Loretta Chase - The Devil's Delilah (30 page)

Nevertheless, he went on determinedly, "Even today I thought only of myself, and felt sorry for myself because I had failed and would not have another chance. I was even prepared to wed as my father ordered, because I was afraid of the consequences if I didn't. Luckily, I have a friend far more loyal than I deserve, who helped me see my error. I tell you all this to make an end once and for all, of deception. I only hope you will be more generous than I deserve. Will you forgive me, my dear, and allow me to begin fresh? Will you do me the very great honour and give me the great happiness of consenting to be my wife?"

Delilah was certain she'd meant to say Yes. The words came out as No, however, and she thought her heart would break when she saw the shattered look on his beautiful countenance. More beautiful, she thought, than it had ever been before, perhaps because for once in his life he had told not his fantasy truth but his heart's truth.

Yet as he'd spoken, he'd somehow revealed her own heart's truth as well, and that crumbled all her carefully built defences, her cynical rationales, and her assurance.

"I'm so sorry, Tony," she said. "I really am sorry to hurt you. I meant to marry you, you know. I would have made you do it — you don't know me — and then we would have been so unhappy."

"Why? How?" he asked. "You could never make me unhappy — except now, to tell me you will not be my wife. I love you, Delilah. I would die to make you happy."

Even as he spoke the words, he knew they were futile. Though she sat quietly enough, gazing down at her folded hands, he sensed this was not the world-weary repose it seemed to be. With a jolt he remembered what Jack had said.

Tony lifted her chin so he could look into her beautiful eyes. "It's Jack, isn't it?" he asked. "You're in love with him. That's why." There was no reproach in his tones. He saw it in her eyes, a fact, and like the others he'd confronted today, this would not go away for wishing or pretending.

She smiled, rather cynically, he thought, but that was not the truth. That was pose. What she said was pose as well — pretending, wishing.

"Oh, Tony," she said. "You look for a rival instead of listening to what I say."

"It's what I see," he answered.

"Your vision is clouded," she said, "if you see Delilah Desmond in love with a book-worm."

He'd risen, intending to leave, but something nagged at him. He struggled for a moment, then sat down beside her on the sofa and, taking her hand, began to speak once more.

"What is this?" Mr. Atkins screamed. "Where did you get this?"

Mr. Gillstone gazed down in bewilderment at the sheets the publisher was clutching in his hands. "From you," he said, wondering if the man had at last gone completely mad. Atkins was too high-strung for the business. It wanted a less sensitive nature.

"This is not the manuscript I gave you," the little man cried. "Do I not know the curst thing by heart? Where did you get it? Who bribed you to take it?"

A heated argument ensued, Mr. Gillstone being much offended by the accusation.

They shouted at each other for twenty minutes. Finally, when Mr. Atkins's face had turned purple and the blood vessels were visibly throbbing in his temples, the printer recollected the muddled, flustered, apologetic young man who'd come to him yesterday. Then he dragged Mr. Atkins to his office, made him swallow a tumbler of gin, and told him what had occurred.

The soothing effects of geneva notwithstanding, Mr. Atkins bolted from his chair, snatched up the manuscript, and dashed out of the shop.

Two minutes later he was back again.

"Print it," he said.

"Print it?" Mr. Gillstone echoed.

"Yes. This is the only book we shall ever get from that fiend without trouble and I shall never see my money again, so we might as well salvage what we can. Just don't show it to me when it's done. Deal with my assistant. I never want to see the curst thing again as long as I live."

Chapter 20

Mr. Langdon had ordered his bags packed so that he might leave first thing in the morning. He'd had enough of dashing about like a madman in the middle of the night.

All the same, he did not expect to spend the night in repose, so he did not even attempt to go to bed. He sat in the library, staring at a volume of Tacitus for two hours before he noticed he had not turned a page. He slammed the book shut and flung it aside.

Then he put on his coat and went out for a walk. A long walk. Perhaps he would be set upon by ruffians and savagely beaten. That would be a profound relief.

He circled the West End endlessly, passing houses where drawn-back curtains and brilliant lights boasted of festivities in progress. Occasionally a carriage clattered past, but it was too early for great folks to be heading home, and the streets were relatively quiet. At midnight the watchman's voice rang out, informing the interested public not only of the hour, but of the circumstance that the world, at present, was well, the moon in the sky where it belonged, and the sky itself gradually clearing.

That was when Jack's mind must have snapped, because the watchman had scarcely completed his observations when Mr. Langdon's legs, no longer controlled by a brain or anything like it, blithely took him to Potterby House.

The house was dark, in the front at least. Facades, however, can be deceiving, and ever a seeker of Truth, Mr. Langdon slipped round to the back. There on the second floor, one window remained faintly lit. He stood at the gate for a moment. Then he climbed over it and dropped into the pathway leading to the garden.

His eyes went up to the window once more, and his heart began to pound because he saw a movement by the curtains. A figure in a gauzy negligee passed quickly — though not quickly enough to prevent his catching one tantalising glimpse of the form outlined in the candlelight.

" 'But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?' " he murmured, though he had sense enough left to smile at his folly. " 'It is the east, and Delilah is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon — ' "

The light went out.

"Oh, Delilah," he whispered. "You'll be the death of me."

Twenty times in the next half hour he turned to leave, and twenty times he turned back, because the window held him. Though it was painful to remain, he could not go — not while his mind persisted in reviewing every element of her being. The black, unruly hair that fell so easily into disorder and always made him yearn to see her tumbled among thick pillows in the flickering light of a single candle… to see the shadows playing upon the fine bones of her face and the soft light reflected in her lustrous eyes, like moonlight on a lagoon. He longed for so much more. To touch her… to feel her touch… those restless hands in his hair… and so much more still. He wanted to scream.

His heart commenced to crashing against his ribs because he knew what he was going to do even as he was commanding himself not to consider it. He knew what he was going to do because Max had told him how to do it, had described a dozen times how he'd done it himself.

Not to put too fine a point upon it, Mr. Langdon proceeded to scale the walls of the house. The window was open, after all, practically shouting at him. So, like a common thief, he climbed up to it.

One kiss, he promised himself as he paused halfway over the sill. Just one chaste kiss. He would not even waken her — good grief, he'd better not — and then he would go.

He crept noiselessly across the thick carpet towards the bed. Though there was no nickering candle, there was sufficient moonlight to outline the form: a dark head upon a white pillow. He bent over her face.

Instantly, a hand seized his wrist, jerking him close. Simultaneously hard metal thrust against his chest. Jack cautiously tried to pull away.

"Another move and you'll find yourself a grave man," she whispered.

He froze.

The hand on his wrist tightened, and the pistol tried to force its way into his lungs.

"Don't," he said.

"Jack," she whispered. "Why it's only you."

Nonetheless, the weapon remained where it was. Jack began to perspire.

"Yes," he said edgily. "Will you please put that away?"

"And leave myself defenceless? Certainly not."

"It's only me, Miss Desmond. You know I mean you no harm. And you're digging your nails into my wrist," he complained.

He heard a derisive sniff.

"No harm?" she repeated scornfully. "From a notorious highwayman, an abductor of innocent maidens? Papa was right. You're a blackguard, Mr. Langdon. I really can't understand how I let myself be so deceived in you."

Actually, he thought, it was better to have the pistol jammed into his chest. Otherwise he might mean harm in spite of himself, because he was too close to her. He was acutely conscious of a faint fragrance which reminded him of roses after a rain.

"Miss Desmond, this is an extremely uncomfortable position. In another moment, my spine will snap."

"Just as well. That will be much less untidy than bullet wounds. The maids would never get the stains out of the bed-clothes."

He tried to shake off the viselike grip. "You won't shoot me," he said firmly.

"I don't see why not. The world rather expected something of the sort, and I should so hate to disappoint them. Why are you here?" she demanded.

There was no point in pretending — even if he'd been capable of formulating a single decent excuse. He sighed. "I only wanted to kiss you," he said, though he was embarrassed as soon as he'd said it. "Just once, before I leave To — to say good-bye."

"Only to say good-bye?" she asked. "Why, you must have had to climb over the gate. I know it's locked. Then up the house — and there is not much foothold because they've cut back the ivy. Really, that was reckless of you, though quite romantic. But you are a desperate villain, and I suppose I have no choice but to let you kiss me."

A kiss? What the devil had he been thinking of? He could never leave contented with a single kiss.

He could probably never leave at all — unless he did so now.

"I — I had better not," he said, panicking. He needed to pull away, but he was concerned the pistol would go off. At the moment, he was not certain whether he'd prefer to be shot, but the noise would arouse the household, and that would never do, he thought wildly.

"If you do not kiss me now," she said slowly, "I will shoot you, and you'll never have another chance. 'The grave's a fine and private place,/ But none, I think, do there embrace.' That is Marvell, is it not?"

Mr. Langdon had had enough. He yanked the pistol from her hand and dropped it on the carpet. Being a small weapon, it made only a small thud.

"Not so much noise," she warned. "Do you want to wake everyone?"

"Delilah, don't make a game of me."

"Jack, don't be such a damned, thick-headed fool. Kiss me at once or I'll scream my head off."

He kissed her. It was not the chaste kiss on the cheek he had intended but he knew now that was never what he'd intended. His lips touched soft, cool ones and he was lost, caught, helpless, because her hands came up to caress his face, then wandered into his hair. He wondered if he'd been killed after all and had flown up straight to heaven.

Several devastating minutes later, he drew away. "I can't stay," he said. "You're driving me crazy, and you don't know how much danger you're in."

"I know," she said wistfully. "I hate being respectable. Oh, Jack, I wish you would kiss me forever."

Being an exceedingly courteous fellow, he instantly set out to oblige her, which was a great mistake, regardless how polite. He soon found himself on top of the bedclothes, and the need to slip under them was becoming painful. He shuddered and pulled himself away.

"You are impossible," he said, his voice rough. "You know I can't stay, yet you do all you can to keep me here." Then an awful thought struck him. "Tony," he breathed. "You're engaged!"

"Not at all. You haven't asked me." Her voice was soft and languorous. "You'd better, you know. There's no getting out of it now."

Jack grasped her shoulders to shake her back into the real world. "Tony," he said. "What of Tony?"

"There's no need to be so ferocious, Jack. I declined his offer. Really, do you think I would be entertaining you now if I hadn't? Though it would have served you right if I had," she went on petulantly. "You and your dratted honour and loyalty and I don't know what else." Her hands reached up to bury themselves in his hair once more. "Oh, Jack, how difficult you've been."

"I?" he answered indignantly. "I've been getting slapped and screamed at and insulted and — "

"How else was I to get your attention?" she interrupted. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to penetrate that wall of politeness of yours? How frustrating — " She broke off abruptly.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the palm. "If you only knew," he said softly, "how very difficult it's been to be polite and gentlemanly. I've wanted you from the moment I knocked you down. Wanted you desperately. And no matter what I did, it only got worse."

"Then you should have offered right off. That would have been the proper thing." She paused. "Or were you appalled at the prospect of shackling yourself to a wanton adventuress with a beastly temper and unspeakable manners? That must be it. You wanted a ladylike, intellectual, sweet-tempered woman like — like Catherine."

He drew back a bit, much surprised. "What about Catherine?"

"You loved her — love her. That's what everyone says," came the rather wistful reply.

Jack considered briefly. "I see," he said. "You're jealous."

"Yes. If I didn't like her so much I would have throttled her long since, I promise you."

He smiled. "Good. I hope you remain insanely jealous of her all the rest of your life. Perhaps that will make you a tad more manageable."

"You are a coxcomb, Mr. Langdon." Her hand slipped to his neck-cloth to pull him closer. "I will not be manageable at all, and I will make you forget her. Rely upon it."

Evidently, she planned to begin this task immediately, for a most passionate embrace ensued.

Mr. Langdon did not wish to discourage his companion's efforts to extract Lady Rand's image from his heart. On the other hand, he had a ticklish conscience and a powerful sense of honour. These won the day, and he managed to extricate himself before he committed any grave impropriety — though he could not help cursing propriety in the process.