Loretta Chase - The Devil's Delilah (21 page)

Nonetheless, Delilah was not sufficiently weary of life to reject Mr. Langdon's invitation to drive with him, a few days after Lady Fevis's ball. His proposing an unfashionably early hour only added to his offer's appeal.

At least, she thought as he guided the horses into Hyde Park, the entire Beau Monde would not be there to gawk at her. For all that she was tired of being ogled, she had spent two hours fretting about what to wear. She was still fretting. She knew her green frock became her very well and her new capote was entirely
a la mode
, yet her companion appeared utterly oblivious. Or perhaps, being too honest to lie and too tactful to tell her she looked a fright, he had simply decided to hold his tongue altogether.

That he was the epitome of sartorial elegance — his linen crisply immaculate against the form-fitting brown coat — only irritated her. Perhaps this was why she did not behave, as she'd intended, entirely carefree and delighted with her recent popularity. Surely this must be why, instead, all — or nearly all — her pent-up frustrations came spilling out of her, and she found herself confiding in Mr. Langdon more freely than she had even her father.

Papa was never home, she complained, and for all his investigations, day and night, could obtain no word of his manuscript. Aunt Millicent still scolded at least a dozen times a day, until the grand-niece despaired of ever pleasing her. Not a single occupation in which Delilah was truly skilled was she permitted. If she played cards, it must be for chicken stakes — and with idiots. She couldn't go anywhere without a chaperone. She could not go to gaming hells, Manton's, or Tattersall's at all. She was, in short, bored to tears.

"At least you have your routs and balls," said Mr. Langdon, after sympathising with these trials. "And, of course, all your beaux. That must be some compensation."

"I didn't come to London just to dance and flirt," she said crossly. "I came for a husband. I'm denied everything that might be pleasure and then I can't even get my business done."

He threw her an odd glance. "That is plain speaking."

She sighed. "Mr. Langdon, if I cannot be frank with you, then there's no one. Except for Lady Rand, the ladies do not invite confidences. If I were frank with most of the gentlemen, they'd get an earful, I promise you. But I must be unspeakably proper and pretend they're properly respectful, even when they stare at me in that disgusting way."

"They're bound to stare, Miss Desmond. But disgusting?"

"They
leer
, and I assure you it is not at all agreeable."

"I'd have thought you'd be accustomed to attracting attention," he said philosophically. "If the men do leer sometimes, you must understand that they may be unable to help themselves."

"They ought to help it. They could if they wished to. They don't treat other young women so. Imagine any of them
daring
to ogle Miss Melbrook."

"Miss Melbrook is not as beautiful as you are."

"She's accounted a diamond of the first water — and I am not begging for compliments, Mr. Langdon," she added, though to her distress she did feel unspeakably gratified. "They look at me the way they do because they're all waiting for my wicked character to reveal itself."

"That is a grave error on their part," he said. "You're not at all wicked. What you are is dangerous. I only wonder you haven't shot anyone so far, if you're so displeased."

She could not help smiling. "I cannot shoot them, since I cannot carry my pistol about with me," she said. "Evening dress is a tad too revealing, and a weapon does weigh down one's reticule."

"Still, if this behaviour distresses you so, we must put a stop to it. I could, I suppose, call the fellows out — but there seem to be a great many of them, which means a lot of rising at dawn and spoiling my boots in some muddy field. No," he said gravely, "Mr. Fellows would never countenance that."

"I suppose he would not," she sadly agreed.

"You'll have to fight the duel yourself," he said as they approached the Serpentine. "But instead of swords or pistols, you must use a more formidable weapon — your eyes."

He drew the carriage to a halt.

"Now," he went on, "look at me — not at my cravat, Miss Desmond, though I admit it is an astounding sight. Full into my face."

Puzzled, she obeyed, though the instant she met his gaze she felt so uneasy that it took all her concentration not to look away. She'd never noticed before how thick and dark his lashes were or the faint beginnings of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.

She grew more uncomfortable still when the dreamy grey eyes abruptly became those of a stranger. An exceedingly wicked stranger, moreover, whose bold survey began at her bonnet and continued appraisingly down to her neckline, at which point she felt she might as well not be wearing anything at all. He had not touched her — had not moved a fraction closer, yet it seemed as though his mouth and hands had been everywhere his glance had been.

An eternity later, it seemed — though it had been but a moment — the feral expression vanished.

"Was that the way of it?" he asked, quite as though he had merely recited a verse from the
Iliad
, instead of practically
ravishing
her with his gaze.

"Y-yes."

"I thought so. You nearly turned purple, Miss Desmond." Heedless of her sputter of indignation, he continued, "What you must do is immediately fix your mind elsewhere and stare right through the fellow."

"Elsewhere? How in blazes am I to do that with you — you leering so?"

"If you concentrate on what he's doing to you, you're bound to blush and appear discomfited, which will please the chap no end. If, however, you appear coldly indifferent, both to the stare and to him, you'll discomfit and confuse
him
. It does work, I assure you," he added. "I've seen Gwendolyn do it countless times, on far less provocation."

Whatever Gwendolyn could do, Miss Desmond must obviously be twice as capable of doing, she adjured herself as her companion once again commenced his visual assault. Though her pulse rate had apparently quadrupled and her entire body seemed to be burning up under his impudent appraisal, Delilah did as he ordered.

She stiffened her spine, adopted an expression of ineffable ennui, and let her own gaze flicker coldly over his face, as though instead of beholding a disturbingly handsome countenance, she were regarding a slug.

Since they were only playacting, it was with some surprise that she observed his colour deepening. A muscle twitched under his left cheekbone.

"Well done, Miss Desmond," he said rather stiffly. "Not that I'm surprised. I've been subjected to that withering expression before."

"That's impossible. You've just instructed me."

"Actually, it was more in the nature of the reminder. The skill you already possessed. You simply didn't realise it would be as effective on these occasions as on others."

"So long as it does work," she said, "I don't care whether I just learned it or knew it all along."

"I assure you it works admirably," he answered as he gave the horses leave to start. "That particular brand of aristocratic disdain cannot be learned. One is born with it. Keep that in mind the next time anyone tries to make you feel like — " he hesitated.

"A trollop, I think you mean."

He uttered an exaggerated sigh. "Madam," he said sorrowfully, "have you never heard of euphemism?"

Delilah was able to put her lesson to practical use that evening at a ball given by Lady Rand. The technique was unfailingly effective, giving Miss Desmond the satisfying assurance that without uttering a syllable she could make a rogue just as uncomfortable as he made her. This made the affair more enjoyable than any she'd attended previously. The ball was sheer pleasure from start to near-daybreak finish, and not a little of her joy, she admitted ruefully, was attributable to Mr. Langdon's lingering nearby for a sizable portion of the evening.

He must like me
, she thought later, as she sat at her dressing table, making a vague pretence of brushing her hair. He wasn't a saint. He would not be so kind and… protective… if he truly despised her. Certainly he would not have encouraged his friends to rally round her if he did. That she knew he had done for her — had perhaps known it in her heart even before Aunt Millicent had pointed it out during a lecture about ingratitude.

There was something else in her heart, Delilah was forced to acknowledge as she put down the hairbrush. When he'd eyed her in that insolent way this afternoon, he'd shocked her to the core. Yet at the same time, his look had conjured up other confrontations — one kiss in particular. And within she'd felt…

She shook her head and rose to remove her dressing gown, but as the silk slipped from her shoulders and fell, unheeded, to the carpet, the feeling came to her again. It had been, she realised with dismay,
anticipation
.

Mr. Langdon did not rise until early afternoon. He had not expected to rise at all.

He'd always prided himself on his cool detachment. He'd even managed in the past few weeks to keep his head — more or less — during the hundred mutinies his baser instincts had attempted against his reason. Yet this same philosophical Jack Langdon had fled Lady Rand's ball shortly after midnight in a state bordering on insanity. He'd been seized with a fit of possessiveness so fierce that he must leave the place or commit mayhem.

The fit had come upon him the instant Delilah Desmond had entered. From that point on, it was all he could do to keep from swooping down on her and dragging her away. As it was, he'd planted himself at her side for at least half the evening while he scoured every masculine countenance for a hint of insult towards her. When he discovered what he sought, he could only seethe with impotent fury because he had no right to do anything about it. That she'd defended herself well, just as he'd known she would, had not improved his state of mind — or mindlessness was more like it — one iota.

He did not want them looking at her in any way, let alone talking or dancing with her. She was
his
.

Instead of pretending to be a civilised gentleman of the modern world, he should have been attired in filthy animal skins, grunting as he dragged his knuckles along the ground. That was what he'd felt when he'd danced with her the first time. She had remarked his sleek black coat and told him, in her light, practised way, that he looked rather dashing — and he had practically growled in answer.

When he'd felt his last vestiges of self-restraint deserting him, he'd made his exit. After attempting to relieve his feelings by kicking an unoffending lamppost, he had marched off to White's, to gamble away all his money and drink himself to death.

That he'd failed in the latter was evident when his eyelids scraped open and searing pain pierced the tender organs beneath. He shut them and struggled up very slowly to a sitting position. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Mr. Fellows, tray in hand, gazing down upon him.

"Good grief," Jack groaned. "No breakfast, I beg of you."

"Breakfast today comes from the chemist's shop, sir," said the valet as he placed the tray on his master's lap. "You had better drink it before you try the coffee."

Jack eyed the tray with revulsion. "What is that?" he asked, nodding painfully at the rolled-up newspaper lying next to the coffee cup. "Where is the
Times
?"

"I think, sir, you will find this particular organ of communication more enlightening today."

Less than an hour later Jack was at Potterby House, a torn sheet of newspaper crushed in his hand as he stammered a reply to Mr. Desmond's greeting.

The Devil glanced down at the crumpled paper. "Ah, you have seen it, Mr. Langdon. It seems I was mistaken in my surmises."

He took the paper from Jack and read aloud in mincing tones, " 'Rumours are afloat that Society will be set rocking one month from today, when the first installment of the long-awaited, much-feared Reminiscences of Mr. Darryl "Devil" Desmond are scheduled to appear.' Lurid, don't you think?" said the Devil, with a cynical smile. "Buonaparte earns from the British public little more than a disdainful sniff — while my paltry tale is to trigger an earthquake. Really, one does wonder whether these journalist fellows would not be more profitably employed by the Minerva Press."

"Of course you don't mean to let them get away with this," said Jack. "We'll go to Atkins now. I'm sure we can stop him."

"My dear young man, what is the point of that? The damage is done, don't you see? You and I are not the only persons in London who read the newspapers — if one can dignify this tattle-rag with such a title."

He studied his guest's face for a moment. "Come sir. You look to me a man in need of the hair of the dog." He steered Mr. Langdon into the late Lord Potterby's luxurious study and sent a servant in search of proper refreshment.

The servant had just appeared with the tray when Miss Desmond burst in and pushed him back out.

"Oh, Papa," she cried, running towards him.

Jack considerately closed the door.

What followed was not altogether coherent, though the language with which Miss Desmond denounced Mr. Atkins was plain enough, being composed of nearly every oath Jack had ever heard, in more than one language. She was, he was surprised to discover, more angry than alarmed. The only alarm she expressed regarded her father's safety.

"The hypocrites would say nothing to my face," she raged. "They only pretended they could not see me. But Joan heard plenty as we shopped, from the servants — and Papa, it's just as you said. The members of Parliament are already talking of sedition. It appears," she said scornfully, "your revelations will stir the masses to revolution."

"That's absurd," said Jack. As he caught her startled look, he realised — not with any great surprise — that she'd been unaware of his presence. Stifling a sigh, he continued, "The worst we can expect to happen is that a few noble wives will be angry with their spouses. A very few," he added. "Only those who take any notice of their husbands' existence. Good grief — it's all ancient history."