The Devil's Delilah (Regency Noblemen 2)

She turned to Delilah, who was fuming at the teapot. “In future, my dear, you will confine your exclamations to ‘good grief or ‘dear me.’ But what is this of Mr. Langdon? What on earth could that diffident boy have said to put you to the blush?”

“Perhaps I blushed at my own forwardness in attempting to draw him into conversation, Aunt,” said Delilah, darting a quelling glance at her parent. He knew perfectly well why she’d been talking frantically at Mr. Langdon. She’d been terrified the muddled creature would blurt out some quote from her papa’s memoirs. She would not have been placed in so awkward and frustrating a position if her papa had not been so obstinate.

Delilah’s scowl turned into an expression of dismay as she recollected that Mr. Langdon still had the book. Where was the stupid man? He should have returned it immediately. He’d left Streetham Close hours before they had—and without so much as a farewell.

“What on earth is the matter, miss? Have you spilled tea on your skirt? Did I not just tell you to keep an easy, amiable countenance, as though the activity required no effort or concentration whatsoever?”

“I fear we must look deeper than the teapot, Millicent. Obviously, Delilah is pining for Mr. Langdon.” Mr. Desmond turned to his daughter. “I beg your pardon, my dear. I should not have brought his name into the conversation.”

“Certainly not in so absurd a way,” said Delilah indignantly. “Pining for him, indeed. What nonsense. I hope you will pay Papa no mind, Aunt. He is an incorrigible tease.” She picked up a plate of pastries. “Will you try the seed cake, My Lady?”

Lady Potterby smiled approvingly. “Very well done, my dear. Just the right air. Is it not, Darryl? Could Queen Charlotte do any better, I ask you?”

“Not when His Majesty is by. I understand he has long, bawdy conversations with the cucumber sandwiches,” was the irreverent reply.

“That is cruel, Darryl, and possibly seditious. You cannot know how the poor man suffers.”

“Of course I know. Am I not acquainted with his sons? It’s a wonder to me he went on producing offspring. Surely the first half dozen must have shown him his seed was cursed.”

“You will not speak of such topics before the girl, sir. If she has had a steady diet of such conversation, it is a miracle she can blush as you claim. A young lady must be capable of blushing,” Lady Potterby pointed out to her grand niece, “or she will appear hardened in iniquity.”

“No fear of that,” said Mr. Desmond. “She colours very nicely when a certain gentleman who must remain nameless is by, I assure you.”

“Papa, you are most tiresome today,” said Delilah, putting down her cup and saucer with a clatter that made her great aunt frown.

“Indeed you are, Darryl. Why do you tease so about poor Mr. Langdon? I cannot believe he has been making sheep’s eyes at Delilah—or any young lady, for that matter. Lord Berne is another case altogether,” the lady went on, instantly reverting to an earlier bone of contention with her male relative. “You should never have stopped there when that wicked young man was at home. I could not rest easy a moment after I got your message. Do you know the dreadful boy took Annabelle Carstairs into the hedgerows—on his own father’s property—and now she calls herself Mrs. Johnson and lives in Dublin, and there never was a Mr. Johnson, not that ever stood before the parson with her.”

“Oh, not that rattle,” said Desmond. “Delilah took his measure quickly enough. Didn’t you, my precious?”

Miss Desmond’s cheeks were tingling. The hedgerows. No wonder Mr. Langdon had steered her away so firmly. If Lady Streetham had not rushed out of the house... but that was absurd. Delilah Desmond was no naive Annabelle Carstairs. She was not about to be seduced in bushes, for heaven’s sake.

“He is obviously a rake,” she said primly.

“He most certainly is—and that is the kindest name one can give him,” Lady Potterby agreed. “You did well to devote your attention to Mr. Langdon instead.”

“I did not –”

“I admit he’s excessively shy,” the great aunt went on unheedingly. “But he at least is a perfect gentleman. I am sure he subjected you to no over warm compliments.”

“Well, he must have said something to raise her temperature. I am sure she turned pink every time she was in his company,” said the pitiless father.

“Papa!”

Lady Potterby was at last goaded into giving the matter serious attention. “Good heavens, Darryl, are you certain? Do we speak of the same Jack Langdon? That absentminded creature who always has his head in a book? He exerted himself to have a conversation with my grand niece? He did not hurry off to hide in a corner with his tiresome Greeks?”

“He tried,” said the Devil gravely, “but Delilah wouldn’t let him.”

Miss Desmond took up her teacup again with an air of resignation. For some unaccountable reason, her father was set on provoking her. Well, she would not give him the satisfaction of appearing at all vexed.

“Yes, Aunt,” Delilah concurred. “I am afraid I am very forward. Just one more character flaw I shall strive to overcome, with your assistance.”

“But you obtained his attention?” asked the lady eagerly.

“Fortunately, Papa has overseen my education. I took refuge in Latin epigrams, and Mr. Langdon was sufficiently dazzled to respond in kind.”

“Indeed,” said her ladyship thoughtfully. “Latin epigrams. My, my. That was very well done of you, I must say.” She meditated.

“Shall I add water to the tea leaves, Aunt? Or is it too cold, do you think?”

“Bother the water,” Lady Potterby muttered. “I am thinking.” She meditated a few minutes longer then nodded to herself. “Yes, it will do. We will have them to tea, of course. Tomorrow.”

Delilah shot a suspicious glance at her father, who only smiled inscrutably. “Whom do you mean, Aunt?”

“Why Rossing, of course, and his nephew. Good heavens, why did I not think of it myself? He is perfect. The soul of rectitude—and staying right next door. Mr. Langdon is one of the few gentlemen in Society who will not automatically make assumptions about your character based on your parents’ behaviour. Absentminded he may be, but he is also fair-minded. If you can win his admiration, you will have won a staunch ally. I will look no farther than that, of course, for the time being. We must not put all our eggs in one basket, my dear.”

Lady Potterby, looking altogether pleased with the eggs she had found, got up and ambled out of the drawing room mumbling to herself about orders she must give Cook for the morrow.

“So that’s what you were about,” Delilah accused her father when the elder woman was gone. “Why did you not simply come out and ask her to invite them?”

“Because it was more amusing to entice her into proposing the matter herself. People are always more enthusiastic about their own brilliant ideas.”

“I still do not see why it was necessary to utter such fabrications about my blushes. ‘Pining away,’” she said scornfully. “I thought I would be ill.”

“Oh, you were not pining?” the father asked, all innocence. “How stupid of me. I thought that was why you were languishing by the window this morning as Mr. Langdon rode away.”

Miss Desmond feigned a yawn. “How very amusing, Papa. But do divert yourself as you like. I shall occupy my time in praying my muddled swain remembers to bring your manuscript with him when he comes.”

***

Mr. Langdon hastily put down his coffee cup. The hot liquid splashed over the rim and onto his fingers, but he didn’t notice. He blinked at his uncle.

“Tea? With Lady Potterby?”

“Yes. She sent a message late yesterday, but I’m afraid it slipped my mind. You’re making a mess, Jack,” said Lord Rossing, peering over his newspaper. “You had better not do that at Millicent’s. As it is she thinks us incapable of taking care of ourselves. Always sending her jellies and bouillons and I don’t know what else. The poor creature’s been like that ever since Potterby passed

on—what was it—five years ago? Then she was nursing her old fright of a sister. Might have expected this. She always wants someone to look after. Pity she hasn’t any children. Well, we must go and meet her relatives, I suppose.” He put down his paper and took up his silverware.

“Actually, Uncle, I’ve already met them. I thought I’d mentioned it.”

“So you did, so you did.” Lord Rossing stabbed his fork into a piece of ham. “So have I. Desmond, I mean. Intriguing fellow. Quite a rogue in his day. Pursued your mama for a while. Did you know that?”