by Liz Carlyle
Cecilia’s dazed eyes shifted from Etta’s face to Delacourt’s, then back again. Unsteadily, she raised one hand to the back of her head. “Ooh!” she managed to say. “Delacourt, wh-what happened?”
“Just be still, Cecilia,” he whispered, sliding his other arm beneath her knees and lifting her easily from the floor. Black bombazine flowed over his arm like a somber waterfall as Cecilia’s warm fragrance drifted up to tease at his nostrils.
Abruptly, he turned to the maidservant. “Fetch some ice and a cloth, if you please,” he ordered.
Etta shot him an assessing look, then snapped to attention. “Straightaway, m’lord!” She bobbed a slap-dash curtsy and darted out the door.
Swiftly, he crossed the room to settle Cecilia onto the long, leather sofa beneath the windows. When the back of her head touched the arm, she winced. “Damnation!” She jerked her head up again.
“That’s my girl,” muttered Delacourt, feeling a weak smile tug at his mouth. At once, he stripped off his angel-hair coat and rolled it into a ball, placing it gingerly behind her shoulders. “There. Better?”
Very carefully, Cecilia leaned back again. “Y-yes,” she answered, wincing as she lightly touched her fingertips to her temple. “Thank you. Did I step on a pencil?”
Still kneeling by the sofa, Delacourt began to tug at her skirts. “I fear so,” he admitted, giving a neat jerk on her hems so that they covered her ankles. “And I am to blame. It was quite careless of me to pitch that ledger on your desk.”
“Oh, I’m just clumsy,” she responded, her vision beginning to refocus. It was only then that she realized just how close Lord Delacourt was. He now knelt beside her on the floor, discreetly rearranging her skirts.
It should have made her anxious. Indeed, there had been a time when the words Delacourt and skirts in the same sentence would have made her squirm with discomfort. But absent his elegant coat, and with his cravat and hair askew, he looked harmless, almost boyish.
Delacourt’s face had gone white, and Cecilia had the startling impression that her fall really had frightened him. She loathed him, yes. But she had no wish to alarm him. Abruptly, she extended her hand. “Honestly, I’m not hurt,” she said. “If you could just help me sit up, I daresay I’ll regain my balance.”
Lord Delacourt shot her a reproving glance. “Really, Lady Walrafen, I must insist you lie down.”
His tone brooked no opposition, and Cecilia knew she should snap back with some cold retort. But her head hurt, and her heart was no longer steeled for battle.
Suddenly, she felt very fragile. And Delacourt seemed infallibly strong. At that precise moment, however, Cecilia realized she was staring at him.
Abruptly, he tore his gaze from hers and bent his head, staring down at the folds of her skirt. His heavy dark hair fell forward and again, despite her dizziness, Cecilia found herself unexpectedly captivated. It fell thick, straight, and just a little too long, emphasizing the aristocratic bones of his face.
Still kneeling, he absently smoothed the back of his hand across the dark bombazine. She watched the odd motion until his hand fell to his knee. For a long moment, he simply stared at the fabric of her dress. Finally, he spoke, but his words were very quiet. “Did you indeed love him, Cecilia?”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked uncertainly.
Lord Delacourt gave a wintry smile. “Walrafen,” he said quietly, returning his gaze to hers. “I thought you’d put off your widow’s weeds.”
Suddenly, comprehension dawned. “Oh, the dress!” she whispered. “No, no, my lord. I am going to the funeral.”
The veiled emotion in Delacourt’s eyes shifted to confusion. “The funeral?”
And then Cecilia remembered. “Good heavens! I shall be late!” Awkwardly, she struggled to a sitting position. What was she doing here, gaping at Delacourt like some moon calf?
Delacourt made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat, but he gave her his arm for balance. “Thank you,” she said. “Now I must have my carriage at once.”
Before Delacourt could refuse her, Cecilia’s maid returned bearing a small, damp bundle. “No, no,” protested Cecilia, waving Etta away when the maid attempted to place it against the back of her head. “I don’t want ice. I want my coach.”
Still kneeling beside Cecilia, Delacourt cut a swift glance up at Etta. “What funeral? What does she mean?”
Cecilia answered in Etta’s stead. “Good heavens! Did Amherst not tell you of my letter? One of our girls was found dead, horribly murdered.”
Delacourt’s eyes flared with alarm. “Good God! Not here?”
Cecilia managed to shake her head. “No, in Pearl Street. Two nights past.” Quickly, she looked up at Etta. “Has Kitty gone?”
Etta nodded. “Went orf w’ Meg McNamara ‘alf an hour ago.”
Cecilia braced one hand on the sofa and stood. At once, Delacourt slid his arm smoothly beneath hers, and instinctively she leaned on it. “I was told nothing of any murder,” he protested anxiously. “And any note to Amherst likely went unread. Lady Kildermore sprained her ankle yesterday, and he’s been dogging her like a mother hen.”
Suddenly, Cecilia wanted to laugh—from the blow to her head, she did not doubt. “Isn’t that a mixed metaphor?” she asked, steadying herself on Delacourt’s arm. “Dogs and hens?”
Delacourt scowled. “Do not change the subject. You are unwell. I must insist upon seeing you safely home.”
Cecilia caught the arrogance which had returned to his voice, and it sobered her. Really, what was she doing making a jest with Lord Delacourt? The man was nothing more than the fribble she’d called him. “Well, if you wish to see me home, then you’ll do it by way of Moorfields,” she calmly returned. “For I am most assuredly going to the service, whether you like it or not.”
“A funeral is no place for a lady,” he calmly insisted. “And certainly not in that neighborhood.”
“The neighborhood is not an issue, and no one will know I’ve gone.”
Delacourt’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot be sure of that, Cecilia.”
Cecilia laughed out loud. “It is a Catholic mass for an East End prostitute, Delacourt,” she cynically retorted. “I rather doubt your beau monde dandies will mistake it for a musicale.”
———
And so it was that within the hour, Lord Delacourt found himself in a dank, empty church situated near one of the bleakest squares in London. He looked about the vaulted chamber and wondered what had possessed him to come. Cecilia did indeed seem recovered from the blow to her head. Had assistance been required, her maid could have accompanied her. No doubt she had planned on doing precisely that, had he not insisted upon acting the gentleman.
She was an interesting one, that saucy lady’s maid, and Delacourt did not doubt for one moment just where Cecilia had found her, either. A Covent Garden nunnery, or he’d eat his next cheroot with one end still smoldering.
Before leaving the mission on Pennington Street, the girl had awkwardly redressed Lady Walrafen’s heavy hair, fluffed it just a bit, then repositioned her hat and veil just a little to the back. Strangely, Delacourt had found himself caught up in—no, mesmerized by the process. And for the briefest of moments, he’d wished that the fingers which slid through that mass of flame-gold curls had been his.
The bizarre thought had maddened him, coming as it did on the heels of that extraordinary rush of fear which had nearly choked him when he’d seen her fall. He had been compelled to remind himself of just why he did not like her. Of why he had so assiduously avoided her all these years.
Abruptly, he had jerked to his feet, muttered his excuses, and gone downstairs for a smoke on the pavement while he waited for Cecilia’s carriage.
And now, here he stood. In the middle of Saint Mary Moorfields, with Cecilia Lorimer—a woman he deeply despised—at his elbow. Through the high, arched windows, weak shafts of wintry sunlight seeped in, and to his grave discomfort, one of them shone directly on Cecilia’s open,
angelic face. Discreetly, he looked down to study her.
He had forgotten how short she was. And how delicately lovely. It had been a very long time since he had looked—truly looked—at her face. Certainly, he had not been looking at her face the first time he’d seen her. No, Delacourt had been captivated by something just a little bit lower.
Yes, he was sorry it had happened. The guilt he still suffered far outweighed the pleasure he’d taken in gazing upon her nakedness. But the pleasure had been great indeed. Sweet heaven, what a lithe little body she’d possessed. A body which had only improved with time, if the lush curves beneath her plain jet-black dress could be trusted. What he wouldn’t give to get his hands on those fine, full mounds one more...
Oh, no. He tried to jerk himself up short. Delacourt knew all too well that a man did not have to like a woman to lust after her. And he did not like Cecilia Lorimer. She was a coldblooded, sharp-tongued shrew. But sometimes, it was hard to forget how perfect she’d felt in his arms. Yes, it galled him to admit, even to himself, that in the past six years, there had been more than a few occasions when he’d honestly found himself wondering. Wondering if it mightn’t have been worth the torment.
Yet, to his surprise, he had escaped that fate. She really had not wanted him. The truth of what he’d done had never leaked out. And two years later, Cecilia had been able to make a highly respectable match with nothing worse than “jilt” whispered behind her back.
Delacourt questioned—not for the first time—what she had seen in old Lord Walrafen, a man more than twice her age. And now, did the beautiful Cecilia find her widowhood lonely? Did she seek any masculine comfort at all? What about Giles? She was often seen in his company, and it was no secret that he’d once hoped to offer for her. But Giles had missed his chance. Old Walrafen had stolen a march on his heir. Perhaps she and Giles were lovers? Still, it was said Cecilia spurned all offers. It was—on a purely physical level, of course—a shame to watch such exquisite femininity go to waste.
Yes, perhaps he ought to insist upon completing this foolish task of Amherst’s. In truth, there was no gentlemanly way out of it. Not unless Cecilia cut up enough fuss to convince Cole to release him. And she might. But if he stayed—if he had no choice but to put up with her—perhaps he might at least find some way to amuse himself. She was still skittish as a colt, yes. But the lady was no longer an innocent. Perhaps the right amount of heat might melt that ice water of hers to a hissing, hot steam.
His hand, which rested upon the pew in front of him, clenched visibly at the thought. Still standing rigidly, Delacourt drew in a deep, unsteady breath and stared into the shadows of the chancel. What a challenge she would be. But Delacourt had never failed to seduce any woman. Not once he’d set his mind to it.
Suddenly, he realized the horrible direction his thoughts were taking. And he realized, too, just where he was. Delacourt was by no means as pious as his annoyingly perfect brother-in-law, but even he did not wish to tempt God’s thunderbolts by reveling in lascivious thoughts amidst a funeral mass. He paused to send up a little prayer for forgiveness. At that very moment, however, the priest waddled out of the vestry, crossed the chancel, and with a sonorous rumble, cleared his throat. Delacourt sighed with relief.
———
Following the graveside prayers, Cecilia lingered just long enough to slip the priest a generous donation then, with Lord Delacourt still at her side, she walked out of the graveyard’s cold shadows and into the brilliance of day. It seemed somehow inappropriate that the sun shone so brightly on such a dreadful afternoon. She only hoped that poor Mary had found such a light at the end of her journey.
Standing pensively by the wrought-iron gate, she looked down the length of Bunhill Row to see that both Kitty and Meg had vanished. Somehow, Delacourt had already managed to send for her carriage, which had been left behind at Finsbury Square. It now awaited her in the street beyond.
Gently, he urged her along the pavement, and without waiting for her footman, he opened the door himself. The creaking of the door hinges brought her back to reality, and to the truth of just who it was standing at her elbow.
As her skirts brushed past him, Delacourt turned to look at her, his expression inscrutable. “You will return straightaway to Marylebone, will you not, Lady Walrafen?” he asked forcefully, as if he did not mean to accompany her.
Cecilia drew her cloak a little nearer and looked up—quite far up—to stare at him. How had she managed to forget how incredibly tall the viscount was? “No, I fear I cannot,” she finally responded. “I must go back down to Pennington Street. I have things yet to do.”
Lord Delacourt looked displeased. “You have taken a nasty blow to the head, ma’am, and suffered a most trying afternoon,” he firmly asserted. “You would be well advised to rest.”
Cecilia mounted the steps into her carriage. “But you have left your equipage at the mission,” she returned, settling herself onto the seat. She looked back at him with an exasperated sigh. “Oh, look here, Delacourt—you may as well get in. I mean to go, whether you like it or not.”
With a grim expression, Delacourt hauled himself up. “You seem to possess an extraordinary fondness for that particular expression. Indeed, you mean to do a great many things which are ill advised.”
Cecilia merely stared into the depths of the carriage. She was acutely aware that her anger had irrationally surged forth again, but she felt powerless to stop it. Really, what was her problem? His manner was no more high-handed than that of any other man of her acquaintance, and yet, she seemed unable to ignore Delacourt as she did them. He seemed too large, too close. In his proximity, her heartbeat skipped and her temperature climbed, and Cecilia found herself wishing to punish him for it.
Abruptly, Delacourt rapped the gold knob of his stick impatiently against the roof. “Walk on!” he commanded, and the vehicle lurched into motion.
She snapped her gaze back to his. “I’ll thank you not to order my coachman about, if you please.”
Delacourt lifted his brows haughtily. “You wished to return to Pennington Street, I believe,” he coldly responded. “To do that, someone must give the command.”
“Then do it in a more civil tone.”
Delacourt ripped off his very elegant hat and tossed it onto the bench. “You really do mean to quarrel, do you not, Cecilia? You really must insist upon it.”
Cecilia jerked loose the frog which closed her cloak. “I did not invite you to accompany me here, Delacourt,” she said, shoving the cloak off her shoulders with a sharp, impatient motion. “That was your decision.”
“And what choice did you leave me, madam? You were clearly unwell. And I think my reputation has suffered enough at your hands—”
“Your reputation?” she interjected.
Coldly, Delacourt cut her off. “And I will not be thought less than a gentleman for permitting an injured, unaccompanied woman to go haring back along a cesspit like Whitechapel.”
“My maid would have come, had you not done so!”
“But you failed to mention that, did you not?” His voice was low and rough. “Indeed, Cecilia, I sometimes think you wish to torment me quite deliberately.”
Cecilia drew back into the shadows so that he could not see the color which flamed in her cheeks. Good heavens, why must she be cursed with such a complexion? And with such a companion! “I did not give you leave to use my Christian name,” she answered in a cold, quiet voice.
Delacourt slid forward on the carriage seat and leaned very intently forward, right into her face. “Oh, but you must have, my dear,” he said, his voice lethally soft. “Recollect, if you will, that to all the world, we were once betrothed. A love match, it was said, until you came to your senses and saw me for the blackguard that I am.”
Smoothly, Delacourt lifted his long, elegant fingers and brushed them ever so lightly around the turn of her jaw, skimming her flesh like silk.
The caress was brief but not quite gentle. And though he sat c
loaked in shadows, Cecilia could see the wicked green light which flared in his eyes. Delacourt’s mouth was a hard line, the skin drawn tight across the lean lines of his face.
Cecilia shuddered, a bone-deep tremor of lust, loathing, and confusion. “Just leave me alone, Delacourt,” she whispered.
Delacourt saw right through her. “Why should I? Why should I leave you alone, Cecilia, when I could do things to you that no decent man ought? I could make you scream and scratch and claw at me like a mad-woman. If I wished to. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“I said leave me alone.”
But he would not be silenced so easily. “Remember, Cecilia?” he whispered silkily. “Remember the first time I kissed you? Put my tongue deep into your mouth? I remember. Oh, yes. For I still have the scar down the back of my neck to prove it.”
She could almost smell the surge of antagonism, deeper than anything she might have expected from him. And why? In the past six years, Delacourt had never shown her anything but cool disdain.
Alarmed by his proximity, she drew further into her corner. With a look of disgust, he moved his hand again, apparently intending to retrieve his hat. But in the shifting light, she foolishly mistook the motion. “Do not touch me again!” she hissed, recoiling.
The intensity in Delacourt’s expression flared, then suddenly burned down to simple disdain. “Not if you were the last woman on earth,” he whispered, his eyes narrow. “I’d sooner cut it off and pickle it in a cask of ha’penny gin than offer it to you again.”
Suddenly, the carriage lurched hard to the right, making the turn onto Bishopsgate. Unprepared, Cecilia was tossed gracelessly against the wall, almost losing her bonnet. Grabbing at the door with one hand, she threw up the other to grasp her hat, somehow managing to whack the lump on her head.
“Ouch!” she yelped. With the bonnet slid over one eye, she must have looked ridiculous. Delacourt’s mouth twitched suspiciously, and pressing one knuckle to his sinful lips, he cut his eyes toward the window.
