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 flickering 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 vise-like 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 t
hat will make you a tad more manageable.”
“You are a coxcomb, Mr. Langdon.” Her hand slipped to his neckcloth 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.
“That is quite enough,” he said thickly. “I had better go—now. Tomorrow I’ll speak to your father.”
He got up from the bed and turned to leave.
“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.”