by Liz Carlyle
“Why, of course,” she said laughingly. “And let us add handsome, wealthy, and possessed of impeccable taste. Moreover, he would have to bow to my every whim, and shower me with expensive gifts. If you have an applicant for such a demanding position, I do hope that you will pass it along?”
On the bed beside her, David seemed to stiffen. “I don’t,” he said, his voice suddenly rough. “Make no mistake, Cecilia—I can suggest no one who will meet your needs.”
At once, he rolled toward her until he looked her straight in the eyes. “I’ll gratefully accept your offer to be your lover,” he continued. “However, you must understand that when you are ready for your perfect man—when you are truly serious about it—then I think you will need to move on, my dear.”
“I understand,” she said quietly. “Perhaps—well, perhaps I understand more than you think.”
“This is not a complicated situation, Cecilia,” he interjected dryly. “And I am not a complicated man.”
“Are you not?” she asked briskly. “How glad I am to hear it. Now—what must we do until six, David, if we cannot make love?”
Wryly, he grinned and draped one arm around her. “We will do what lovers really do much of the time, my dear,” he responded, neatly jerking her hips into his. “We will sleep. I, for one, am a few hours short—and you know why.”
“Oh—!” Cecilia’s fingers flew to her mouth.
“What?” asked David suspiciously.
“My stocking!”
“Ah,” moaned David, flopping onto his back. “You wish to have it back?”
Cecilia’s eyes grew round and hopeful. “You have it?”
“An accident,” he said swiftly. “It got... tangled in some of my clothes—my coat—in the drawing room.”
Cecilia exhaled a low sigh of relief. “No, just throw it in the dustbin. But oh, David! You cannot imagine the dreadful morning I had. I imagined one of my staff had found it, and I was simply beside myself. And then! Oh! Jed and I went out for a ride, and who should I stumble across but Edmund Rowland.”
“Edmund Rowland?” said David disgustedly. “I hope you were able to avoid that fatuous ass.”
“No, not entirely,” said Cecilia. “I had to stroll about with him for a few moments... and he did say something—something which I hope will not overly distress you.”
David shifted his head to look at her. “Yes—?”
As usual, Cecilia felt herself blushing. “But you belong to Brooks’s, do you not? Yes, of course, I know that you do. But perhaps you did not know that there was a wager? A very unpleasant one, I’m given to understand.”
David gave a deep groan. “Oh, hell.”
“You knew?”
“Yes, and Edmund Rowland was in the middle of that mischief, too, I daresay,” insisted David grimly. “He encouraged a couple of drunken louts to write it down in the betting book. Cecilia, I’m very sorry that you had to learn of it.”
“David?” Her voice was very tentative. “What, precisely, does it say? Of course, I could not give Edmund the satisfaction of my asking for particulars.”
Fleetingly, David felt relieved. “So you do not know.”
But Cecilia’s impatience was growing. “I said I did not. Do you mean to tell me? Or must I ask someone else?”
David felt like a trapped animal. With everything else he’d had on his mind, he’d somehow managed to forget Sir Lester’s vile wager. Good God. He wished very desperately to get his hands on Edmund Rowland. At this moment, it would have taken very little effort to ring his skinny neck. But Cecilia was still waiting for her answer.
“As usual, you give me no choice, Cecilia,” he complained. “Very well. It seems that Sir Lester Blake and Mr. Reed found it humorous that I had been entrapped into managing the mission. It may surprise you to know that there are some people who still delight in the fact that you once jilted me, and apparently, it is common knowledge that you worked with Cole. But I can assure you that I did not know it. Not, at least, until that night.”
Cecilia was surprised. “Did you not?”
David shook his head. “No, but my so-called friends wasted no time in telling me. And even less in making bets on how long it would take me to bed you.”
“Oh!” said Cecilia softly. “And... precisely how long did they give you?”
David cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I believe it was until May Day. Thereabouts.”
“Well, they possess a remarkable underappreciation for your skills, do they not?” she mused. “And the amount of the wager was—?”
“Er—fifty guineas.”
“And quite a lot of money, too!” Abruptly, Cecilia spun to a seated position. “I’m glad I didn’t come cheaply. And now that you’ve had your wicked way with me, there’s nothing else for it, is there? You’d best pay up.”
David stared up at her in amazement. “Cecilia, that’s not how it works. If two drunken idiots choose to make a wager on something which is none of their business—”
“Oh, gentlemen make a habit of that,” Cecilia interjected with surprising good cheer.
“—then I’m under no obligation to help them settle it,” he finished. “What would you have me do, confess over a game of loo in the card room?”
Cecilia grinned. “You, sir, may do as you wish. But perhaps I meant pay up in a different context altogether?”
David was saved from further interrogation by the low, mournful tones of St. George’s bell tower. It was six o’clock. Abruptly, he sat up and grabbed Cecilia by the hand. He certainly had no wish to be there when Angeline returned to muss up the room.
Chapter Eleven
In Which Delacourt Leaps Out of the Frying Pan
It took David but a few moments to effect a smooth escape from Mother Derbin’s. On his way out the door, he slipped the buxom bawd an ungodly sum of money, whispered how pleased he’d been with Angeline’s performance, and assured her—quite truthfully—that he would be back. Then he shoved Cecilia out of the house and into the street.
Outside, dusk was swiftly falling. The side lane was now swathed in darkness. Ahead, at the intersection of Black Horse Lane, David watched carefully as a brewer’s dray went rumbling past. Another hackney approached from the opposite direction. The hackney driver tapped his hat brim with his whip, and both carriages clattered on into the night. The coast was clear.
Still clutching Cecilia by the arm, David stepped into the main thoroughfare. Most of the shops had long since closed, but a public house a few yards along the lane was doing a brisk business, and through the narrow windows of the coffee house, David could see that it, too, was crowded. To his relief, his coachman and footmen were waiting at the corner as instructed.
Efficiently, he bundled Cecilia into the carriage and motioned for his footman. “Hand me a lamp, Strickham,” he said quietly. “And then keep an eye on the lady while I have a little stroll.”
At once, Cecilia stuck her head out the door. “David?” she said sharply. “What do you mean to do?”
David quirked one brow and looked up at her. “Perhaps answer the call of nature—?”
Cecilia looked skeptical. “Then go behind that stack of barrels further down the pavement,” she hissed, wrinkling her nose. “Half of Black Horse Lane already has.”
David feigned embarrassment. “My dear, you shock me. I’m very shy.”
“And so you want a lamp for the job, do you?” she returned. “And I daresay you mean to take it down that alley behind Derbin’s brothel. A very private place indeed.”
Caught out, David grinned. “Yes, I want to see if there is a rear entrance into the cellars,” he agreed as Strickham passed him the lamp. “Or perhaps in back of the tobacconist next door. These places are built like rabbit warrens, half of them connected.” He moved as if to shut the door.
Swiftly, Cecilia’s gloved hand thrust forward to stay it. “But you cannot go alone,” she whispered, her asperity slipping. “It mightn’t be safe.”
; “I hope, my dear, that you do not mean to guard me,” David murmured, hefting the lantern to adjust the flame. “My masculinity is already a tenuous thing. I shudder to think what impairment your lack of faith could engender.”
Cecilia flopped back onto the carriage seat, stubbornly throwing her arms over her chest. “Well, someone should guard you, Your Royal Insolence,” she complained bitterly. “Will you take Strickham if I promise to stay here?”
In an effort to soothe her concern, David took on a teasing tone. “My dear, do you value my safety so greatly that you would forgo an opportunity to fling yourself into the jaws of danger? I’m truly touched.”
“Oh, go ahead and make a jest of me,” she retorted, her words finally catching on a sincere sob. “I hope that bawd’s henchman knocks you over the sconce and pitches you onto the next freighter to Calcutta!”
She was more than concerned. She was truly frightened. David was touched. Feeling like a cur once again, he passed the lantern back to his footman and crawled halfway into the carriage. With a brush of his arm, he lifted her veil and swiftly kissed her. “I’m sorry, minx. You’re right, of course. Strickham will come along.”
And then, he was gone, setting back off in the direction from which they had just come, with his footman on his heels. Cecilia waited impatiently in the lamplit carriage. It seemed an eternity before she spotted the faint hint of lamplight trickling back out of the alleyway. Mere seconds later, both men appeared in the street.
Apparently unseen, they strolled toward the carriage as if they really had done nothing more interesting than water the alley. David passed the lamp to his footman and climbed inside.
Throwing up her veil, Cecilia leaned forward. “Well?”
“It’s there,” David responded. “And there’s a well-worn path leading to the steps. That—and the fact that the door has three locks on it—could make a fellow suspicious.”
Clearly relieved, Cecilia exhaled and collapsed against the velvet squabs. “What do we do now?” she asked, screwing one fist sleepily into her left eye.
David shook his head. “Nothing, Cecilia. We do nothing. I shall tell de Rohan—though how the devil I’m to explain our little exploit tonight is beyond me.” His voice was resigned. “I daresay he’ll be left with a very poor impression of my sexual preferences.”
At that remark, Cecilia fell silent, and he was reminded yet again that their little escapade had probably left her more shaken than she wished to admit. In a few moments, they passed from Black Horse Lane and onto the Ratcliffe Highway. As if she were exhausted, Cecilia let her head tilt back and her eyes drop shut.
Entranced, David studied her. She was beautiful, his drowsy kitten. Beneath her left eye, there was the tiniest mole, a dark brown speck against her flawless skin. It had always intrigued him, that tiny dot, and now that he could study it at his leisure, it seemed to David the greatest of luxuries.
Traffic thinned, the carriage sped up, and still Cecilia did not wake. After the turbulence of his afternoon, David was glad to settle back and feast his eyes upon her. The frothy black netting of her veil lent a beautiful contrast to Cecilia’s porcelain skin, not to mention the flame-gold curls which peeped from beneath her bonnet. And her mouth. He loved it, for it was sweet, full, and bow-shaped, like a cupid’s. And he loved her nose, with its little tip-tilted end.
Cecilia’s lashes were long, surprisingly dark, while her cheeks were always lit with a shade of peach or pink, or oftentimes bright, burning red. Cecilia’s every emotion showed in her face, and he loved that, too. It was, he thought, a form of honesty. Most women of his acquaintance were experts at deception, but a beautiful blush could not be feigned. It made Cecilia perfect.
And so what the devil was he to do with her?
He deeply disapproved of this idea of hers, this understanding that they would conduct an affair—and apparently not a particularly discreet one—continuing it indefinitely. Well, perhaps he did not disapprove stridently enough to refuse her. Good God, could any mortal be man enough for that task? Assuredly, he was not.
And yet, she had not denied her intent to remarry. She wanted children. Four or five, she had said. And of course, she wished them to have impeccable bloodlines. Oh, he had not missed the teasing tone in which she’d responded to his questions, but that did not alter the essential truth—and wisdom—of her answers.
David had not thought a great deal about children until Henry, Jonet’s first husband, had died suddenly, leaving her a young widow with two little boys. Stuart and Robin had charmed him, yes. But when Jonet’s little girls had come along, he’d been a lost man. There was something about baby girls—the way they smelled, the way they cooed, the way they would clutch at his finger with their little fists and look at him as if he’d hung the moon—oh, yes—something about them appealed to his deepest male instincts. It engendered in him an overwhelming desire to touch, cosset, and cuddle. An almost bone-deep need to protect.
And it had hurt.
Across the length of the carriage, he studied Cecilia, pale and serene by the light of the lamp. Yes, she would make an admirable mother. Like Jonet, she would be as a tigress to her children, watchfully guarding, patiently teaching. He wanted. Oh, God, how he wanted.
Was it possible? Certainly, the thought had been in his mind, buried deep beneath a heap of guilt and a mountain of pride, since the moment he’d first seen Cecilia Markham-Sands. Still, David did not believe in love at first sight. He was not, by his nature, a romantic man. But he did believe that kindred souls knew one another. And that with the right person, a perfect sense of oneness could be achieved. He believed it, for he had seen it happen to his sister. And he had seen it change her life.
Could he have that with Cecilia? Perhaps. Damn it, he needed to think! What choice did he have? This affair was not going to work, no matter how much he loved her. Indeed, it would not work because he loved her. He had not the heart to sully her name by her association with him. It did not matter that she had more or less granted permission to do precisely that. Even a marriage would not alter the fact that he was generally thought a roué and a blackguard and an all-around vengeful, heartless bastard.
Because it was true. All of it. Or had been—until he had landed in the middle of the Daughters of Nazareth Society. And within a matter of days, his rage and his guilt and his burning belief that he had somehow been wronged by fate had faded in comparison to what he’d seen there.
Then there had been Cecilia. And the constant, chafing emotions he felt for her. He couldn’t even tell her the truth about why he’d stolen her bloody stocking—and yet, he was supposed to tell her the truth about his life? That he was not, after all, the Viscount Delacourt?
But with Cecilia, that would not be the hard part. She was too honest, too egalitarian. He understood that now. Unlike most women, he could trust her. Even if she should refuse him, even if she should be horrified by it all, she would not run up and down Piccadilly whispering the news in every passerby’s ear, until someone who mattered—one of his enemies—got wind of it.
No, the hard part would be reliving his honorable mother’s shame. And letting down—completely down—the defenses he’d built about his heart. And asking for the privilege of siring those four or five children she wanted, while implying by that very question that he thought himself good enough to do so. And admitting, after all these long and lonely years, that it had been his naïveté, not hers, which had been so violently stripped away at Newmarket on that long-ago summer’s day.
It was too much. Too fast. He had not the strength.
“David?” Cecilia’s drowsy voice cut through the fog of his introspection. “Where are we going?”
Suddenly, it occurred to him that he did not know. He had merely ordered his coachman to drive on, with no thought to where they were headed. Straight toward a catastrophic collision, he feared. But Cecilia’s question was more literal than that.
“To my house,” he said, with far more decisiveness than
he felt. “We’re going to Curzon Street for dinner... and for whatever follows.”
For the first time that evening, Cecilia looked mildly distressed. “But surely you don’t take your mistresses there? I mean, your mother...?”
His emotions already on edge, David felt his temper spike. “You are not my mistress,” he said harshly. “And it would be perfectly permissible for my mother to entertain you in her home. Indeed, she would account it a great honor.”
Cecilia managed a weak smile. “But—?”
She had heard the uncertainty in his voice. She knew him too well. David let the scowl slip from his face. “But as it happens, I am a man unencumbered by female relations at present,” he said more softly. “Mother has gone to attend Lady Kildermore’s confinement. She has taken Charlotte and sent most of the servants on holiday.”
“Oh,” said Cecilia, her voice a little mystified. “They are friends?”
“The very best of friends,” he clarified.
Again, Cecilia shifted uncomfortably on the carriage seat. “David,” she tentatively began. “May I ask a question that is none of my business?”
David tried to sound lighthearted. “By all means, my dear. I should be afraid to stop you.”
Refusing to hold his gaze, Cecilia began to twine the cords of her reticule nervously in her fingers. “Was your mother dreadfully disappointed when you did not marry Lady Kildermore?” she asked uncertainly. “After all, despite your being younger, she is rich, and accounted a great beauty.”
Well. How to answer that one?
“No,” he said slowly. “We are friends, all of us, but there was never any question of our marrying. Indeed, I wouldn’t have her. Nor she me, I do not doubt. We are exactly alike in both character and temperament—”
Abruptly, he broke off, all too aware that he had almost revealed too much of himself. He drew a deep breath. “Cecilia, I do not want to talk about Jonet,” he said on a sigh. “What I want is to make love to you. Badly. Will you put down your veils, come home with me, and let me take you to bed?” Across the narrow carriage, he held out his hand.