Rescued By a Lady's Love (Lords of Honor, #3) Read online

  Rescued by a Lady’s Love

  By

  Christi Caldwell

  Copyright © 2016 by Christi Caldwell

  Nook Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  For more information about the author:

  [email protected]

  www.christicaldwellauthor.com

  Dedication

  When my son Rory was born, we acquired more specialists and therapists than we knew existed, for him. Too many doctors and therapists entered our lives with low-expectations and grim prospects for Rory’s future. Through the fear and uncertainty, my husband and I rejected all those professionals. And then we found Dr. Carlson.

  Dr. Carlson, for all you were in those earliest days, and for everything you are now—thank you. This story is for you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Christi Caldwell

  Biography

  Author’s Note

  When I was a graduate student at the University of Connecticut, I had the privilege and honor of interviewing men who’d served in World War II. These veterans, true heroes in every sense of the word were, in some cases, more than fifty-years removed from their battlefield experience. And yet, sitting in their homes and discussing the war with them, I came to find that those moments, for some were as fresh now as they had been years earlier. It forever shaped them.

  When I met Derek Winters, the Duke of Blackthorne in “Captivated By a Lady’s Charm”, on the surface, I saw a snarling, angry man. And if you look at him on the surface that is all you’ll see. Which is why I was so intrigued by him. I wanted to peel back the layers, and when I did, I came to a man who bore the physical and emotional scars of his experience.

  The Duke of Blackthorne and his heroine, Miss Lily Benedict, are two equally broken individuals whose lives intersect. Their story is one of struggle and darkness... but ultimately, I believe from some of our darkest moments, comes light.

  I hope you enjoy Derek and Lily’s story.

  Prologue

  London, England

  16 November 1813

  Miss Lilliana Bennett was terrified.

  She was also hungry.

  Not, necessarily in that order.

  Her stomach rumbled loudly in the nighttime quiet, muffled a moment later by a passing carriage.

  Standing on the darkened, cobbled streets across from the lavish Mayfair townhouse awash in candlelight, huddling in her cloak, Lily really thought she preferred hunger to the terror that had gripped her the whole cramped mail coach ride from Carlisle.

  For the pain of a nearly empty belly prevented her from thinking of the terror of being turned out by her parents; the two people who were supposed to love her above anything. On her sixteenth birthday, no less.

  Terror licked at her senses, ultimately defeating the gnawing need for food. Just as it had twisted at her insides since she’d made the long ride by mail coach, alone, for the first time in her life. It had been with her through the leers and improper glances cast her way by the male passenger seated on the opposite bench.

  And standing here, outside the London home of George Winters, the Duke of Blackthorne, it was even stronger now—fear. To calm the rapid pounding of her heart, she pressed her eyes closed a moment and drew forth the memory of his easy smile and gentle teasing.

  I will marry you, Lily Bennett...

  His pledge had not come after they’d been discovered by the parish busybody, Mrs. Rutgers, but before. Fury surged through her veins. That nasty gossip. Foolishly, Lily had clung to the hope that the woman would say nothing, if for no other reason than the Duke of Blackthorne’s identity. He’d been gone not even a day, on his way to London for business, when Mrs. Rutgers proceeded to share every sordid detail with Lily’s parents...and any villager who would listen.

  Lily hugged her valise closer. When they were married, none of it would matter. If he intended to do right by you, why has he been gone more than two months...?

  As soon as the poisonous thought slid in, she thrust aside the faithless misgivings.

  It was not his fault.

  Just as her parents had been powerless when the ruthless Duchess of Blackthorne had swept into their modest cottage, brandishing Lily’s notes to the young duke, and threatened Papa’s livelihood if he did not “deal with his daughter”. Mayhap Papa would have braved the whispers of the villagers, but he’d never brave the wrath of the venerable, revered Duchess of Blackthorne.

  Lily curled her fingers around the handle of her bright floral valise. The wood handle bit into her hand and she welcomed the slight sting of discomfort. It prevented her from thinking of the haste with which Papa tossed her upon a mail coach and scuttled her off like yesterday’s refuse.

  Wind howled mournfully through the darkened streets and she huddled deeper into her cloak.

  Stop it! It was wrong to doubt George’s faithfulness because of the seeds of misgivings planted by their families. She steadied her trembling jaw. A man with the face of an angel, who’d given her gentle words of love, could never be guilty of treachery. No, she’d not allow them to cast doubt on what they shared. Just as Lily would be damned if she allowed his coldhearted mother to keep them apart.

  Dukes do not wed the daughters of vicars, and they certainly do not marry whores who spread their legs without the benefit of marriage...

  Her mind echoed with the force of her father’s booming voice. The muscles of her stomach knotted all the harder. He would marry her. For he’d promised it, along with his heart. He just did not know the day she’d given herself to him on the edge of the forest, they’d been observed in the most humiliating of ways.

  Squaring her shoulders, Lily took a deep breath.

  ...And then it began to rain. She blinked several times, slowly, and then drawing her gaze away from George’s home, she looked up at the overcast London sky. Another drop, like a tear from heaven hit her eye, momentarily blurring her vision.

  Thunder rumbled, in an ominous display from the heaven
s above.

  “He loves me,” she whispered, as the wind whipped her modest, brown cloak about her ankles.

  For the threats of his mother, the regal Duchess of Blackthorne, and her own parents’ volatile fury and seething disapproval, Lily knew he would not betray her. She’d given him her virtue and heart, and he’d pledged his name and love in return.

  Some of the fear that had held her breathless for the nearly week-long journey abated. He would marry her. Because he loved her and because that is what he’d pledged. And when a gentleman gave his word, he honored it.

  As Lily stepped out into the street, the skies opened in a deluge, momentarily holding her feet frozen there. Rain pelted her cheeks. Another gust of wind blew her bonnet back and yanked her curls free of her braid. Water soaked the strands and ran in rivulets down her cheeks.

  Just then, lightning cracked across the night sky in an impressive display of nature’s fury and snapped her into movement.

  Valise in hand, Lily sprinted across the cobbled roads. Her booted feet churned up water and the deep puddles soaked her leathered soles. Her teeth chattering loud enough to be heard over the roar of the storm, she dashed up the steps and, dropping the sack bearing her only possessions in the world, she knocked on the door.

  Another rumble of thunder drowned out all hint of sound and wind continued to whip the wet fabric of her cloak. A chill ran through her. He will marry me. She pounded hard on the black wood panel. And her mother and father, and his mother with all their vile, ugly beliefs about love and rank above that beautiful emotion would be proven wrong. She raised her hand to again knock, when the door was suddenly thrown open.

  A wave of warmth spilled out of the brightly lit foyer, momentarily blinding her with the glow cast by the candles.

  She grabbed her valise...and then registered the flash of loathing in the old butler’s eyes. “Beggars around back,” the man said in frosty tones and made to close the door in her face.

  Lily shot a hand out with such force, the wood panel knocked backwards. “I-I am no b-beggar.” The blend of fear and cold caused her teeth to knock with such ferocity her jaw ached.

  The elegantly attired butler raked a stare over her rain-dampened frame. His lip peeled back in a sneer. “I don’t care who you are. Your kind is not wanted here.”

  My kind. Fury rattled around, dulling the now distant hunger and fear.

  Anticipating his movements, she jammed her hip in the doorway, just as he made to close it in her face again. She winced as pain radiated from the point of contact and shot down her leg. “I-I am here to see the duke.” She prided herself on that near steady deliverance. After all, it was nigh impossible to maintain one’s pride and dignity when soaked like the kitchen cat tossed in the bath water.

  The butler gave another shove. “Go.”

  Lily pushed back. “I must s-see him.” She’d faced the condemnation of George’s mother, her mother, and father. She would be damned ten times on Sunday if she let this stranger turn her out.

  “I said leave.” He pushed once more.

  With a burst of determined energy, she heaved her shoulder into the door with such vigor the old, reed thin man stumbled back and landed on his bottom. Propelled forward by the force of her own movement, she reeled forward, stumbling hard onto her knees. She grunted as her valise sailed forward, skidding across the smooth, Italian marble floor. Dazed by the force of her fall and the blinding perfection of the white floor, Lily blinked.

  Belatedly, she registered the old servant climbing to his feet. The determined glint in his hard eyes sent her scrambling to a stand and she rushed to put several steps between them. “I must see His Grace.” For George would make all the ugly right.

  The pompous man looked over her shoulder and she followed his gaze to the footman at her back. Her heart clamored into her throat. They’d turn her out without granting her that audience.

  She retreated sideways, putting distance between herself and the men eying her like she was a thief come to make off with their employer’s finest jewels. “The duke will see me,” she said, her voice rising to a near frantic pitch. He had to.

  Because in all her wonderings of how this exchange would play out. For all the fears her parents had planted in her mind and the Duchess of Blackthorne’s promise of retribution, she’d known the moment she came to him...all would be well. For that was what love did; it made you stronger. It gave you hope and faith...it also gave you courage.

  With a skill that came from too many games of tag with her younger siblings, she darted past the aged butler and around the footman who reached for her. Heart racing, Lily darted past the men and down the crimson carpet while the blood raced in her veins and fueled her steps. Her breath came hard and fast...and then, she collided with a wall.

  Nay, a person.

  “Oomph.” Lily sailed backwards and landed hard on her buttocks. Pain shot up her tailbone and climbed up her spine. With stars dancing before her eyes, she blinked several times bringing the beloved visage of George Winters, the Duke of Blackthorne, into focus.

  Hands folded at his chest, he stood, a tall beacon of strength and power. “What in blazes is this about?” The fury in his deep baritone marked him the champion who’d earned her love.

  Her heart tugged as that familiar voice washed over her. She’d lain in his arms but once and known only a handful of his kisses, but it was a voice that had sustained her through the horror of The Scandal. Lying on the floor, she craned her neck back and stared at him.

  Immaculate. Impeccable. Coolly elegant and wholly perfect. Attired in a sapphire jacket with a snow white cravat, he was the model of male beauty. As though in absolute mockery of his perfection, a wet curl fell over her eye and she brushed it back to better gaze at—

  His scowl.

  Unease churned in her belly.

  Why is he scowling...at me?

  He peered down at her and his blue-eyed stare ran through her; a man who saw, but did not see. That was, at least, see rain-soaked urchins on the floor with their skirts rucked up above their ankles. She gasped and quickly shoved them down.

  George looked again to his butler. “What in blazes is the meaning of this, Sutton?” he bit out, ignoring Lily’s prone form at his feet.

  “Your Grace, I am sorry,” the butler said, rushing forward. “This...cretin...entered through the front entrance.”

  A healthy rage filled her. How dare he speak of her with those tones of icy derision? She was no lady born, but she was a vicar’s daughter, and a woman who even for that had earned the heart of this powerful lord. “How dare you?” A man who, in the moment, simply could not see past her ragged garments and bedraggled appearance.

  “I pay you good wages to see that these persons,” these persons? “do not—”

  “George,” she whispered, cutting across shameful words she’d believed this man incapable of. She may as well have fired a pistol into the quiet.

  A charge of shock ricocheted about the portrait-lined corridor.

  Using that distraction, Lily scrambled to her feet and stretched a hand out. “George, it is me,” she said softly. She continued forward and then stopped before him.

  But an inch or so taller than her own five feet seven inches, their eyes nearly met. In an eternal moment that stretched on forever, he stared at her. He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you to enter this home and use my Christian name?”

  She froze; her body immobile and eyes unblinking, she braced for his teasing laughter, for him to fold her in his arms and hold her close...in a moment—that did not come.

  Unease skittered along her spine. He did not recognize her. That was all. There was nothing else to account for this icy disdain seeping from his cold eyes. She turned her palms up. “George, it is I,” she tried again. How could eyes that had twinkled with warmth now ice her worse than the late autumn cold raging outside? “Lily Bennett,” she said, pleadingly. She turned her palms up, praying he played an unfunny jest, one that she would take him t
o task for the remainder of their days when he did right by her.

  He frowned and peered at her through blond lashes. He took in her now limp curls and as his stare lingered on her painfully modest cloak, shame spiraled through her. “Deal with this, Sutton,” he ordered and turned on his heel.

  “Surely you remember me!” Her cry echoed about the hall, freezing him, and earning gasps from the butler and footman. “I-I wrote you letters,” she said, her voice catching, as he turned around. Mayhap with his mother’s interception of those missives he’d believed Lily a faithless, fickle girl who’d forgotten him. “Y-Your mother came to my parents’ cottage with them.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it several times. “What manner of jest is this?” he asked, so coolly detached that a sliver of her heart broke.

  Oh, God. He does not remember me. She reeled. How could she have given her virtue to a man who did not even recognize her from Eve? Her fingers scrabbled at her throat and she searched for words. Any words. A sound. A plea. A cry. Something to prove that she was still breathing. Lily managed words. “I am—”

  “George,” a curt voice sounded from down the corridor. A hated voice. A hateful voice. The one to have issued warnings, that in being inside this hallowed home, Lily ignored. “Wherever are you? Sir Henry is to arrive shortly with the gift for tonight’s b—” The Duchess of Blackthorne gasped. “What is the meaning of this?” she hissed.

  Lily looked blankly past George’s shoulder as the elegant, silver-haired Duchess of Blackthorne swept over in a flurry of silk skirts.

  “I am handling this, Mother,” he bit out.

  “Are you?” With a pointed look for the hovering footman, she snapped. “The same way you handled her in Carlisle?” Then the Duchess returned her attention to Lily. “You,” she seethed. “You were warned...”

  “By you,” she bit out. Where did she find the courage to toss those words at this unfeeling duchess?

  The woman flared her eyes and then as swift as it had come, all hint of emotion was gone. “This is the girl who is writing you notes.”