You are free to go. I will not stop you.” He paused. “But neither is it safe for you to be out on these streets, alone. The decision is yours.”

Lily remained silent, glaring at him through mistrustful eyes until he opened the door and strode back across the street and, eventually, disappeared inside George’s home.

She reached for the handle and froze. Where will I go? Home was no longer an option. Shivering from cold and fear, Lily pulled her fingers back and balled them on her lap. She huddled deeper into the thick squabs of the comfortable carriage.

After all, as he’d said—what other choice did she have?





Chapter 1


London, England

Late Winter 1821

Derek Winters, the 8th Duke of Blackthorne, sat cloaked in the darkness of his office. Curtains drawn, the room silent and empty but for the eerie shadows that played off the walls, he’d come to crave the deathly still of the room like a demon craved the fires of hell. From the corner of his sole eye he glared at the crumpled copy of The Times that lay on the table beside him...as it had for months. A growl worked its way up his throat and he swiped the damned sheet up. He squinted and re-read those familiar words, once more.

...The Marquess of St. Cyr nearly killed underneath the deadened branches of a Hyde Park elm...



At one time, that piece would have devastated him. He fisted the page, further wrinkling the old copy. Now, this new man he’d become found an unholy glee in the other man’s misery. He gripped the arms of his chair. With his back presented to the room, he stared into the dancing flames of the blazing hearth. Only, he’d ceased to be human long ago—because of that very happy man, nearly killed by a blasted branch. Then, wasn’t that life? Some men had families and love and good-fortune...and then others? A muscle ticked at the corner of his eye. “And others have nothing,” he whispered. Yes, others were cursed, like the other Winters family members who’d only known death and despair. Such a truth had once ripped him apart with a vicious pain. Somewhere along the way, he’d built himself into a man who didn’t feel or care. And he was all the stronger for it.

Derek hurled the paper into the hearth and the scorching flames quickly devoured them. The hungry fire’s glow burned all the brighter. A hard, mirthless grin turned his lips. How singularly interesting the fire should provide warmth for some and, yet, for him it held nothing but the frigid cold of his past. He absently fingered the head of his serpent-headed cane, the gold metal cool against his right palm.