The Devil's Delilah (Regency Noblemen 2)

“Yes,” was the muffled response. “And you’d better not be gentle.”

“Very well.” Holding the volume against his breast, Jack recited calmly. “Virago. Hellcat. Beldam.”

She winced.

“Is that enough?” he asked.

She shook her head.

Jack thought. “Termagant,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Shrew, fury, tigress, she-wolf. Ah, here’s an excellent one: cross-patch.”

Miss Desmond giggled weakly and raised her pale face towards him.

“Shall I commence in Latin or Greek, or is that sufficient?”

“That will do, Mr. Langdon. I feel much better.” She rose. “Now if you will please to give me the book.”

Jack’s face fell and he backed away. He was, of course, a gentleman to the very core and would do anything to assist a damsel in distress. Anything, that is, except relinquish a book before he’d finished reading it. Especially this book, which was a revelation to him.

“But Miss Desmond, I’m scarcely halfway through it,” he said uneasily. “Your father’s hand is not always decipherable.”

Her slanted eyes narrowed. “Sir, that work is not intended for public consumption,” she responded with the exaggerated patience of one addressing a half-wit. “I am not certain why Papa placed it here, though I would guess it was his idea of a perfect hiding place. He has used that false binding before,” she explained. “Greek is unenticing to the average person. The topic is even less inviting. The combination is guaranteed to drive off all potential readers. Except,” she added with a small sigh, “you.”

“I see.” He gazed disconsolately at the volume. “I had better put it back.” He turned towards the shelves.

“No!” she cried. “You must give it to me. It’s obviously not safe here.”

“Of course it is,” he said, growing stubborn. “Lord Streetham only collects books for show. He never reads anything but political tracts. Tony is interested only in sporting journals. The countess is addicted to gothics. As you said, no one but I would ever muster any interest in so forbidding a volume. Your father obviously knew what he was about. Besides, I might still finish it.”

“No! I don’t want you to read any more,” she blurted out.

Though he was convinced Miss Desmond was a tad unbalanced at present, Mr. Langdon felt guilty. Unbalanced or not, she should not be tormented. He saw her eyes glisten then, and he was undone. He had never in his life made a woman cry, and he was certain this woman was not one to weep easily. He felt like a monster.

He took a step towards her then paused. She wanted the book, not comforting, and it was not his place to comfort her anyhow—not at least in the way he’d instinctively wished to.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said quietly. “I’ve been most inconsiderate. I’m afraid I thought only of finishing this wonderful story and not—”

“And not about entertaining the ladies, eh, Mr. Langdon?” came a low voice from the doorway.

Chapter Four

Miss Desmond whirled round. “Papa,” she breathed.

Her father was glancing over his shoulder into the hall. “In here, Marcus,” he said in more carrying tones. “As her ladyship promised, Delilah has come to rescue Mr. Langdon from eyestrain.”

Mr. Desmond stepped into the library. An instant later, Lord Streetham appeared.

“Ah, still here,” said the earl to Jack. “My lady wife tells me you’ve been holed up all day, neglecting your meals. Won’t do, you know. You must relinquish your books and tend to the ladies at least, if you will not attend to your victuals.” He glanced at the volume Jack clasped to his breast. “What have you got there? Greek? You are a sorry rogue, indeed. What do you want with such dusty stuff?”

“Mr. Langdon does not find the work at all dull,” said Delilah smoothly when Jack proved mute. “He’s spent the last quarter hour explaining it to me. How remarkable, is it not, that he understands Greek so well, to be able to translate such complicated horticultural theories?”

The earl’s eyes glazed over. “Yes, yes, I daresay. All the same, Jack, you must come off your hobbyhorse and be sociable. No more reading. Take the book home with you when you go, if you like it so much. It’s yours. I’m sure I’ll never miss it, and Greek is not Tony’s forte, as you know.”

“You are too generous, My Lord,” said Jack, nervously eying Mr. Desmond. “I can’t possibly accept.”

“Take it, take it,” said the earl irritably as he moved to the door. “But mind you appear for tea or her ladyship will be most vexed with you.”

“But My Lord—” Jack called after the earl’s retreating back.

“Don’t be ungrateful, Mr. Langdon,” said Mr. Desmond. “Mustn’t hurt his lordship’s feelings, you know.” He winked and followed the earl out of the room.

Delilah was just opening her mouth to speak when her papa put his head back in the door. “My dear, hadn’t you better go upstairs and let Joan do something about your hair? I’m afraid you’re all atumble again. You will not wish to outrage your hostess’s sensibilities, I’m sure.”

Miss Desmond shot Mr. Langdon a resentful glance and hastened from the room.

Mr. Langdon had scarcely a minute to recover his composure before Nicholas appeared, bearing a heavily laden tray. “If you please, sir,” he said, “her ladyship has asked me to convey her wishes that you take a bite to sustain you until tea time.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Jack muttered.

The servant deposited the tray upon a side table, drew out a chair, and stood waiting.

“Was there anything else, Nicholas?”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but she told me I was not to stir from the room until I actually saw you begin to eat,” the servant said apologetically.

Jack sighed, placed the troublesome volume upon the writing desk, and sat down before the repast.

He lifted a napkin, glared at it, and droppe

d it onto his lap. With the air of a man condemned to hard labour, he took up his silverware and began to eat.

Nicholas waited a few minutes, then bowed and exited.

“I shall not need to enter a monastery,” Jack grumbled to himself when the door had closed. “By nightfall they’ll have packed me off to Bedlam.”

When he’d made a reasonable show of attending to his victuals, Mr. Langdon took up the so-called work on horticulture and went in search of Mr. Desmond. He finally ran that gentleman to ground in the billiard room, where a thick grey haze showed that Mr. Desmond had retired to enjoy a cheroot in solitude.

“I must speak with you, sir,” said Jack without preamble.

“Yes, I thought so. Well, have a seat. Will you join me?” the older man asked as he offered his cigar case.

Jack, whose meal had not settled very well, shook his head. “I won’t be but a moment,” he said. “I only wanted to return your manuscript to you.”

“Ah, but I’d much rather you didn’t,” said the Devil, sending up a lovely grey billowing cloud that curled about his head much as darker, more ominous smoke must hover about his namesake. “You see, it’s no longer safe in my custody,” he explained. “That is why I’m obliged to relinquish it to yours.”

Mr. Langdon had already had one disagreeable experience in connexion with this volume. Now he began to scent danger, an aroma as palpable as that of Mr. Desmond’s cigar. Jack also sensed that he’d have a very difficult time dissuading this gentleman from involving him.

Mr. Desmond’s easy courtesy and low, drawling tones could not disguise a most formidable will. He was, Jack thought, the Irresistible Force personified. Obviously, more than the man’s escapades had earned Desmond his nickname.

“I’m flattered you repose such trust in me,” Jack said cautiously, “but I really don’t deserve it. I’m not reliable. Ask anybody.”

“I have,” said the Devil, “and what I hear only confirms my belief that you are exactly the man for the job.”

Jack sat down, taking the volume upon his lap. It had grown much heavier in the past few minutes.