He scowled.
Ridiculous. He wasn’t lonely. He could have a female companion any time he wanted.
So why the devil was he standing here, staring at a dark house in Bedford Square at four in the morning?
And why was the house dark, anyway? Were there no candles lit anywhere inside? If Delia had made it to her room—which surely she had by now—he doubted that she’d be moving about in the dark to prepare for bed.
Telling himself he just wanted to be certain she’d reached her room without being caught, he left the mews and circled around to the front of the house. Ah, on this side there was indeed a single candlelit room, up in the corner. It must be hers. And if she had been caught sneaking in, there would be far more candles showing in windows, so she must have managed not to rouse anyone.
He could leave now. She was safe.
Yet still he stood watching the damned window. About now, she’d be peeling off that shirt and those ridiculous trousers. The ones he’d rubbed her through. The ones that had dampened beneath his caresses.
He groaned. She had grown wet for him. Because once he’d foolishly introduced Delia to the pleasures of the flesh, she’d fully embraced them. And that was his fault. He shouldn’t even have kissed her, much less sucked and fondled her.
Yet he would do it again if he had the chance. The feel of her beginning to come apart beneath his hand . . .
As his cock stiffened once more, he growled a curse. This was absurd. He should go to a brothel, take care of this pesky erection. Or go home, for God’s sake.
Instead, he used his key to the Bedford Square Gardens and slipped inside. He found the private spot where they’d kissed yesterday, where she’d first made him so aroused he could hardly hide it. Opening his trousers and drawers, he seized his cock and allowed his imagination free rein.
Delia had been bare beneath the shirt. Had she been bare beneath her trousers, too? She must have been, for him to have felt her dampness through the fabric as he caressed her. God, she’d been so wet and willing. How he wished he could have taken advantage of that.
Pumping his cock in his hand, he imagined her in her room. Was she naked now or had she already donned some fussy nightdress? Had she taken down her hair? He didn’t even know if it was naturally curly or forced into ringlets by a hot iron. But he could still imagine the black silk of it cascading over her shoulders, all the way down to that winsome bottom of hers that he would love to grab and squeeze—
He came with a vengeance, spurting into the bushes as he stifled his moans. Then he stood there shaking, his hand sticky and his skin clammy.
After a moment of savoring his release, he felt the reality of where he was and what he was doing creep over him. Good God. He rarely pleasured himself. There was no need, when he could find a willing wench at every turn.
And to have done it in a semi-public place like some drunken lout . . . clearly he’d lost his bloody mind. Thank God no one was about in Mayfair at this hour, even servants or tradesmen.
Using his handkerchief to clean off his hand, he restored his clothing to respectability, then left the garden and hurried away from Bedford Square. He still wasn’t sure where he was going, but he knew it had better be somewhere well away from Delia Trevor.
Because the more he delved into her secrets, the more fascinated he became, and that would not do. She was an innocent; he couldn’t have a torrid affair with her.
Nor was he looking for a wife—certainly not some chit who recklessly gambled in the hells dressed as a man. Who’d mysteriously taken on a mission involving a tattooed lord, of all things, and blithely refused to tell him why.
Who went after whatever she wanted with a single-minded purpose and a refusal to be cowed by the obstacles. Damned if he didn’t admire her for that.
But that didn’t change the fact that marrying her would mean the end of his life as it was now. It would mean settling down at Lindenwood Castle, where the nights were always long and filled with nightmares. He wasn’t going to let any woman see him like that. And she wouldn’t settle for a marriage spent in town so he could roam the stews until the wee hours of the morning. What woman would?
Not that he wanted to marry her. Good God. He merely lusted after her. No great surprise that he should desire her; he was a randy fellow. Though he’d never in his life stood outside some woman’s bedchamber boxing the Jesuit as a result of that desire.
Still, it was just an annoying attraction that had to be squelched. If he had any sense at all, he would cut all ties with her. He would stay away from Dickson’s and go back to his old habits. Hell, he shouldn’t even go to that damned house party of Clarissa’s. Clarissa wouldn’t think twice about it if he didn’t. He’d done what she’d asked of him. Mostly.
He sighed. The problem was that cutting ties with Delia wouldn’t change her behavior one whit. She would probably go to Dickson’s on her own tomorrow night and get into some trouble, without him or Owen to look after her. Then she would spend all her time at the house party trying to peek up men’s sleeves, looking for her quarry. Someone would take umbrage or misunderstand, and next thing she knew, she’d have some fellow trying to accost her in a secluded garden.
Some fellow like you.
“Shut up,” he told his conscience. It wasn’t the same.
He snorted. The hell it wasn’t.
Regardless, he couldn’t just let her go off alone to either place. If something were to happen to her, Clarissa would never forgive him.
He would never forgive himself.
Bloody hell.
Fine. He would go to Dickson’s tomorrow night and the house party the next day, and then he would wash his hands of her.
If he could.
As Delia finished removing her men’s clothes and donning her nightdress, Brilliana paced the room in her wrapper.
“Let me get this straight. You’ve been gadding about London late at night in men’s clothing to gamble?”
“To find the wretch who cheated Reynold,” Delia said defensively.
Pity suffused Brilliana’s face. “Oh, my dearest . . .”
“Don’t give me that look! I know Reynold was telling the truth about the fellow, even if you don’t believe it.”
“I’m not saying I don’t believe it. But we don’t know why he was in London. How can we be sure he told the truth about the gambling? I mean, he wouldn’t even reveal the name of the man who cheated him.”
“Because the man was of too high a consequence to confront.” Delia’s blood ran cold. “Wait, what are you saying? That Reynold lost the money some other way?”
With a sigh, Brilliana sat down delicately on the edge of the bed. “Of course not. The sum was too great, and if he’d made some poor investment, he would have admitted that.”
“And surely he wouldn’t have invented a man with a tattoo. That was a very specific detail.”
“I know. I’ve been over and over it in my head. None of it makes sense.” Brilliana cast her a worried glance. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you shouldn’t be going about London alone to play cards! What if some fellow tries to fight you? Or . . . Or . . .”
“Owen goes with me.”
Brilliana lifted an eyebrow. “Not tonight. He was ill. I went down to look in on him before I came to bed, and he was there.”
“True. That’s why I brought Reynold’s pistol with me tonight.”
“Delia!”
The shocked cry went right over Delia’s head as it dawned on her that Warren’s coachman still had Reynold’s pistol. For that matter, the marquess still owed her a thousand pounds. Bother it all.
“I’ve been gambling for weeks,” Delia said. “No one has caught me yet.” Well, except his cursed lordship.
“Wait a minute.” Brilliana shot up from the bed, startling a hiss from the dozing Flossie. “That’s why you’ve pushed Aunt Agatha to stay here longer? So you can do this mad thing? Not so you can find a husband?”
Delia shrugged. “
I don’t want a husband.”
“But Delia—”
“I don’t want either of us forced to marry for money, curse it!”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Brilliana came over to lay her arm about Delia’s shoulders. “Everything will work out for us somehow.”
“I don’t see how.” Tears started in her eyes, which she wiped away. “If you marry, your husband may allow me to stay at Camden Hall, but more likely he will not. And if you don’t marry, we’ll lose it entirely . . .”
All the worries of the past year overwhelmed her, and tears escaped to slide down her cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Reynold shouldn’t have gambled, shouldn’t have been cheated out of everything.
Shouldn’t have killed himself.
Clucking her tongue, Brilliana tugged her into her embrace. “There, there, my dear. It’s not as bad as all that. We’re not even sure I can find a husband. And even if I do, I’ll try to make your staying at Camden Hall a condition of whatever marriage I agree to.” She held her, soothing her for a few moments.
Once Delia had regained her composure, Brilliana added, “But I still say you deserve better than a life of servitude to the estate.”
“Like a husband who will risk his entire family’s future on the turn of a card?” Delia regretted the words the instant Brilliana paled. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
After a quick squeeze, Brilliana released her. “Look, I know you’ve watched Reynold and me have a rather . . . cool marriage, but that’s as much my fault as his. I couldn’t love him, so—”
“I don’t blame you for that,” Delia said. “Your father essentially sold you to pay his gambling debts to Papa. Reynold should never have accepted that situation.”
“It’s not as if your brother hadn’t wanted to marry me already, you know. He offered for me even before our fathers got involved.”
“And you turned him down. He should have honored that, instead of letting Papa push your father into arranging the marriage, anyway.”
Her sister-in-law glanced away. “I accepted Reynold’s offer the second time.”
“Because they gave you no choice.”
“That’s not true. I could have said no.”
“And watched your parents go to debtor’s prison. It wasn’t right.” Delia crossed her arms over her chest.
“True, but I don’t blame Reynold for that. I blame my father.”
“Is that why you don’t speak to him anymore?”
Brilliana shrugged.
Delia patted her hand. “Surely you blame my father as much as you blame yours.”
“I suppose.” Brilliana forced a smile. “And yet, my marriage to your brother gave me Silas. So how can I regret it? Besides, things weren’t all bad between Reynold and me. He was a good man. We had a rocky start, but we’d begun to find our way—”
“Until he went off to London to gamble.” Delia shook her head. “I’ll never forgive him for that.”
“I’ve forgiven him. Why can’t you?”
Delia didn’t know how to explain it. She just knew that Reynold had thrown all her beliefs about his character into disarray, and she didn’t know how to get back to where she’d been. “The point is, I don’t blame you for not loving him. I truly don’t.”
Seeming to pull into herself, Brilliana went to stand by the window and look out at the rising sun. “There’s more to it than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” She turned from the window to fix Delia with a stern look. “And you’re trying to change the subject. You cannot keep dressing as a man and running about Covent Garden alone. It’s too dangerous.”
“Brilliana—”
“I mean it! I refuse to let you risk your future for the sake of Camden Hall.”
“I’ve made fifteen hundred pounds so far.” Assuming that Warren paid his debt to her.
“Good Lord.” Brilliana dropped onto the window seat. “So much?”
“Yes. It will go a long way toward erasing the debt. At least it ought to delay the foreclosure.” Though not nearly for long enough.
Brilliana digested that in silence for a moment, her expression showing her divided feelings. Then she squared her shoulders. “All the same, you should quit before you’re caught and ruined.”
“Not until I find that card cheat and make him pay back what he stole.”
“How do you mean to do that?” When Delia explained her plan, her sister-in-law blanched. “That is madness! If you corner this lord and threaten him, he’ll have nothing to lose, no reason not to murder you rather than risk being exposed as a cheater.”
“It will be fine, trust me.”
“I do trust you. It’s the men surrounding you whom I don’t trust.” Rising to her feet, Brilliana stared her down. “And it will be fine, I agree. Because you’re not doing it anymore.”
Delia drew herself up. “You can’t stop me.”
“I can.” Brilliana crossed her arms over her chest. “If the choice is having you end up dead in some street or our having to marry for money, I’d rather the latter. So if you won’t stop of your own accord, you’ll force me to go to Aunt Agatha—and you know perfectly well that she will whisk you right back home, and that will be an end to your activities.”
Delia sighed. Brilliana wasn’t making idle threats. Once she made up her mind about something, she acted. And she’d clearly made up her mind about this. “Is there no way I can talk you into going along with my plans?”
“None.”
With an unladylike oath, Delia dropped onto the bed.
Softening, Brilliana came to sit next to her. “Come now, dearest, there are better ways to handle this. With the money you’ve already amassed, we can whittle away at the debt. I’ve been reading up on estate management, and trying to figure out if I could make some changes—improve our situation.”
“There’s not enough time for you to learn everything that my fool of a brother refused to teach us,” Delia said.
Brilliana stiffened. “Perhaps not. But still, you might find a nice gentleman to marry at your friend Clarissa’s house party, you know. And then you’ll be well out of this mess.”
“Without seeing you and Silas happy and secure first? No thank you.”
“Delia . . .”
“Look, you can make me go to parties and balls and flit about society with you and Aunt Agatha. You can even make me stop gambling in the hells. But you can’t make me marry some fool and leave you and Silas to fend for yourselves. I won’t do it.”
It was Brilliana’s turn to sigh. “Then I suppose we’ll be struggling through this together.”
Delia slanted a glance at her. “That’s not such a bad thing, is it?”
“Not for me, it isn’t.” Brilliana hugged her. “But I think you’re worrying for nothing. We might each find a nice gentleman at the house party, someone we can love, who will solve all our money troubles.”
“You’re not bothered that it’s being thrown by Clarissa, whom you keep avoiding?”
“I’m not avoiding her. Honestly, I don’t know where you get these ideas. I don’t even know her.”
“You’ll like her, I swear. Except her matchmaking can be annoying.”
“Undoubtedly,” Brilliana said distantly. Then she apparently shook off her odd mood, for she added, “And if you really want to gamble, I’m sure there will be games there. They won’t be for great stakes, but—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Delia said. “I’m not like Papa, or, apparently, Reynold. I don’t gamble for the fun of it. I could go my whole life without ever gambling again. I don’t need any sort of stakes to enjoy playing cards.”
Then it dawned on her. Clarissa had hinted that she was inviting a number of eligible bachelors to Stoke Towers. No doubt they would be men of rank.
Delia’s eyes narrowed. And who was to say that the tattooed lord might not be among them? So she didn’t have to give up her efforts to find him. Perhaps Clarissa’s house party wouldn
’t be a waste, after all.
“All the same,” Brilliana said, “you ought to relax and enjoy this party. Who knows when we’ll have another chance to live so lavishly at someone else’s expense?”
“True.” And who knew when she’d get another chance to find Reynold’s nemesis?
She would simply make sure she got a glimpse of the wrist of every fellow there. Not even Brilliana or Warren could stop her from doing that. And if she happened to play a few games of cards along the way to trap a card cheat, then so be it.
Twelve
Warren’s carriage pulled up in front of Stoke Towers long past the dinner hour. That was sure to earn him a tongue-lashing from Clarissa, but he didn’t care. He had only come to their house party to make certain all was well with the Trevor ladies. And to discreetly pay Delia the thousand pounds he owed her. He might not even stay once that was done. There was no need.
Because Delia hadn’t shown up at Dickson’s last night, which meant she’d come to her senses. Either he had frightened her off, or stealing her pistol had made her cautious, or . . .
His advances had alarmed her.
If they had, he ought to be happy about it. Yet he wasn’t. He didn’t like thinking that their kisses and caresses might have made her wary of him. That she might be avoiding Dickson’s to avoid him. Because that smacked too much of what had happened to Clarissa.
Damn it, it wasn’t the same. Delia had been willing. She had practically thrown herself at him. She had been wet for him, had wanted him.
And the feeling was so mutual that he’d barely stopped thinking about their encounter ever since it had happened. He kept wondering how it might have felt to have her mouth on his chest, her hand on his cock, her—
God, he had to stop this madness! As soon as he was sure that Delia had attended the party and was behaving herself, and as soon as he managed to give her the money he owed her, he could leave.
He would leave. To hell with the mystery of the tattooed lord. He was done trying to protect a woman who didn’t even want his help.
A few moments later, a servant showed him into Edwin’s large drawing room, which was a scene of absolute chaos. Eligible young ladies chattered as they pawed through large boxes, eligible young bachelors laughed and measured each other—measured each other?—while Edwin’s brother-in-law, the artist Jeremy Keane, set up an easel.
The Danger of Desire Page 12
