by Emily Royal
But Miss Hart’s passion would forever place her in his esteem. No matter what she’d done, he couldn’t feel anything but high regard for her. The poems she’d written after they returned from Scotland had spoken to him on a visceral level, such that he couldn’t bring himself to give them back. He’d read them each night since the day they’d made love. They rivaled Burns in their beauty and surpassed the bland verses she had penned at first. Such talent needed to be nurtured and rewarded.
But Delilah Hart’s passion was not for him. She had betrayed his trust, and he had no wish to experience such betrayal again. Better for them both if they never met again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lilah stirred her tea and dropped a lump of sugar into the brown liquid, watching it dissolve. Lately, her constitution had been unsettled, and she’d struggled to finish her meals. Dexter hadn’t noticed, but he seemed preoccupied with renting an estate in the country, though he refused to discuss the details. Sir Thomas had remarked on Lilah’s constitution when he’d dined with them, but she had told him to keep his nose out of her business. Sir Thomas had laughed it off and defended her when Thea admonished her incivility.
She sipped her tea. The sugar, which she’d once found abhorrent, now soothed her stomach.
She lifted the sheaf of paper she’d been studying and read the words once more. Now frayed around the edges, the poems she’d penned were the only evidence of her love for him.
A week after he’d brought her home in disgrace, Lilah’s poems had arrived on her doorstep, wrapped in a single bundle, with no message. It was as if by discarding her poems, he had rid himself of the last remnants of her.
And now, two months later, it was as if he’d never existed. There was no sign of him in London, and save the occasional remark from Sir Thomas about barbarians, she could almost have believed that she’d imagined him. Her pitiful attempt to make amends failed at the first hurdle. Her request to Stock to publish a retraction of her last article fell on deaf ears. Instead, he’d laughed at her, then evicted her from his offices, threatening to ensure her work would never be published again.
It had all been for nothing. Instead of justice, her efforts had been rewarded with mindless destruction. Her hopes for a future as a poet had been destroyed as surely as her hopes of a life filled with love and passion.
Now, she must accept her fate and take a pragmatic attitude to life. Not even Sir Thomas’s encouragement could lift her spirits. Well-meaning as he was, he knew nothing of poetry, so his praise, though abundant, did nothing to build her confidence. He made all the right noises when he read Mo Chridhe, her favorite poem of the set. But he couldn’t be expected to understand the meaning behind her words.
She heard a knock on the door and set her cup aside. A footman entered, holding a dish bearing a single card.
“You have a visitor, miss. Shall I let him in?”
She plucked the card from the tray and read the inscription.
Jonathan Sandton
Chief editor, the London Ladies’ Weekly
“The London Ladies Weekly? I’ve never heard of it,” she said. “Have you, Charles?”
“No, miss.”
“Send him in,” she said. “Would you ask Sarah to bring another pot of tea?”
“Very good, miss.”
Shortly after, Sarah arrived with a tray, followed by the footman and his companion, a short man with a small mustache, neatly dressed in a dark gray coat and cream breeches.
He issued a deep bow. “Miss Hart, a pleasure to meet you at last.”
She gestured to a chair. “Please sit. I’m afraid I’ve not heard of you, Mr. Sandton. How have you heard of me?”
He pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “I’ve read your work.”
“Let me see.”
He handed the papers to her. Penned in an unfamiliar hand were the poems she’d written after her trip to Scotland.
“Who sent you these?” she asked.
“Someone who wishes to remain anonymous,” Sandton said. “They asked if I might consider them for publication.”
“When was this?”
“A little over a month ago. I take it this is your work?”
“Yes,” she replied, “but the hand isn’t mine.”
“Forgive my tardiness in reviewing them,” Sandton said. “I find them excellent, and it would be my pleasure to include them in my journal.”
“You want to publish them?”
“Of course,” he said. “Our readership is small, but it consists of discerning women who are more appreciative of the world around us than the more—frivolous—pursuits of society ladies. Women of intellect who appreciate matters of the heart. I would very much like to publish Mo Chridhe in our next edition. My junior editor and I found that particular poem the strongest of the set. If it’s well-received by our readers, then we can make your poetry a regular feature, with a view to publishing a separate volume once we have enough poems to do so.”
“Would you give me freedom to write what I wanted?” she asked.
“Within reason,” he said. “What attracted me to your work was the passion conveyed within the words. You have a rare gift, Miss Hart. Of course, we reserve the right to discuss any changes to your work before we publish it, but we wouldn’t publish anything you were unhappy with.”
Lilah hesitated, her experiences with James Stock still fresh in her mind. “I’m not sure…”
“I understand,” Sandton said. “If you wish to consider the matter, I’ll give you all the time you need. Or, perhaps you might wish to consult another before we discuss terms?”
“You mean a man?”
He let out a chuckle. “It’s often wise to get a second opinion from a trusted confidante before making a decision. The sex of that confidante bears no relation on their ability to advise you.”
“Then let us discuss the terms now, Mr. Sandton,” she said, reaching for the teapot.
The conversation lasted barely fifteen minutes. Sandton seemed genuine, and he lacked the oily obsequiousness displayed by Stock when he’d first shown interest in her articles. After seeing him out, she returned to the morning room, dismissed Sarah, and finished her tea in silence.
Fate had taken an upward turn. At last, the prospect of an independent income. And what better purpose to put the money to than Mrs. Forbes and her charity?
A visit to Mrs. Forbes was bound to lift her spirits. And an act of philanthropy might help to assuage her guilt over what she’d done to him.
*
“You seem in unusually good spirits, Mrs. Forbes.”
“That I am.” Mrs. Forbes gave Lilah a broad smile as she ushered her into the parlor. “We have that lovely young man to thank.”
“Sir Thomas Tipton?”
“No, that young Scotsman. Such a fine man!” Mrs. Forbes let out a sigh. “What a pity his turn of fortunes forced him to leave London!”
Lilah felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “How do you know about his misfortunes?”
“He came to see me just before he left, poor man.” Mrs. Forbes replied. “I understand his finances were too delicately balanced to weather even the slightest adversity. And yet, he was still so generous!”
“Generous?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Mrs. Forbes shook her head. “I wondered if you’d persuaded him, but it must have been his own idea. He pledged us a regular stipend and came round with the papers to make it legally binding. Lord knows I need the income. But to take it when I know the benefactor is struggling financially does not sit right on my conscience. I told him so, and do you know what he said?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“He said, ‘Och, Mrs. Forbes, I’d be no sort of man if I didn’t honor my promises.’”
Mrs. Forbes sighed again. “Ah, yes—such a fine man! We can do so much with the extra income.”
“I’m able to pledge a little more each month also,” Lilah said. “In fact, that’s why I came to see you today.”
“Lord, thank you, Miss Hart, but I know you give as much as you can. And dear Mrs. Pelham, of course. And your young man’s idea is already bearing fruit. I feel so blessed.”
“His idea?”
“Did he not tell you?” Mrs. Forbes asked. “He suggested that for each woman I place in employment, if her new employer is satisfied with the appointment, they should pledge to give me a small portion of their wages. I’ve had one already agree to it—a Mr. O’Reilly in Hammersmith has taken on two girls as chambermaids and will be sending me sixpence each month. And your young man himself took young Rose and her children to Scotland with him to live and work on his estate.
“He took them to Scotland?”
“Two months ago. Rose will work in his factory, and young Will is going to attend school while a nursemaid tends to the baby.”
Mrs. Forbes took Lilah’s hand. “I have you to thank, Miss Hart. You persuaded him to visit us and to see our work. I owe it all to you.”
“You have nothing to thank me for, Mrs. Forbes,” Lilah said. “It was all his doing.”
Mrs. Forbes smiled. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d be smitten with the man. That is, of course, if he were not so smitten with you. He is indeed a most excellent creature. It’s rare to see a man of such high honor these days.”
Mrs. Forbes’s words only served to increase the pain in Lilah’s heart. He had every reason to be bitter and resentful. He faced bankruptcy, yet he still thought of others! To think that such a man had once placed her in high regard.
Would she ever be able to come to terms with what she had lost?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Lilah returned home, Thea was waiting for her in the parlor, together with Sir Thomas.
“Ah, Delilah, dear, we’ve been waiting for you. Do join us.”
Lilah looked from one to the other. “This looks serious,” she said.
Thea and Sir Thomas exchanged glances.
“Should we ask Dexter to join us?” Lilah asked.
“Our brother has seen fit to go to the country,” Thea replied. “It seems as if he has a prospective bride lined up and is planning to rent a property in which to keep her.”
“You make it sound like a prison, Dorothea,” Lilah said, “with Dex as the jailer.”
Sir Thomas frowned, then he turned to Thea. “Miss Hart,” he said. “Perhaps I should address Miss Delilah on her own.”
“I’m rather tired,” Lilah said. “Perhaps another time.”
Thea stood, and Sir Thomas followed suit. “Delilah, I insist you speak with him,” she said.
“Oh, very well.” Lilah dropped her reticule on the chaise longue and sat beside it.
Thea curtseyed to Sir Thomas. “Please excuse me.”
After the door closed behind her, Sir Thomas crossed the floor and sat beside Lilah.
“I’ve been anxious for the opportunity to speak to you alone,” he said, “ever since your disappointment.”
“My disappointment?”
“Molineux,” Sir Thomas said, his tone hard. “He’s a cad for abandoning you. There was nothing wrong with your articles, yet he judges you as if you ransacked Clayton House yourself!”
“How do you know about Clayton House?”
His glance shifted sideways before he resumed his focus on her. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“And the articles,” she said. “How did you know I wrote them?”
“I’m an avid reader of the City Chronicle,” he said. “When I stumbled across a scrap of paper in the drawing room, I read it out of curiosity and recognized the words.”
“You’ve been reading my papers?”
“I applaud your talent. Your writing—the articles, the poems—they’re worthy of the highest praise.”
His gaze shifted as if he had something to hide. Was he the mysterious benefactor who’d passed her poems to Sandton?
“You deserve every success, my beloved Delilah. That cad deserved to be ruined.”
Her heart jumped in defense of Fraser.
“What sins has he committed to deserve such a fate?”
Sir Thomas took her hand, then knelt beside her.
“He’s made you unhappy,” he said. “And I won’t have anyone making my beloved girl unhappy.”
She tried to free her hand, but he tightened his grip.
“He’s a fool for believing you were responsible for those leaflets.”
“How do you know about the leaflets?”
His eyes narrowed, and he stiffened.
“I…” he hesitated. “I must have overheard someone mention it at Whites.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Don’t you realize how deeply I feel for you, Miss Hart?” he asked. “Or, perhaps, I may be permitted at last to call you Delilah?”
“Sir Thomas…”
“Call me Tommie,” he said. “Or, better still, ‘my love.’”
He caressed the back of her hand with his thumb, but rather than the crackle of need which she had experienced at the hands of another, she felt nothing but irritation at his familiarity.
“Don’t you know how I deeply admire you, Delilah?” he asked. “You’d make any man the perfect companion. To think how you would shine as Lady Tipton, and how I might prosper with you at my side!”
She snatched her hand away. “Are you hunting my fortune?”
His mouth thinned into a harsh line. “You wound me, dearest Delilah,” he said. “Unlike most men, I don’t love you for your fortune. And unlike that cad, I’m not merely after your person. Don’t you realize I’ve loved you ever since your brother introduced us? I have loved your intelligence, your wit, and I’d count myself the most fortunate of men to have you as my life’s companion. I want you for yourself, dearest Delilah. Were you a pauper on the streets, I would still love you!”
He took her hand again. “Make me the happiest of men, Delilah.”
She shook her head. “Sir Thomas, I cannot,” she said. “I don’t love you.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again. “I see I must be patient,” he said, “and I’m a very patient man when my heart’s desire is before me.”
“I have no wish to marry you,” she said.
“Nevertheless, I shall ask every day.”
“And every day, you’ll receive the same answer.”
He squeezed her hand. “My love for you is so great that I shall wait forever if I have to,” he said. “Nothing can prevent me from believing you’re the woman to make my life complete.”
He moved to embrace her, and she pushed him away. “Please, don’t touch me.”
“Of course.” He stood and gave her a bow. “I am your servant, Miss Hart. Now and always.”
He bowed again and left the room.
Delilah waited for her sister to return. Most likely, Thea had been listening outside, eager to hear the outcome of Sir Thomas’s proposal and demanding to know why Delilah had rejected him. And when Dexter returned, doubtless he’d question her, too. And give her a lecture on the benefits of obedience and raising the family’s position in society.
But even if she’d wanted to marry Sir Thomas, it was impossible. When he discovered her secret, he’d want nothing to do with her.
As she reached for her reticule, another bout of nausea rippled through her, threatening to expel her tea.
Delilah could no longer deny the truth. She was pregnant with Fraser’s child.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I’d love to see that delightful young woman again, Fraser,” Ma said. “I can’t think why you didn’t bring her with you when you returned home.”
Fraser pushed his soup bowl aside and winced as hot liquid splashed onto his hand.
“How can you say that after what she did, Ma?”
“She penned a few articles,” Ma replied. “I suspect the world has forgotten about them by now.” She turned to their dinner guest. “What say you, Miss MacKenzie?”
Jennifer scowl
ed and said nothing.
“She did more than that,” Fraser growled. “I was almost ruined because of her.”
“I agree,” Jennifer said. “I always thought her a deceitful creature. There was something in her eyes I didn’t trust.”
“Surely, you can’t blame a woman and her pen for the actions of a bunch of dissenters,” Ma said.
“If I recall, Ma, you told me Jeremiah Smith was the worst sort of man,” Fraser said. “Has your opinion changed merely because that man has turned out to be a woman?”
“Perhaps.”
“Ma, if a woman writes a man’s words, then she should expect a man’s consequences.”
“And so, should you,” Ma said. “Your affairs wouldn’t be in such a sorry state had you taken a more sensible approach to your business. Tell me, when should I expect your numerous creditors to turn up here and seize Glendarron from beneath my feet to pay your debts?”
“Ma!” Fraser cast a glance at Jennifer. “We have a guest.”
“There’s no harm in Miss MacKenzie knowing,” Ma replied. “After all, you’ve known her so long, she’s practically family.” She dipped her spoon into her soup. “Didn’t you tell me Miss Hart’s brother had found a solution? I’ll hazard a guess she asked him to make amends on her behalf.”
Fraser shook his head. “Hart knows nothing of the matter, trust me. His sister has not told him.”
“What makes you think that?” Ma asked.
The fact that Fraser hadn’t found himself with a bullet through his heart for debauching the man’s sister made him think that.
He leaned back while the servants cleared away the soup and began serving the entrée—the Scotch beef ragout which Miss Hart had remarked on as being the finest beef she’d ever tasted. Ma smiled at him across the table. Had she deliberately chosen the menu tonight to remind him of her?
“Hart’s a businessman,” he said. “He’s renting Molineux House for a pittance, just enough to stave off my creditors for a few months. Believe me, he’s not doing it out of kindness. I doubt the man understands the meaning of the word.”