The Devil's Delilah (Regency Noblemen 2)

“No, I did not.”

“Didn’t catch her, lucky fellow. But then, he did catch more than his share, I’ll warrant. Rather like your swell-headed friend, Melgrave, in that way. Only Desmond had more address. Or maybe it was simply intelligence. I don’t know. At any rate, he was the only one of those loose fish I ever could have a conversation with.” He gazed at the forgotten fork in his hand for a moment as though wondering what it was doing waving about in the air. Then he put it into his mouth and reverted to his customary silence.

Mr. Langdon contemplated his plate. He had completely forgotten about returning Mr. Desmond’s property. Not that Jack had forgotten the property itself, though. The manuscript had rarely left his hands. He’d felt guilty, at first, about continuing to read, given Miss Desmond’s violent opposition to his doing so. However, she was not by to harass him, and the book was irresistible. Now his neglected conscience sprang to agitated life. What had he been thinking of, to keep the manuscript overnight? He should have returned it immediately.

The trouble was, he was extremely reluctant to confront Miss Desmond. He had managed, with the memoirs’ help, to put her out of his mind during his waking hours. When he slept, though, she crept into feverish dreams—of tumbled black tresses and hot, angry eyes and silken white skin... of heated struggles that subsided into long and languorous joinings of another kind. He would awake perspiring, to find the bedclothes tangled into knots and his breath coming in gasps.

Jack Langdon was accounted an eccentric and known to be shy of women. All the same, he had the normal urges of any healthy young man. He knew what desire was and how to assuage it, but he had never felt anything like desire—rather the opposite—for women of his own class. Only Catherine Pelliston had awakened in him something like passion. Certainly it had thrilled him to discover a kindred spirit in female form. Whenever he’d dared imagine an ideal mate, such was the character he’d conjured up.

Miss Desmond was no kindred spirit. She was wild, brazen, hot-tempered, and completely unpredictable. Every time she spoke to him she set his nerves jangling so he couldn’t think straight. With Miss Desmond, Jack’s normal discomfort in feminine company increased a hundredfold, because added to his usual consciousness of his dull inadequacy was the disconcerting awareness that he’d wanted her from the moment he’d knocked her down.

Jack forced a bit of his omelette into his mouth and with a mighty effort, swallowed it. He must go, like it or not. He dared not entrust the ersatz book to his uncle, because the viscount was certain to open it and read it on the way, as he walked.

Jack would have to return it himself. He would have to converse with the Desmonds and hope the ugly thing consuming him was not evident in his countenance. Then he would be done with them. As to the thing itself—this unspeakable desire was nothing more than an appetite. Like others, it might be channelled into more appropriate directions, if he would but apply himself.

Chapter Six

Mr. Langdon was so eager to be rid of the manuscript and thereby end all reasons for communicating with the Desmonds that he hurried his uncle out of the house well in advance of the time appointed for tea.

Lord Rossing and his nephew entered the vestibule just as Mr. Atkins was being handed his hat by a haughty Bantwell. Mr. Atkins did not appear happy. Miss Desmond, who stood beside her father, appeared even less so. Lady Potterby, who’d evidently conceived a keen dislike for Mr. Atkins, threw him a baleful glance before taking up the introductions.

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Atkins, when Lady Potterby had condescended to acknowledge his existence. “Mr. Langdon and I have briefly met, though not formally.”

Jack pronounced himself pleased at the acquaintance, though he felt anything but. The sham book was under his arm, and Mr. Atkins was eying it with curiosity.

“What a handsome volume you have there, Mr. Langdon. I fancy myself rather a connoisseur, and it seems a rare specimen. Greek, is it?” he asked, oblivious to the company’s blatant impatience with him to be gone.

“Yes,” said Jack, looking to Mr. Desmond for guidance. That gentleman, however, had turned his attention to Lord Rossing to commence a review of their mutual acquaintance.

“It was a gift from Lord Streetham,” Jack added uneasily, “and—and I brought it to show Miss Desmond.”

“How thoughtful,” said Lady Potterby with an indulgent smile. “A book of poetry, is it?”

“No, Aunt,” Delilah said quickly. “Horticulture. Mr. Langdon has a perfect passion for horticulture, do you not sir?” She turned to Jack with a dazzling smile.

Jack nodded.

“Since we have some time before tea will be served, you may wish to examine her ladyship’s garden.” Delilah moved closer to take Jack firmly by the arm. “Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to explain the differences between the Greek techniques and modern methods of cultivation.”

Mr. Langdon stiffly avowed himself delighted.

If Lady Potterby thought her grand niece rather forward, she must have also recollected that Mr. Langdon, being an exceedingly shy gentleman, might require firm guidance. After giving the young pair permission to retire to the garden, she tried with all the frigid courtesy at her disposal to rid her hallway of the unwelcome visitor.

“What is that fellow doing here?” Jack asked, when they had turned into the path leading to the decorative herb garden. “I thought your father sent him about his business.”

“Papa told you about him?” said Delilah, dismayed.

“Your father was kind enough to enlighten me concerning your difficulties—and I do wish you had,

Miss Desmond. Had I understood the enormity of the problem, I would never have behaved so—so childishly. To me it was simply a wonderful story,” he explained. “I never thought of the difficulties it presented you.”

“Well, now you know. So you can guess that Mr. Atkins has come to plague my father again. Has Papa told you he was paid five hundred pounds?”

“No. I take it the money has been spent?”

She shook her head and appeared embarrassed. “We dare not spend it. It’s been put aside as—as my dowry. Papa’s income comes from cards,” she explained quickly. “And no one in England will play him for high stakes. He must send money to my mother in Scotland as well as keep himself here, which means we have nothing to spare.” Miss Desmond’s smooth brow became furrowed. “Meanwhile, I must have a marriage portion. If I don’t marry reasonably well, then we’ll probably have to publish—some day. My parents are not getting any younger. It’s most vexing, yet we seem to have no choice but to put Mr. Atkins off indefinitely.”

“I see,” Jack said thoughtfully.

“I know it sounds horribly mercenary—” she began.

“Miss Desmond, I have three sisters,” he interrupted gently. “The youngest, Gwendolyn, has been paraded on the Marriage Mart for three Seasons now. I understand the business fully—and it is a business, a most expensive one. In the circumstances, I fully understand your father’s caution.”

“Still, there’s no denying we’ve played Mr. Atkins false.”

Jack smiled. “That’s absurd. Murray had to wait months while Byron agonised about publishing Childe Harold.”

They had reached the herb garden, an extensive formal planting that radiated out from a central sundial. Miss Desmond gazed about her unhappily.

“At any rate, even if we could repay Atkins, Papa’s sure he won’t take the money b

ack—not while there’s any chance of publishing and making a great fortune,” she added cynically. “I fear he’s right. Who’d have thought such a nervous little man could be so obstinate—or so devious? Papa says Mr. Atkins sent someone to Streetham Close to steal the manuscript. Now I’m sure he’ll send someone here. We can’t carry that tome about with us everywhere and we can’t watch it every minute. The house is too large,” she said, glancing back at the immense stone building. “She has nearly as many servants as Lord Streetham does, and I don’t know a quarter of them.”

Jack followed her gaze. The late Lord Potterby’s ancestors, like everyone else in the shire, had competed fiercely when it came to home building. Though none could compare with Blenheim, all the great houses for miles around were enormous structures, built to awe the beholder. Rossing Hall was the sole exception, because there had been more than one reclusive Langdon in the family tree.

The second Lord Rossing had built his house in Elizabeth’s time, but had not included lodgings for her majesty’s household in the modest plans. The queen and her entourage were a deal too noisy for his simple tastes.

Jack knew every servant, down to the lowest pot boy. The labourers who maintained the building and grounds had been doing so for decades. Every face was familiar and trusted.

Stifling a sigh, he said, “I suppose, then, the book will be safest at Rossing Hall.” Reluctantly he went on to outline the advantages of his uncle’s house, the viscount’s reclusive habits, and the virtual impossibility of strangers invading the premises, but Miss Desmond broke in abruptly, her grey-green eyes alight with inspiration.

“No,” she said. “I have a better idea. We’ll bury it.”

“We’ll what?” cried Jack, aghast.

“Here. In the garden.” Miss Desmond abruptly released his arm and began walking quickly down the path which led to the perennial beds.

Mr. Langdon hastened after her. “Miss Desmond, you cannot dig up your aunt’s flower beds. Don’t you think the gardener will remark it?”