Light of My Heart Read online

  Light of My Heart

  Duke of Rutland Series

  Elizabeth St. Michel

  Praise for Elizabeth St. Michel

  The Winds of Fate Reviews:

  The Winds of Fate “…captivating romance that takes us to the world of seventeenth-century London…Sexual tension and legal and familial intrigue ensue with the reader cheering on the lovely pair.”

  Publishers Weekly

  The Winds of Fate “has everything…full of passion, betrayal, mystery and all the good stuff readers love.”

  ABNA Reviewer

  “Original…strong-willed heroine…I love all of it…the unlikely premise of a female member of the aristocracy visiting a man who is condemned to die and asking him to marry her.”

  ABNA Reviewer

  ____________

  Surrender the Wind Reviews:

  Surrender the Wind “The lush descriptions of the southern countryside, the witty repartee between the characters, the factual descriptions of battles woven into the storylines, and the rich characters kept me glued to the pages.”

  Alwyztrouble’s Romance Reviews

  Surrender the Wind received the “Crowned Heart” and National “RONE AWARD” finalist for excellence. “With twists and turns…and several related subplots woven in, no emotional stone is left unturned in this romance.”

  InD’tale Magazine

  Light of My Heart

  Copyright © 2017 by Elizabeth St. Michel

  All rights presently reserved by the author. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Elizabeth St. Michel.

  Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2017910429

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9974824-5-4

  Table of Contents

  LIGHT OF MY HEART

  Praise for Elizabeth St. Michel

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Readers

  For my children,

  Edward, Michael, Stephanie, Christine and Matthew

  You’ve been a blessing from the start.

  I love you with all my heart.

  Chapter One

  Leicestershire, England 1779

  Anthony Rutland hated being late as much as he loathed disorder. He rounded the arborvitae hedgerow bordering his laboratory. The door banged open in the wind. A vein pulsed in his neck. Other than his lab assistant, George, who had been missing for three days, no one dared to cross the threshold. An intruder? There had been problems in the past with unknown enemies of the Rutland family. Flasks banged. Burettes clinked. The intruder was not concerned about making noise.

  George would never be so careless. Although lackluster in aptitude, the man understood Anthony’s perfectionism in maintaining the lab’s organization and was the only assistant who had stayed with him for more than six months. Since George’s absence, Anthony’s lab mushroomed into chaos. Given that his assistant was not the kind to venture off, a niggling crept up his spine. He clenched his hand. To put his fist through someone’s face appealed. The velocity, the impact of that collision, and then the end result to his hand would no doubt present an exercise in futility and would further delay his entrance into the Royal Society of Science for un-gentlemanly behavior.

  Anthony entered his inner sanctum. His eyes widened. The most exquisite woman he’d ever seen stood in a triangle of light, washing his lab equipment. His breath stalled, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He assessed the statistical odds that nature could improve upon perfection. None.

  What must have been five pounds of wild, rich auburn hair was swept atop her in a gentle swirl and cascaded in a mass of loose ringlets. Errant tendrils escaped and he found that flaw enhanced what nature had delivered. Her nose was straight, delicately boned, and her skin was pinkened by the sunas if the girl cared more for health than a fashionably pale complexion.

  She stretched, reached back, massaging her spine. The outline of rounded breasts strained heavily against silk, the effect more than a simple provocation and yielded an act of war on his senses. His anatomy, like a compass, pointed stiffly north. What was the likelihood of his physical reaction? If probability equals one, an event will almost occur and definitely had occurred.

  Females rarely captured his attention, even his late wife whom he had married out of duty had failed to hold his interest. He had not loved her, didn’t know if he was capable of that emotion. Celeste had been skittish and had begged to postpone their wedding night. Too involved in his work, Anthony had honored her request. The marriage lasted two weeks before she broke her neck. If he had spent more time with her…she’d be alive. For four years he wrestled with the guilt for not protecting his wife.

  He had tried to blend into the world and the disappointment of attempting to mix into humanity yielded a terrifying reality. He was doomed to be alone in the universe. He cultivated that loneliness, night and day immersed in his work, allowing the loneliness to tunnel into his soul. Long ago, he had given up hope of finding someone who would understand him, someone to fill that space. Unlike his brothers, who had dallied with women, Anthony lost himself in his lust for science and discovery. Not that an impudent maid hadn’t thrown herself at him, but at thirty years of age, he was burdened with an unhappy consequence. He was a virgin.

  But now with a complete stranger, all manner of wicked thoughts filled his brain. Would her hair feel soft and silky in his fingers, would her lips yield willingly under his, would she… He shook his head. How absurd? He was a scientist, not a randy adolescent boy.

  Bottles straight, counters wiped, his lab had been cleaned, polished and organized. Never before had he seen such industry even in the best of his lab assistants. With reverence she employed a feather duster, her hands, dictating a soft swish over glass bottles. How would those same hands feel stroking his body? Where did that idea come from? She picked up a notebook. Humming a tune while she read, the vibrations from her vocal cords radiated a soft moan of pleasure and desire that flowed over him like rich warm cream. He could watch her thumb through the pages all day.

  Reading? Like a condor off the Pyrenees, Anthony swooped down and slammed his notebook shut. “How dare you read my private notes?”

  Her hand flew to her chest, knocking a bottle off the cabinet. Glass shattered and splintered. She stooped to pick up the pieces. “I’m so sorry.”

  “That was one of my most expensive Flemish flasks,” he growled, hovering over the woman. Her creamy skin reddened. He clenched his jaw. Wasn’t her fault he couldn’t get a grip on his lust.

  “You don’t have to gnash your teeth. I was trying to help,” she said.

  Her acc
ent was unusual, clipped, and wild. Definitely American, a Yank. Her unfortunate circumstance was her place of birth. He couldn’t hold her place of birth against her. Weren’t all Americans an unruly, boorish lot with minimal education and un-refined thinking? “It will be months and costly to replace, not to mention that I need it now.”

  “I will pay for it.”

  Her voice, soft yet defiant, robbed him of his anger. He raked his fingers through his hair. He was a brute, knew it, but was unable to erase the unease over his absent assistant, and further, why was a Colonial woman… “Who gave you permission to enter my laboratory?”

  “Your father.”

  Did her chin actually lift a notch? “My father would never—”

  “I did,” the duke answered, his words slow and meticulous as he strolled in and sat on a stool. His posture translated serious business.

  When was the last time his father had turned up in his laboratory?

  “Anthony, this is Miss Rachel Thorne from Boston,” said the duke. “I would have escorted Miss Thorne, but I had some last minute business to attend and told her to meet me here. Your sister, Abby has sent Rachel for us to introduce to society.”

  Anthony had forgotten the arrangement made months ago. Rachel was cousin to the notorious American privateer, Captain Jacob Thorne who had rescued Abby from a kidnapping. They had fallen in love, married, and now lived in Boston with their infant son. With the war against the Colonies still raging, and Miss Thorne’s relationship to enemies of the Crown, finding her a husband in English society wouldn’t He pulled back his shoulders. Good God, why didn’t she simply marry someone in the Colonies?

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  The duke gave a stern eye that brooked no disagreement. “You will be her escort along with Lady March until other arrangements can be made.”

  “Impossible. A waste of my valuable time and with my assistant unaccounted for…”

  “He doesn’t have to escort me,” announced the author of his imminent imprisonment.

  She walked past him, the sway of hips and soft swish of her skirts mesmerized him. Good Lord, the woman possessed weapons enough to scorch his backside.

  The duke thumped his silver-headed cane on the floor. “Yes, he does. He will accompany you to dinners, balls, whatever invitations you receive, instead of maintaining his hermit-like existence.”

  Anthony swept his arm over his laboratory. “I have a myriad of experiments to complete and lacking competent help, the likelihood of any one of them being achieved is hopeless.”

  His father’s lips formed a stiff line. Anthony was accustomed to applying carefully constructed scientific methods and planned his life accordingly, but this particular scenario had disintegrated into madness, and his father, the duke had taken on the role as director.

  “You have it all wrong.” She raised her chin and looked down her nose at Anthony.

  The hackles rose on his neck.

  Anthony crossed his arms. “What do I have wrong?”

  “Your formula on hydraulics is full of errors.”

  Anthony snorted. “Did I hear you right?” The prospect of a woman having an idea of modern hydraulics was laughable. He grabbed his notebook and flicked through the pages. He knew exactly to what she insinuated.

  She marched to the cabinet, shoulder to shoulder with him. To ignore her height, he focused his gaze on his notes. Was it lavender or lemon balm that entwined him? She snatched a quill and scratched on a sheet of paper. “This is the way your calculations should read.”

  “If you say so.” There was not a prayer her computations would be accurate. Impossible for a Colonial woman to have the least idea of force, pressure and area of liquids. For weeks, he had suffered with the formula. He compared his calculations to… His mouth fell open. By God, what she had assessed in minutes made complete sense. Brilliant. “How do you know this?”

  “It is a hobby of mine.”

  “Hobby? This knowledge takes years…we need to discuss this.”

  “You have booted me from your lab. Remember? And refused to be my escort.”

  The duke rose and took her by the arm. “Miss Thorne will be occupied today. The seamstresses are waiting for her fittings.”

  The Colonial woman halted. “Fittings? I couldn’t possibly—”

  The duke put his hand up. “My daughter is three thousand miles away and I miss her terribly. By way of her letters, Abby has ordered a new wardrobe for you. I will honor her request.”

  Anthony tossed his notes aside. “She can’t go. I must have more conversation—”

  Miss Thorne paused with a dismissive glance over her shoulder. “Are we having a conversation? If there were a hanging for hospitality, Lord Anthony, you’d be last in line. I wouldn’t dream of wasting your time.”

  Chapter Two

  Rachel prided herself on…people’s predictability. She sighed. Except nothing about Lord Anthony Rutland was predictable. To think he was privy to all the secrets of the universe. How good it was to show him he was wrong. Let him chew on that for a while.

  This is taking too long. Standing on top of a stool with an army of pin-sticking dressmakers making endless adjustments made her head ache. Rachel had argued that her own family could well afford the gowns, but the duke remained unyielding, forcing her to relent.

  Over the past year, she and Abby had become like sisters, confiding the deepest of secrets. Rachel had revealed to Abby her near rape by an English officer during the British occupation of Boston and the unbearable yoke of the stigma attached to her assumed defilement. Boston was a small town and news had traveled like fire through kindling. Despite her innocence, and even with the family’s efforts to rectify the dilemma, salacious gossip damned her. When suitors disappeared, she knew why. Rachel swallowed feelings of unworthiness. No man of any value would want her. Abby had insisted on a visit to her ancestral home outside London where Rachel could have a fresh start without the taint of disgrace attached to her. She had entered the country through a different port with a contrived story of her loyalist leanings.

  How she’d rather be in that marvelous laboratory. The joy of being present there this morning, all the equipment and outfittings laid before her. That rich sensual feel of discovery at her fingertips. For months she had dreamed of seeing the newly built laboratory that Abby had described via letters from her father. Flowing through her veins was the love and enthusiasm of science, direct, simple and passionate. Never could she get enough. When she was discovering, she was unchained, free from the torment of her muddled past.

  Abby had talked about her older brother, Anthony and his experiments with electricity. A whole new world dawned and Rachel had created with her heart, and built with her mind, an image of him. She ground her teeth. Lord Anthony. He had spoiled everything. Abby didn’t know her brother at all. He was not the sweet conscientious man Abby had portrayed. More like Attila the Hun.

  “Ouch.” A pin skewered Rachel, punishing her for her woolgathering.

  “My apologies,” said the dressmaker and showered upon Rachel a myriad of fabrics to choose, satin, bombazine, velvet, silk and taffetas in a dazzling array of reds, golds and sapphires.

  Her skin tingled with the unexpected. Lord Anthony was as elemental as the changing universe, uncontrolled energy, with nothing lagging or degenerated about him—no softness at all to his solid and imposing frame.

  Trimmings of ribbons, Chantilly lace, seed pearls and ostrich feathers were held up to taunt her. “Good Lord, what would I need with ostrich feathers?”

  “For your riding habit hat,” the dressmaker explained, all but rubbing her hands with glee, the subtle suggestions drawing upon a tenacious campaign that such extravagant dealing implied. The duke had given orders to spare no expense. There was the matter of the dinner party this evening that Rachel must attend and a new dress must be readied for the event. With certainty, there would be a sizeable recompense for such a feat. The dressmaker would likely swoon at th
e amount of profits she would make from the necessary gowns, undergarments, and clothing items.

  Abby had not warned Rachel of how devastatingly handsome her brother was. His eyes were baffling shades of blue, like lapis intershot with sunshinedark, light, bluish grey, and intermittently, the azure of a stormy sea. Indeed, he had arrested her attention. Hadn’t he arched a dark brow and stared at her until she felt ready to squirm? His shirt had been askew and most charming, as if he had more important matters in the world to attend than an immaculate appearance. Her heart shuddered, stopping for a moment, and then began beating anew at a frantic pace. She didn’t know what emotion it was he caused to rise within her. Fear? No. She did not fear him.

  Rachel tapped a finger on her lips. Admiration. That was it. Paging through his notes, she had discovered a genius. He dabbled in everything in the physical and biological world, extensive diagrams and formulas, theories and postulations. Did his mind ever rest?

  “Let me get the other fabrics I brought for you to consider.” The dressmaker departed for the adjacent room which no doubt housed a repository of fabric.

  Rachel’s back ached and a chill set across her body from the long hours of standing in nothing but her chemise and a half-sewn dress.

  Anthony walked in and barreled right toward her. “I’ve been thinking about the formula you left me and I need to—”

  Rachel crossed her arms over her chest. She blushed from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. The seamstresses squealed. From the uproar, the dressmaker returned and frosted their intruder with a withering stare. “Lord Anthony!”

  At her icy authority, Anthony stepped back. He frowned, looking Rachel up and down. Thunderstruck, his jaw dropped with the dawning realization of her dishabille and his indiscretion. “My apologies.”