“She’s made him move something. I heard her complaining about the bees. There!” she cried triumphantly as they reached a bed entirely stripped of the bergamot it had once contained. “He hasn’t replanted yet.”
“Of course not, in this heat. If you knew anything about gardening, Miss Desmond—”
“I don’t need to know anything.” She turned shining eyes upon him. “Because she knows nothing of ancient Greek horticulture. We’ll tell her it’s an experiment.”
She dragged Jack off to the potting shed, where, after a brief discussion with the distracted gardener, they possessed themselves of a few tools and several healthy seedlings.
After a brief argument, Jack dug the hole. Miss Desmond placed the book in its grave, waited until he had thrown some dirt upon it, then began stuffing plants into the loose soil. Jack knelt beside her.
“They’ll die,” he said, eying the seedlings. Some were packed into dirt so deeply that only the very tops showed. “It’s too hot and I’m sure you’ve done it wrong.”
“Then we’ll blame it on the Greeks.” Miss Desmond thrust a stray lock of hair back from her face.
It was very hot, indeed. The air was as thick as new-churned butter. Mr. Langdon had removed his coat, but his waistcoat was plastered to his shirt, which was stuck to his skin. He noted that Miss Desmond had rubbed a dirty smudge onto her right cheekbone. He was about to offer his handkerchief when he saw a bead of perspiration trickle down from her temples past the smudge, along her slender white neck, past her collarbone and on down until it disappeared at the edge of her bodice. The air must have grown heavier still, because Mr. Langdon suddenly found it quite impossible to breathe.
Miss Desmond looked towards him then. Her eyes widened slightly and her cheeks began to glow faintly pink. She scrambled up very quickly. Too quickly, apparently, in the heat, because he saw her hand go to her head as she began to sway.
Jack rose hastily. “Miss Desmond, are you ill?” he asked, putting out his hand to assist her.
“No,” she said, backing away. “Just dizzy for a moment. I—”
She did not complete the thought because she tripped on the trowel and lost her balance.
Fortunately, she stumbled forwards instead of backwards, and Jack was able to catch her before she fell. Unfortunately, once he’d caught her, he was presented with an interesting example of the mind-body dichotomy. His mind told him to let go of her. His hands clasped her upper arms more firmly. Then his gaze locked with hers and, drawn like the tides to the moon, his head bent slowly until his lips met soft ones, tasting slightly of salt, and while his brain watched, horrified and helpless, he kissed her.
Mr. Atkins had no business in the garden. Though Desmond had put him off in his usual urbanely evasive way, Lady Potterby had made plain her disapproval of the publisher’s unexpected visit. Naturally she would not approve. He carried with him that distasteful aroma of the City which only aristocrats could discern. No doubt she thought him a mushroom, presuming upon a chance acquaintance with the Desmonds in order to encroach his way into noble households.
Mr. Atkins could not afford to be thin-skinned, however. He had delayed his departure well beyond the limits of her ladyship’s patience because he must leave empty-handed, which meant he would be ruined, and he was as reluctant to face ruin as any more sensitive fellow.
He had stolen into the garden because he was grasping at straws. Why had Mr. Langdon clutched that curious volume to his breast as though it were his firstborn? Why had Miss Desmond been so eager to hustle the young man out of the house?
Hoping desperately that the answers to these questions would somehow lead him to the manuscripts, Mr. Atkins trespassed quietly past the herb garden and on towards the perennial beds. There he found the puzzle solved and his hopes dashed. In short, he caught sight of the pair at the precise moment in which Mr. Langdon was confronting the mind-body dichotomy.
Mr. Atkins’s head began to throb as he turned and headed back to his gig—and, he was certain, bankruptcy.
Miss Desmond was not altogether shocked at first. She had seen the same hot light before in other men’s eyes. Though she was surprised to see it in Mr. Langdon’s, she’d sensed what was coming and instinctively backed away. The trouble was, this sober young man had an uncanny knack for leading her to step wrong—today quite literally.
Once she found herself in his arms, she’d decided she might as well let him steal his kiss—only because she was curious—and thereafter reward him with severe bodily injury. These admirable intentions had been delayed of execution because the first tentative touch had softened her stony heart. He was too shy to really kiss her, poor man. In a moment he would jump back, embarrassed, stammering every sort of apology.
What followed in that moment could not have been more opposed to her expectations. His hands slid to her back, and in an instant, it seemed, the kiss became sure, thorough, and... debilitating.
Miss Desmond had rarely before suffered a kiss for more than a few seconds. She knew too well the consequences, especially for one of her dubious heritage. Now those seconds had passed, she found herself slipping into uncharted and surprisingly stormy waters.
As his mouth, tender but sure, moved over hers, she was strangely unable to do anything but respond in kind. In the next moment, without warning, the bright afternoon sun was submerged in the dark wave that engulfed her as his lips grew more demanding and his hands pressed her closer. Her mind grew dark as well.
There was far too much warmth, suddenly, and something like electricity darting through her as his arms tightened about her to crush her against his chest. Her own muscles grew weak, as though his drew their strength from them. It was, finally, the trembling of her weakening limbs that alerted her, that made her recollect to what—and whom—she was succumbing.
She jerked herself free and slapped him as hard as she could. Then she only stood where she was, because though she was furious—and perhaps a tad alarmed—she was too weak-kneed to storm off as she wished to.
Had she been herself, the blow would have staggered him. As it was, he scarcely winced, only stared at her in horror. “Oh, my God,” he said, as his face reddened to match the mark she’d left there.
“You—you cur!” she spat out. “How dare you? But of course you dare, you—you wolf in bookworm’s clothing. You’re just like all the rest.”
“Miss Desmond, please. I beg your pardon. I cannot think what I—”
“I can think what you are. You can count yourself lucky I hadn’t my pistol with me or you’d never think again.”
“Oh, my God.” He stared blindly about him, his expression that of a man who has just trodden upon a nest of angry cobras. “Am I losing my mind?” He turned to her then, and in his grey eyes she saw, outraged as she was, genuine anguish.
“As an excuse, that is hardly original—or complimentary,” she said tartly.
“Miss Desmond, I cannot make any excuse. I can scarcely imagine any apology that would be remotely adequate. It is simply—” He hesitated.
“Yes, it is simply a matter of taking me for a lightskirts—which is, naturally, what everyone does, and I suppose I should be used to it by now.”
“It’s nothing of the sort.” He ran his fingers through his hair, which she noted was already untidy.
Good grief, Delilah thought, had she made it so? She could not remember where her own hands had been a few moments before. She wanted to dash into the house and up to her room where she could hide under the bed, but she had too much pride to retreat. She stood waiting, watching, as he seemed to struggle with something. Finally, he spoke.
“Miss Desmond, I find there is—I mean, I have an intensity of... feeling for you that... that I cannot understand—or control, apparently,” he ended feebly.
“It is usually called lust, Mr. Langdon,” she snapped as the recollection of his recent power over her stirred up her fury again. “Though I’m relieved to hear you don’t understand it, because I certa
inly could not. After all, I am not paper and ink and bound in morocco. Or will you claim you were touched by the sun and took me for a volume of Ptolemy? That would be far more original than this equivalent of ‘I don’t know what came over me.’”
His grey eyes darkened, and his face became rigid. Even before he spoke, Delilah knew she’d gone too far.
“Whatever my tastes, madam—and I do admit I am more than average fond of reading—I am not made of paper and ink, either,” he said coldly. “I am still a man. I suppose I may have moments of weakness like other men? We all of us, despite our best intentions, occasionally forget we are gentlemen. I had such a moment, and I do humbly beg your pardon. Or is there some further penance you wish to exact?”
Delilah knew what penance he referred to. She knew she had, technically, a right to claim he’d compromised her. For an instant she was even tempted to do so, because she could think of no more fitting punishment than to make him marry her, disgrace his name, outrage his family, and be miserable all the rest of his days. Pride—and perhaps a twinge of guilt—overcame anger, however. She was not so desperate for a husband. Furthermore, it was most unwise to arouse his enmity, considering all he knew about the manuscript.
“Now you are being unfair,” she said. “It’s the lady’s prerogative to be insulted and the gentleman’s to be penitent. You did far better when you were all abject apologies. You were so beautifully insincere.”
“I was entirely sincere,” he returned angrily.
“If you were, then why do you pick on me now? If you must be wicked enough to try to seduce me in my great-aunt’s garden, you might at least allow me to be insulted and faint and scream and become hysterical. That’s supposed to be how it’s done.”
He opened his mouth to retort, then shut it and looked around instead for his coat. He snatched it up from a bush and shrugged himself into it. It was a very well-made coat, Delilah noted, even as she was wondering how to mollify him. It fit him quite nicely.
“You hate me,” she said.
He gazed at her in exasperation. “I was not trying to seduce you, Miss Desmond.”
“Well, I most certainly was not trying to seduce you. Why are you so angry with me?”
“I wish,” he said quietly, “you had your pistol. I wish you would just shoot me and be done with it.”
Delilah sighed. “Oh, very well, have it your way,” she said. “I apologise for whatever it is I’ve done, though I do think you are monstrous unjust and ungallant in this. Still, I can’t let you go in to tea looking like an outraged Zeus or Aunt will be scolding me for hours. She’ll probably send me back to Scotland,” she added.
“She ought to,” said Jack. “You are perfectly impossible.”
“I know,” she said, her face penitent.
Delilah Desmond penitent was a sight calculated to unman the most obdurate of tyrants, which Mr. Langdon certainly was not. He was, in fact, painfully aware that his behaviour had been criminal in the first place and rude and insolent in the second. Even though she had slighted his masculinity, he had no business being enraged. He’d slighted it himself often enough. All the same, he was very upset. Her sarcastic remarks still smarted, and he wanted to throttle her. He wondered fleetingly if he were possessed, because by rights he should throttle himself.
“Miss Desmond, I am not angry,” he said wearily. “I am deeply ashamed of my behaviour. I promise never to repeat it. We’ve disposed of the book. Can we please dispose of this distressing conversation?”
“Yes,” she said in an oddly subdued voice. “Do I look a fright?”
No, he thought, only more maddeningly beautiful than ever.
“Yes,” he said. “You have dirt on your face and the state of your hair makes you look like Medusa. You had best go tidy up or we’ll be subjected to a most intensive interrogation. No one will mind me,” he added with a wry glance at his stained trousers. “It’s exactly what they expect.”
As an unusually docile Miss Desmond took herself away to be tidied, it may have occurred to her that, in Mr. Langdon’s case, people really had better not place too much reliance upon their expectations.
***
Mr. Atkins returned to his latest inn, which was only slightly less uncomfortable than the first, with every intention of proceeding to Streetham Close as soon as he had revived his sagging spirits with food. His hostess was slow, however, and by the time he had finished his meal, the sky was darkening ominously.
He had just climbed into his vehicle when lightning crackled. From a distance followed the low boom of thunder. In the next moment, the heavens burst about his ears, and by the time he’d regained the shelter of the inn, he was drenched.
Nonetheless, he set out for Streetham Close the following morning, sniffling and sneezing the whole way. The earl, never eager for his company in the best of circumstances, did not trouble to disguise his disgust with the repellent spectacle before him.
Mr. Atkins refused to be cowed. Doggedly, between blowing his nose and sneezing, he reported what he’d seen. He declared that even a simple man like himself could see Lord Berne would have a very difficult time obtaining the young lady’s trust when she was so busy trying to ensnare Mr. Langdon.
“I think, My Lord, we’d best increase our offer,” the publisher went on. “The alternative I shudder at—though I suppose it can be done. That is to say, the manuscript must be somewhere in the house, and I understand there are persons who may be hired to—to deliver it up to us.”
Lord Streetham drew himself up. In no uncertain terms he informed the publisher that bribery and theft were not in his line. Persuasion was another matter. “As I have already pointed out to you,” he said, “my son is perfectly capable of persuading the young lady.”
“He hasn’t done it yet,” Mr. Atkins muttered, rubbing his red nose.
Of this his lordship was frustratedly aware. Aloud, however, he only cited the heir’s many responsibilities, and advised Mr. Atkins to return speedily to London where Mrs. Atkins might give him proper care.
After Mr. Atkins had taken his nasal leave, Lord Streetham summoned his son.
“I see I must deal with this myself,” his lordship said frigidly. “Obviously you cannot be counted upon to assume any of the responsibilities of your position. While you amuse yourself at common hostelries, Jack Langdon is seducing Miss Desmond— in her great aunt’s garden, no less.”
Lord Berne was, sad to say, a very fickle young man. His interest in Miss Desmond had dwindled with every passing hour of her absence, which time he had pleasantly whiled away in a rendezvous with his father’s former mistress and a lively flirtation with the fair and saucy Sarah. Along with decreasing interest in Miss Desmond had grown an increasing reluctance to antagonise her formidable parent.
Men far more reckless than himself became circumspect when dealing with Devil Desmond or anything connected to him. To deceive his daughter, especially for a useless lot of ink and paper, seemed wantonly self-destructive.
Now, however, as he left his irate father, Lord Berne was outraged. That poky Jack Langdon should succeed with the girl so easily—in a mere day or two—when that same young woman had proved so incomprehensibly indifferent to the viscount’s own irresistible charm... it was not to be endured.
Chapter Seven
Delilah gazed in disgust at the Gordian knot of stitches that was supposed to pass for embroidery. “Isn’t that typical?” she muttered. “I make a mess of everything.”
Her father looked up from his sporting journal. The two were spending a few quiet hours together while Lady Potterby visited an ailing neighbour, and they were abnormally quiet. Normally, Delilah and her father could converse endlessly. Today she was unable to find any entertaining topic because yesterday’s garden episode preyed on her mind.
She still could not believe that she, Delilah Desmond, had very nearly succumbed to the clumsy embrace of the provoking, stodgy Mr. Langdon. She had travelled over half the globe with her parents and encountere
d every sort of scoundrel. She had met with every seductive trick and heard honeyed speeches in half a dozen languages. Always she had been immune, observing her pursuers’ efforts with the same cool detachment with which she studied her cards and bluffed her way to victory over the most cunning Captain Sharps.
She could not understand why her instincts had failed her yesterday—and with him, of all people, a muddled, naive bookworm. It was too humiliating for words.
Now, as Delilah met her father’s calm scrutiny, her conscience pricked her. She was not used to keeping secrets from him.
“Papa, if I tell you something,” she began, “will you promise not to do anything violent?”
“If I didn’t yesterday, why should I today?” was the disconcerting reply. “As you say, Mr. Langdon left with all his limbs intact—though I cannot speak for his mind.”
The daughter’s eyes widened. “You saw?”
“The entire household might have seen, for all I know. The corner window of the drawing room looks out over that section of the perennial beds. Luckily, Lord Rossing and your great aunt were dithering at each other on the opposite side of the room, so I had no need to act the role of outraged parent, thank heavens. Beastly weather, worse than the West Indies. At least last night’s storm has cleared the air somewhat.”
Miss Desmond’s embroidery had fallen unnoticed to the carpet. “It was an accident, Papa, I assure you.”
“Indeed? Which part?” he asked as he laid his journal aside. “Did you entomb my memoirs accidentally on account of sunstroke or are you referring to the subsequent performance?”
Embarrassed, Delilah took the offensive. “You were spying on me!”
“Not at all. I was looking out for Mr. Langdon. When you hauled him so hastily out of doors, I began to fear for his life. I grew increasingly alarmed when I saw that trowel in your hand. Awkward things, trowels.”
Delilah glared at an insipid porcelain shepherdess standing on the small table at her elbow. “I suppose you found the entire scene immensely entertaining,” she grumbled.
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