“Ah, you are Marcus’s boy,” she said. “What a naughty fellow he was. But you must save your own naughtiness for another time, My Lord. I have not seen my child in months, and we have a deal of gossiping to do.”
She swept the bewildered Delilah from the room, leaving Lord Berne to find his own way out.
Chapter Sixteen
“Where is your Papa?” Mrs. Desmond asked as she led her daughter down the hallway towards the stairs. “And what were you doing unattended with that wicked boy?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “He is amazingly beautiful. One would think that Botticelli’s paintings had come to life, but I must tell you, when they do so, their sole aim appears to be—”
There was a small commotion in the hall behind them, and the two ladies stopped and turned.
“Cara,” cried Mr. Desmond, hastening towards them, Mr. Langdon following close behind.
The Devil took his wife’s hands and pressed them to his lips.
“My dear,” she said composedly, “you are looking well.”
“Better now, I am sure. This is a most agreeable surprise. I had not expected you so soon.”
“I came by mail coach,” said Mrs. Desmond. She turned her attention to her husband’s companion. “This must be Mr. Langdon,” she said, smiling warmly.
Delilah, baffled, looked from one face to the next. What was Mama doing here? What did she know of Mr. Langdon? And why must this all happen now, when the daughter might be out rescuing the manuscript from the evil grasp of Mr. Atkins.
“Mama,” she began.
Her mama did not hear her, being engaged in issuing commands to the butler.
“Aunt Mimsy is overset by the excitement,” she explained when Bantwell had exited. “I have sent her to her room to rest, but someone must see about dinner. You will join us, sir?” she asked Mr. Langdon.
He pleaded a previous engagement.
“Then you will have a glass of wine at least.” Angelica led the group to the parlour.
“Mama, what are you doing here?” Delilah demanded as soon as the door was closed. “Aunt Millicent must be in paroxysms.”
“If this is how you normally behave before company, my dear, then I daresay she is experiencing paroxysms of relief that I am here. Mr. Langdon, you will ignore my daughter’s outbursts, I hope. She meant to say how delighted she was to see me. Sit down, Delilah, and stop fidgeting.”
Delilah sat, fuming.
The servant entered with wine. Accepting his glass, Mr. Langdon took up a neutral position by the fireplace.
“You might have explained to her, Darryl,” Mrs. Desmond began reproachfully.
“I might,” was the unperturbed response, “but there has been no proper opportunity. She is rarely at home when I am, and at those infrequent intervals Millicent is inevitably about. Since she was certain to object, silence seemed the wisest course. Besides, as I mentioned, we had not looked to see you so soon.”
Miss Desmond glared at Mr. Langdon. He knew whatever it was that had not been explained to her, else her parents would not have spoken so before him.
Mr. Langdon coloured under the glare and said apologetically, “I beg your pardon, Miss Desmond, but I hesitated to discuss the matter with you before I felt more confident my proposal was workable.”
“What proposal?” Delilah cried. “Why do you have all these secrets and tell me nothing?”
“You just heard why,” said her mama. “There is no need to raise your voice, Delilah. Count to ten.”
Miss Desmond reddened. It was not to be borne. To be spoken to as though she were an ill-behaved child—and before this irritating man. She would like to dash Mr. Langdon’s head against the mantelpiece, she thought, automatically focusing all her anger on him. That agreeable prospect soothed her sufficiently to allow her to attend her mother’s explanation.
“Mr. Langdon has very kindly undertaken to help us prepare a case against Mr. Atkins,” said Mrs. Desmond.
“Not that there’s any certainty,” Mr. Langdon put in, “we have a case. Yet there seems to be a question of ownership, and as far as I can ascertain, no concrete evidence of your father’s consent to publication.”
“That is why I am here, my love,” said the mama. “All your papa’s notes for the story as well as his correspondence with Mr. Atkins were in Scotland with me. I thought it wisest to bring them with me, rather than send them. It is a very large package,” she said, turning to her husband. “I believe I have everything.”
“I know you have, my precious. Though best of all you’ve done was to bring yourself. I have missed you frightfully.”
Mrs. Desmond smiled. “And I you,” she murmured, drawing closer to him.
In a few minutes, they had apparently forgotten everything else in this world but each other, for, arm in arm and talking in very low voices, they soon quitted the room.
They might as well have been in their bedchamber, Delilah thought as she watched them leave. Her cheeks pink once more, she turned to Mr. Langdon and was annoyed by the faint smile on his face.
“You might have told me,” she said curtly, oddly embarrassed by her parents’ indiscreetly amorous behaviour, which had never bothered her before.
“I didn’t want to raise your hopes needlessly, Miss Desmond.”
“Well, you’ve got their hopes up, and it is very bad of you,” she snapped. “You said yourself it was a weak case, and you know how long these lawsuits drag on. It could be years before it goes to court, and by that time my poor father could be dying in prison. What good is it to sue that odious Atkins after the book is published and the damage done?”
Mr. Langdon very carefully placed his still nearly full glass upon a table.
“I have not observed,” he answered stiffly, “that Lord Berne has provided for your parents any better solution. To my knowledge, he has not said a word to your father. At least my plan keeps Mr. Desmond safely occupied. I was concerned he might resort to needless risks—”
“Papa is not in his dotage yet, sir. Furthermore, there are times when risk is exactly what’s needed—times when it’s wiser to act, instead of creeping about cautiously.”
She rose from her chair and marched to the window, where she stood, fretfully staring at the passing scene.
“If you had not gotten my mama involved, I might have been gone by now,” she went on. “I might even have had the manuscript in my hands.”
She whirled round to face him. “Lord Berne was just here—and he had a plan—and I was to help him. But you must come and spoil everything—and now the chance may be lost forever.”
Mr. Langdon’s face darkened. “Tony was here? And you remained alone with him?”
“Yes, and he did not ravish me on the spot, for your information.”
“I should think not. Not when he could so easily persuade you to go away with him—to God knows where. Have you taken leave of your senses, Miss Desmond? What sort of scheme could he have that required a lady’s assistance?”
“Not all women are helpless—”
“You would be, if you went off with him.”
“We were not planning to elope, Mr. Langdon,” was the tart reply. “Nor do I see why I should not believe him. Did you not tell me but a week ago that no man of honour would make a promise he couldn’t keep? Or do you now tell me your friend has no honour?”
“When a woman is so careless of propriety, even a man of honour may be tempted too far,” he said, his voice ominously quiet.
“Indeed!” She tossed her head, heedlessly scattering pins. “You are outraged because I spoke privately with him for scarcely two minutes, yet it is quite correct that you remain here forever. Dear me, I forget. Mr. Langdon is the soul of honour. Wise, cautious, and pure of heart. Everyone knows he would do nothing that was not exceedingly correct, for he is above all temptation.”
The words had no sooner spilt from her tongue than she regretted them. This was monstrous unjust and ungrateful, when he was only trying to help,
and when he had said nothing that Aunt Millicent had not already told her dozens of times already. What on earth drove one to taunt him so? Delilah could feel the tension in the room. As she met his steely grey gaze, she found herself backing towards the window. He was furious.
“Mr. Langdon,” she began as he advanced upon her, “I do beg your—”
That was as far as she got because she couldn’t breathe. He stood only inches from her, his face taut with suppressed rage, and her heart was pounding so she thought it would choke her.
“You hellcat,” he growled.
She felt his hands close around her throat, but she was immobilized. She could only gaze helplessly into the pitiless depths of his darkened eyes. Then his mouth crashed down on hers and all was darkness.
Darkness and violence, as his mouth moved punishingly over hers until he’d forced her lips open. She was dimly aware of his hands moving from her shoulders to her back as his tongue pushed itself between her teeth. The invasion made her tremble, and she struggled against him, futilely. He only crushed her hard against him so she could scarcely move at all.
Then, to her dismay, she felt the heat well up within her, washing over her in wave after wave, and bringing with it a sweeping need, like hunger... and a greater need still as his mouth left hers to trail kisses along her cheek and down her neck. She moaned softly, the sound drawn from her in spite of herself.
Dear heaven, she thought wildly, why could she not make it stop? His embrace was gentler now and she might have broken free. Instead, her hands crept up along his coat to his crisp neckcloth, and on to bury themselves in his hair. She held him so, a moment, then, impatient, drew his face, his mouth back to hers.
She had scarcely tasted his lips again when, without warning, he put her away from him. The world instantly chilled. His gaze flicked briefly over her hot face and he smiled an odd, small, bitter smile.
“Let that be a lesson to you, Miss Desmond,” he said, his voice low and harsh. “Even a bookworm can be pushed too far.”
Without another word, he left.
Delilah stared blankly at his retreating back, and was still staring as the door slammed behind him.
“Jack?” she said, very softly. Then heat flooded through her once more and she tottered, thunderstruck, to a chair.
She sat for a long while, her eyes wide open but seeing nothing amid the churning sensations assaulting her, nearly as strong as they had been a few minutes before. Once more she experienced the pressure of his hands upon her back, the warm touch of his lips upon her neck, the clean, masculine scent of him... and the barely leashed rage that had frightened and excited her at the same time—and against which she had been utterly powerless.
Powerless? That wasn’t the half of it. All her will had turned into craving... and she wanted him still, wanted him to come back and torment her again, endlessly.
Yet she could not possibly want him. He was not the dashing scoundrel of her fantasies, the younger version of her adored Papa she’d always hoped for. This was a quiet, provokingly conventional, irritatingly muddled bookworm. How could she be attracted to a man who must be thoroughly enraged in order to show a spark of passion?
A lesson, he’d said. Damn, and it was—a humiliating lesson. Bookworm or no, he evidently knew as well as any other man how to stir a woman’s senses, and had proceeded to prove it. He’d shown her how little she knew of him, of any man, despite all her so-called worldly wisdom. He’d shown that Delilah Desmond was as susceptible as any naive schoolgirl to practised lovemaking.
Only it wasn’t love, but anger. He despised her. She wanted to weep when she recollected his cold, contemptuous expression when he’d thrust her away. He’d made her feel like a whore—and certainly she’d behaved like one—after, that is, acting like a Billingsgate fishwife.
Miss Desmond had scarcely made a decent start in flagellating herself when she received Lord Berne’s note half an hour later. It was filled with apologies. He’d been too hasty, he wrote. His plan was ill-advised. He’d since learned that Mr. Atkins was temporarily prevented from publishing by circumstances too complicated to tire her with. When, however, the time was right, the viscount promised to consult with her. Until then, they must be patient.
Delilah tore the note into very small pieces. Let him get the manuscript himself, if he could. She would not go anywhere with him or any other man—not without a bodyguard. She’d already had one sample of the viscount’s ardour. Suppose, today, he’d been the one to kiss her in that violent way? She might not have escaped so easily. She had never imagined how easily-roused a beast lurked within one.
Delilah was not altogether surprised when Mr. Langdon appeared late the next morning to ask her to drive with him. If she’d had second thoughts about her behaviour, obviously the Soul of Honour must have had some fit of conscience as well.
The conversation was exceedingly polite until they reached the park. Then Mr. Langdon slowed the horses and, without looking at her, apologised.
Delilah had not thought she could possibly feel more vexed with herself, but she did. His counte nance was so rigidly unhappy that she couldn’t bear to let him finish his speech.
“I beg you, Mr. Langdon,” she said, flushing, “not another syllable. It’s I who ought to apologise. My behaviour was perfectly beastly.”
“That does not excuse what I did, Miss Desmond. Nothing would excuse it. I—I am aware,” he went on, each word sounding as though it were being torn bodily from him, “of the abhorrence in which you must hold me. All the same, there are certain rules about these matters—”
“Oh, no,” she cried. “You’re not going to propose, are you? Please don’t. You only heap coals upon my head. In the circumstances, that rule makes no sense at all. It would be far more reasonable to beat me, I think.”
He sighed—with relief, no doubt. That was not at all flattering, but she could hardly blame him. Anyhow, he’d done the honourable thing and, much as it would cost her pride, she’d prove she too knew something of honour. She would admit her error.
“Actually, you did me a favour,” she went on, watching his eyes widen in amazement. “You did teach me a lesson. If the method was improper, it was probably more effective than words—at least in my case,” she added ruefully. “Because you know I always lose my temper first and listen and think after.”
He sighed once more. “Are you sure you’re thinking now, Miss Desmond? By my count, I have three times crossed the bounds of propriety with you, and you persist in excusing me. Yesterday you didn’t even hit me. Aren’t you concerned I may interpret this as encouragement?”
“Yes. That’s what I meant about learning my lesson. You’ve made me painfully aware of how ignorant I am. I was utterly incapable of coping with—the situation.”
“I see,” he said quietly. “No wonder I’m still alive and in one piece.”
She winced, but went on determinedly, “Since I’m now acutely aware of my ignorance, you may rest assured I will take great care not to find myself in such a predicament again—with anybody.”
He had gone about it all wrong, Jack reproached himself later, putting down his pen and gazing in despair at the heap of papers before him. That he’d never attempted to propose marriage to anyone before in his life was no excuse. Many men did it only once.
He had been reasonably composed. He’d even felt a surge of confidence when he’d first set out for Potterby House. She’d hardly put up a struggle. She’d actually responded to his caresses, ungentle as they were. She’d responded so passionately that he’d had to thrust her away and flee or else he’d surely have dishonoured her—in her great-aunt’s parlour of all places!
Yet he wished he’d not been so maddened. Then he might have stopped it more gently ... might have even dared admit what was in his heart. He should have offered then, instead of covering up with that insulting bravado. What had possessed him to say such an unforgivable thing—after assaulting her, no less? Why had he been so craven today and allow
ed the horrified expression in those grey-green eyes to unman him?
Max wouldn’t have taken No for an answer. Certainly not before he’d said his piece—or swept her into his arms and banished all her anger with
But it wasn’t anger, Jack thought despondently. He’d humiliated her and lost whatever trust she might have once reposed in him. His ill-worded offer today had only added insult to injury. Why could he not say the right words, he who had read hundreds of volumes in half a dozen languages?
Because he had only to look into that devastatingly beautiful face and Reason and Sense abandoned him altogether. He became an inarticulate, tormented brute.
Amantes amentes, he reminded himself. Lovers are lunatics, as Terence had observed centuries ago. Now there was all this curst paper and ink. And so little time. So little, when it seemed he would need three eternities to learn to woo her properly and another ten to win her heart.
Mr. Langdon would have been much comforted to learn that Miss Desmond was suffering her own harrowing reflections, but as she confided these to nobody, he was denied such solace.
Delilah only told her great-aunt she was overset by the excitement of her mama’s arrival and had rather not go out this evening.
Lady Potterby was vastly relieved. Though she prided herself on her fortitude, the shock of Angelica’s arrival, coupled with the strain of the days following the newspaper announcement, had been rather more than her nerves could comfortably sustain. Though she was not a timid, weak creature, and though she did not mind a little excitement in her life and had a taste for a challenge, her relatives were beginning to wear on her. The prospect of one quiet evening at home and an early bedtime was altogether delightful.
Delilah did not take to her own bed very early. She tried to read, but the Giaour only irritated her with its romantic histrionics. She found herself conjuring up instead one handsome, serious countenance with dreamy grey eyes and one gentle, thoughtful voice. How desperately unhappy and trapped Mr. Langdon had looked today. Trapped by his own chivalry, by the rules that were so important to him, by the Honour that demanded what his very soul must recoil at.
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