The Devil's Delilah (Regency Noblemen 2)

Delilah reflected as she gazed at the book cover. “I see,” she said at last. “That’s why Mama came with all those notes and letters. It had nothing to do with a legal case. Now I remember—Papa said something about it that night you brought me home—how you wanted people to think—” The gaze she raised to her betrothed was reproachful. “You let me think it, Jack.”

“Don’t look at me that way,” he answered uncomfortably. “I suffered agonies of guilt the whole time. Originally, I didn’t want to tell you because the plan was so farfetched. We had no idea whether we’d have enough time, whether we could delay printing long enough. Then, when I realised Tony had got you to confide in him, I couldn’t risk it, because he might be reporting your conversations to his father. A lawsuit wouldn’t alarm Lord Streetham, but what we were truly up to would—and he’d be quick to act.”

Delilah flushed. “I suppose you were right,” she admitted, “not to trust either me or Tony. Obviously, I was an idiot to trust him—”

“It’s hard not to trust him. I’ve known him all my life, yet I believed a whole pack of lies—but then, he half-believed them himself.”

Reflections upon the unhappy Lord Berne could not but be painful, yet they could not be thrust away so easily either. For a few moments the pair sat in silence—until Miss Desmond recalled that she still had not a satisfactory explanation for the book. She pointed out that the crisis had been resolved some time ago. Jack and Tony were bosom-bows again. In fact, the viscount was to be groomsman, before going abroad with his regiment. His father, moreover, had turned all Delilah’s relatives up sweet.

“Everything has been tranquil and relatively sane for two months,” she reminded severely, “yet you never once said a word about this.” She gestured at the volume in her lap.

“Oh, yes. That.” Jack fished out a piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to her. “The reviewer is anonymous,” he said, “but I can make a guess who it is. A noted bibliophile of our mutual acquaintance. Member of Parliament, closely connected with the ministry, belted earl—that sort of thing.”

Delilah swiftly perused the clipping. “‘Charming, lively tales of bygone days/,” she read aloud. “‘Not at all the prurient trash the public was led to expect. A work to be savoured—’” She broke off to gaze at her fiance with undisguised admiration. “Oh, Jack—you wrote this book?”

“Hardly. Your father dictated, mainly, and we worked on the rephrasing together. I didn’t want to cut the heart out of it, you know—so we went for more humour and less bawdiness. Your father is a genius, Delilah. I hope he continues to write—”

“I know he’s a genius,” she interrupted. “But I see I have a great deal to learn about you. You are even more underhanded than I thought.”

“Am I?” He took up her hand rather absently and kissed it. The clipping fluttered to the floor.

She sighed. “Oh, Jack.” Then she jerked her hand away. “There—you’re doing it again. You still have not answered my question. Two months we’ve been engaged and you never told me you’d rewritten Papa’s book.”

Mr. Langdon’s countenance assumed an expression of abstraction. “Didn’t I?” he asked. “I must have forgot. So much on my mind, you know.”

“You did not forget,” she retorted. “And I will not be taken in by any more muddled looks.”

“But it’s true,” he said gravely. “For two months I have been unable to think of anything but the night on which I will finally be permitted to slake my savage lust upon your innocent person.”

“Slake your savage lust?” she repeated, turning a skeptical smile upon him. “That sounds rather like something you got out of a book.”

“Yes. I get a great many things out of books. I got you because of one. I am a bookworm through and through and—” He paused, his eyes very dark now.

“And?” She reached up to brush a lock of hair back from his forehead.

“And I think I am about to mistake you for a volume of Ptolemy.” He drew her face closer to his. “Make that Ovid,” he said. His lips brushed lightly against hers. “Make that Ars Amatoria.”

“Make it anything you like,” she whispered impatiently as she threw her arms about his neck. “Only kiss me, Jack, properly—and now.”

He did.