Loretta Chase - The Devil's Delilah (11 page)

"It is certainly not good of you to insult their intelligence," Mr. Langdon put in. "You speak as though Miss Desmond would stand there witlessly, allowing the roof to leak upon her."

The image conjured up was evidently more than Miss Desmond's composure could withstand, because she giggled.

Lord Berne was good-natured enough to chuckle and Lady Potterby permitted herself to smile. "Indeed, I hope my grand-niece has better sense," said she.

"My Lady, your grand-niece is the most levelheaded young lady I have ever met," said Lord Berne. "A great many others would do well to emulate her — though that would be difficult," he added solemnly. "They have the advantages neither of your kinship nor your wise guidance."

"Yet you believed I had so little sense I would stand under a dripping roof," said Delilah. "You contradict yourself, My Lord."

"His lordship is confused," said Jack. "Clearly, the experience of hearing a sermon was too great a shock to his senses. It has addled his wits."

"Mr. Blenkly was addled enough himself," Lady Potterby calmly intervened before Lord Berne could retort upon his friend. "I could not make heads or tales of his homily. Yet I still retain sufficient perception to note that the sky darkens. Dear me, and the day had begun so bright. We had better go home, Delilah."

"I do not know whether this is very good or very bad," said Lady Potterby when they were safely within the carriage. "To attend services here instead of at home… to travel at least twenty-five miles in each direction… and after the same journey yesterday… and to behave so respectfully towards you. That is most puzzling."

"I may take it then, that unlike his friend, Mr. Langdon regularly attends services?" Delilah asked.

"Dear me, no. Only a marriage or a baptism might lure him here. Still, there is no predicting what that young man will do. He may have come to admire the architecture — or a young lady," she added slyly.

The grand-niece frowned.

"You needn't look so grim," said Lady Potterby. "I admit he's not dashing, but he's perfectly eligible. He has twenty thousand a year of his own. When he comes into the title the figure will increase considerably. You could do worse."

"I will, of course, do as you tell me, Aunt, but I hope you will not let Papa's ill-considered remarks influence you. I'm sure the only reason Mr. Lang-don tolerates me is out of respect for your longstanding friendship with his uncle. Whenever Mr. Langdon looks at me he makes me feel there's dirt on my nose — or that I've got my bonnet on backwards."

"That is merely his way," Lady Potterby said dismissively. "At least you have nothing to fear from him. On the other hand, Lord Berne is a sorry rascal. Still, a new roof does give one pause. The expense is not inconsiderable."

So Lord Streetham pointed out to his son some hours later when that young man described his recent activities. Nor was the earl in any way appeased when Lord Berne embarked upon an impassioned soliloquy regarding the young lady's numerous perfections, among which her intriguing hard-headedness figured most prominently.

He had no business being intrigued, his father retorted. Mindless infatuation had no place in business matters. All Tony had accomplished was to degenerate himself into a moonstruck schoolboy, while both the young lady and the memoirs remained as unapproachable as ever.

Lord Streetham coldly observed that he'd erred gravely in entrusting so sensitive an enterprise to his fribble of an heir. Accordingly, he ordered his son off to Brighton, where the fresh salt air might clear his fevered brain.

Lord Berne hastened to defend himself. He'd made an excellent start, he insisted. Even the formidable aunt had behaved almost amiably. "In another two days they'll be convinced I mean to offer for the girl. What better way than that to obtain Miss Desmond's confidence and trust?"

"What better way for them to trap you is more like it," Lord Streetham returned.

"So you'll keep me in leading strings to protect me from an inexperienced miss? And while I'm safely in Brighton, Langdon will seduce her."

"Inexperienced — hah! That embrace Atkins reported was the chit's doing, rely upon it. Jack has never seduced anyone in his whole life. She was trying to ensnare him — as she will you. You are too much taken with her. You are sure to forget yourself, and her family will be quick to cry Dishonour if you so much as kiss her hand. Remember, Desmond is not like the other fathers you've outraged. He will not be quieted with a bribe — not when he can make that black-haired wench of his a countess."

"But surely your influence — "

"One has no influence over knaves who leap out of alleys in the dead of night. You forget of whom we speak. Besides, if he has made a laughingstock of me in his curst story, I will have as much influence in the world as the coal scuttle. As usual, the Devil holds all the winning cards. You will go to Brighton or I shall cut off your allowance."

Chapter 8

While Lord Berne was quarrelling with his father, Delilah was confiding in hers. Until the viscount had appeared at church, she had not permitted herself to consider his scheme seriously. Now she was forced to consider it, but she wished to have her father's perspective as well.

When she was done, Mr. Desmond leaned back comfortably in his chair and acknowledged that Lord Berne's was an interesting approach to the problem.

"It is brilliant, Papa," she answered. "I only wish you could have seen the parishioners today. They were positively agog. Even Aunt Millicent was impressed. Lord Berne's reputation must be far worse than I thought, if one appearance at church could cause such a stir. Still, I cannot help but question his motives. Though it seems a deal of trouble to go to, I do wonder if he only wants to win my trust so he can seduce me."

"That's simple enough," said her father. "Don't get seduced."

She did not appear to hear him. Her brow furrowed.

"I find your expression ominous, Delilah," said Mr. Desmond. "You are hatching something, and I am certain it is mischief."

She was staring at the carpet, and when she spoke, it was as though she were simply thinking aloud.

"Not being seduced is simple," she said. "What is difficult is maintaining his interest. He is reputed very fickle." Absently she rose from her chair and began pacing the room. "If it could be done, he might be brought round — eventually. But is there time — and is he worth the effort, I wonder? Still, he will be Earl of Streetham one day and — " She glanced at her father, who was watching her with every evidence of amusement.

"He is very beautiful, Papa. That we must admit."

"I am sure there is not a prettier fellow in the kingdom."

"He is exceedingly conceited," she went on, "yet he is amusing. He is rather wild — "

"Very wild."

She bit her lip. "Well, I'd rather not marry some dull, conventional fellow if I can help it. I should be bored to death and driven to some atrocity sooner or later, I know it. At any rate, Lord Berne is at hand and wishes to pursue me. I think I may let him do so… until I catch him," she finished with a faint smile.

"And if you do not?" her papa enquired.

She shrugged. "Then I'm no worse off than before. I'll go to London with my aunt as planned and try to catch someone else."

Mr. Desmond gave a theatrical shudder. "Such a cold-blooded creature you are, my dear. Whenever you begin making wedding plans I feel I have entered a damp, chilly dungeon. No more, I beg you."

He rose from his chair and crossed the room to her. "Your aunt is napping," he said. "If I swear the servants to secrecy, will you indulge your aged parent in a game of billiards?"

Her smile broadened into a mischievous grin. "I promise to trounce you soundly."

"I shall see that you don't. You know, while we are on the tiresome subject, I ought to remind you of
his
parents. Your behaviour must be most circumspect if you wish to enslave them as well. I'm afraid that will tax your patience."

"I will do my part not to make a scandal, Papa," she said with some indignation. "I only wish you would do yours. Something must be done about that odious Mr. Atkins."

"Leave him to me. If worse comes to worse, and he proves recalcitrant, we shall simply burn the manuscript."

"Actually, I begin to think we should do so immediately."

"So confident of your viscount, eh?" Mr. Desmond offered his daughter his arm.

As she took it she said, "It would be one less worry."

"My dear, a single young lady has only one true worry, which is not getting seduced. All you need do is not believe anything an idle young man says until he says it before the parson and witnesses, pursuant to placing a ring upon your finger."

She squeezed his arm affectionately. "I will remember, Papa," she promised. "Now — to battle."

Lord Berne spent his first day in Brighton dutifully inhaling the salt air during a restless walk upon the Steyne. In the usual way of things, he would have promptly banished Miss Desmond's image by fixing on one closer to hand. The circumstances were not usual. He had not wandered away on his own caprice, but had been sent away against his will, like a naughty child ordered to bed without his supper. Now, precisely like a spoiled child,

Lord Berne wanted no other treat but the one denied him.

Consequently, he persuaded himself there was no other female upon the earth as desirable as Delilah Desmond; that, furthermore, he had never loved before, all the rest being puerile infatuations.

That her image haunted him (at least twice a day) proved beyond doubt he'd come upon the grand passion of a lifetime. Yet what had he done? He'd scurried off to Brighton because his father threatened to stop his allowance. An idle threat. Lord Street-ham had too much pride to allow his son to wander about the kingdom on foot, in rags, like a beggar.

Meanwhile Lord Berne's beloved would have concluded he'd abandoned her — that he was a worthless, unreliable knave. She must not.

Lord Berne hastened back to his lodgings and penned a very long letter full of bad grammar and execrable verse, in the course of which he claimed to be called away to sit by the sickbed of a friend. Then he ordered his curricle and posted off to Rye.

In the country, one day can be so tediously like all the rest that the smallest piece of news becomes a nine-days' wonder. All the same, few of Lady Potterby's neighbours could work up much excitement about Squire Pegham's sow's difficulties in labour and the consequent suffocation of three of her numerous offspring. This local sensation was cast entirely in the shade by the bizarre behaviour of Lord Berne.

Streetham Close might be twenty-five miles away, but Lord Berne's periodic sorties into the Rossingley environs and the feminine devastation he left in his wake had made him a common foe. The local gentry were therefore mightily curious about the young lady who had (if reports were to be believed) so far subjugated this enemy as to lure him to church, where — and this was utterly con-founding — he had not nodded off at once. He had capped this miracle by pledging a large sum of money for repairs to a church not even in his own parish, thus sparing the Rossingley parishioners the disagreeable necessity of reaching into their own pockets.

All this he had done, it was said, in an effort to overcome Miss Desmond's prejudices against him. Miss Twiggenham herself had heard him say as much, having on Sunday been placed by an accidental though fortunate conjunction of circumstances close enough to overhear his lordship's remarks. Miss Twiggenham's evidence was strengthened by Mrs. Blenkly's avowal that Lord Berne had said practically the same thing to the minister.

In short, as Lord Berne had predicted, and more speedily than even he could have guessed, Rossingley developed a lively interest in Miss Delilah Desmond. Lady Potterby was besieged daily by callers, all of whom had hitherto been studiously unaware of the Desmonds' entry into the neighbourhood.

They came primarily out of curiosity and went away still curious. Admittedly Miss Desmond was handsome. All the same, Lord Berne had his pick of not only rustic beauties, but Society's most dazzling Incomparables. There must be something more than her looks.

Unfortunately, no one could ascertain what the "more" was, exactly. Miss Desmond's manners were unexceptionable, and her conversation was very properly limited to deference to the opinions of her elders. She seemed very much like any other gently-bred young miss. Only when people recollected she was Devil Desmond's daughter did this conclusion appear at all remarkable. Thus she became a mystery all Rossingley was in a fever to solve.

Miss Desmond might have enjoyed her triumph whole-heartedly had she not been so acutely aware that Rossingley's interest in her would fade as abruptly as it had blossomed if the reason for its interest vanished. The reason — Lord Berne — showed every evidence of doing so.

When he had not called by Friday, Miss Desmond's spirits — already sorely tried by the necessity of behaving circumspectly before an endless stream of company — sank into the Slough of Despond.

Lord Berne was obviously as fickle, selfish, and thoughtless as everyone said. She must have been totty-headed to have taken him seriously even for an instant, especially on such light evidence as one whimsical promise. She had not been her usual hard-headed self, that was certain. Delilah reflected as she wandered unhappily out to the garden.

The sun shone, but today its beams were gentle, and a cool breeze drove away all traces of the unusual humidity which had oppressed the countryside. The milder weather had not, she soon discovered, been of much use to her horticultural experiment. Two more seedlings had succumbed. As she gazed sorrowfully upon their withered remains, she made a mental note to speak to Jenkins, the gardener. Until she thought of a better hiding place, there must be no more planting here. Mr. Langdon had not dug a very deep hole. He'd been too busy demonstrating his prowess in other ways. Well, he'd discovered his mistake soon enough and had slunk off to hide among his dusty volumes.

By now he must have persuaded himself the embrace had been all her doing, because she was a wanton adventuress, bent on entrapping him.
Was there some further penance she wished to exact
, he'd said, in those cold, patronising tones. The nerve of the man! He was despicable.