A Shocking Delight

by Beverley, Jo

  Then beyond the wall of suitors, a blond man smiled at her. He was more tanned and more blond than Wyvern, which created an interesting impression that he was made of gold. He smiled, and somehow, by a look in his eye, suggested that he was a means of escape. She had no idea who he was, but she smiled back and walked toward him. Men stepped back, allowing her through. She put her hand in his and he led her away.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I thought you needed relief from the siege.”

  “That’s exactly the word.” She took the bold approach. “I’m Lucinda Potter.”

  “And I’m Nicholas Delaney, a friend of Lord Wyvern.”

  Her heart pattered, but she wondered how he could have been friends with an estate steward. Despite his casual demeanor he was very much part of this world.

  “Only a recent acquaintance of the current one.” He went on. “But my friendship with the previous Earl of Wyvern is long.”

  “The Mad Earl?” she asked, surprised.

  “The temporary one, now Lord Amleigh. We were at school together.”

  Lord Amleigh was Lord Wyvern’s brother-in-law. A tenuous thread of connection, but it thrilled her foolish heart.

  Lucy would happily have talked more about all things Wyvern with this man, but they were on the dance floor and must take their places. She should be grateful to be protected from her own folly. When she’d first spied Wyvern across the room, fully the earl again in dark elegance, her heart had truly skipped a beat.

  As they settled to the longways dance, however, she saw Wyvern join it with an auburn-haired woman. They would meet in the dance. She couldn’t help but smile.

  * * *

  David had been impressed by the ease with which Nicholas had snatched Miss Potter. It was easy to underestimate Nicholas, but he was heir assumptive to his brother, the Earl of Stainbridge. More impressive was Nicholas’s position as unquestioned leader of the Rogues. For the most part, they were men of quality, rank, and expertise, and he was a commoner who chose to live a rural life. Even so, he ruled.

  David wasn’t a Rogue, however, and had no mind to be steered by Nicholas Delaney’s iron whim. All very well to speak of the wondrous powers of love, but what of Romeo and Juliet, and Othello?

  Susan was also dancing, and as they turned together at one point she said, “You promised not to avoid Miss Potter.”

  “I’ll meet her in the dance.”

  She gave him an older-sister look and he sighed. “I’ll ask her for a dance.”

  The effect of meeting her in the dance was so powerful, however, that he lost his nerve. He’d never understand his mother’s rash behavior, but he was beginning to see how this kind of obsession could ride roughshod over common sense and will. He couldn’t dance with her. It wouldn’t be safe.

  * * *

  At the end of the dance, Lucy couldn’t resist asking Mr. Delaney a question. “Was Wyvern truly an estate manager?”

  “Yes, and he’d rather still be that than here, an earl buffed to a shine.”

  “I met him in the park yesterday morning in country clothes. He seemed more comfortable.”

  “Are you suggesting that he should wear such clothes here?”

  “That would be folly, but it seems a shame that anyone be uncomfortable.”

  “Hush! Such an outrageous notion might start a revolution. Cravats and collars would become soft, corsets would be thrown off by men and women, and hair would be allowed to take its natural form.”

  She chuckled. “What an astonishing world that would be.”

  “You would like to be part of it?”

  “I never wear anything uncomfortable as it is. Nor, I suspect, do you, sir.”

  He smiled. “You’re right, but we are both blessed with a pleasing form.”

  “Do you always argue both sides of a topic?”

  “Whenever possible. Do you have a taste for the gothic?”

  “As in novels?” she asked, surprised.

  “In any way. Wyvern’s seat, Crag Wyvern, is an imitation of a medieval keep, including arrow slits and a dungeon.”

  “That sounds most uncomfortable.”

  “David finds it so.”

  David. His name is David.

  “Does a visit to such a house appeal?” he asked.

  “Definitely not.”

  “It’s become quite an attraction for travelers who venture to such a remote spot, especially ladies devoted to gothic novels.”

  Remote, she noted.

  “Remote seems more horrid than a mock castle,” she said.

  “Venturesome travel doesn’t appeal?

  “Not at all.”

  “Yet you don’t strike me as timid.”

  She flashed him a look. “I’m not, but my ventures are of a different sort.”

  She was expecting him to ask what she meant, which would allow her to talk about trade, but instead he glanced around. “The siege forces gather. Will you be captured, or shall I find you a sensible gentleman?”

  “It’s not sensible to woo me?” When he didn’t respond to that, she said, “I’ll take a suitor, or everyone will wonder why I’m here.”

  “Which raises the question, why are you here?”

  He was far too sharp beneath that easygoing manner. “For amusement only.”

  “Poor suitors,” he said and moved away.

  Lucy eyed the approaching hopefuls, feeling a twinge of guilt. She’d promised nothing, but she truly did wish there were a way of signaling that she did not have marriage in mind.

  She realized she was again waiting for Wyvern to approach. Because of the park, but also because of something in his eyes during the previous dance. But see, he was ready to dance with a pretty, dark-haired young woman. Something about her dress and manner suggested she was married. Idiotic to be relieved by that.

  He and his partner were joined by Sir Stephen and Lady Ball, other people she knew quite well. Sir Stephen had worked with Lucy’s father on reforms to apprenticeship law and the Balls had dined at Nailer Street twice. So here was another opportunity to approach. She managed to resist, but it was becoming increasingly hard. If he wouldn’t come to her, she wanted to go to him. . . .

  Madness! She accepted Launceston as partner, taking comfort from it being another longways dance that would give her some moments with him. When they turned together wasn’t there a meaningful expression in his eyes? Didn’t his hand linger on hers for a moment, as if he was reluctant to let her move on?

  Surely he must ask her for the supper dance. But he didn’t. She chose Northcliff again, so dependable and so very dull.

  She sat to supper with some of his friends and their partners, but they were all as dull as he, whereas Wyvern was at a merry table in Lucy’s sight. The Balls were there, as well as Mr. Delaney and an auburn-haired woman who must be his wife.

  The other couples at her table were married, and she noticed how in every case the wife seemed a shadow of her husband. She deferred to him, agreed with him, smiled proudly at his every word.

  This was precisely why she could not marry. Once she was a wife, men would look to her husband for approval of her every action. Indeed, he would have the right to overrule her decisions, even if he knew nothing about business. She would be unable to make contracts without his approval, and the whole world would see it as her holy duty to devote herself to home and children and to cease meddling in men’s affairs.

  Damnation. Her unhappiness at her thoughts underlined the extent of the temptation. She would resist!

  In the end, however, she couldn’t. As supper drew to a close, she kept her attention on her own table, but plotted how to approach Wyvern’s. The Balls provided the excuse. When she rose to put her plan into action, however, she found Wyvern had already left.

  “You seem abstracted, Miss Potter,” Northcliff said, chiding slightly. “Are you quite well?”

  “I’m sorry. A slight headache.”

  “I believe we can find some fresh air on the
rear terrace,” he said, extending an arm.

  She needed to find Wyvern, but couldn’t say so, especially as her urgency was mad. It was as if she feared he would disappear forever.

  She didn’t see him as they returned to the ballroom, nor as they walked out onto the terrace. There was indeed fresh air, but very little space, for the terrace was shallow and many others had the same idea.

  Not Wyvern, however.

  “How pretty the garden is,” she said, for she had to say something. Unlike Aunt Mary’s house this ducal residence had a garden and it was lit by colored lanterns on posts and in trees. A few people had found their way down there, perhaps with a tryst in mind.

  Was Wyvern strolling the half-lit paths with some lady? Was he was committing himself to some other well-dowered catch? He’d been partnered in the supper dance with a plump woman Lucy didn’t know. She’d sensed nothing special between them, but now she couldn’t bear the thought. Madness, she knew, but being aware of insanity didn’t seem to help.

  There he was! Off to one side, shadowed by a tree, but illuminated along one side by an amber-glassed lamp.

  Alone?

  She watched for a moment to be sure, but yes, he was alone.

  She remembered his remark about being outside a fairy circle. Despite his gloss of confidence and his apparent ease with the great, was he miserably out of place? Something about him suggested sadness, and she was powerless against that pull.

  She needed to get rid of Northcliff, so she claimed a need of the ladies’ room. He escorted her part of the way but then had to let her go. Once out of sight she took another direction and asked a passing servant, “How do I get out into the garden?”

  The footman looked a little taken aback. Was it not open to guests? Others were there. Even if it had been forbidden, Lucy would invade, so she insisted with a look.

  “Downstairs and to the back, ma’am, then through the morning room.”

  Uncomfortably aware of possibly intruding into private areas, she followed a quiet corridor. Then a waft of fresh air guided her into a small room which had long doors open to the garden.

  She was slightly out of breath, and paused to compose herself before going forward. That hesitation gave a small, frantic voice an opportunity to protest, to scream at her to go back, not to follow the perilous calling. However, her need was irresistible, as if she were parched and cool water flowed ahead.

  She walked through the doorway and down three shallow steps onto a path. Somewhere, indeed, a fountain did play, and chamber music floated out from the house. Perfumed plants scented the night air. The couples out here were strolling along paths, but Wyvern had been off to one side. Her white gown must be catching the light from the house, so she slipped into the shadows as she made her way toward the amber lamp beneath which he’d been standing. Her slippers made no sound on the grass.

  A hunter stalking prey.

  She paused, half behind a large shrub, heart pounding.

  This was the moment to retreat.

  The last chance.

  Chapter 13

  David was accustomed to danger in the dark, and quickly became aware of someone approaching surreptitiously. A glance showed a pale gown and precious pearls. Not just danger, peril.

  He’d come out here to gather the resolution to continue to avoid her, Susan be damned. He was supposed to learn more about her, was he? To coolheadedly assess if she had a flexible enough conscience to be a safe bride. Safe! During the first dance, when she’d been partnered with Nicholas, he’d wanted to snatch her and dance with her himself. By the second he’d wanted to claim her, then and there.

  By the third he’d needed to pull her into his arms and hold her against all comers, perhaps even against her will. He could understand now how men in olden times had seized women by force. How irresistible it had been, despite the costs.

  Paris and Helen.

  Hades and Persephone.

  Damnation, that’s who she resembled tonight—Persephone, daughter of Spring, carried off into the harsh underworld by love-crazed Hades.

  She stepped into the light. “Alone, Lord Wyvern?”

  “No longer, it would seem.” The amber light was doing strange things to her white gown. “A golden goddess in truth.”

  She was looking at him with a direct, thoughtful expression that emphasized all the ways she was wonderful and all the ways that she would be an impossible wife for him.

  “When we spoke in Winsom’s,” she said, “and in the park, you seemed one man.”

  “And now I’m two?”

  “And now you’re a different one. One who avoids me, even dislikes me?”

  “Then is it wise to be out here in the dark with me?”

  Perhaps that gave her pause. “If I scream, many will come running.”

  He stepped forward, covering her mouth with one hand and overpowering her with his other arm, pulling her beyond the illumination of the lamp.

  “And now?” he asked, blood pounding in his head at the madness of this, and at the feel of her, the scent of her. At her wide eyes.

  Startled, but not afraid.

  She was excited!

  He let her go. Stepped away from the brink. “You see how false your sense of security was.”

  One gloved hand rose to hold her pearls, as if for protection, but she nodded. “I appreciate the lesson. I haven’t been manhandled before and you did it so well. But if you raped me, you’d suffer for it. Unless,” she added thoughtfully, “you killed me afterward. What a wonder that would be for the ton to feast on.”

  She was extraordinary, and not a little mad herself.

  “You’d still be raped,” he pointed out.

  “And you’d hang.”

  “An earl hanged for rape? I doubt it. You should return to the house.”

  She let go of her pearls and flipped open a lace fan, which sent a puff of light perfume into the air. “But there are so many shadows, Lord Wyvern, which could conceal dangers. You should escort me.”

  “What the devil do you want, Miss Potter?”

  That fan waved slowly, untroubled by coarse language.

  “Protection,” she said.

  “I’ll follow at a distance.”

  “Protection from my suitors.”

  “Then choose one of them.”

  “None appeal, and I don’t intend to wed. I came to Mayfair to enjoy myself, not to find a husband, and the fortune hunters are spoiling my pleasure.”

  “I’m a fortune hunter.”

  “But you’ve demonstrated that I don’t appeal. You see?”

  Like a blind man in a fog, but her light, direct manner and perhaps that waving perfumed fan was tangling his mind.

  “Demonstrated how?”

  “You haven’t sought my hand for a dance.”

  “Perhaps I dangled distance like bait, hoping you’d come to me. Like this.”

  The fan paused. “And here I am. What now?”

  He had no answer for that.

  “I have a proposal.”

  “Miss Potter! I’m overwhelmed, but I fear we would not suit.”

  “Not that,” she said with a soft chuckle. “You are seeking a rich bride, my lord. I’m extremely well-dowered and assumed to be seeking a title. If you pay attentions and I smile on them, it will be seen as a fait accompli. Most of the other fortune hunters will think the case hopeless and leave me in peace.”

  “What do I gain by this? I am, as you said, seeking a rich bride.”

  “The opportunity to win me?”

  “You don’t intend to wed.”

  “Yet.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why the delay?” He was completely fascinated.

  “Marriage is so confining for a woman and I have money enough to live well.”

  “A solitary life appeals?”

  “I could have a female companion. More than one.”

  “No desire for children?”

  “Ch
ildren are a consideration,” she admitted. “If I do marry in order to have children, a substantial portion of my dowry will be put in a trust, to be used by my husband only with my trustee’s consent. That is, with my consent.”

  “Have you told your suitors that?”

  “Negotiations haven’t reached this far with any of them.”

  “Are we negotiating?”

  “For your loverlike attentions, Lord Wyvern, with the slim possibility of a reward.”

  “Which I don’t want, remember.”

  “Why?” she asked, apparently honest in her curiosity.

  He couldn’t be honest in return. How could he tell her she was too dangerous to him? Desperation drove him to step closer, so close that she had to tilt her head to continue to meet his eyes. He needed to rattle her, or perhaps he simply needed to kiss her, beyond all civility or sense.

  He cradled her face and lowered his lips to hers. Such soft lips, passive but giving no sign of protest, then parting just a little. Then kissing him back, enthusiastically.

  He instantly stepped away, trying to conceal that it was retreat. A rout, even. Virago couldn’t describe such lovely sweetness, but there had to be some term for the peril she presented.

  Her eyes were bright now.

  Who hunted whom?

  “Why are you so sure you don’t want to marry me?” she asked.

  “I remember too many stories of goddesses who pursued mortal men for sport. They don’t end well for the men.”

  She chuckled and he wasn’t surprised. He was being ridiculous. He was also ensnared. He should be fighting to be free, but instead he couldn’t resist her strange proposal.

  It would allow him to keep his promise to Susan, but that was specious. He wanted to agree because it would give him an excuse to spend precious time in her company. He might yet discover that the impossible was possible. That more kisses were possible. A lifetime of them and all other delights. But if not, he would have a sip of the precious bowl to remember.