“It was true a mere three weeks ago,” the Earl remarked, not precisely under his breath.
“Cease your insufferable insinuations!” Mr. Whitmore expostulated, “That was quite an age ago! I was infatuated on a level so superficial when compared with the deep feeling I have for this lady of such exquisite beauty, such manners, and such taste! Her hair, so soft…her—“
Durham interrupted him, “You have touched her hair? I was certain you said she was a lady.”
“I most certainly did not touch her hair, Lord Durham,” Mr. Whitmore replied, indignant. “I am simply speculating on its softness because I could see it! So many colors: red and brown and gold…and her eyes! Nearly violet!” Lady Delia appeared unwelcome in his mind as he listened to Mr. Whitmore’s lengthy description of his love’s attributes. She had hair that was too many shades to count; it was so soft, like the rest of her so very soft and white.
“Don’t you think, Durham?” Mr. Whitmore asked him, interrupting his thoughts.
“What?”
“Don’t you think I should ask Mrs. Mannering to come with us to Covent Garden tomorrow evening? She says she is in mourning but it’s been almost two years and absolutely no one will be there to recognize her! It would be a bit of fun, don’t you think? Or would that be improper?”
His two companies both looked up in surprise.
“Mrs. Mannering?” asked Durham.
“Yes, that’s her name. Didn’t I tell you? I was sure I did! It is likely you were not attending, as you were too busy criticizing. It’s no matter; you will soon see why I have been so effusive. Mrs…Well, I’ll have you know that she’s such a lady that I don't even know her Christian name! She is a widow. Here is her card. I kept it because its beautiful scent reminds me of her exquisite drawing room and the softness of her hand…” Mr. Whitmore’s voice continued but Durham snatched the card out of his hand before his friend the Earl could take it.
“It is I who will be the hero to my sister,” he told Blackwell as he inspected the card. “Which is as it should be, of course, as I am her brother.” He smiled with amusement while his friend stared at the card in amazement.
“D.E. Mannering! Why, that is extraordinary!”
Durham smiled a superior smile.
“Indeed you must invite the beautiful widow Mannering tomorrow evening. I confess I cannot wait to meet her,” Durham said to Mr. Whitmore.
“I am also quite curious to meet this paragon,” added the Earl of Blackwell, to his cousin’s confusion. “Please do ensure she attends.”
Chapter 17
When Amelia brought a note from Mr. Whitmore the next morning, Lady Delia was surprised and pleased to have heard from him so quickly. She tore open the envelope and bade Amelia wait.
“Why, it’s an invitation!” she said with astonishment.
“To what, my lady?”
“Ma’am! You mustn’t call me my lady, lest anyone hear!” Lady Delia reminded her maid impatiently but then continued “It’s tonight—to Covent Garden! He said he and some friends have hired a box…and, while he absolutely respects my being in mourning, he suggests that towards the end of formal mourning, it might be appropriate to begin being seen in public, and furthermore…absolutely no one will be in attendance tonight of the older and judging variety (that part is underlined) and he begs to be allowed to send a carriage for me at ten!”
“Good Heavens!”
“Indeed! Though, the usual transition from formal mourning involves attending afternoon musicales at the homes of respectable matrons, I cannot say I am not tempted!”
“Would there be anything wrong, my lady? It’s not as if anyone who knows you from Washburn Court would be there.”
“No, but there is always a risk of seeing an old friend of father or mother’s but it does not seem likely. It’s not a ball, after all. And they do have a private box. Amelia, I do confess I know not what I ought to do!”
“If you are asking for my opinion,” replied the maid stoutly, “I should think my lady quite deserves a bit of fun after all the work you’ve been doing, ma’am. It’s not every day a lady publishes a book and a young man asks her to an evening out.”
“But do you think I ought? I suppose that even if Mr. Whitmore said he was with a widow, since I never actually had a husband and he never actually died, no one would be able to claim that I had not mourned the proper two years?”
“Indeed that is so, ma’am!” said Amelia. “I think that means we must find something for you to wear from these clothes we finally got from Washburn and get your hair fixed, then.”
“Yes, Amelia, yes! Why, bring me some note-paper. I shall accept at once.”
As Lady Delia wrote out the note for Mr. Whitmore, Amelia inventoried her mistress’ wardrobe. Amelia’s cousin, the footman Georgie, had successfully sent the trunks via post that Amelia had packed and she had rather a large selection to choose from. But there was nothing that was of the ball gown variety that could very well pass for even half-mourning, as Lady Delia had at Washburn Court no occasion to wear such a thing. And all of her ball gowns had been white, as became a debutante.
They eventually decided on a gown of white muslin, the girlishness of which was tempered by two rows of embroidered violets in deep purple satin. The low, square neckline flattered Delia’s figure and, with her long auburn curls piled high and away from her face, Amelia was quite pleased with her mistress’s appearance as she prepared for Mr. Whitmore’s carriage to take her to Covent Garden, where the gentleman would meet her.
“I do hope you have a lovely time, ma’am!” Amelia said as she admired Lady Delia’s reflection in the mirror on the dressing table. “You look quite beautiful if I do say so myself.”
“Thank you, Amelia,” she replied. “I feel somehow afraid that I might be cheating father—going out when I ought to be still in mourning—but then I remember he was so sick for so long, it’s almost as if he’s been dead for years. Perhaps it is only that I make excuses for myself for doing things I know I oughtn’t.”
“My lady—err, ma’am, you mustn’t be so hard on yourself! I think it is a good thing that you go out tonight and anyone who says otherwise is not having your best interests at heart. That’s what I say.”
Lady Delia smiled and rose. She admitted to herself she looked quite well. Better than she had in months, since she was no longer in heavy black or gray or lavender. She was excited to go out, excited to see and meet new people and she was pleased to see Mr. Whitmore again. He did not give her the unpleasant tingling feeling or make her short of breath the way the Marquess had and she decided this was what interactions with proper young men were supposed to feel like. They were calm and delightful and easy to understand with admiration on both sides and no shocking insults.
When the carriage arrived, she was ready and waiting and was handed into it by a very properly liveried footman of Mr. Whitmore’s. As they drove, she tried to suppress her excitement at being in an area of town she had yet to experience on her visit. There was little view from inside the carriage in the darkness at the late hour, but she enjoyed the ride nonetheless. And, when they finally stopped in front of Covent Garden, Lady Delia was delighted with anticipation. The carriage door opened and Mr. Whitmore appeared immediately to hand her down himself.
“Mrs. Mannering!” he said, bringing her gloved hand to his lips, “I’ve been waiting for you to arrive,” he said, “and may I say you look more beautiful than even I could have anticipated!” In truth, Mr. Whitmore looked slightly thunderstruck in Lady Delia’s opinion, but she accounted this the result of the difference in her appearance in a half-mourning tea dress at their first meeting and the evening ensemble currently draping her figure.
“I am so pleased to see you! And thank you again for the wonderful invitation tonight. I was surprised and delighted to receive it,” Lady Delia replied as he directed her to the box he had procured for the evening.
“We will joined by my cousin and his friend tonight,
and perhaps some ladies, but I confess I am not so well acquainted with them as to know their names” Mr. Whitmore continued semi-coherently as he steered Lady Delia through the crowds. She was beginning to fear she ought not to have come. There were so very many people, and she feared being recognized. When at last they reached their box, she sat with relief and looked so distressed that her companion was alarmed.
“Mrs. Mannering? Is everything quite all right?” he sat eagerly next to her, taking her hand.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Whitmore, it is only that I have not seen such a crowd in longer than I can remember! I am certainly fine—thank you,” she permitted him to keep her hand and he bent to kiss it.
“Do—Mrs. Mannering—please call me Freddy? May I know your Christian name? I confess I do not know it and, while I could presume to use it only after given permission, it would please me to be able to think of you by it.” Lady Delia laughed as some of her nervousness was dispelled and she was able to extricate her hand to cover her mouth at her small pleasure.
“But of course, Freddy,” she said, obliging him. “It is Delia. Delia Mannering.”
“Delia! How beautiful. I know it was D something from your card. But I had no idea it was Delia. Very well, Delia, may I procure us some champagne? I fear the crowd has distressed you.”
“I am not at all distressed! My slight surprise is over and I am perfectly content. But I would very much enjoy some champagne. Thank you.” She smiled up at him and he impetuously grasped her hand and kissed it again, and Lady Delia thought that was really rather a lot of hand-kissing. Perhaps she had not exaggerated it in Annabelle’s Adventures, after all.
As he stood and left the box, she heard his voice saying, “Mrs. Mannering’s already in the box. I will return shortly with champagne. Try not to frighten her, will you? She’s not used to crowds.”
She smiled again at his naïve solicitude and stood up to see who he had instructed not to frighten her, only to look straight into the piercing eyes of the Marquess of Durham.
Chapter 18
When Lord Durham’s dark eyes found the person Mr. Whitmore described as Mrs. Mannering in the opera box, his black eyebrows shot up with shock. Lady Delia had stood to greet Mr. Whitmore’s guest, but at the sight of the Marquess, she stumbled backward and her arm struck the side of the box, hard. Tears of pain formed in her eyes as her heart jumped to her throat and she grasped her elbow in pain.
She had no time to answer before another beautiful man came into the box, towing a lady in deep green whose markedly lovely face was enhanced by a bit of powder and rouge and Lady Delia trembled with alarm. The Marquess immediately took two steps forward and steadied her.
“Blackwell! Lovely to see you, of course. This is Mrs. Mannering but as you can see, she is quite overcome by the heat. It is quite dreadfully hot in here. Please tell Mr. Whitmore never to worry, but that I took her out to the gardens for some air. I am sure we will return shortly.” When Durham touched her arm, she could not help but stiffen in terror but she permitted herself to be steered out of the box and then down a short staircase that appeared to be used only by the staff and out a back door into the moonlight. Her mortification and fear at her discovery was utterly overwhelming and she was unable to prevent the short journey to the privacy of the back garden.
Once they were outside, Mason let go of her arm and she dashed to a where a bench stood, shaded by trees heavy with leaves. She stood behind the bench, placing it between herself and the Marquess for protection.
“D.E. Mannering, I presume,” he said, his voice low. She shivered and a tear escaped from her eyes but she dashed it away. “Delia. Ellsworth?” She took a deep breath and looked straight at him as he read the card she had given on the previous afternoon to Mr. Whitmore. He was still so beautiful she hated herself for drinking it in. She took a deep breath.
“Yes.”
“The authoress?”
She did not lower her eyes. “Yes.”
“What the devil are you doing at Covent Garden with Freddy Whitmore?” his voice was filled with utter disbelief.
“I am sure I fail to see how that is any of your concern, my lord!” she replied, “Whatever are you doing here?”
“I need hardly explain how or why I attend an opera under my own name! But I fail to understand why Lady Delia Ellsworth is attending an opera ball with my friend’s cousin under a false name. And a name which, if I am not mistaken, belongs to the author of a shocking and lurid romantic novel currently circulating in the ton. But, by Jove, please do inquire as to the oddness of my appearing here in front of you.”
“First of all,” retorted Lady Delia with high color, “I met Mr. Whitmore, with whom I assume you are acquainted based on that most recent speech, in my street as he was looking for the home of his aunt, whose address he had forgotten. I volunteered to ask one of my staff of her direction.” He snorted and interrupted.
“Well that’s a ridiculous enough story but what I want to know is why the notorious Lady Delia Ellsworth is in London in the first place, let alone attending the opera with an impressionable young man,” he finished with a vehemence that surprised her.
Her delicately arched eyebrows drew together and she fought to keep her voice down.
“I am not notorious! You are the only dreadful person who has ever accused me of being so! After I fled Washburn Court from my horrible, scheming guardian I had to think of way to support myself in town and I would thank you not to ruin my only chance of making a living with your vicious and sinister tales!”
Seeing that he was struck dumb, she came out from behind the bench. “Now my lord, I shall go back inside and fetch Freddy, telling him I have the headache and beg to be returned home. I’m afraid I cannot enjoy this entertainment with your scowling, accusing presence looming over all and sundry. I only ask that you do not reveal my identity and that you do not let it be known that D.E. Mannering is a woman living in London, though I entertain little hope you should be so agreeable. I will bid you good night.”
Lady Delia swept past him as he stared at her, shocked. She thought with grim pleasure that at least this time, she had been able to respond and he had not been able to take advantage of his effect on her body. She quickly mounted the steps and found a relieved Mr. Whitmore, upset at having left her in such a delicate state.
“Good evening, Mr. Whitmore” she said to him, “I am most dreadfully sorry, but I was overcome by the crowd and cannot seem to overcome this headache, as kind as the Marquess was to take me outside to get some air. He is, I am sure, directly behind me. He saw another acquaintance as we returned. Would you ever forgive me if I begged to be returned home?”
Mr. Whitmore nearly fell upon her with relief but the disappointment in his face was clear. Lady Delia turned to the two other guests in the box and Freddy recovered to make introductions to the Earl of Blackwell and his friend, Lady Wilmot. She smiled politely as they shook hands and left, apologizing all the while.
The carriage ride home was excruciating, but she closed her eyes as if in pain and she permitted Mr. Whitmore to hold her hand, thus reducing the need for conversation. On her doorstep, he insisted he would call on her the very next day and she scarcely knew what she said to him before she was upstairs in her bed, shaking with tears and wondering how she would explain it all to Amelia, who she had sent to bed when she left at ten.
Chapter 19
When Mason had stepped into the box at Covent Garden, his first vision had been of a lovely silhouette. But then the shape of the face, no longer in silhouette, had struck him immediately. He had not seen the face in nearly three months, but it was burned into his memory and his shock had momentarily frozen him, until she had reacted and stumbled, painfully. He could not think why Lady Delia was in front of him, why she was calling herself Mrs. Mannering, or how she could possibly be the D.E. Mannering his sister Harriet so desperately sought. His first thought had been that Freddy had taken her as his mistress. He had proceeded to see red, but shortly
his memories of Freddy’s innocent description of her and her tirade in the garden had made him doubt that particular explanation.
He saw her violet eyes filled with tears and her beautiful face furious with rage as her slender neck turned pink while she chastised him. The soft skin of her arm as he had led her outside seemed softer now and itched to touch it in spite of himself. After excusing himself to Blackwell, who appeared not at all disappointed to see him go, giving he and Lady Wilmot the box to themselves, he had arrived home utterly confused. Was she or wasn’t she a shockingly forward young lady with loose morals? After I fled Washburn Court from my horrible scheming guardian, I had to think of way to support myself she had hissed at him.
He saw the copy of Annabelle’s Adventures on the table where he had left it. So, Lady Delia had written something of their encounter in the book. What else was there? He opened to Chapter Two, where the heroine appeared to be hiding in a garden from her guardian, who sought to gain her inheritance by forcing her to marry him. He remembered the scene he had witnessed on the drive to Washburn Court, the two figures in the garden with one holding the other one back. In the book, Annabelle’s guardian had twisted his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back and threatened to force her to marry him.
As he continued to read, now turning the pages faster and faster, his shock and displeasure increased. In the third chapter, the wicked guardian attempted to creep into the heroine’s bedchamber and she had been forced to escape into the bedroom of…the hero. The Marquess stared. Was that what Lady Delia had been doing? Fleeing her guardian, not seeking a lover? Shocked, Durham dropped the book to the floor, exceedingly put out at his own stupidity and his complicity in Lady Delia’s unhappiness.
Then he thought of what he had done to her in that bed at Washburn Court. It was beyond inexcusable. The girl was doubtless completely terrified. But then he remembered how her body had risen to meet his and how her gorgeous eyes had darkened at his kisses. He recalled how her breasts had tasted when he took just one rosy nipple into his mouth. These thoughts, he instructed himself, aided no one. Meanwhile, while he was busy salivating at the lovely flesh of a young woman, that young woman had fled her home and been ruined in the eyes of the ton, thanks to his ineptitude. It was not an agreeable speculation.
A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) Page 9
