The Devil's Delilah (Regency Noblemen 2)

“Jack.”

“No.”

“Jack.”

He clutched his head and turned back towards her. “What?”

“You haven’t said.”

“What?”

She hesitated. Then, “That you love me,” she said very softly.

He moved back to the bed. “I love you. I’ve loved you for ages. I adore you. You make me crazy. Please, Delilah, let me go.”

“I love you, Jack,” she whispered. “I’ve loved you forever.”

He groaned, and kissed her once, quickly. Then he did go, though of all the difficult tasks he’d ever undertaken, this was the hardest by far.

Having given up all hopes of ever sleeping again in this lifetime, Mr. Langdon’s return home was occupied primarily in pacing until the servants began to stir, when he could at last order a bath. Despite the time consumed in having hot water hauled up the stairs, not to mention shaving and then changing his clothes some half dozen times—which elicited a sharp lecture from his valet—it was only a bit past nine o’clock when Jack arrived at Potterby House. Luckily for the aspiring son-in-law, Mr. Desmond was congenitally incapable of sleeping more than three or four hours a night, and was swallowing the last of his breakfast ale when Jack was shown in.

“You had better not do that again,” said Mr. Desmond before his visitor could do more than wish him good morning. “There is hardly any foothold at all, and you might have broken your neck.”

There was no point pretending incomprehension when one’s red, burning face had already given one away. Nor could Mr. Langdon feel in the least amazed at Desmond’s powers of perception.

“Sir, I really cannot express to you how deeply—”

“Then don’t. You had better marry her while you are still in one piece. As it is I cannot understand how you’ve survived the courtship—or whatever it was, exactly.” Mr. Desmond gestured towards the sideboard, which was heavily laden with covered dishes. “Take some breakfast, Jack.”

Jack could not consider anything so mundane as food. He was frantically in love, and he was loved, which was inconceivable. All he wanted at the moment was to see his maddening darling. Unfortunately, he could not think of any acceptable excuse for dashing up to her bedchamber.

A swish of soft fabric and light footsteps made him stiffen suddenly, in the way of a setter that has caught scent of its prey. But the figure pausing in the doorway was Mrs. Desmond. As she entered, Jack crushed his impatience and made his bow.

She smiled then bent to drop a kiss on her husband’s forehead.

“I have news for you, my love,” the husband said.

“Do you, dear?” She was moving towards the sideboard, but Jack gallantly offered to do the honours.

“Yes,” said Mr. Desmond. “Jack is to marry Delilah.”

“Are you, Jack?” said she, taking her seat. “I’m glad to hear it. I hope you took no hurt last night.” She did not appear to hear the cover crash against the coffee urn. “I cannot think why Aunt Mimsy had all that lovely ivy cut back.”

With studied composure Jack placed her plate before her, then took a seat opposite. “I hope Lady Potterby is fully recovered from recent events,” he said politely.

“Oh, quite. She is surprisingly resilient. She has managed to confront each catastrophe with a minimum of sal volatile and burnt feathers. Then she immediately puts the whole matter from her mind. She is a lady to the core.” Mrs. Desmond spooned a dab of preserves onto a small piece of toast. “Actually, I’m more concerned about your friend, Lord Berne,” she said with a brief glance at her husband.

“So am I,” said Jack, frowning. He met Mr. Desmond’s enquiring look and added, “Not that I intend to make any stupid sacrifice on his account. He had his chance—and I’ve done quite enough for him. Practically ruined my life. But that’s done with.” His eyes went to the door.

“Is she never coming down?” he asked plaintively.

Though Delilah had believed sleep quite impossible, she must have slept nonetheless, for the sun was shining brightly as she opened her eyes and stretched, just like the laziest, most self-satisfied feline in the world.

She had a right to be satisfied. She was madly in love with Jack Langdon and he was madly in love with her. She’d realised this stunning fact as soon as she’d heard the rustling in the garden under her window. It might have been any villain, and she ought to have been afraid, but villains did not daunt her—not when she had a pistol under her pillow. Besides, she had known—there was no question—it was he.

Joan entered. “If you please, Miss, your mama sends her compliments and when will you be down or should she tell Mr. Langdon to come back I—”

Delilah leapt from the bed, tore off her nightgown, and flung herself at the wash basin.

Fifteen minutes later, she was in the breakfast parlour, sublimely unconscious of the fact that her hastily-arranged coiffure was already tumbling to pieces and one of the buttons at her wrist was as yet undone.

Jack rose as she entered, then was nearly knocked back down again, for she threw herself at him and kissed him so soundly she nearly dislocated his jaw.

“Stop that, Delilah,” said her mother. “A young lady does not leap upon her beau like a savage upon the poor beast he’s just trapped.”

Delilah reluctantly retreated to the seat her mama indicated beside her.

Mr. Langdon dropped back into his own chair and took a deep, steadying breath. When he dared to look up again, he found a pair of tip-tilted grey-green eyes fastened upon him, conveying a message that set his poor, abused heart thumping like Mr. Watt’s steam engine.

“This,” said Mr. Desmond, glancing from one to the other, “will never do.”

“Certainly not,” his wife agreed. “They cannot go out in public together. What would Mrs. Drummond-Burrell say if she saw Delilah wrestling her fiance to the floor at some elegant society affair?”

“Bother Mrs. Drummond Burrell,” said Delilah. “Jack likes to wrestle with me, don’t you darling?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” said Jack. He looked for a moment as though he would leap over the table to prove it.

“Am I delirious, Angelica?” Mr. Desmond asked. “Are parents not present? Is this conduct—or conversation—at all becoming in a newly betrothed couple?”

“Not at all, particularly at breakfast. I’m certain my digestion will be adversely affected,” said Mrs. Desmond. “They had better adjourn to the parlour.”

As the couple hastily arose, she fixed Jack with a basilisk look. “I am counting on you, sir, not to abuse a parent’s trust. Obviously it is pointless to rely on my daughter’s sense of decorum, as she hasn’t any.”

While the two besotted lovers were struggling to maintain a pretence of decorum in Lady Potterby’s parlour, Lord Streetham was having a most disquieting conversation with his son. That son, having apparently lost his mind at last, was demanding a commission in the army. The earl’s only offspring was insisting upon joining the military—now, of all times, when the nation was at war on virtually every continent—and promising bitter consequences if his father would not help him.

Since it is often considered wise

to humour the insane, and since moreover the earl was thoroughly alarmed—though he never showed it—he quietly agreed. When his son had left the house, Lord Streetham ordered his carriage.

“Ah, Marcus,” said Mr. Desmond as the earl was shown into the study. “I have been expecting you.”

“I daresay,” was the curt reply. “Well, what is it you want?”

“I?” the Devil innocently enquired. “I rather thought there was something you wanted.”

“You know what I want—my son. You know what he plans. I expect it was you suggested it. You are quite in his confidence, I understand. His mentor, perhaps,” Lord Streetham said sarcastically.

“Perhaps.”

“Very well. I see you have bested me in this—you and that conniving girl of yours. I must have her as a daughter-in-law or send my only son off to be killed. State your demands, then. What will it cost to make the young lady change her mind?”

“My dear fellow, Delilah will not change her mind,” said Mr. Desmond in mild astonishment. The earl must have looked like contradicting him, because he added, “Before you say anything you might regret, Marcus, I must assure you this is no invidious plot. My daughter has fixed on Jack Langdon, and I should have to sever her arms to pry her loose.”

Though warned, Lord Streetham went on to say a great many reckless things. Mr. Desmond, being a patient man, calmly allowed his guest to rant until exhausted, at which point the earl was obliged to take the chair courteously offered him.

“I am aware that Lord Berne is rather distraught at present, and I appreciate your alarm. All the same, you cannot buy off this trouble from your son,” said Mr. Desmond as he seated himself opposite. “Indeed, you have done him a great injury in doing so repeatedly, all his life. My wife tells me she could hardly bear to look at him, for it nearly broke her heart to see what a pathetic, undisciplined creature you have made of your fine, handsome boy.”

“It’s you who’ve done this to him,” said the earl hoarsely.

“I, to my infinite regret, have done nothing to him. It was you set him after my daughter,” Desmond answered calmly. “Really, it is a wonder to me how a man so clever in so many ways can be so blind in what most nearly concerns him. I must give you credit for cleverness, Marcus,” he added with a faint smile. “It required weeks to uncover your connexion with Atkins, though I suspected you from the first. However, I must admit I did not exert myself overmuch. You see, I thought you intended to destroy the manuscript.”