The Lady In Question

by Victoria Alexander

  “Then you, my dear Lady Wilmont, should consider yourself a betrothed woman.” He leaned closer. “I would pull you into my arms right here on the street and kiss you until the blue of your eyes darkens to the color of a storm at sea, as I have noted it tends to do in rather delightful moments, but that might create a ripple of scandal, and I suspect you and I might cause any number of scandals in the future. In the pursuit of adventure, of course.”

  “Of course.” She gazed up at him with a desire in her eyes that reflected his own.

  “Therefore, it might be best if we resist the urge to begin courting scandal now.”

  “In the interest of the children?”

  “Exactly. Which is precisely why we must go in at once.”

  “Agreed.”

  She took his arm and they hurried up the front steps. Mac opened the door for them.

  “Good day, my lady, my lord,” Mac said. “Did you have a pleasant ride?”

  “It was,” Delia said with a laugh, pulling off her gloves and shawl and handing them to Mac, “quite un-forgettable.”

  Tony chuckled.

  Delia took off her hat and patted her hair, glancing around the entry. “Is Gordon about?”

  “No, my lady he…” Mac’s gaze slid from Delia to Tony and a determined gleam sparked in his eyes. He squared his shoulders. “He’s gone, ma’am. Packed up and moved out.”

  “Gone?” Delia voice rose in dismay.

  “Gone?” Tony’s voice rose in shock.

  “Yes, ma’am. Said something about an aunt.”

  “You must be mistaken. He told me he had no family.”

  Damnation. Why had he told her Gordon had no family? For one brief shining moment, he had seen a graceful means of escape that he’d had nothing to do with. Mac had handed it to him on a platter. And Tony was completely blameless.

  “Perhaps you misunderstood,” Tony said hopefully.

  “I most certainly did not. I remember it distinctly. Besides, he would never leave without saying good-bye.” Genuine hurt shone in her eyes.

  It was Tony’s undoing. He shook his head reluctantly. “I doubt that he’s gone.”

  “Oh, no, sir.” Mac nodded firmly. “He’s definitely gone.”

  “I’m certain he isn’t.” Tony gritted his teeth. “In point of fact, I’d wager on it.”

  “No?” Mac met his gaze. “You’ve no doubt at all, then?”

  “No.”

  Delia cast him a curious glance. “How can you be so sure?”

  Tony chose his words carefully. “You said you and he have become friends. Therefore the man would not have left without notice.”

  “He’s right, ma’am.” Mac sighed. “I must have mistaken Gordon for someone else. Sorry, my lady.”

  “How on earth could you — Never mind.” She stared in confusion. “Is he in his room, then?”

  “No,” Tony said quickly. Delia’s gaze snapped to him. “Well, the man just said he’d gone out.”

  Delia drew her brows together. “He said he packed up and left because of an aunt.”

  “Hat, ma’am,” Mac said quickly. “He packed up a hat. That’s what he did. To bring it somewhere for…for…”

  “Repairs?” Tony suggested.

  “That’s it. Repairs.” Mac breathed a sigh of relief. “Mr. Gordon packed up a hat to bring it for repairs, and he’s gone now, but he’ll be back.”

  “I see,” Delia said slowly. “I think.”

  “I confused aunt with hat, ma’am. Actually, I confused hat with Pat, because that’s my uncle’s name, which naturally reminded me of my aunt.” Mac shook his head regretfully. “I do that sort of thing on occasion. I was wounded in the war and, well, you know.”

  “I think we can overlook it, Lady Wilmont. The man’s a veteran, after all.” Tony slapped Mac on the back, a shade harder than was necessary. “Probably been through a lot, haven’t you, old man?”

  “More than I care to say, sir.”

  Delia glanced from one man to the other. “Then Gordon is coming back?”

  “As far as I know, my lady.” A distinct note of regret sounded in Mac’s voice.

  “Good.” She studied Mac closely. “I do hope you feel better, MacPherson.”

  “As do I, ma’am,” Mac murmured.

  Delia paused as if debating her next words. She straightened her shoulders slightly, in defiance or determination. “Lord St. Stephens has expressed an interest in seeing the refurbishment my sister and I have just completed.”

  She nodded at Tony, excitement mingling with hesitation in her eyes. She was not as sure of herself, as sure of what she wanted from him, or with him, as she would have him believe. As perhaps she herself would like to believe. There was an innocent, honest charm about that look that caught at his heart. She might well want to be a woman of experience with no concern for rules or propriety, but it did not come naturally to her and therefore took rather a lot of courage. She was quite remarkable.

  “My lord?” She raised a brow.

  “I shall be along shortly. I wish to speak to MacPherson for a moment. To make certain he’s recovered from the effects of his” — Tony tried not to choke on the words — “war injury.”

  “How very thoughtful.” She smiled at them both and sailed up the stairs, her hips swaying with every step, her hat dangling from her hand. The very essence of sensual innocence.

  Both men watched until she disappeared at the top of the stairs.

  “I believe you have already seen the refurbishment, sir,” Mac observed mildly.

  “Not like this,” Tony murmured. “Regarding that.” He drew a steadying breath and pulled his thoughts away from what awaited in Delia’s redecorated bedchamber. “While I tried to keep an eye on the virtual army that invaded this house in recent days, now that they are gone, have you recalled seeing anything of an unusual nature?”

  Tony, Mac and Mrs. Miller, along with the other “servants,” had made it a point to keep those working on the house under surveillance at all times. If someone wished to find something hidden here, there could be no better guise than that of a painter or other workman.

  “Nothing of note, sir, although Mrs. Miller did find a hidden niche in the paneling around the parlor fireplace today while you were out, where Wilmont might have kept valuables. It was empty.”

  “Mrs. Miller found it?”

  “Cleaning, sir.” Mac grimaced. “Or that’s what she calls it.”

  “Of course.” Tony bit back a grin. “And what of the women involved in the refurbishing?”

  The workers had included several women charged with stitching all manner of fabric, coverlets, and curtains, and whatever else Miss Effington had decreed necessary for the room.

  “Again, sir, they did not behave suspiciously, although I must say, that sister of Lady Wilmont’s rules with something of an iron fist.” Mac grinned. “We could have used her during the war. Probably would have beaten the French that much sooner with more like her.”

  “The flower of British womanhood. They are a force to be reckoned with.” Tony laughed and started toward the stairs.

  “Sir?” Mac’s brow furrowed disapprovingly. “It’s probably not my place —”

  “Probably.” Tony studied the other man. Obviously Delia’s nonexistent butler was not the only one who was fond of Lady Wilmont. Even protective.

  “Nonetheless…” Mac paused. “We’ve been talking, the other men and I, and we think Lady Wilmont has been dealt with poorly.”

  “You do?”

  “Between that business with Wilmont and the scandal, and it was in truth the department’s fault and we all feel somewhat responsible, and now our deception, your deception —”

  “And I do appreciate your attempt to extricate me from that.”

  “Think nothing of it.” Mac met his gaze directly. “We’re concerned about Lady Wilmont.”

  “Oh?” Tony raised a brow.

  “She thinks we’re servants, sir, but still she’s treated each
and every one of us kindly. Not at all what any of us expected, and we should hate to see her hurt.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve all agreed, sir, and we well know we might go to the gallows for it, but we’re a crafty lot and it’s possible no one would ever know. No body found, and all that.”

  “Your point, Mac?”

  “We wouldn’t want to do it, sir, but should you hurt her, cause another scandal or break her heart” — Mac squared his shoulders — “we would have to kill you.”

  “I see.” Tony considered the other man. He had no doubt Mac and the others could carry out their threat. Of course, there would be a certain amount of remorse, not an especially comforting thought at the moment. “And if she should break my heart?”

  “We would help you drown your sorrows.” Mac grinned. “For as long as it took, no matter how many of us should fall in the process.”

  “I appreciate that.” Tony could scarcely chastise Mac. He quite understood the men’s attitude toward Delia. Tony would indeed rather forfeit his life than hurt her, although he preferred to live a long and happy life with her. “Does it ease your mind to know that she has agreed to become my wife?”

  “It does indeed, sir.” Mac heaved a sigh of relief. “We should hate to have to kill you.”

  “Always good to hear.”

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When will you marry her?”

  “As soon as this is settled,” Tony said firmly. “As soon as I have figured out how to gracefully end our deception.”

  “We will, of course, go along with whatever you decide, but have you given any further thought to —”

  “Your suggestion of not telling her at all?” The idea still lingered in the back of his mind. But keeping this secret, this lie, forever was, well, wrong. “I have thought about it, but if she is to be my wife, if I love her, how can I keep something like this from her?”

  “It seems to me, sir” — Mac’s voice was firm — “if you love her, you have to keep it from her.”

  Tony ran his hand through his hair. “I just don’t know, Mac.”

  Mac studied him for a moment. “I do wish you all the best, sir.” He glanced at the upper stairs. “And good luck as well.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take all the luck I can get.” Tony started up the stairs. “And a prayer or two would be in order as well.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Mac’s voice trailed after him. “I suspect you’ll need it.”

  Chapter 17

  “I feel compelled to be honest with you.” Delia paced the room, wringing her hands. A rather annoying habit she would have to do something about. “I think honesty is important when one is beginning an endeavor as serious, as permanent, as marriage. Don’t you?”

  There was no answer, of course. Tony wasn’t even in the room. Whatever stories of war he and MacPherson were swapping were obviously going on a bit. Not that she minded. She could well use this time alone. She was rather surprisingly nervous.

  Delia hadn’t changed her mind about what she and Tony were about to do. The very thought of sharing her bed with him made her ache deep inside with longing and desire and, God help her, love. It had to be love. Nothing else explained why she had asked him to marry her. Why she was willing — no, wanted — to give up the life of independence she’d barely tasted. Give up the adventures she longed for to spend the rest of her days as his wife. She never would have imagined that marriage would seem like an adventure in and of itself. But she’d never imagined marriage to the man she loved before either.

  “I should tell you…that is…explain to you…”

  Good heavens, even to herself she sounded absurd. Exactly what was she going to say?

  Tony, I didn’t love Charles and only shared his bed because I felt my life was doomed to boredom and he was an exciting, dangerous and forbidden adventure.

  Oh, that would certainly make her appear to be a woman of loose morals. A tart, at the very least. At best, it sounded stupid and naive. Tony had described himself as stuffy and narrow-minded, and while he certainly hadn’t shown much of that side of himself — indeed, there was nothing the least bit stuffy about their carriage ride — he might well be stuffy and narrow-minded when it came to the woman he planned to marry.

  Of course, he hadn’t so much as flinched when she’d said she planned on becoming a woman of experience. She drew her brows together thoughtfully. How odd. Still, he no doubt assumed she already had a fair amount of experience. And how on earth was she going to explain that?

  “Explain what?”

  Delia whirled around. Tony lounged in the open doorway, arms folded over his chest, annoyingly knowing smile on his face.

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Long enough to hear you say something about how you should explain something to me. Do go on.”

  “It’s nothing of significance, really.” She cast him her brightest smile and opened her arms wide. “What do you think of the room?”

  “It’s blue.” He stepped into the room, closed the door firmly behind him and started toward her, loosening his cravat. “It matches your eyes.”

  “Exactly.” She tried to ignore the fact that he continued toward her. Or the fact that he had pulled his cravat free and dropped it on the lone chair in the room. The oddest feeling of panic welled up inside her. “I quite like the fabric Cassie picked out, although I certainly helped in the selection, mind you, as well as the paper on the walls, and —”

  “You’re rambling, Delia.” There was an intimate tone to his words. As if he were really saying something altogether different.

  You want me, Delia..

  He slipped off his jacket and tossed it onto the back of the chair.

  “I never ramble,” she murmured, stepping out of his reach. She did want him, wanted this, more than she had ever wanted anything, but couldn’t quite quell a shaky sort of trepidation. And the certainty that this, that Tony, was much more important than anything ever before.

  “You are rambling now.” He sat on the edge of the chair and pulled off his boots.

  You want me to touch you, caress you.

  She ignored him. “I particularly like the touches of gold here and there. Not too much, mind you, but just enough to give it all a certain ambiance. A sense of —”

  “Seduction?” He stood, pulled off his shirt and let it drop to the floor. His shoulders were rather impressively broad, his arms and chest firmly muscled, his waist nicely narrow. She swallowed hard.

  Make you feel what you have never felt before.

  Delia continued as if she hadn’t noticed he was only half dressed.

  “Still, even with all that we’ve done, the room does seem exceedingly large and quite bare. Of course, it’s not completely finished. Much of the furniture has still not arrived.”

  “With the exception” — his smile was entirely too wicked — “of the bed. It’s quite impressive.”

  “Impressive?” She turned toward the bed and at once realized her mistake.

  The bed was indeed impressive. Delia hadn’t realized how imposing the French-styled piece was, with its deep blue and gold canopy and silken hangings, until now. Compared to Charles’s bed it hadn’t seemed at all massive, but at this very moment it was enormous, immense, endless. An undulating sea of froth and satin beckoning the unsuspecting to a voyage of carnal delights. It was an apparition of indecency. A vision of decadence. A setting for seduction.

  “Quite impressive.” His voice sounded close behind her.

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  So close she swore she could feel the heat of his body radiating from him in waves designed to melt her very bones. So close she could feel the movement of his chest with every breath. So close if she turned, she’d be pressed right against him.

  “It creates an illusion.” He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders.

  “An illusion?” She could barely get out the words. His fingers drifted d
own her arms and back to her shoulders, in a slow, dreamlike way that was at odds with the strong morning light streaming in the windows.

  “Of perfection, perhaps.” He brushed his lips lightly across the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and let her head fall forward.

  “Blue and gold are perfect?” she whispered, holding her breath, reveling in the feel of his mouth on her skin.

  “Your eyes are blue.” There was a slight tug at the neckline of her dress and she knew he had untied the top tape. He unfastened the line of buttons running from neck to waistline so smoothly she felt nothing more than the loosening of her bodice, then he expertly pulled free the bottom tape. He had obviously done this before. “And your hair is gold.”

  He pushed the dress open and a slight breeze from the window whispered across her back. She shivered, as much with delight as with the waft of air.

  He kissed the back of her neck and trailed his lips to nibble on one exposed shoulder. He pushed her dress lower down her arms until she impatiently shrugged it free, and it drifted to a puddle at her feet, leaving her clad in nothing but shift and stockings and shoes.

  Gently, he drew her back against him. His naked chest was hot and firm against her bare skin and she could feel his arousal pressed hard against her. She rested her head on his chest, tilting it to the side, and he obligingly kissed the crook of her neck and tasted the curve of her shoulder. He slipped his hands under her arms to wrap around her waist and pulled her closer to him. She was aware of nothing save the feel of his body next to hers and the touch of his mouth on her skin and the broad span of his hands splayed across her stomach.

  He moved his hands upward slowly to lightly cup her breasts, his fingers warm through the insubstantial fabric of her shift. She held her breath. His thumbs circled her nipples and they tightened under his touch.

  For a moment, or forever, they stood, her back pressed against his chest, his hands in a gentle exploration. Every nerve in her body was alive with the remarkable sensations he produced. His touch was light, tender, almost reverent and quite, quite expert. Her senses soared. She could feel the beat of her heart and the beat of his against her. She could hear the slight rasp of her breath and the controlled evenness of his. With eyes closed, she saw, in her mind’s eye, shades of billowing blues and golds, a visual accompaniment to his caress. Glorious. And not nearly enough.