by Emily Royal
“For which I’m grateful, dearest Delilah.”
“As am I,” Lilah said. “You’re one of the few women who doesn’t give me the cut whenever I walk into a ballroom. I can’t understand why my brother insists on spending a fortune parading me around prospective suitors when I’d rather earn my fortune writing.”
“Have you had any success with your poetry?” Anne asked.
“Not yet,” Lilah said, “but Mr. Stock paid me an advance for my latest installment of Essays on Patriarchy.”
“Should you be writing such material?”
“I don’t see why not. Apart from Mr. Stock and yourself, nobody knows the identity of Jeremiah Smith.
“I found your last essay rather inflammatory,” Anne said. “No good can come of making such an overt attack on the aristocracy.”
“If it encourages people to think, then I am content.”
“What if it encourages them to act?” Anne asked. “It takes only a small spark to ignite a flame. The discontent of the masses is the oil that douses the wood of an uprising. Imagine how dreadful the Terrors in France must have been! What if that happened in London?”
Lilah swallowed a mouthful of tea, wrinkling her nose at the taste. “You exaggerate, Anne.”
“Wars are won and lost at the command of the written word, not the sword or the pistol,” Anne said. “You should stick to poetry.”
“Nobody’s interested in my poems,” Lilah said. “It took me long enough to persuade Mr. Stock to publish my essays. If I were a man, he’d have agreed immediately. I daresay your husband would have no trouble finding someone willing to publish if he wrote poetry.”
Anne let out a laugh. “Much as I love my dear Harold, I have to confess, he lacks the talent.”
“How is he?” Lilah asked.
“In perfect health,” Anne said. “I swear he works almost as hard as your brother. He’s in the process of concluding a deal with a distillery owner to sell and distribute whisky, of all things.”
“Whisky?”
“He expects demand to increase given the new freedoms in production and distribution,” Anne said, “though I understand little of it myself. The owner’s an excellent man, though a little—rugged.” She hesitated as if to continue, then shook her head and gestured toward the teapot. “Another cup?”
“No, thank you.”
“But you must stay for supper. Harold will be joining us.”
“In which case, I’d be glad to accept.”
“Excellent!” Anne said. “Mrs. Bowles has been marinating the pork all day, and the smell coming from the kitchen is enough to make a stone statue salivate.”
“It sounds too good to miss.”
“It’s Harold’s favorite,” Anne said. “Ah! Here he comes.”
The parlor door opened, and Mr. Pelham appeared.
“Harold!” Anne jumped to her feet and crossed the room. Her husband drew her to him for a brief kiss.
“My love,” he said. He turned to Lilah. “Miss Hart. A pleasure, as always.”
“Delilah is joining us for supper,” Anne said.
“Excellent!” he said. “It’ll make a four. We have another guest.” He turned and called out. “Come in, old chap. Don’t stand on ceremony.”
Another man appeared at the doorway, and Lilah caught her breath. Mr. Pelham was a tall man, but his companion towered over him. Clear blue eyes met her gaze, and a smile curled across the lush, sensual mouth. He raised his hand in greeting, a strong hand with long, lean fingers, which two days ago had set her skin on fire with the promise of pleasure.
He rubbed his cheek, the very same cheek she’d slapped, and a twinkle of mischief glittered in his eyes.
“Molineux, old chap,” Mr. Pelham said, “permit me to introduce my wife’s friend, Miss Delilah Hart. Miss Hart, may I introduce Fraser MacGregor, Duke Molineux.”
“Delilah Hart,” the newcomer’s tongue curled round her name, and he held out his hand. She took it, and he lifted her hand to his lips.
“A beautiful name,” he whispered. “Delilah—the woman who brought the strongest of men to his knees.”
His breath sent a rush of heat over her skin. She tried to pull free, but he tightened his hold, flicked his tongue out, and traced a line across her hand. His nostrils flared, and a low rumble reverberated in his chest.
“What a delectable perfume,” he said, his voice a low whisper. “It reminds me of pleasure shared.”
She snatched her hand free, her skin on fire where his lips had been. A wicked smile curled across his lips.
Curse him!
“Miss Hart, is something the matter?” Mr. Pelham asked.
The newcomer winked at her. Curse him, he actually winked! As if they shared a dirty secret!
Unable to fight the anger which burned inside, she rounded on Anne’s husband.
“Mr. Pelham, do you know what manner of man you’ve brought here?”
“Of course,” Pelham said. “He’s my new business partner. And a very fine chap he is.”
“He’s a Molineux!” Lilah protested. “The latest in a long line of rakes. Who knows how many women he’s debauched?”
Rather than show discomposure, the huge Scotsman folded his arms, leaned against the doorframe, and smiled. “You impugn my skills, Miss Hart, if you infer my conquests were unwilling.”
“Perhaps you ignored their protests,” she retorted.
He let out a chuckle. “I’ve never known a woman to object,” he said. “I’ve only known her to beg.”
“Mr. Pelham,” she said. “I will not spend another moment in this man’s company. I insist you turn him out.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Pelham said. “You can’t dictate to me with your feminist sensibilities. Be reasonable, please.”
Lilah turned to her friend. “Anne, you agree with me, don’t you? Surely you object to an acquaintance with such a man!”
Anne shook her head. “Delilah, you shouldn’t judge him because of his lineage.”
“You of all people should understand how rotten that family is. Or perhaps you wish to ingratiate yourself with a duke in order to elevate your social status from being the wife of a commoner?”
“That’s enough!” Pelham cried. “Only you could manage to insult three people in a single sentence. If I were your brother, I’d thrash you for such incivility. You’re exhibiting just the sort of behavior that will prevent your family from being accepted in society. If your brother knew what a hellion you are…”
“Och, Pelham, leave the lass be.”
Lilah jabbed a finger at the huge Scot. “I can defend myself,” she said. “I need no help from a rogue.”
His lips curled into a smile. “I’m a rogue, am I? I suppose that’s better than being a savage.”
“You should be taught the error of your ways,” Lilah said.
“Likewise,” he replied, his smile broadening. “As I said when we met, you need to be turned over a man’s knee.”
Swallowing her indignation, Lilah grasped her reticule and almost ran out of the house, his words echoing in her ears.
*
Fraser could hardly suppress his laughter as the red-faced lass exited the parlor. A spitfire, certainly, but she had spirit, even if it came hand in hand with a dose of loathing toward his ancestors.
Mrs. Pelham let out a sigh. An attractive, delicately built woman, he’d learned from Pelham that she was the widow of the previous duke and, by all accounts, had suffered at his hands. Miss Hart had an excuse for her dislike of him, but the violence of her reaction spoke of something else.
She wanted him—her body had told him that, loud and clear. And she didn’t like it.
And, by the gods, he wanted her.
Delilah…
The name suited her, each syllable rolling off the tongue as he savored his name on her lips.
“Molineux, I must apologize,” Pelham said.
Fraser shook his head. “No matter. I believe I rattled her the other
day when I caught her prowling around Clayton House.”
Mrs. Pelham sighed. “She visits there regularly to tend to the birds in the aviary.” She shook her head. “Forgive me, I should have realized…”
“Nevertheless, she had no cause for such incivility,” Pelham interrupted. “She may be your friend, my love, but she’s foul-tempered with it and harbors an unnatural prejudice against the ton. She fancies herself something of a warrior.”
“In what way?” Fraser asked.
“Justice for the put-upon, equal rights for women. Probably sick puppies, as well.”
“Harold, don’t mock my friend,” Mrs. Pelham said. “Her heart is in the right place, and she has good reason for her prejudice.”
“That may be,” Pelham said, “but if her brother knew about today, he’d give her a damned good thrashing.”
“Her brother?” Fraser asked.
“She’s Dexter Hart’s sister,” Pelham said. “Or, I should say, one of his sisters.”
“The banker?”
“The very same.”
Dexter Hart, the proprietor of Hart Bank, was rumored to be the most ruthless businessmen in England. Fraser could well believe it, for how else could a man rise from almost nothing to being one of the wealthiest bankers in London, in less than five years?
But because of his humble origins, Hart was snubbed by half of the ton. According to Pelham, most of the older families refused to bank with Hart, even though he offered competitive lending rates—rates that had tempted Fraser to secure an appointment with the man.
Fraser shook his head. “I imagine even Hart would have trouble controlling that little hellion.”
“She wasn’t brought up within the confines of society,” Mrs. Pelham said, “and therefore doesn’t understand why she must abide by its rules.”
“I wish Hart luck in his endeavors with her,” Pelham said. “It’s the worst kept secret in Whites that he’s trying to marry his siblings off to titles.”
“Perhaps that explains Miss Hart’s dislike of the aristocracy,” Fraser said. “I imagine if she were instructed to do anything, she’d resolve to do the exact opposite.”
“It’s not only that,” Mrs. Pelham said. “My late husband was not a kind man, as I can testify.”
“Anne, my love, there’s no need…” A look passed between Pelham and his wife—care and concern on his part, and reassurance on hers.
“There was an incident when Delilah was younger,” she continued. “When he was a boy, the late duke used to visit the estate on which the Harts were tenants. He was at Harrow with the eldest son. I don’t know the particulars of what happened, for Delilah has not divulged them.”
“Dear God!” Fraser said. “Was she harmed?”
“Not in the way you mean,” she said, “but it resulted in her brother confronting them, which earned him a thrashing, and the family was evicted shortly after.”
Fraser shook his head. “It’s no wonder she hates the ton,” he said, “but it doesn’t explain why Hart wishes to ingratiate himself with them.”
“He doesn’t,” she said. “He wants to conquer them. As to my friend, I only tell you so you can understand her. She may be uncivil toward you, but she has good reason.”
“Anne, my love…” Pelham warned.
“No, it’s all right,” Fraser said. “I appreciate your honesty.
She glanced at Fraser, then back to her husband. “Harold, I think I’ll retire until dinner is served. I’m rather tired, and I’m sure the two of you have business to discuss.”
“Please don’t leave on my account, ma’am,” Fraser said.
She dipped into a curtsey and smiled, then, after giving her husband a brief kiss, slid out of the room. Pelham crossed the floor and picked up a decanter.
“Drink? It’s a rather fine Madeira I imported last year.”
Fraser nodded, and Pelham poured two glasses, then sat, motioning Fraser to do likewise. He raised his glass.
“To a successful business venture!”
Fraser lifted his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“So,” Pelham said, his gaze fixed on Fraser. “You met Miss Hart at Clayton House?”
“Not two days ago,” Fraser said. “She’s full of fire. I’ll give her that.”
Pelham laughed. “She’s a hellcat! I’ll never understand why women are so different from each other. She’s the exact opposite of my Anne.”
“I don’t know, Pelham,” Fraser said. “Women may appear to be different disguises, but beneath the surface, they are all drawn from the same keg—driven by the same needs and desires.
“Perhaps you’ve yet to encounter the woman to satisfy your needs,” Pelham said. “I believe that for every man, there exists the perfect mate—unique to him. The trick, of course, is in identifying your mate and bagging her before she slips away.”
“My needs are well satisfied, I assure you,” Fraser said.
“Ah, yes,” A slow smile stretched across Pelham’s mouth. “I hear Mrs. Emma Whitford’s accomplishments are legendary.
Good lord, could a man not take a mistress without the whole of London gossiping about it?
“Accomplishment in a mistress I can deal with,” Fraser said, “but incarceration in the parson’s cage I can do well without. I have no intention of being bagged.”
“But you must marry if you want an heir.”
Fraser shook his head. “I wouldn’t wish the responsibility of that godforsaken dukedom on anyone. The common man doesn’t view the aristocracy with any favor, I assure you. Just look at the French and what they did in the name of equality.”
“The French are hotheaded and impetuous,” Pelham said. “Not words I’d use to describe the English. If an Englishman had his limbs ripped off by an elephant, he’d find it hard to muster anything more than a small tut of annoyance.”
Fraser sighed. “I wish I could believe you, my friend, but the masses have always been ruled by the whims and desires of the powerful. A word to the unwise can do a lot of damage, particularly when portrayed in the popular press. Have you read the City Chronicle?”
Pelham nodded. “You refer to the infamous Jeremiah Smith and his Essays on Patriarchy?”
“The very same. While I may agree with the refreshing outlook a member of our sex displays, the tone of his article bears an undercurrent of malevolence. Such inflammatory language, in the wrong hands, could incite the mob. We shouldn’t fear the swords of the uneducated generals, but the pens of the educated anarchists.”
Pelham sipped his drink. “You worry unnecessarily. Besides, being a Scot, you should know a thing or two about mob mentality, given that your countrymen declare wars of independence against our nation on a regular basis.
“What use is war,” Fraser said, “when disagreements can more easily be settled if the two sparring figureheads actually talked to each other rather than sent their subjects to engage in mass murder?”
“Have a care,” Pelham laughed, “or I might believe you to be Mister Smith, given your anarchic leanings.”
“On the contrary,” Fraser replied. “Society is built on a backbone of tradition, establishment, and hard work. But it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t indulge in pleasure, otherwise what’s the point in living?”
“Then,” Pelham said, “by your philosophy, you should look to producing a son and heir to further the establishment, of which you are a part, whether you like it or not. And you should find yourself a wife. But I’d advise you not to follow the path Dexter Hart intends to tread. Marriage should be more than a business deal to snare a dowry. It should be for love.”
“Love can be purchased,” Fraser said. “That’s what a mistress is for.”
“No,” Pelham said. “Love bought for hire is temporary. When you fail to pay the rent, you’ll find yourself evicted. A courtesan secures her income by persuading her protector that she loves him. A wife should need no persuasion to love you.”
“Then, if you were advising me, Pelham
, how would you suggest I go about prospecting for a wife?”
“Your title will render your task easy, my friend. At the first ball you attend, you’ll find yourself surrounded by young ladies and their overbearing mamas, all vying to outdo each other and secure the hand of the newest duke in town.”
“Then remind me to refuse every invitation forthwith,” Fraser said. “I have no wish to surround myself with young ladies.”
A wicked smile curled across Pelham’s mouth.
“What about hellcats?”
A small spike of lust pricked at Fraser’s body, and his breeches became too tight. He crossed his legs in an attempt to hide the evidence of his arousal. But his companion’s laugh told him he’d failed.
“Our little hellcat is determined not to indulge in any form of luxury,” Pelham said. “She says it only serves to affirm the distinction between the rich and the poor.”
“Hardly the worst crime a young woman can commit,” Fraser said.
“I could forgive her that,” Pelham said, “were it not for her determination to spoil everyone else’s pleasure.”
Pleasure…
Fraser’s skin tightened at the memory her body squirming under his hands, those lush, pink lips, parted in surprise and wonder as he gave her a taste of pleasure.
“She’s determined to hate all men—single men, at least,” Pelham continued. “But perhaps given how her season started, she can be forgiven.”
“How her season started?”
“She caught her suitor in an uncompromising position with another woman,” Pelham said. “Let’s just say that the delectable Mrs. Whitford is a very—popular—woman.”
“Good lord!”
“Had she been in possession of a knife, I daresay the man’s ancestral line would have ended with him,” Pelham said, “and, knowing Miss Hart, she’d have fashioned his balls into a pair of earrings.” Pelham rose from his seat. “But I believe it’s time to change the subject and discuss whisky rather than wildcats. I’m anxious to hear about your plans for using brandy casks to mature the liquor in.”
Fraser nodded and held his glass out for Pelham to refill. At last, the real business of the evening could take place.
