“I am trying to keep you from putting yourself at risk! The thought of some man figuring out your sex and trying to take advantage of it in a dark alley chills me.”
“That’s why I have Owen.”
“Owen might be stalwart, but he’s only one man and probably unarmed. He can’t fight off a fellow with a knife. Or a pistol.”
“Then I will make sure he’s armed. Good day, my lord.” And before he could counter with another argument, she pushed past him to walk out of the parlor with her back clearly up.
He started to go after her, but what would be the point? Unless he was prepared to make good on his threats, which he wasn’t, they couldn’t scare her. Especially as long as her precious Owen was willing to aid and abet her.
She would “make sure” the damned man was armed. Right. How the bloody hell did she mean to do that? And how could she put so much faith in a footman who didn’t even have the courage to refuse to help her? If not for Owen accompanying her . . .
Ahhh, yes. Owen was the key. She might not listen to reason, but the footman certainly would.
Stalking out of the parlor and down to the foyer, Warren asked to speak to Owen. The servant appeared a short while later.
“Walk with me a moment, Owen,” he ordered.
With a wary nod, Owen followed him out of the house.
As soon as they were strolling down the street, Warren said, “You know that what your mistress is doing is very dangerous.”
The footman paled. “I’m not sure what you mean, my lord.”
Not this again. “Don’t take me for a fool. I know that she’s been masquerading as Jack Jones to gamble in Dickson’s.” At Owen’s defeated sigh, he added, “Though I don’t yet know why. Perhaps you would tell me.”
He bristled at once. “Forgive me, my lord, but I would never betray the miss’s confidence.”
Warren was torn between relief that Owen was so determined to look after his mistress, and annoyance that the man was so unwisely keeping her secrets.
“All the same,” Warren snapped, “while I realize that no one has uncovered her masquerade heretofore, it’s only a matter of time before—”
“I agree, my lord. But she won’t listen to reason. And I can’t let her go to Covent Garden alone.”
“Certainly not. On the other hand, if you refuse to indulge her, she might see sense and stay at home.”
Owen eyed him uneasily. “You don’t know my mistress as well as I do.”
“I know she’s not stupid. And I should hope that you aren’t, either.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Damn it, Owen, do you mean to stand by and watch her be ruined?”
“Of course not. But unfortunately, my lord, once the mistress gets the bit between her teeth, there’s no stopping her.”
“Nonsense.” Halting to fix the servant with a hard look, he tried another tack. “Either you refuse to take her there from now on, or you will force me to go to Lady Pensworth and get you dismissed.”
Delia had called Warren’s bluff, but Owen surely wouldn’t.
The footman paled. “B-but my lord, what if she won’t heed my cautions? What if she goes alone anyway?”
“You’d better find a way to make sure she doesn’t. Claim to be ill or in trouble with someone at Dickson’s, or whatever you must do.” He gave the man his best marquess scowl. “But keep her out of that place. Do you hear me?”
With his shoulders slumping, Owen nodded. “I’ll do what I must, even if I have to lock her in her room.”
“See that you do.”
Confident that he’d taken sufficient steps to keep her safe for now, Warren headed toward Edwin and Clarissa’s town house.
The wench would be the death of him yet, with her maddening obstinacy and her foolish risks with her reputation and . . .
Her sweet scent. Her soft sighs. Her satin-skinned throat with the pulse that leapt beneath his kisses. The ones she gave only to him.
His cock instantly came to attention. Damn her to hell. What was it about her that kept him from pushing her from his thoughts? Why did the taste of her still linger on his tongue?
And why did part of him wish he’d taken her up on her scandalous offer?
We might get along quite well together. In the bed, you know.
Yes. They would. That was precisely what terrified him.
Nine
Delia tried to get her wobbly legs to work properly as she headed toward the dining room. Bother the man for arousing both her anger and her desire. The way he’d kissed and fondled her had been the most exciting thing ever to happen to her.
Had she lost her mind? Probably.
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she did crave wickedness. A little. A very little. And only because he’d made it seem so . . . well . . . crave-worthy. She wasn’t likely to forget the shockingly amazing feeling of his hand on her breast for a very long time.
She halted outside the dining room. How could she face her aunt and Brilliana as if her whole world hadn’t just tilted sideways? What was she to say?
A meow sounded from behind her, and she turned to find Flossie in the window overlooking the street, staring out with her nose to the glass. Delia came up beside her and glanced out to see Warren striding away from the house.
Oh, Lord. “Not you, too,” she chided, taking Flossie into her arms. As the cat strained toward the window, she said, “Stop that, he’s gone. Do you think he gives one farthing for you? I swear, that man charms every female who comes into his orbit.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” said a voice behind her. She jumped, then whirled to find Brilliana watching her with a guarded expression. “He’s a very charming fellow.”
Delia schooled her features to nonchalance. “When he wishes to be.” She slid past her sister-in-law and up the stairs toward the drawing room. The last person with whom she wished to discuss Warren was Brilliana.
That didn’t stop her sister-in-law from following her. “You like him. Admit it.”
“I do not like him.” Like was too puny a word for what she felt. She wanted him. With a handful of kisses, he’d made her feel the most astonishing . . . hunger for something beyond her ken. It was ridiculous. Especially given his attitude toward marriage.
Because much as I would relish having you beneath me, writhing in the throes of passion, I’m not fool enough to succumb to such temptation when it can only lead straight to a parson’s mousetrap.
She snorted. She didn’t know whether to be flattered that he would relish having her beneath him, insulted that he nonetheless had no desire to marry her, or disappointed that he’d turned down her proposal for an illicit encounter.
Disappointed? She wasn’t disappointed. Truly, she wasn’t. “And he certainly doesn’t like me.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Brilliana said. “He seemed to like you quite a bit at luncheon.”
Delia strolled into the drawing room. “Don’t be fooled by him.” Clearly, her sister-in-law had some notion that Warren was a normal man who behaved in normal ways. Best to disabuse her of that idea. “He likes to bedevil me, that’s all.”
Brilliana squared her shoulders. “He seemed very insistent upon your attending Lady Blakeborough’s house party.”
Only so he could keep me from gambling. “Because his cousin put him up to twisting my arm. Clarissa has been throwing me at eligible gentlemen since we first arrived, and no doubt she has invited a score of them to her affair.”
“And would that be so awful?”
Delia caught her breath. She kept forgetting that Brilliana assumed that Delia was genuinely looking for a husband. “Awful? No. But I prefer to choose my own gentlemen, thank you very much. Not to be trapped at an estate with those of Clarissa’s choosing.”
“Or with Lord Knightford.”
The words caught Delia by surprise. She’d been so focused on why he was trying to get her out of town that she’d forgotten how intimate a house party could be. How
many times they’d be thrown into each other’s company. How many chances there might be for kisses and caresses . . .
“You’re blushing,” Brilliana said.
Delia fought the urge to cover her cheeks with her hands. “I am not.”
“Admit it. You wouldn’t mind having Lord Knightford as a suitor.”
“I told you, he has no interest in me that way. He’s a marquess, for heaven’s sake. He’s not going to marry a mere miss.”
Brilliana’s eyes narrowed on her. “I saw how he looked at you. If he doesn’t wish to marry you, then he certainly wishes something more wicked. But either way, he definitely has an interest in you.”
Delia was tempted to tell her sister-in-law everything about her plans to hunt down Reynold’s nemesis and make him pay back what he’d cheated them out of, but she kept silent. Brilliana could be rather stuffy about things like propriety, especially where Delia was concerned. At the very least, she would disapprove of Delia’s masquerading as a boy and going to gaming hells.
And Brilliana would almost certainly disapprove of Warren’s kissing and caressing her.
“You’re wrong about Lord Knightford,” Delia said. “He has plenty of other places he can go to satisfy his ‘wicked’ desires. And he’s a gentleman, besides. He would never mistreat a respectable lady.”
Oh, Lord, she was echoing his protests earlier. But if she were honest, he’d had good reason to be insulted when she’d implied that he might accept her virtue in exchange for his silence. Because despite all the gossip about his cavorting in the stews and in the beds of a few notoriously loose wives and widows, there’d never been a whiff of scandal about him misusing any woman—eligible or otherwise.
Though clearly he had no qualms about pinning her against a wall and kissing her senseless.
That was different. She’d wanted him to.
“For your sake, I hope you’re right,” Brilliana said. “I don’t wish to see you end up with a broken heart. I know how that feels.”
Delia shot Brilliana a sharp glance, fairly certain that the woman had never lost her heart to Reynold. So who had broken it? “Trust me, my heart is in no danger of being damaged.”
Not by the likes of Warren, anyway. Only a fool would fall for his brand of charm. Or a woman who was woefully inexperienced at playing sensual games. But eager to try. Like her.
Delia groaned.
Brilliana observed her closely. “I’m merely saying you should be careful.”
“And I will be.” Oh yes, she would.
Though tonight, she intended to go to Dickson’s. To the devil with Warren. Unless he planned to ruin her, he could not act.
But before then, she had to attend a musicale with her aunt and Brilliana. She had little chance of finding her tattooed gentleman there, but she couldn’t get out of it. Aunt Agatha was determined to offer her to gentlemen across London and wouldn’t be talked out of the musicale.
At least it wouldn’t interfere with her other activities.
Some hours later, they were preparing to set off for the musicale when her aunt’s butler whispered something in her ear. When Aunt Agatha blithely announced that Owen was ill with a stomach complaint and would not be attending them, Delia’s heart dropped. Owen couldn’t be ill. He had to accompany her to Dickson’s later.
For the next few hours at the utterly dull musicale, she fretted. She had only two nights left to find her card cheat before the impending house party, and Owen’s inability to protect her would hamper her.
So when she, her aunt, and Brilliana returned home, she sneaked down the servants’ stairs to Owen’s room, as she’d done a number of times before on their nightly jaunts. But when she opened the door, Owen was decidedly not looking ill. Indeed, he was in bed, reading a book, fully clothed.
Clearly startled by her appearance, Owen fell to moaning.
Why, that rascal! “Stop that, Owen. You are not ill, and you know it.”
He clutched his belly. “Oh no, miss, I think I ate some bad meat, because my stomach aches something fearful.”
She eyed him askance. “You’re the worst actor I’ve ever seen. You couldn’t convince a flea that you were sick.”
With a tortured sigh, Owen slumped his shoulders. “I told him it wouldn’t work. He just wouldn’t listen to me.”
Trepidation curled about her. “He?”
“His lordship. He was adamant that I was to keep you from returning to Dickson’s.”
“Was he really? And why did you go along?”
“He said he would have me dismissed if I didn’t keep you away.”
“That devil!” Ooh, Warren was infuriating! What right did he have to meddle in her life?
The footman cocked his head. “I think his lordship really cares for you, miss.”
She snorted. “Lord Knightford doesn’t care for anyone, especially not a woman who might catch him in ‘a parson’s mousetrap.’ ” That accusation still stung.
“All the same, I think he means what he says.”
Perhaps. Men didn’t like it when women got the better of them. And it wouldn’t be fair to let Owen risk being dismissed. “Very well. For now, I will not go to Dickson’s. I have no desire to see you end up destroyed by this battle between me and his lordship.”
Relief flooded Owen’s face. “Thank you, miss. I confess I didn’t know what to do.”
Guilt assailed her. She’d never meant to put Owen in such a difficult position. But she knew precisely what to do. Without telling Owen, she would go to Dickson’s without him. Warren couldn’t do a thing about that.
She’d be fine on her own. She would simply take one of her brother’s pistols for protection. Reynold had shown her how to fire it a few times. As she recalled, it was a fairly simple procedure.
In any case, she probably wouldn’t have to use it. Jack Jones roamed the stews often enough that everyone knew and respected him. She would play a few hands of piquet, win some money, see if anyone had a sun tattoo, and then slip out as usual if she found that no one did.
What could possibly go wrong?
Warren was at Mrs. Beard’s long past midnight, trying to enjoy himself. Sadly, he wasn’t succeeding. Because he couldn’t banish Delia from his mind. Two different whores had already attempted to engage his interest and had been unable to do so. It was most uncharacteristic of him.
Now he found himself oddly alone in a sitting room, downing whiskey and wondering if he should go on to another brothel. Or a pub. Or to St. George’s in hopes that he might drum up a game of cards.
Cards made him think of Delia again, damn it. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, trying to picture how she’d looked in that cheery yellow gown. Why did she dress so nicely at home and so badly in society? To put suitors off? Probably.
If she dressed better, other men would almost certainly swarm about her for more than her fortune. He’d never seen her at an evening event. What did she wear then? Pomona green and puce? Fussy bows? Perhaps she draped her head in one of those awful turban hats he disliked . . . or . . .
Lulled by the whiskey and images of turbans, he slid effortlessly into sleep.
The dream began as it always did. He was blind. No, it was just too dark to see. The lantern had gone out. But how? No wind here in the old cellar.
A ghost had blown it out. “No such thing as ghosts, no such thing as ghosts,” he chanted, squishing himself into the corner.
How his brothers would mock him if they heard.
But they wouldn’t hear. They were at Grandmother’s. He hadn’t wanted to go.
He should have gone.
So now he was truly alone. Except for Pickering. His hateful tutor, Pickering.
Something skittered over his leg. He squealed and kicked out. Someone—something—other than him squealed. A rat. He shuddered. Rats were worse than ghosts.
Jumping up, he stomped about. “Die, die, die!”
Then something crashed, and pain shot through his leg—
&n
bsp; “My lord?”
Warren jerked awake, his skin clammy and his heart racing. He wasn’t in the cellar. Thank God he was at the brothel.
“Are you well?”
He straightened to find a pretty whore standing in the doorway, regarding him with wary alarm. Bloody hell, he hoped he hadn’t said anything.
“I’m fine. I just . . . dozed off.” He couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep here. That’s what came of rising too early to go to Delia’s, after staying out all night.
This was her fault, damn it. She was upsetting the rhythm of his days, and now the nightmares were catching up with him. God only knew how he’d survive a week in the country, with everyone retiring at some ridiculously early hour.
“Shall I go?” the woman asked, still watching him uneasily.
Don’t be a sniveling coward, boy.
“Certainly not.” He forced a rakish grin to his lips. He couldn’t bear to be alone right now. “I didn’t come here to sleep, I assure you.”
Relaxing, the woman smiled coyly and sauntered over to him. She was exactly his sort, full-figured and blond and clearly willing to do whatever he would want.
Climbing onto his lap, she ran a soft hand over his cheek. “My lord, you seem very distracted this evening. Perhaps I can take your mind off your troubles.”
He truly wished she could. But his troubles centered around a slim, full-hipped debutante with sparkling blue eyes and a sharp wit who made all other women seem rather . . . lackluster, even the buxom blonde who wriggled purposefully on his lap.
In a flash, he remembered Delia’s shock when he’d pressed his hardening flesh against her. That shock had rapidly turned into a sweet yielding when he’d approached the second time to kiss and tongue her throat. Just thinking about it made him harden. If it were Delia wriggling atop his lap—
Damn it all. This was ludicrous. “How would you propose to take my mind off my troubles?” He would thrust the innocent little Delia from his mind if it killed him. She could keep him from sleeping late in the morning, but he wouldn’t let her keep him from this.
The whore slid forward on his lap just enough so she could slip her hand down to cup his cock. It was already erect. But not for her. No, it was for some chit who didn’t have the good sense to know when she was wrong.
The Danger of Desire Page 9