The Devil's Delilah (Regency Noblemen 2)

Given the way Lord Berne’s family and friends had reacted, gaining acceptance was going to be a more formidable battle than Delilah had imagined—even if her own heedless behaviour did not continue to trip her up. Now, with the memoirs gone, it seemed she was to be defeated before she’d even begun.

All the same, she chided herself, Delilah Desmond was no coward. Here was a man who, while perhaps physically attracted—which was nothing, since every male seemed to be—could barely tolerate her, and who only irritated her and made her behave badly. A choice between entrapping him and tackling Society was no choice at all. She left the window, kicked off her damp slippers, and crawled into bed.

Directly after breakfast the following morning, Delilah asked her father to ride with her. As soon as they’d left the stables, she informed him of all— or nearly all—that had transpired the previous day. She thought it wisest not to mention her struggle with the love-crazed viscount.

Though mildly amused at Mr. Atkins’s intrepidity and unable to suppress a chuckle when he learned of Mr. Langdon’s midnight assault upon the unfortunate flower bed, Mr. Desmond endeavoured to show a proper sympathy for his daughter’s distress.

“In truth, my dear, I do curse the day I ever began the dratted thing,” he said. “I never dreamed my paltry tale would arouse so much powerful emotion in so many breasts. Chicanery, collusion, deceit on every side. Conspiracy in the dead of night. Where it will all end, I shudder to guess. No doubt we can expect rioting in the streets of London. Wellington will have to be recalled to restore the peace. Prinny will be most cross with me. I will probably be imprisoned for sedition.”

Delilah gasped. “You’re teasing, I hope, Papa.”

Her father smiled. “Exaggerating, perhaps. Yet he was not happy with the Hunts. They were sentenced to two years in prison for the unflattering portrait of him they printed in the Examiner.”

“Surely far worse insult than what you wrote appears in the print shop windows daily.”

“Florizel is capricious, and at present we have insufficient funds for lawyers.”

“Good grief,” she said, dismayed. “And all I worried about was scandal.”

“You worry far too much, my dear. I do not understand why you cannot be like your peers and leave worrying to the lower orders.”

Mr. Desmond appeared to study his daughter with profound curiosity. Then he shrugged and said, “All the same, I suppose I had better attend to Mr. Atkins forthwith. I shall depart for London tomorrow.”

“We shall depart,” Delilah corrected.

The parent raised an eyebrow, but the stubborn set of his daughter’s mouth boding a tiresome argument, he resignedly agreed she might as well see a bit of London before the Ton descended in force.

The matter settled between them, it remained only to be settled with Lady Potterby, who at first, as was expected, made every objection. She was no match, however, for two persuasive Desmonds. By mid-afternoon, her ladyship was driving herself and her servants distracted with a frenzy of packing.

So great was the uproar within Elmhurst that time for only the barest exchange of civilities could be spared the two visitors who simultaneously appeared upon the doorstep. Lord Berne and Mr. Langdon were hustled in and out of the house so speedily that their heads were spinning as dizzily as those of the servants.

Dear Mr. Langdon,

I hope you will excuse the family’s rather cold reception today, and in particular my own inability to express my gratitude for your exceedingly kind assistance. Papa has asked me to convey his thanks as well as his apologies for the great inconvenience we have caused you.

We were unable to thank you properly because we have been all about the ears, trying to do a week’s worth of packing in twenty-four hours. As you may expect, we leave immediately for London, in pursuit of The Odious Mr. Atkins (though, naturally, my aunt believes it is on other business).

I supposed it is improper of me to write you, but Papa could not, being occupied with supervising arrangements. I thought it the lesser impropriety to write than to leave without a word. You will pardon me, I know. You are too chivalrous to do otherwise.

Please believe me your most grateful,

Delilah Desmond

Of course she’d go, Jack told himself as he stared numbly at the paper in his hand. He’d known that even before he’d entered the frenzied household next door. Her father would be off in pursuit of Atkins, and the daughter must go with him because she refused to believe men were capable of managing their own affairs.

All the same, if the Devil was so clever, why did he not pack his daughter back to Scotland at least, out of harm’s way, while he handled matters himself? In London she was bound to get herself into some sort of trouble or other. Town held too many temptations, too many ways of going wrong, and being Delilah Desmond, she was sure to plunge headlong into all of them.

Slowly Jack traced the handwriting with his finger. He’d never seen her writing before, yet that too was what he would have expected. It was strong and bold, nothing delicate or ladylike about it. But it was a woman’s hand nonetheless, just as hers was a woman’s body, supple and curving... and he had just better not think about that.

The trouble was, as it had been from the start, he could not stop thinking about her. He had not known a minute’s genuine peace since he’d met her. Now at last he would be rid of her maddening presence. Rossingley would be tranquil again, and he might read his beloved books in untroubled solitude.

He gazed about him at the rows of volumes which filled his uncle’s library and grew unbearably weary.

“Don’t,” he murmured to himself. “Don’t be stupid.”

He got up and took a turn about the room, stopping once at a window to gaze disconsolately at the row of elms that blocked his view of the house nearby. Then he left the library, walked upstairs to his room, and summoned his valet.

“I’m leaving for London,” said Jack. “Tonight. You may follow tomorrow or the next day—whatever is most convenient. I shall want you to bring all my things.”

Mr. Fellows might have raised a protest had he not previously learned that a young person named Joan was to be hauled to London much against her will the next day. Therefore he merely nodded and immediately set about packing his master’s belongings.

While the Desmonds, accompanied by a greatly baffled Lady Potterby, were completing the first stage of their journey to Town, Lord Berne was having another row with his father. This was not surprising, for the viscount was very much out of sorts.

He had been on the brink of achieving his heart’s desire with Miss Desmond when Jack Langdon had rudely interrupted. Now the dazzling enslaver was on her way to London, where private audiences would be a deal harder to come by. Nonetheless, Lord

Berne was not daunted by the challenge, nor by his sire’s thundering and threatening when informed of the son’s intentions to depart for Town.

Lord Streetham might as well rail at Fate or the weather. He could not disown his heir, whatever he threatened, and the bills would come regardless of the stoppage of allowances. The earl elected another tack.

“I appreciate your conscientiousness, Tony, but it is quite absurd to keep after the chit. I have no use for her now. The memoirs are safe in hand. I was able to deal with Desmond myself,” the father mendaciously added.

Lord Berne returned that he didn’t give a bloody damn about any stupid book. Some matters had a greater claim on a man than tiresome business dealings. Furthermore, he was not to be imprisoned in the country with a lot of razor-tongued, narrow-minded, sharp-faced females while the grandest girl in the world languished neglected nearly two hundred miles away.

He did not add that what he truly feared was not Miss Desmond’s languishing neglected, but quite the opposite. One more peril of Town was the abundance of idle young gentlemen like himself. Instead, the viscount made his papa a curt bow and stalked majestically from the room.

Mr. Atkins entered not long after. Having given the matter long and painful thought, he’d decided to advise his partner to give up the memoirs as a lost cause. He also gallantly recommended that Lord Streetham dispose of his shares in the firm while there was still time to salvage something from the wreckage.

Lord Streetham smiled as he stepped away to his writing desk briefly. He returned with a handful of pages which hergave to the baffled publisher.

“The memoirs,” said the earl—unnecessarily, for Mr. Atkins had already begun reading.

A moment later, Mr. Atkins looked up. The glow of his face was almost beatific. “My Lord, this is extraordinary. How did you do it?”