“I haven’t. But I will,” she said, hearing the vow in her voice.
“Well,” Sarah said, giving Della one last appraisal. “You are as beautiful as you are going to get. You should head to the ball. Where is it this evening?”
Della shrugged. “I’m not certain. Griff—Lord Stanbury is coming to fetch me in half an hour or so.”
“And you’ll tell him? Tell him everything?”
Della bit her lip. “Yes.”
Sarah enfolded Della in a hug, making Della feel warm and comforted. She wasn’t normally a hugging person, but Sarah and Nora had both made it very clear that that was how they expressed their love, and she was willing to accept it. See? she wanted to say to him. I can be accommodating.
He arrived promptly this evening, not making her wonder if he was going to be off doing some remarkable deed that she would have to thank him for while simultaneously being furious he hadn’t turned up after he had promised.
He looked different this evening. Or perhaps that was because she was feeling differently about him? Now that she was on the cusp of confessing everything?
“You look lovely, my lady,” he said, taking her hand and putting it to his lips. The stubble above his mouth grazed her hand, and she shuddered as she thought about where else it could tickle her.
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, curtseying. Apparently they were to be excessively formal this evening. Perhaps it was to ensure they actually arrived at the ball and didn’t end up frolicking in the carriage on the way over?
But she couldn’t ask him, since that would give him ideas, and she wouldn’t get the opportunity to tell him anything since she would be just as enthusiastic about the suggestion as he was.
The mental rigmarole one had to endure when one was concerned that one would be able to share thoughts while also wishing one were absolutely not speaking because their mouths were otherwise engaged. Being in love was so complicated.
“Mrs. Wattings, I trust you are well?” he said to Sarah, who had just come down the stairs.
“You know I am, my lord,” Sarah replied, a grateful expression on her face. “Thanks entirely to you.”
“And Wattings, no doubt,” he said with a warm smile.
A blush stained Sarah’s cheeks, and Della suppressed a grin.
“Shall we be going?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” Della strode over to where her cloak hung on the hook and was about to take it down when his large hand covered hers.
“Allow me,” he said, removing the cloak and holding it out for her. She slid her arms through the sleeves, closing her eyes for just a moment as he wrapped it securely around her.
This could be her life. This security, this comfort, this trust.
She just had to tell him how she felt. And hope that he felt the same.
Griffith wished she didn’t look so damned beautiful. It made not telling her how he felt even harder. Literally.
But he wanted to resolve the Baxter issue before he told her anything so that there was no possibility of that situation intruding on her happiness, or their future.
But still.
This evening she was wearing a blue evening gown that was cut low enough for him to see the swell of her bosom. The sleeves of the gown were so slight as to make calling them sleeves seem presumptuous—they were tiny wisps of fabric just clinging to her shoulders. Her gown darted in at her waist, then flared out at her hips. The hips he had caressed when they’d been in bed together.
Why weren’t they in bed together now?
Oh right. Because they had a party to attend and a former lover to pay off and emotions to be revealed. And there was the lingering niggle of doubt in his head following her reaction when they had been intimate before—she had shut down so thoroughly he didn’t know if it would have been possible to reach her.
When the Baxter matter was settled, he would talk to her. He was proud of himself for having the patience to wait—the Griffith before he met her would have just blundered into speaking his mind without considering the consequences—and he wished he could tell her how patient he was being in regard to her. But then that would negate the whole point of waiting to speak to her until things were resolved.
It was far more complicated to be a person in love than it was to be only absorbed with oneself. There were so many more things to consider.
But that was the point. He wanted to consider her as well as himself. He hoped she would allow him to focus on her, to consider her wants and needs and desires.
As he hoped she would want to consider his.
He just had to be patient.
The coach began to move, and she turned to him, her expression somehow different than he’d ever seen before.
“What is it?” he asked.
She bit her lip and took a deep breath. “I want to tell you about—about my life before.”
“Before what?” he replied quickly, then realizing that that was a ludicrous question.
Her expression revealed she thought the same thing. They had that in common.
“When I left London. And how I left London. Before,” she said again, and he could tell she was restraining herself from rolling her eyes at him.
Perhaps she did care for him after all.
He slid his arm along the back of the carriage seat, draping his hand on her shoulder. Resisting the urge to curl her up into his arms and dip his fingers into the front of her gown.
“Tell me. I’m listening.”
He felt her take a deep breath as the carriage continued to rumble over the cobblestones, the movement sliding their bodies together. Her hip was warm against his side.
“I am the second oldest of us. There are five of us, and all of us are”—and here she paused as though searching for the word—“distinctive. I always thought it was my role in the family to follow Eleanor’s lead, and support my younger sisters. I behaved properly, I did what I was supposed to, and then when it was time for my debut, I expected I would receive my reward for proper behavior.” Another pause. “I entered Society with so much naivete. I thought that I would burst onto the scene, that some handsome young gentleman would love me, and that I would end up happily married and taken care of for the rest of my life.”
That might still happen, he wanted to say. But he also wanted to let her tell her story, not interrupt with how he could solve everything.
She made a derisive noise. “That did not happen. I entered Society, and was immediately besieged by gentlemen who wanted to marry the Duke of Marymount’s daughter. They didn’t want to know me, Della. They wanted the prestige of my father’s reputation, not to mention my dowry. I tried to find someone—anyone—who would listen to me and want to hear my opinion on anything, even something so minor as whether I preferred champagne to white wine, but there wasn’t anybody.”
He wanted to punch someone at hearing how forlorn she sounded. Although to be fair, he usually wanted to punch someone when it came to wrongs committed against her.
This was true love, wasn’t it?
Lord Stanbury, how did you realize you were madly in love with Lady Della?
Well, I wanted to use my fists against anyone who hurt her. I wanted to let her speak her mind. I delayed doing what I wanted to do because I thought it would be best for her if I did so.
And I wanted to pleasure her for the rest of our lives.
But she was still speaking. He had to pay attention. That was what true love was.
“Mr. Baxter gave my sisters and I dance lessons.” She shook her head slowly. “He wasn’t even that good a dancer, to be honest. But he knew the steps, and more importantly, how to flatter my mother so she thought we were remarkably lucky to have obtained him as an instructor.”
Griffith’s fists tightened.
“I received a few proposals, but not from anyone my parents deemed worthy of my hand. Thank goodness,” she added in a relieved tone of voice. “At the same time, I felt so lonely. I didn’t want to tell my younger sisters how terrib
le it all was—I knew they were looking forward to making their own debuts, and I didn’t want to taint their experience. Perhaps it was just me. I didn’t know what Eleanor thought.”
The carriage hit a bump, and they slammed into one another, him tightening his hold on her shoulder. She glanced up into his face and gave him a smile. Then her expression drew serious again, and she looked away, out the opposite window of the carriage. Even though Griffith could tell she wasn’t actually registering what she was seeing out there.
“Mr. Baxter sensed something was wrong. Or perhaps he was just waiting for his opportunity to ensnare me, I don’t know. But during our lessons he was . . . curious about me. What I liked, who I saw, how I felt. I know it was likely just a ruse to get me to trust him, or at least I know that now, but at the time I felt so seen. As though someone in the world understood me, Della, and not just a random duke’s daughter whose best value was in her lineage, not in herself.”
This is what Society does to people, Griffith thought. Tells them they are only worth something because of what they are, not—who they are.
Not that that made sense.
But it was the same reason he had run away, and he was opening his mouth to tell her that when he snapped it closed again.
Right. She didn’t need him to chime in with his own experience. She needed him to listen. He had to be patient.
“I don’t blame him for taking advantage of our situation.”
Even though Griffith did.
“And when it became clear that he had feelings for me, feelings that I believed he couldn’t admit because of our respective positions, I spoke and told him how I felt.”
It stung that she hadn’t told Griffith how she felt about him yet. Although she had asked if he wanted to have an affair, so perhaps he shouldn’t feel too badly. Was that why she was so skittish about sharing herself with him? Because of Baxter?
Griffith wished he had the freedom to treat her former lover as he wished, but that wouldn’t be the right thing for him to do. Not if he cared for her. Or, more accurately, not since he cared for her.
No, he would pay the blackguard off and then confess his love to her with a clear conscience.
“And so we decided to run away together. I bundled all my jewelry up, just like the heroines in the novels do when they are escaping, and snuck out of the house after a particularly late party. We were together for only a few weeks before I realized he was not who I thought he was. I believe he was equally disenchanted with me,” she said wryly. “But by then I knew I was carrying Nora, and I thought we would both just have to suffer one another for the sake of the child. Luckily, he made the decision by deserting us soon after Nora was born.”
Now she didn’t sound heartsick, and he tried not to feel pleased that she so clearly did not miss Nora’s father.
“But why am I telling you this? It is likely you already know all the sordid details.”
I don’t, Griffith nearly said. I was waiting for you to tell me.
But she was still speaking.
“I wanted to tell you because I wanted you to know that this is different.” She placed her hand on his leg and squeezed. “This is different,” she said in a softer voice. “I know my own mind, so much more than before. So while it might seem as though I am repeating my mistake, I can assure you I am not.”
What was she saying?
“What I am saying,” she said, as though she could read his mind, “is that I have—I have feelings for you.” She cleared her throat, and he stroked her arm, reminding himself to have patience.
“I believe I might have fallen in love with you.” The way she spoke made it sound as though it was an accident. As though she hadn’t meant to, but it had happened nonetheless. Like eating an additional biscuit at tea when you were already full, or forgetting to greet someone you’d met on only a handful of occasions.
But this was love. Much more than a sweet or a mistake.
“Well?” She sounded impatient, and he resisted the urge to grin. His impatient Della, when he was being nothing but patient.
“Thank you,” he said at last, squeezing her shoulder.
“Thank you” was such a paltry response.
He could do better. He would do better. “And I have to say that I—” At which point the carriage slowed, and he glanced out the window, a dawning sense of horror filling him as he saw they’d arrived.
The door swung open before he could continue, and then the footman was assisting her out of the carriage, and he was following her, his fingers still warm from her skin.
She glanced back at him, a wry look on her face, and he felt a huge sense of relief that she wasn’t currently in tears at his not responding better nor was she angry at him.
Of course a woman like Della would not burst into tears. Although he wouldn’t put it past her to be angry, so he should be grateful for that.
“We will speak later,” he said in a low tone as they walked up the stairs to the house. The door was flung open and lights blazed out, a whirl of dancers and silver trays and rushing servants indicating it was already a very full event. “Or we could just go home,” he added hopefully.
She gave him a reproachful look. “We promised we would attend. What would Society say if they heard the heir to the Duke of Northam had done something so disgraceful as to not attend a party he had accepted an invitation to? Society would reject you.”
“I doubt that.” He didn’t bother to hide his arrogance—she was already acquainted with that, and since she loved him—she loved him!—he didn’t have to disguise who he was.
Not that he ever had disguised anything, not with her. If anything, he felt as though her love would give him permission to be even more himself than before, albeit one that was as concerned with another person as himself.
Which seemed a lot like arithmetic, and he was not fond of arithmetic.
“And besides, my sisters will be here this evening.”
That was a much better reason to attend than any nonsense about offending Society. He had begun all this determined to navigate Society on his own terms, if he was going to have to navigate it at all. Especially since it seemed he would no longer be allowed to navigate the seas as the captain of his ship.
This was his course now, but he was determined to set it himself. With her at his side.
“Fine, then. We’ll stay.”
The Griffith of a few weeks ago would be aghast at his change of heart, but his heart had changed. And she was the reason.
He should probably say something. “And I love you too.”
Chapter 20
Della wasn’t nervous anymore. She was . . . hopeful. She hadn’t been hopeful in so long, she barely recognized it, but there it was.
She knew he felt the same way, even before he said it. She’d known it, to a certain extent, since they’d been naked together in bed, but now his entire demeanor indicated he cared.
She wanted to laugh aloud at how frustrated he’d sounded when he’d said “Fine.” She shared his frustration—she would very much like to get naked together in bed with him again, especially now that their emotions were more out in the open—but she also wanted her sisters to see her with him, and to behave as properly as she could so that Society would accept that they were together.
Not that he’d proposed yet, but she presumed that would happen eventually. Hopefully the proposal wouldn’t interfere with more naked-in-bed times, since she was eager to continue that probably more than she was eager to become a wife.
But the only way to ensure she could be with him forever was to marry him, so she supposed she would have to do it.
And all those hopes and dreams of being in love with someone who respected her and honored her ability to make her own decisions would come true. And Nora would have a father, and she would have a partner who was truly a partner, and not a husbandly tyrant.
“Good evening, Della.”
Della stiffened as she recognized her father’s voice. S
he lifted her chin as she turned to him, feeling that same heartsick stab at seeing his face. They’d never been close—he’d always been too busy reading the paper or running to the hounds to spend time with his daughters—but they had at least been cordially fond of one another.
Until she’d run off with Mr. Baxter, at which point both her parents had renounced her entirely.
Her mother stood beside the duke, a facile smile on her face. Her mother was a silly woman, a fact Della could have overlooked if the duchess had not also been so determined for Della to do what she and the duke wanted—not what Della wanted for herself.
You have to marry someone who will bring honor to our family, the duchess had said. As though that was the only reason to marry. To acquire more respectability, as though respectability could be achieved in an infinite amount.
But to the duchess she supposed it could. Once it was clear the duke would only ever have five daughters, with no heir to receive the title, the duchess became nearly maniacal in her wish to see each of her daughters marry well.
“Good evening, Della,” the duchess said, nodding.
“Good evening.” Della couldn’t help how brusque she sounded. Being cut out of your parents’ lives because you had made a terrible mistake had a way of doing that to a person.
“Lord Stanbury.” Her father’s tone was warmer speaking to Griffith.
Of course. He was a man, and he was not a disgraceful daughter.
“Good evening, Your Grace. Your Grace,” Griffith said, nodding first to her mother and then to her father. He sounded odd.
But then again, of course he would. She had just confessed her love to him in a carriage, and then they had arrived at this party.
She shouldn’t feel concerned.
“You’ve taken care of that scoundrel?” her father continued. His gaze darted between her and Griffith.
She felt Griffith freeze beside her, and she turned to look at him. And then felt her spine tingling. And not in a pleasant way.
“Who did you take care of?” she asked, each word sounding clipped.
Griffith met her gaze, and she knew who it was.
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