Thomas excused them from the others and escorted Delilah out to the waiting coach.
She stopped short when she saw Clarence Hilton standing in front of their conveyance.
The robust man dabbed a handkerchief at his wet bottom lip and glared at Thomas. “Good evening, Lady Delilah,” Clarence said, as Thomas took a protective step in front of her.
This was the first time Delilah had seen Clarence since their supposed engagement. She certainly hadn’t spoken to him. He hadn’t bothered to so much as pay her a visit, let alone formally ask for her hand. He’d allowed his father and her mother to arrange the entire thing.
Clarence was nearly five and twenty, but he rarely left his father’s home. From what Mother had told her, he preferred instead to stay in his bedchamber playing Patience with an old deck of cards, drinking port, and eating sweets. Lord Hilton had been trying for years to get his son to leave the house and find a bride to produce an heir, but Clarence had refused. Apparently, the earl had found another way to accomplish that task.
“Lord Clarence,” she said woodenly, inclining her head to him. She had to wonder what had made the short man leave the comfort of his bedchamber this evening. His clothing was too small for him, and he looked exceedingly uncomfortable in it, as if his cravat was choking him.
“What are you doing here with him?” Clarence asked, nodding toward Thomas.
“Him has a name,” Thomas declared. “I’m the Duke of Huntley, but you may refer to me as Your Grace.”
Thomas was angry. He would never behave this way otherwise, lording his title over someone else. At the moment, Delilah couldn’t blame him.
“Very well, Your Grace,” Clarence sneered the honorific. “I’ll thank you to unhand my bride.” He glared at Thomas, whose hand lay on the small of Delilah’s back.
“She’s not your bride yet,” Thomas retorted.
“We’re to be married in a fortnight,” Clarence replied.
“If she were my bride, she wouldn’t be out with another man.” Thomas narrowed his eyes on Clarence.
Clarence clenched his fat little fist, but he was obviously too intimidated by Thomas to do anything else. Instead, he glared at Delilah. “I want you to stop spending time with him.” He jabbed a round finger toward Thomas. “I demand it.” He stomped his foot.
“People in Hades want iced water,” Thomas replied quickly.
“We’ll speak of this later,” Clarence said to Delilah. He gave Thomas one last glare before turning on his heel and walking away.
Delilah stared at his back as he ambled off. “Clarence,” she called, after a moment’s thought.
The man stopped and turned around.
“Why are you here? At the theater tonight?” she asked.
His eyes shifted back and forth, and he tugged at the cravat that covered nearly half of his squat face. “Father made me. He wanted me to tell you that we’re to have dinner tomorrow evening at your mother’s house.” He sniffled and wiped at his nose with his bare hand. “I’m going home now.” He turned and meandered away.
“That coward,” Thomas said through clenched teeth. He shook his head. “I cannot believe your mother would have you marry him. A stump post would be a better choice.”
Delilah laid her gloved hand on his to calm him, nausea roiling in her belly. She was beginning to agree with Thomas. Had her mother picked Clarence merely to cause Delilah distress? She didn’t want to believe it, but she suspected it was true. Not that it changed the fact that Thomas was courting her only because she’d tricked him into it. She couldn’t marry Thomas, and she wouldn’t marry Clarence. In the meantime, however, apparently, she would have to spend an evening with the awful little man. Tomorrow.
* * *
If the dinner with the Hiltons could be described in one word, that word was excruciating. Delilah sat at her mother’s dining table the next evening to the right of Lord Hilton who resided at the head. She was forced to look directly across at Clarence, who was the only person of her acquaintance who managed to spill more of his food on his clothing than she did. Perhaps that’s why Mother believed they would suit, she thought to herself with a snort. She wished Thomas were there to share the comment with. Instead, she was forced to swallow her laughter under her mother’s penetrating stare.
“The wedding plans are coming along nicely,” Mother said, taking a ladylike sip from her soup spoon.
The last thing Delilah wanted to do was talk about the weddings. “I heard that Parliament took a vote on the latest Corn Law, Lord Hilton. How did you vote?”
“Good heavens,” Mother said, forcing a fake smile to her lips. “I’m certain Lord Hilton doesn’t want to talk about men’s business at the dinner table with ladies present.” She gave Delilah a condemning glare, clearly meant to quell her from asking such bluestocking-like questions in the future.
“Yes,” Lord Hilton boomed. “I daresay it would be too complicated for you to understand, my dear.” He gave her a condescending smile.
“Oh, I doubt it,” Delilah replied, before her mother kicked her under the table.
Fine. If she couldn’t discuss politics with Lord Hilton, she’d attempt to make conversation with his son. The man must have something to say. Delilah turned her attention to Clarence. “I hear the poet William Blake is ill. What do you think of his views on the church, Lord Clarence?”
Another swift jab from her mother’s foot made Delilah yelp. She reached down and rubbed her sore ankle, frowning at her mother.
“William Blake?” Clarence blinked at her, while he dripped more soup down his stained shirtfront.
Delilah glanced back and forth between Lord Hilton and his son. Surely they knew the famous William Blake. The Corn Laws and Blake were both subjects she’d spoken about upon many occasions with Thomas. She’d had no idea these two men would seem so affronted by the topics. What in heaven’s name did dull men like to speak about then?
“I’ve chosen white lilies for the ceremony,” Mother interjected.
“White lilies? Aren’t those the flowers of death?” Delilah asked, blinking innocently at her mother. This time, she was quick enough to move her leg before Mother could execute her next kick.
“Pink roses have always been my favorite,” Delilah continued, sighing. Her cheeks heated as she recalled her picnic with Thomas. Of course, she had no intention of marrying Clarence Hilton with or without pink roses present, but she might as well say something to lighten up this horribly dull dinner conversation.
“Yes, well, pink roses are costly,” Mother said, nodding toward Lord Hilton.
Delilah frowned again. Since when had Mother worried about the price of anything?
“Are flowers entirely necessary?” Lord Hilton asked, his face pinched.
“No, not at all,” Mother replied. “We’ll make do without them.”
The next two courses were served while the occupants of the table barely spoke a handful of words to each other. Mother occasionally made a comment about the weddings, Lord Hilton occasionally asked a question about the cost, and Clarence continued to eat at an alarming pace.
Delilah was about to ask him if he wanted another helping of salmon when he groaned and clutched his belly.
“Are you all right, Clarence?” his father asked with obvious annoyance.
“No, I’m not.” Clarence continued to groan. “My belly aches.”
“You shouldn’t have eaten so quickly. I’ve warned you about that a dozen times,” Lord Hilton snapped.
Delilah hid her smile behind her wine glass. Oh, dear. She could commiserate with poor Clarence Hilton. The young man was clearly as harassed by his father as she was by her mother.
“I feel quite ill,” Clarence moaned. His forehead was sweating profusely, and he was rapidly turning an unfortunate shade of green.
“Get yourself together, Clarence,” Lord Hilton commanded, his nostrils flaring.
Delilah pushed back her chair and stood. She hurried around to Clarence’s side of
the table and placed a hand on his forehead. “He feels quite hot,” she announced. “Perhaps he should rest in the salon.”
“Yes, thank you,” Clarence said. He clutched Delilah’s arm as she and one of the footmen escorted him out of the dining room.
She helped to settle him in the salon, before turning back toward the door. “I’ll inform your father you’re all right,” she said.
“Please ask him if we may go home,” Clarence said, and Delilah realized then that he was as uncomfortable as she had been, perhaps more so. Clarence didn’t want to marry her any more than she wanted to marry him.
“I’ll do better than that,” she said with a friendly smile. “I’ll tell him you must go.”
She turned to leave. “Thank you, Lady Delilah.” Relief was apparent in Clarence’s voice. “Thank you very much.”
“May I ask you a question, Lord Clarence?”
He nodded, rubbing his belly and groaning.
“When you saw me at the theater with the Duke of Huntley, did you truly care that we were together?”
Clarence blinked his eyes open. “Father said I should tell you to stop spending time with Huntley. He said it was unseemly.”
“I see,” was all Delilah replied before she quit the room. But it made sense. Poor Clarence Hilton had never had a thought of his own. His father told him everything to do. Delilah shook her head. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Not sorry enough to want to marry him, but sorry nonetheless.
A quarter hour later, Lord Hilton and his son had taken their leave. Delilah and her mother had seen them to the door.
“I do hope Clarence recovers,” Delilah said, as she started toward the staircase to retire.
“Beginning to care about him, are you?” her mother said snidely.
“Why?” Delilah asked. “Would that make you wish you hadn’t picked him for me?” She didn’t turn back to allow her mother to see the smile that rested on her face as she mounted the stairs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The next evening, Thomas took Delilah to Vauxhall Gardens to see the fireworks. The gardens were dark, the perfect place for a rendezvous if one didn’t want to be seen. They’d found a secluded spot in the trees where he spread out a blanket for them to sit on.
“How did your dinner with the Hiltons go?” Thomas was watching her profile. He often watched her profile of late. It was a distinctively unfriend-like thing to do. She tried to pretend she didn’t notice. She also tried to pretend as if she didn’t want to kiss him—and do more—a task that was becoming increasingly difficult.
Delilah sighed and leaned back on her palms to stare up at the inky night sky. “Exactly as you might expect. Clarence refused to speak unless prompted by his father. My mother talked of nothing but the weddings, and I was a complete failure at my attempts to change the subject. Fortunately, Clarence declared a stomachache halfway through the meal, and he and Lord Hilton were forced to take their leave.”
Thomas glanced away. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it to the edge of the blanket. This time, she had the opportunity to stare at his profile.
“I can’t believe you’re still acting as if you’re truly going to marry him,” he said.
“I have no intention of marrying him, but I haven’t yet thought of how I shall avoid it. I suppose I could run off and elope.” Belatedly she realized she shouldn’t have said that. She tried to force a laugh, but the humorless sound that emerged from her lips was unconvincing.
“Say the word,” Thomas clipped.
Silence fell between them, a heavy silence in which the reality of their situation weighed upon them. Thomas had no idea how much she’d love to ask him to take her to Gretna Green to save her from Clarence Hilton. But ever since the night his father died, Thomas had turned into a knight in shining armor. He wanted to save everyone, especially his friends. He deserved a woman whom he truly loved and who truly loved him. Not his desperate friend who was in need of a timely rescue. It wouldn’t be fair to Thomas to let him save her.
She was about to tell him so when he turned to her. “Delilah,” he murmured. “Your mother doesn’t deserve you. You are a breath of fresh air, a light in the darkness. You’re everything she’s not, and if she was half the mother you deserve, she wouldn’t waste you on a man like Clarence Hilton.”
Delilah opened her mouth to respond, but words failed her. How could she answer to such a thing? Her mother was her mother. One didn’t get to choose one’s parents. She highly doubted anything she did at this stage in her life would change her mother’s opinion of her.
“Thomas,” she whispered. “I don’t think you understand.”
He leaned toward her until his lips were only inches from hers. He smelled like soap and spice, and she wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and never let go.
“I understand far more than you realize,” he breathed, just before his lips descended to hers.
The kiss was gentle at first. Then, as seemed to be their habit, it turned into something completely different. Pure, raw emotion and need infused it as their tongues met and clashed. He gently pushed her down onto her back and rolled atop her.
“Yes,” she whispered, pulling him hard against her. Her hands tangled in his hair, and she let her head fall back as he rained kisses down her neck.
His hand skimmed down her ribcage, and he hoisted up her skirts on one side, before his fingers brushed against the side of her bare hip. A gasp escaped her. No one had ever touched her this way. He’d moved her shift aside. As if guided by some inner female knowing, she opened for him, spreading her legs as his hand found the juncture between her thighs. She wanted this. Wanted his touch. Shamelessly begged for it.
“Delilah,” he said in a low, warning tone that thrilled her to her toes, “I’m about to take this from improper to purely sinful. But not without your permission. Shall I—”
“Please, yes,” she whispered against his ear.
His finger moved along the seam of her sex—impossibly sinful, perfect—and she shuddered and closed her eyes. Then he dipped one finger inside of her. He slid it in, so slowly and deeply. She bit her lip and called his name against his ear.
He withdrew his touch and slowly moved his finger along her seam again until he found some magical point of pleasure between her thighs. He nudged it again and again with his fingertip while Delilah thought she might go mad from pure longing. She’d never felt such need before. An intense sensation built in her loins, and she tossed her head back and forth fitfully against the blanket, unsure of what she wanted, but desperate for it.
His hand left her momentarily and she gasped, “No.”
His fingers trailed up to her décolletage, where he slid her gown off her shoulder and tugged it down gently, freeing one breast from her shift and stays. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered reverently, before his lips descended to her nipple. He sucked the little bud between his teeth, and Delilah’s eyes rolled back into her head. She clenched her jaw against the raw emotion as his hand descended once more to torture the tender flesh between her thighs.
He sucked her nipple hard into his mouth and lavished it with his tongue while his finger continued its insistent circling between her legs. Her thighs tensed and shook. Sweat beaded down her back. She clutched at his muscled arms, her fingers digging into the fine fabric of his shirt. He tugged at her nipple and then laved it while her breathing came in short little pants against his shoulder. Her eyes couldn’t focus on the night sky. It was all a blur of velvet blue, the stars pinpricks sprinkled across it.
When Thomas’s finger stopped for what felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds, she clutched at his shoulders. “Don’t stop, Thomas. Please,” she nearly sobbed. He started again, simultaneously sucking her nipple into his mouth once more, and the combination of sensations sent her over the edge into some kind of trembling, shattering pleasure she could never have imagined existed. She closed her eyes and saw the stars on the insides of her lids as wave af
ter wave of pure bliss rocked her body.
His breath came in hard pants too, as though he had experienced her pleasure vicariously. He pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks, her damp forehead, her eyelids, and then a single, parting one to her lips. “Delilah. My Delilah.”
Yes, she thought. His. Heart, body, and soul.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“I’m falling in love with Thomas!” Delilah exclaimed the next afternoon over tea in Lucy’s drawing room. Delilah paced in front of the fireplace, her hands pressed against her cheeks, while Lucy, as usual, administered an inordinate amount of sugar into her teacup.
The duchess barely glanced up. “Is that a bad thing?”
Delilah’s eyes widened. “Are you quite serious? Yes, it’s a bad thing.”
Lucy’s brow furrowed. “Why? You said he told you he loves you too.”
“It’s a bad thing because he doesn’t really love me. He only thinks he loves me because of the potion. I’ve ruined everything. And now he’s … he’s…”
She couldn’t bring herself to tell Lucy what Thomas had done to her last night at Vauxhall with his hands and mouth. She still didn’t know what to make of it herself. She only knew it was the most extraordinary thing that had ever happened to her body, and she wanted to do it again with him at the earliest opportunity. Which was part of the problem. She couldn’t allow Thomas to continue to believe he was in love with her and do things for her like that with his tongue and hands. Not when she’d duped him into loving her to begin with. It was all quite wrong. Even if it felt absolutely right.
Lucy took a tentative sip of tea, no doubt to test its sugar content. “I don’t think you’ve ruined everything, dear. Complicated it, perhaps. But isn’t that what we do best? We are only mortal.” She fluttered a hand in the air.
Delilah continued her pacing. “Thomas said it himself. The day I told him I’d purchased the potion. He said, ‘Do you really want a man whom you have to drug to fall in love with you?’ The answer is no. No, I don’t want a man whom I have to drug to fall in love with me.”
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