The Devil's Delilah (Regency Noblemen 2)

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It must be acknowledged with regret that Mr. Langdon was not a devoted churchgoer. Since he was given to quiet pursuits, he found Sunday no longer or drearier than any other day. Normally, he was content to spend the Sabbath with an improving book.

This Sunday, however, he rose from a breakfast he must have been trying to read—for he certainly didn’t eat any of it—and told his uncle he thought he might find out whether Mr. Blenkly’s sermons had improved at all in the last decade. The uncle onl

y nodded absently and returned to his dog-eared copy of Mr. Jeremy Bentham’s Introduction to Principles of Morals and Legislation.

Oblivious to the stares and whispers about him, Mr. Langdon took his place in the family pew. He studied the stained glass which had for centuries illuminated in picture form what the uneducated faithful could not read in the Bible. He gazed up at the ceiling and admired the skill of twelfth-century craftsmen, while absently noting several stains bespeaking an urgent need for roof repairs. Then, almost but not quite as absently, his gaze drifted to the pew where the late Lord Potterby’s ancestors had attended divers lessons in Christianity.

Miss Desmond wore a pale green bonnet with dark green ribbons, under which her wayward hair must have been throttled into submission, for not one disobedient strand escaped. Her high-waisted frock was the same cool colour, embroidered with sprigs which matched the ribbons on her bonnet. She was a cool bouquet of mint, and he wanted to crush her and inhale the fragrance of her... which was not, he angrily reproached himself, the sort of thought to be having at all, let alone on the Sabbath, in church.

Mr. Langdon was so busy rebuking himself and trying to tear his gaze away that he never noticed how the whispering had swelled into a communal gasp. He saw only that Miss Desmond had turned to look over her shoulder, and that for three full seconds her gaze locked with his before jerking unsteadily to the rear of the church.

He turned as well, and instantly joined in the general astonishment. Lord Berne had entered.

The viscount serenely returned the parishioners’ bold survey, then catching Jack’s eye, made for him.

“Couldn’t keep away either, I see,” Tony whispered as he slid in next to his friend.

“I only came to find out whether old Blenkly is as rambling as ever,” Jack said stiffly.

“And to assure yourself she isn’t a figment of your overheated imagination. I see your case is nearly as bad as my own. Gad, how cool she looks— and how I should like to warm her.”

Mr. Blenkly’s entrance spared Lord Berne the throttling his friend was instantly most eager to administer. Mr. Langdon was forced to make do with a murderous glance and the fervent wish that lightning would, as the congregation seemed to expect, strike the spot where the provoking viscount stood.

The service was thoroughly incomprehensible from beginning to end. Mr. Blenkly had wanted only one glimpse of the two gentlemen in a pew which had stood empty for most of the past decade before what little poise he possessed flew up to the heavens. He had planned to enlighten his parishioners regarding the Parable of the Sower. Unfortunately, the sight in the Langdon family pew—especially the taller, golden-haired spectacle—was too much for him. He became hopelessly entangled between the Parable of the Prodigal Son and vaguely related proverbs dealing with loving parents, sparing the rod, wise and foolish offspring, and some deranged reference to loaves and fishes.

Even if he had managed a more logical discourse, it would have been utterly wasted on its object. Lord Berne had long since mastered the art of appearing devotedly attentive while his mind fixed on other topics altogether. Since the minister did not expound upon the Song of Solomon, the viscount’s present meditations could scarcely be deemed appropriate.

Mr. Blenkly knew nothing of this. He saw a notorious libertine gravely attending his speech and wondered if the end of the world had come. He was dumbfounded when, after the service, that same young libertine engaged him in a brief conversation, at the end of which Mr. Blenkly possessed a pledge for repairs of the church roof.

In ten minutes, all the parishioners who’d lingered to stare at Lord Berne and exchanged speculative whispers were also possessed of the information. Thus the news reached Lady Potterby’s ears.

She had fully intended to keep Lord Berne at a safe distance from her grand niece, but his appearance at the service elicited certain interesting speculations of her own. His astounding act of philanthropy gave her further reason to ponder. Thus, when he approached, Lady Potterby was too curious to be as unwelcoming as she’d intended. She even went so far as to applaud his generosity.

“I wish, My Lady, I could say I fully deserved your kind words, but the credit does not belong to me. I only acted upon inspiration—and it was your young relative who inspired me.”

The young relative looked blank.

“Delilah told you the roof leaked?” Lady Potterby asked, her dignified countenance belying certain agreeable surmises within. “But she has not been in the church before, today.”

Mr. Langdon, who had lingered in the cool, dark church after everyone else had exited, joined the small group as Lord Berne was answering.

“Miss Desmond awakened in me yesterday a lively concern for the state of my immortal soul,” said the viscount, bestowing an adoring glance upon that fair evangelist. “Accordingly, I came to church, and as I gazed heavenward, hoping my prayers for forgiveness would be heard, I noticed the stains on the ceiling. As I looked downward to confirm my suspicions, my eyes lit upon Miss Desmond’s bonnet. If it rained—as it has almost incessantly—and the roof leaked, her bonnet would be ruined. The thought was insupportable.”

Miss Desmond glanced away to hide the smile she could not suppress... and met Mr. Langdon’s sober grey scrutiny. Her smile vanished, though her colour increased.

“You would have done better, My Lord,” said Lady Potterby as severely as she could, considering the hopes blossoming within her breast, “to have reflected upon your soul—not young ladies’ bonnets.”

“One should never underestimate the power of a bonnet,” his lordship returned. “It is the ladies who teach us to be good—but first they must obtain our attention.”

“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. Langdon 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.”