Having had an unsatisfactorily short and not altogether enlightening conversation with her mama, Miss Desmond was at the moment wearing a circular path in the parlour carpet. She was not fitted by nature to endure suspense with her mother’s tranquillity. That lady had, to Delilah’s utter incredulity, retired to her chamber for a nap. She had been up all night, like everyone else, it seemed, while Delilah and Lady Potterby had slept in blissful ignorance of the plots being hatched below.
Delilah was still not altogether clear on just what the plot was, because her mama had looked ready to drop from exhaustion. Baffled as Delilah had been, she’d tried to be considerate, and refrained from demanding lengthy details. At any rate, Papa and Mr. Langdon would explain when they returned, her mother had promised. For now, it was enough to say they’d gone for the manuscript and had no doubt of success.
Still, that was hours ago. Surely they ought to be back by now... unless they had failed. The thought was most alarming. Though Delilah had more than once taunted Mr. Langdon with his excessive caution, she did hope he had not been reckless. Papa was accustomed to skirting the boundaries of the law and adept at wriggling out of awkward situations. Mr. Langdon had no such experience. Oh, where was he?
She heard the door knocker then and abruptly sat down. Whatever else happened, she would show Mr. Langdon she had as much poise and self-control as any other lady. She folded her hands tightly in her lap and waited.
To her disappointment, Lord Berne was announced. As he entered the room, she struggled mightily to erase all evidence of vexation from her countenance.
Fortunately, Lady Potterby had accompanied him and, during the interval of greetings and small talk, Delilah took herself in hand. She was pleased to see him, she told herself. How could she not be, when he looked so impossibly beautiful, his golden curls slightly windblown, but all else so elegant, sleek, and graceful.
“Indeed, the weather is fine today,” he was agreeing with his hostess. “There is not a whisper of a cloud in the heavens. Since these opportunities will be too rare in the coming weeks, I hastened here in hopes Miss Desmond would consent to drive with me—if she will forgive the short notice,” he added, bestowing an affectionate glance upon the young lady.
Lady Potterby was even less informed of the latest memoir-connected events than her grand-niece was, for her family had naturally supposed her nerves could not bear more anxiety. She was, furthermore, waiting for Lord Berne to come up to scratch. There was no other possible way to interpret his behaviour of the past three or four weeks, regardless what Angelica said. At the moment, the viscount looked as though he were about to burst with something, and Lady Potterby was not slow to guess what that was. Today. He’d offer today.
To her surprise, her grand niece appeared most hesitant. Still, her ladyship reflected, that was the way with girls. Bold as brass one minute, then, when matters grew serious, overcome with modesty. Delilah wanted nudging, that was all.
“You could do with some exercise, my dear,” Lady Potterby urged with unusual firmness. “You have been too pale these past few days, which I am sure is because you do not take the air. His lordship is most kind to invite you. Though I must ask you, My Lord,” she added, dropping him a knowing look, “not to keep her long. She has an appointment with her dressmaker.”
Lord Berne solemnly vowed that Miss Desmond would be returned in good time for her appointment.
Miss Desmond smiled weakly and consented.
At least, Delilah thought as the carriage reached the park gates, this was something to do. Better than pacing, certainly, and far better than working herself into a pet because her parents and Mr. Langdon had kept secrets from her. Not that she’d given her parents much opportunity to do otherwise. For nearly a month she’d scrupulously avoided them. As to Mr. Langdon, why should he tell her anything, when all she ever did was pick on him.
She was abruptly jolted from these reflections when Lord Berne, who had been uncharacteristically mute, stopped the carriage and found his tongue.
“Miss Desmond, a few weeks ago I made you a promise,” he said, his voice low and rather unsteady. “I have kept it.”
She turned a baffled glance upon him. “I beg your pardon?”
“The memoirs. I’ve got them at last.”
He shifted the reins to one hand and reached under the seat. As he drew out a thick package, Delilah experienced a curious sinking sensation. More curious still was the reluctance with which she took the parcel from him and began to undo the wrapping.
“I don’t understand,” she said, as her eye fell upon the title page. “This is not possible. How—” She broke off as she flicked through the pages and saw this was indeed her father’s work.
“It was very nearly impossible, Miss Desmond,” said her companion. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself in a—a bit of trouble as a consequence.”
What was wrong? she asked herself. She’d been certain she’d never know a moment’s peace until the work was back in her possession. Here it was, and she felt nearly ill. This was undoubtedly her father’s hand—though the lines seemed uncharacteristically shaky. Or was that her vision? To her chagrin she discovered her eyes were swimming. She blinked back the tears and made her belated answer.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to say. I was just so—so surprised,” she murmured. “My Lord, this is—this is exceedingly kind of you. Thank you. I cannot tell you what a relief it is.” Then his last words penetrated. “Trouble?” she asked, making herself meet his gaze. “What do you mean?”
“I had to use my father’s name to get them,” he answered. “Atkins has dealings with him on occasion, you see. He’ll be expecting to hear from my father by now, and when he does not, he’ll seek him out—and I shall be found out.”
Lord Berne’s face seemed composed, but the feverish light in his eyes made Delilah uneasy.
“Your father will be very angry, My Lord,” she said. “I never meant—I’m sure I never wished—”
“It’s of no consequence, Miss Desmond,” the viscount replied with a shrug. “My sire and I have already quarrelled bitterly. He’s told me in no uncertain terms that I must cease my pursuit of you.” He nodded towards the manuscript. “There is my answer to him.” He paused a moment. “It’s also my question to you, Miss Desmond,” he continued in lower, caressing tones. “Will you believe now that mine is not some fickle fancy? I have stood your friend all these weeks, asking nothing in return. I have kept the promise I made you. Will you believe at last that I love you?”
He reached to take her hand and bring it to his lips. “Because I do love you,” he went on softly. He kissed each finger. “More than life, more than honour. Ask me anything and I will do it. Tell me how to go away forever, and I will.”
He turned the unresisting hand over and kissed the palm. Then he raised his head, and his blue eyes seemed to burn into hers. “But you must tell me now—and it must be forever,” he said, more softly still. “I cannot wait any longer, my dearest.”
Miss Desmond knew an ultimatum when she heard one, and like it or not, she had to see the reason in it. She could not expect to keep him dangling forever. However he’d gotten the manuscript, he had done it, and saved her father as a result. To spurn the viscount now would be the height of ingratitude—not to mention stupidity. Where would she ever again find so heartbreakingly handsome, so charming, so compelling a lover? Still, he had better understand he must be more than a lover.
“Before I answer, My Lord, you must be more specific about what you are asking,” she said, her own voice as soft as his.
He smiled faintly. “Even now you don’t trust me, though I understand your reasons. I’m asking you to be my wife. Will you come away with me—now— and marry me?”
She drew back a bit. “Now?”
“It must be. When my father discovers what I’ve done, he’ll know immediately for whom I did it.”
“But you did nothing wrong,” she cried, apprehensive now. “The book i
s my father’s. You were only returning his property.”
“The book is of no consequence. It’s you. Are you prepared to tell my sire that after obtaining the manuscript from me, you gave me my congi? No other answer will appease him, you know. If you can’t assure him you’ve cast me off, he’ll do all he can to be rid of you—even if it means destroying your family.”
“I don’t understand,” she said stubbornly. “I must either marry you at once or never see you again? That makes no sense.”
“There is no other way I can protect you from my father’s rage. Don’t you see?” He squeezed her hand tenderly. “Please, my dear, come with me now. We’ll go far away. By the time he finds us—if ever he does—it will be too late. He’ll have to accept you then, because the alternative is an ugly scandal.”
“What of my parents?” she returned. “They’ll be beside themselves if I don’t come home.”
“We haven’t time. We’ll send a message once we’re well upon the road. My love, I beg you, no more delay.” He released her hand to reach into his pocket. He took out a document and gave it to her.
“A special license,” he said. “After the last row with my father I saw there was no alternative. If you were generous enough to consent, I had to be ready to make it right immediately. I’m ready. Will you continue to delay, when every moment is precious, when every second keeps us from our vows?”
Naturally, Delilah wanted to delay, to ask another hundred questions. This was too sudden. She hadn’t had time to prepare her mind and heart to accept him fully. Besides that, she was skeptical. Even though he’d behaved well for weeks, perhaps he’d only wanted to give her a false sense of security. He could not suppress the passion in his voice now, any more than he could mask the hot gleam in his eyes.
Still, lust was not a terrible thing—not to her. She could never be happy with a passionless man, she told herself, thrusting another image from her mind. Even if bedding her formed the greater part of Lord Berne’s wishes, she sensed there was sufficient love in him as well. That would serve—so long as he did marry her.
That he would do, she vowed inwardly, whatever he truly intended. She was no green schoolgirl. A special license was all very well, but she had her pistol in her reticule, and that was better.
Chapter Eighteen