The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey

by Carolyn Miller

  “It does not matter now,” she said.

  Nothing much mattered now. In the past two weeks their world had shrunk to Richard, caring for him, then when assured it was a hopeless case, waiting for him to finally breathe his last. She barely had a chance to snatch news from the outside world. Mattie had been faithful in her visits, but she was one of the few. Tessa had been invited by Viscount Featherington’s sister to spend some time in Lincolnshire, at Hartwell Abbey. They’d seized a moment for a brief consultation about Tessa’s attire, all the time Tessa atwitter with the thought that she was going to stay at a duke’s ancestral home.

  “I’m told it has secret passages!” Tessa’s blue eyes had grown wider than Clara recalled. “Hartwell Abbey is a very old and noble home.”

  Clara had nodded. “I’m sure the duchess will enjoy having someone to stay who will appreciate such things. Especially a bright, new face so willing to be pleased.”

  “I hope I do not embarrass myself or Henry.” She blushed. “I do so want to learn everything I ought.”

  As well she might. It seemed Lord Exeter must have given tacit approval for his son’s engagement to encourage the connection.

  “I’m sure you will succeed wonderfully well. You have a sweet and merry heart, and I’m sure Charlotte will appreciate such a thing at this time.”

  “Oh, yes. I forget sometimes that you know them.”

  “But barely.”

  “Well, I imagine I would welcome any diversion if I were confined, too.”

  Clara had smiled, in what felt like her first smile in an age. “That manner of plain speaking might be better left unsaid.”

  Her smile at the memory faded as she mopped Richard’s brow again. It seemed hard to believe so much had happened; that so much remained unresolved. Her hands had healed now, the bruises faded. Sometimes when she watched over her brother, she was near inclined to adopt her mother’s belief that Richard’s behavior those past months was a momentary aberration. It still seemed impossible to reconcile the kindly brother of her youth with the abandoned-to-principle violent rake his delirium confirmed him to be. Regardless, his recent actions had not killed every vestige of her affection. Should she write him off for his bad choices in recent months? She could not. Forgiveness bade her not. Besides, her brother wasn’t the only one who had made poor choices in his life.

  Poor Richard. Her throat welled. She prayed he would find peace with God, for the alternative did not bear thinking about. Shivers rippled through her as she remembered a recent dream of a yawning chasm opening before Richard, into which he tumbled, falling, falling into an abyss of hopelessness and forever despair. God wanted Richard to find forgiveness, just as He wanted her to forgive her brother, to love the unlovely. She swallowed. There could be few better candidates than the man lying in her father’s house that fit that category.

  Remorse chased her uncharitable thought. It seemed the old Clara way of thinking might take a while longer to completely change. She murmured a prayer for forgiveness and returned her attention to the patient.

  When the tall case clock struck half five, she was relieved by her father, whose care for his son now seemed in direct proportion to his lack of ability to show such attention in recent times due to Richard’s prolonged absence. Mother could not bring herself to do so, claiming it hurt to see her son unwell, and she unable to do anything about it. It hurt Clara’s heart to see her parents’ pride slip into honest acknowledgment of Richard’s failings, their remorse-tinged affection given when it was almost too late. How much better would it have been if Richard had never allowed pride to dictate his behavior. How much better would it have been if she had never allowed pride to dictate hers.

  She plucked a shawl from the hook in the hall and moved outside, tasting a breath of fresh air. Ahead, the sun was dipping, slowly sinking into a pool of golden loveliness. Wrapping the shawl around her tightly, she moved past the sad statue of the Regent, and drew closer to the cliff.

  The sunset played across the sky, twining streaks of pink and purple swirling into gold. That same golden shimmer of months ago, when she’d stood atop this same cliff, in this same spot, asking God to somehow set her free from the past, was again bathing the town in an almost mystical buttery light.

  So much had happened since then. So much remained unresolved.

  Her eyes pricked. She swallowed. A lonely gull cawed across the sky.

  Clara huddled deeper into the shawl’s protection. The ever-present breeze still found ways of piercing her silken armor, and she shivered.

  Contrary to his word, Mr. Kemsley had left Brighton almost immediately. On one of her visits, Mattie had said it was something to do with the Admiralty, and Clara desperately wanted to believe it, but some days felt too hard to fight her doubts. The tiredness, the strain of weeks of caring left her vulnerable to those long-ago whispers that she was worthless, she was ugly, nobody would love her. She would fight them with God’s Word, but sometimes, like now, the loneliness seemed to hold hands with rejection to beat her down. She wanted to think on good things, but …

  Lord, help me.

  As her prayer fluttered up to heaven, her thoughts shifted to that last day. She shuddered afresh. Thank God for Mr. Kemsley saving her from drowning. Thank God for the earl, who in shooting Houghton had saved them from certain peril. She even thanked God that such an incident had occurred so early in the day, before much of the town had a chance to be up and witness the events—and gossip. As it was, much of the gossip had been contained by the Prince Regent and Lord Hawkesbury, neither of whom wanted their names associated with the demise of Lord Houghton or Richard DeLancey. Eventually a rumor was put about—and adhered to most vehemently—that the ghost of his late wife had visited Houghton. She found a smile. She’d never thought she would be glad to be regarded as a ghost, but better that than people discover the true identity of the white-clad creature on the beach that morning.

  Yes, so much had happened since the previous magical sunset. Yet so much remained unresolved.

  Her heart caught. Why had Mr. Kemsley not visited? Was he ashamed of the connection, and now wished to withdraw from his near proposal, especially since she’d brought so much pain into his family’s life? Mattie had tried to reassure, but the niggling doubts remained. Father had said he’d given his blessing, but surely an enamored suitor would wish to pay suit? Perhaps he did not love her any more.

  Clara blinked. She could not think like that. She quickly sucked in another breath, releasing pain as she breathed out.

  Think on good things, Mattie encouraged. Good things, instead of listening to the tug of despair. Good things, like the fact she was not the same girl who’d once wondered about falling from a cliff. Instead, prayers and Bible reading kept her spirits—mostly—buoyant. She had friends now, genuine friends, people she could laugh with, even be a little silly with, who loved her despite her faults—despite those moments when she forgot she was a new creation and behaved like the old Clara again. She drew in a deep breath. Thank God for her friends.

  Thank God for beautiful and lovely things, like the sunset before her, streaming its ribbons of gold across the sky. She drank in its beauty for another long moment.

  Think on true things, like what the Bible said about her, that regardless of circumstance, God would never leave her or forsake her. Unlike some people … Her eyes filled. She blinked away the moisture.

  Admirable things, such as the way Captain Braithwaite had helped Mr. Kemsley.

  Praiseworthy things, such as—she frowned. Had she ever had the chance to thank Mr. Kemsley for once again saving her life? Father had been effusive in his praise, but in the aftermath, had she ever truly expressed her appreciation?

  She swallowed. “Lord God, please help him know. Be with him wherever he is, and bless him with his heart’s desire.”

  The first of the stars came out. A wave of sadness rolled over her. How she wished to be of lighter spirits, someone who did not feel so deeply. Someone who
could simply admire a sunset, then walk away, a smile in her heart. For while her lips might curve, it seemed her heart would never smile again.

  She turned and made her way slowly back to the house, internally fortifying herself for the next stint of bedside vigil. She would be brave, as much for her parents’ sake as for Richard’s. Not for her the excesses of emotion anymore.

  She veered into the Royal Crescent, traipsed past the silly statue, and stole a final look at the velvet sky.

  “Excuse me.”

  She turned. Took a step back, her mouth drying. Words refused to form. Why was he here? Now? What did he want? Heat rushed up and down her skin at his intent look.

  “Miss DeLancey?”

  Ben studied the face that had haunted his dreams for weeks. How good to see her features—her eyes—up close once more. “Clara?”

  “G-good evening.”

  He looked to the trailing remnants of the sunset. “’Tis a pretty night.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence stretched between them, filled with the awkwardness of the unsaid. Regret gnawed his heart. How to explain what he’d been doing these past weeks, how to explain his absence, when her heart must have hurt so much. The dim lamplight revealed a sweep of color flooding her cheeks. Her astonishment was revealed in the way her eyes fixed on him, as if he were a figment of imagination and might disappear any moment. “I am sorry I left.”

  She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug that caused his heart to twist. Did she not care? “Mattie … explained.”

  God bless his sister, but she could not explain, not truly. The Admiralty had been his excuse until he’d known his way forward. But he knew now. Could only hope and pray Clara would understand. “I know my departure must have seemed abrupt. I tried explaining something of it to your father before I left.”

  “He did not mention it. He has been chiefly concerned with my brother.”

  Ben gestured back to the house. “I just called. I understand from the servant that Richard fights on.”

  “It is a futile fight. The doctor says the end comes any day now.”

  “I’m sorry.” And in that moment, he was.

  Head tilted, she seemed to take his words as genuine and nodded. “Would you care to come inside?”

  He’d been inside too many grand houses lately. He had no wish to feel further confined. “I would rather—”

  “Go for a walk?”

  “Yes. But only if you’ll accompany me.”

  She glanced at the door. “I … that is, they are expecting me—”

  “I spoke to your father. He knows where we’ll be.”

  He offered his arm, and she clasped it, but loosely, not the way a woman might cling to the arm of the man she loved. But still, tonight was about finding out the truth.

  Ben led her along to the clifftop, noting the way her hand tightened as he led her to a vantage spot. From here, a few of Brighton’s lights shone, the Pavilion among them. The breeze danced around them, alive and cool.

  “Do you remember the first time we met here?”

  He glanced quickly at her. They’d never had this conversation, the one about whether she really was that mysterious woman atop a cliff on a wild and windy night. “Yes.”

  “I … I was wretched.”

  “Were you? I’m afraid I cannot recall every detail of that night.”

  Although he could recall most. Like his feeling of terror when she slid towards the cliff edge. His immense relief when he’d managed to haul her to safety. That impression of warmth he’d had in those brief moments he’d held her.

  “I …” She licked her bottom lip, an entrancing sight. “I don’t know if I ever truly thanked you for saving me that night.”

  “You did. I remember that.”

  He studied her, and she did not look away. He searched her green eyes for the truth. “You never told me what you were doing up here that night.”

  Her hands, her gaze slid away. “I felt … unable to continue, carrying the shame …”

  “Because of the rumors about you.”

  “The dishonorable Miss DeLancey.” Her gaze returned to his, her lips curled slightly on one side. “I was amazed you didn’t recognize me.”

  “I wondered if I’d seen you in a London ballroom years ago, but a humble sailor could never aspire to speak with a viscount’s daughter. And then I was overseas …”

  She nodded. Glanced down. “I am glad you did not know me then.”

  “Our past is finished, Clara. There is no sense in living there anymore.”

  “No.” Her features lightened with a small smile. “I always appreciate your candor.”

  “Life is too precious to prevaricate.” He grasped her hands, courage surging within to finally say—

  “Thank you for saving me from Lord Houghton.” A small shudder shook her frame. “I do not think I ever wish to go swimming again.”

  “I could teach you.”

  “What?” Her smile wisped. “That would only confirm my reputation.”

  “Then perhaps we should get married.”

  Her lips parted.

  He swallowed. “Soon.”

  “You wish to marry me?”

  “I still wish to marry only you.”

  “But Richard—”

  “No, I don’t wish to wed him.”

  Her laughter quickly faded. “No, but …”

  He threaded his warm fingers through her cool hands. “When the time is right, and your parents are ready, then I wish us to be wed. I love you, Clara.” His heart pounded, willing her to reciprocate.

  “Oh!” Her cheeks glowed in the last traces of sunset. “But you left.”

  Ben fought the twist of disappointment as he admitted, “I went to London to receive the monetary part of Prinny’s reward. I also met Hawkesbury. Johnson’s capture meant he was able to access his missing funds. Seems he wished to pay a small tribute—”

  “Really?”

  “I didn’t want to accept, but when I visited my bank I found an anonymous donation had been made to that amount. Apparently an earl can override a mere mortal’s wishes.” He smiled wryly. “I did mention the matter to him, but he seemed somewhat distracted with Johnson’s trial. I understand Hawkesbury wishes for him to be transported to the colonies rather than hanged.”

  “Johnson is fortunate the earl is so magnanimous.”

  Now came the difficult part. “You sound as though you admire the man now,” he said carefully.

  “Admire Lord Hawkesbury? Well, I suppose I do.” Her head slanted, a slow smile crept across her face. “But while there is much to admire about Lord Hawkesbury, that is nothing in comparison to someone whom I adore.”

  “You adore?” His heart thudded fiercely.

  She nodded, her gaze locked on his. “He is filled with buoyant spirits and courage and sweet consideration for others. How can I not adore—how can I not love—this man?”

  Ben fought a grin as he nodded gravely. “Such a paragon deserves esteem, it is true. Even if such regard might not allow for the paragon to hold feet of clay.”

  “A quality that makes us all the more compatible.”

  Spirits soaring, Ben moved closer, lifting a hand to gently brush an ebony lock from her face. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “And who might be the privileged recipient of such favor?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that, don’t you?” Her mouth tilted in delightful invitation.

  Heart throbbing in anticipation, Ben slid his hand to the back of her dusky curls, drawing her closer. He lowered his head, meeting the silken fire of her lips in a long, wondrous kiss that dispelled every doubt, ignited every dream, and made his body hunger for his wedding night.

  Feeling a trifle dazed, he reluctantly pulled away. “I love you, Miss Clara DeLancey.”

  “And I love you.” She smiled, pushing to her toes to kiss him again. “You, and only you.”

  EPİLOGUE

  London

  May 1816


  CLARA GLANCED AROUND the ballroom, filled with the cream of the ton, young ladies just making their entrée into society, young bucks, preening parents, all gossiping over the latest news—for once, all wondrous and good. Tonight’s ball was to honor the Prince Regent’s daughter, Princess Charlotte, who had just married her prince—a love match—in a wedding that surpassed all others in style and expense. While the ceremony and public celebrations had certainly surpassed that of hers and Benjamin’s nuptials last November, Clara was certain nothing could surpass this great love she had for her husband.

  Benjamin was all that was good, all that was patient, all that was kind. She eyed him now, resplendent in a new suit and cravat, like he’d been born to the baronetcy rather than having it bestowed upon him only two weeks ago, in a ceremony marked as much by the Prince Regent’s effusive commendations as it was for the lateness in its arriving. Ben was Sir Benjamin Kemsley now, invested with an Order of the Garter on St. George’s day.

  The reparation had been paid in full, which, along with an unexpected gift from the Marquess of Exeter, made their living more comfortable than she could have dreamed. A few weeks before his son’s marriage in February, Lord Exeter had requested that Ben visit him at his earliest convenience. It seemed he’d remembered he possessed what he termed a little cottage not far away in West Sussex. A not-so-little cottage, it turned out, but a handsome manor that had belonged to a recently deceased cousin and had now reverted to Lord Exeter’s stewardship. He hadn’t wanted the bother, so he’d said, and offered it to Ben as a gift, saying it would benefit from having careful owners, who would soon be part of the wider family connection. Ben’s surprise was equal to hers, and they delighted that their new home benefitted from a grand view of the Isle of Wight and close proximity to calm waters, where Ben had promised—or was it threatened?—to teach her to swim.

  “What is that smile for, Lady Kemsley?”

  “Just happiness, Sir Benjamin.”

  Her husband’s blue eyes twinkled as if he was thinking of their secret. “I do hope when we return home that the weather will clear sufficiently so those swimming lessons may begin.”