“None that would interest you.” She returned her attention to the other guests. “So, with whom do you hope to be paired for the sketch?”
“You, of course. Who else?”
A thrill coursed through her that she swiftly squelched. “Your cousin, perhaps?”
“Clarissa has Edwin. She doesn’t need me.”
The strangest feeling came over her then. Envy, of Clarissa and Edwin. Which was ridiculous. Marriage meant sacrifice, and she had no desire to sacrifice her soul for a man.
Unless it was Warren.
She scowled. How absurd. They might enjoy their little encounters, but Warren had no desire for a wife. And though eventually he would have to settle for one, if only to sire his heir, he would choose one with stellar connections, who came from wealth and rank. Not someone like her.
She wouldn’t want to be forced to cater to the whims of such a lofty fellow, anyway. Or wait for him to stop sowing his wild oats.
Certainly not.
“I’m surprised you haven’t yet drummed up a card game,” he said. “Shall you play piquet tonight?”
“I might. If you will play me.”
He lowered his voice. “Having already lost a thousand pounds to you, I think I’ve filled your coffers enough.”
“I still haven’t seen the blunt,” she said, mostly to tweak his nose.
“What a greedy chit you are,” he said mildly. “I’ll give you your money whenever it’s prudent to do so.”
Determined to provoke him, she said, “So you say.”
“Do you doubt me?”
“Always.”
“In that case . . .” He drew up what looked like a Roman purse and began to open it.
“Stop that,” she hissed. “You know I’m only teasing you.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps I’m doing the same.”
Glancing into the room to make sure no one was taking note of them, she said, “Do you truly enjoy living dangerously?”
“It’s preferable to living predictably.”
“I would call it living responsibly. Dependably.”
“It’s possible to be responsible in the things that matter, and reckless in the things that don’t.”
She stared him down. “It’s knowing which is which that’s tricky.”
“True.”
Just then, Clarissa stuck her head out the door. “Are you two going to join us? Jeremy is finally awake and ready to start our sketches.”
“We’ll be right there,” Delia said lightly.
She started for the door, but Warren caught her by the arm. “Promise me that if you find your villain, you will tell me. I don’t know what you’re about, but I don’t think you should be confronting some fellow alone.”
The request threw her into confusion. Was he asking because he did know who the tattooed lord was? Or because he just wanted to help her?
It really didn’t matter. Because once she found the man, nothing would stop her from getting what she wanted from the card cheat. “I promise. As long as you promise to tell me if you find him yourself.”
“Of course.” He spoke the words so matter-of-factly that she was reassured. “Though it would help if you told me why we’re looking for him.”
She snorted. “Nice try, my lord. But I don’t yet trust you that much.” Then she returned to the breakfast room.
Sadly, her words weren’t quite true. Because the more she came to know him, the more she began to think he might be serious about wanting to protect her. And given that her own brother hadn’t had any such impulse, that made it harder for her to keep her distance.
So, conscious of her susceptibility, she spent the rest of the morning avoiding him. She made sure she wasn’t in his group for the sketch and was nowhere near him afterward. And when she saw him glance her way midafternoon, she convinced Brilliana and Aunt Agatha to go for a walk on the beautiful grounds before he could approach her.
Though as soon as they’d headed off, with Delia setting a brisk pace to make sure he didn’t try to join them, she regretted her ruse. Because Aunt Agatha was decidedly cranky today. Delia vastly preferred Warren’s penetrating questions to Aunt Agatha’s complaints about her bed and the noise coming from the gentlemen downstairs last night and the very air that she breathed.
“Lady Blakeborough sets an excellent table, mind you,” her aunt was saying as they approached the deer park. “But she should also set a better example for you young ladies.”
“What do you mean?” Brilliana asked. “I think Lady Blakeborough is lovely. Of course, I barely know her, but still . . .”
“She shouldn’t have allowed this scandalous Roman costume business.” Her aunt fixed Delia with a hard look. “And I cannot believe you were the one to suggest it. Don’t you want to marry? Because it seems to me you’re doing everything to prevent it.”
Careful, Delia cautioned herself. This is risky terrain, no matter what path I take. “Gentlemen like daring women,” she countered. Or at least Warren said he did.
Aunt Agatha snorted. “Not too daring. A man like Lord Knightford may have some . . . unwholesome habits, but he will want a wife who follows the rules of respectability.”
“How very unfair of him,” Delia couldn’t resist saying.
“The world isn’t fair,” her aunt retorted.
Which was precisely why Delia didn’t want a husband. But she couldn’t say that, of course. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. The marquess has no interest in marrying me.”
“I’m not so sure,” Brilliana put in.
“Why? Because he flirts with me?”
“He flirts with you?” her aunt said. “That is most irregular for him. As is paying calls to a respectable young lady. Or, for that matter, asking a lady’s relations the sort of probing questions only appropriate for a suitor to ask, as he did today at lunch. But you will drive him off if you continue to do this mad—”
“What probing questions was he asking?” Delia broke in, her heart dropping into her stomach.
Brilliana exchanged a glance with her. “Oh, things like how long we’ve been in town and why we decided to stay the summer.”
“His questions were more pointed than that,” Aunt Agatha said. “He wanted to know the details surrounding Reynold’s death, and I told him in no uncertain terms that it was rude to ask.”
Delia swallowed her panic. “So you didn’t tell him.”
“Certainly not. None of his concern.” Her aunt drew herself up with a sniff. “Much as I would love to see you married to a marquess, I shan’t allow such intrusive questions until you have an understanding. Though I’m sure there’s been speculation about Reynold. There always is.”
Aunt Agatha lowered her voice to a confidential murmur. “Besides, Lord Knightford is a member of that St. George’s Club, which is nothing more than a place for men to gossip. I’m sure if he knew the truth, he would spread the word among its members, and then who knows if you would ever find a husband?”
Relief coursed through her. “So you didn’t tell him about Reynold losing all our money gambling.”
“Well, of course I told him of that. Everyone already knows about it.”
Despair swamped Delia. Everyone did not know, and she’d worked hard to keep it that way. Aunt Agatha had surely said enough to rouse Warren’s interest.
Curse him, why was he meddling? How could she make him retreat? Couldn’t he see that Aunt Agatha would consider his interest a different kind of interest entirely?
He was going to ruin everything. She must get him alone somehow and demand that he stop. This couldn’t go on.
The afternoon bled into evening, and still she hadn’t found a chance to speak to him alone. Mr. Keane sketched more guests, but Warren left to go riding with his friend Lord Blakeborough, apparently keeping himself aloof from the proceedings now that his own sketch had been done. He was, after all, a marquess. Such people needn’t concern themselves with parlor games.
Even after he returned, they wer
e all with other guests until dinner was finished. And once the ladies retired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to play cards and drink the night away, she’d lost her chance to speak privately with him. When a man was in his cups, he was virtually useless.
The next morning, she rose before dawn because she couldn’t sleep. Warren was bedeviling her dreams. If she didn’t have it out with him today, she might go mad.
She headed downstairs in hopes that some breakfast items might have already been put out for early risers, but strange sounds coming from the drawing room drew her attention. Aunt Agatha tended to rise early, and, worried that she might be having difficulties, Delia diverted her course.
When she entered the drawing room Warren was sitting on the settee, still wearing his dinner attire from the night before. But he wasn’t awake. Indeed, judging from the way he thrashed about, he was having bad dreams.
She halted, uncertain how to act. Should she wake him? Leave him alone? Let the nightmare run its course?
“Please, no! I’ll be good, I swear!” He tossed his head from side to side. “Don’t leave me! Too dark . . . too dark . . . Come back!”
His desperate tone sent a chill down her spine. Even knowing he wasn’t speaking to her, she felt a tug at her heart. The poor man. What on earth was he dreaming?
This couldn’t go on. He would make himself ill.
Approaching him warily, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Warren, wake up.” She shook him a little. “You’re having a bad dream.”
Without warning, he grabbed her and tugged her onto his lap. “Yes. Yes. Help me. Stay with me!”
She struggled against his embrace, the beginnings of alarm rising in her chest. “Let me go. Warren, wake up!”
“You mustn’t go!” he cried, clutching her so tightly she feared he might actually hurt her. “Don’t . . . can’t go.”
“I won’t.” How could she abandon him when he seemed so panicked? She laid her hand on his cheek. “It’s all right. I’m here.”
He groaned in his sleep. “Don’t leave me, Delia. I don’t want to go back in the dark. Please, no. Don’t.”
The words, cries of a child spoken in the deep voice of a man, made something twist in her heart. “I won’t leave you, I swear.” She clasped him to her. “Hush, dearest.” She pressed a kiss into his hair. “Everything will be fine now.”
His breathing grew less frantic, though he still gripped her so fiercely that she couldn’t have left even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t.
“So nice. Ah, Delia. Sweet, sweet Delia.” He covered one breast with his hand, kneading the flesh through her gown, thumbing her nipple. “You slay me.”
“Do I?” she whispered, though she doubted he knew what he was saying.
His answer was a kiss, a hot, heady, deep one that shook her to her toes. She should stop him; someone could come in any minute. Yet she couldn’t help herself—even knowing he was unaware of what he did, she wanted to revel in the delicious feel of his mouth on hers, his tongue inside her, his scent engulfing her.
She threw her arms about his neck and gave herself up to the kiss.
“Yes, my sweet girl,” he rasped. “Be mine. All mine.”
Both his hands were on her breasts now, and the very daringness of it thrilled her. Next thing she knew, he was pulling her astride him and pushing against her down there in a most intriguing way, and her heart was pounding hard enough to be heard in London and—
“My lord!” a strange voice intruded. “Stop that right now! What do you think you are doing with my niece?”
Oh no—Aunt Agatha! Delia leapt from his lap. “You don’t understand . . . It’s not how it looks—”
“You mean his lordship did not have his hands on your breasts and your legs about his waist?” her aunt snapped. “I may be old, girl, but I am not blind.”
“Miss Trevor?”
Delia glanced back to see Warren, his eyes opening and confusion showing on his face.
He stood slowly, then threaded his fingers through his hair. “What’s going on? Was I asleep?”
“Yes,” she said swiftly. “I was just explaining to Aunt Agatha—”
“Do not play me for a fool, Delia.” Aunt Agatha glared at him. “As for you, my lord, shame on you for behaving so outrageously with my niece.”
His expression cooled to hauteur. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You were having a nightmare,” Delia said hastily. “And when I tried to wake you, you . . . well . . . You didn’t mean to do it. I know that, but—”
Aunt Agatha snorted. “Don’t be a green goose. If you believed he was kissing and fondling you in his sleep, then you are the fool.”
“Fondling her! I beg your pardon. I would never . . .” Abruptly, he halted and the blood drained from his face. “So it . . . wasn’t a dream. Oh, God.”
“If you try to pretend that you didn’t know what you were doing, sir,” Aunt Agatha said firmly, “I swear I will call you out myself.”
A new voice entered the fray. “That sounds intriguing. What has my cousin done now?”
Lord, no. It was Clarissa. And her husband. And some fellow Delia barely knew.
Warren glanced to the people in the doorway, then to Aunt Agatha and finally to Delia. Regret and something else she couldn’t read flickered in his gaze before he gathered his dignity and said stiffly, “I believe I have just made an offer for Miss Trevor’s hand.”
That softened Aunt Agatha only a little. “I should hope you have. Otherwise—”
“Aunt Agatha, please,” Delia cut in. “I need a moment to speak to his lordship.”
This was all moving too quickly. He would think she’d entrapped him. Or that she and Aunt Agatha had conspired together to entrap him. Surely she and Warren could find some way out of this that didn’t involve him being leg-shackled to a woman he didn’t want. Or her being tied to a rakehell who was only interested in her physical attractions.
Her aunt regarded her with the steely-eyed gaze that cowed even ladies of the highest rank. “It won’t change anything.”
“No, it won’t,” Warren said firmly. “But I, too, need to speak with Miss Trevor in private. I promise not to do anything untoward.”
“Do I have your word as a gentleman on that? If you even deserve that appellation.”
“Lady Pensworth!” Lord Blakeborough said sharply. “I will thank you not to insult my friends and guests.”
“It’s all right, Edwin,” Warren told the earl. “She has just cause to be angry.” He inclined his head toward Delia’s aunt. “You have my word . . . as a gentleman and the son of your good friend.”
That seemed to register with Aunt Agatha, thankfully. “Very well,” Aunt Agatha said. “But don’t linger. You and I must go to London right away to consult with our solicitors and arrange the settlement, not to mention procure a license.”
A license! “A few moments, Aunt,” Delia said, as panic rose in her chest. “Please. Before you bind us for life.”
With a terse nod, Aunt Agatha withdrew, taking all the others with her.
And Delia was left alone with Warren.
Fourteen
While waiting for her to speak, Warren tried to catch his bearings. This situation was beyond his realm of expertise. He’d never ruined an eligible female before. He hardly knew how to proceed.
Especially when he wasn’t sure how far he’d gone. As usual, the dream had caught hold of him like a swamp, dragging him down into its muddy depths. What had he said? How much had he revealed? Not too much, he hoped. Because right now, with a marriage looming, he didn’t want to dredge all that up.
Not when she looked so vulnerable, her cheeks a pale pink and her eyes haunted. Was she that afraid to marry him? Good God, what had he done or said to her in the throes of his nightmare?
He didn’t think he’d hurt her, but he’d lashed out against people physically in his dreams before. That was why he’d started sleeping during the day, when he tended no
t to have the nightmares.
She dragged in a shaky breath. “I want you to know I had no idea you would pull me onto your lap and—”
“I realize that. But you didn’t fight to leave, did you?” God, if she’d fought him, and he’d hurt her, he’d never forgive himself.
For some reason, the question made her bristle. “Not hard enough, apparently. I realize I should have, but—”
“Forgive me, you misunderstand me.” No surprise, since he’d put it very badly. “I’m not blaming you for my actions. Merely making sure that I did not . . . force my attentions on you.”
Relief flooded her winsome features. “No. Not really. You held me rather tightly, but I’m sure I could have roused you from your sleep if I had been more . . . forceful.”
It was his turn to feel relieved. “But you chose not to.”
She blushed. “Yes.”
“Because you were afraid to jar me awake? Or because you enjoyed . . . whatever I was doing?”
A faint smile touched her lips. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
Mortification flooded him, but he made sure not to show it. At least she was still fully dressed. That was something. Because in the dream, he’d undressed her. “I remember holding you. Kissing you and . . . other things.” Pulling her astride him. Plunging deep inside her wet, soft— “I just don’t know how much was the dream, and how much was real.”
“Your panic at the beginning, before I touched you, was certainly real. You seemed so desperate and sad that I couldn’t bear to leave you. I don’t know what you were dreaming to make you so frantic, but—”
“I had a nightmare, that’s all. Then you entered it and changed it into something more . . . bearable.” He winced. “And I showed my appreciation by ruining you.”
She shrugged. “You didn’t know what you were doing. Given how I responded to your far more intimate caresses a few nights ago, I’m surprised that you didn’t go further.”
Those had been “far more intimate”? Then he couldn’t have done too much to her, no matter what he’d done in the dream. “I might have gone further if not for your aunt.” He forced a smile. “I do find you . . . hard to resist.”
The Danger of Desire Page 14