The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey

by Carolyn Miller

  “Oh, but I—” She stopped, biting her lip.

  Again he felt the tug of attraction. What would her kiss feel like? He knew she smelled sweet, that she was all that was desirable. He stifled a groan. Had absence made him so foolish? How could he ever keep these feelings at bay?

  He moved away, offered his hand to help her rise. “Your mother would not be pleased to learn what has happened.”

  Her cheeks tinted to rose. “No.”

  “Then we will go.”

  He helped her into her pelisse and escorted her from the small hall, tossing off an excuse to Mattie when she ran up to find out what was the matter.

  They moved through the churchyard. How could anyone think Miss DeLancey all that the viscount had accused her of being? She was modest; anyone could tell that. Indeed, at times she seemed quite shy. How could such a genteel young lady be considered so lacking in propriety that she would set her cap at a married man? Surely that kind of woman would not deign to play for those unfortunates attending David and Mattie’s hostel for sailors and soldiers?

  Her steps were quick; he matched them. It was enough to make him wonder in what other ways they might be suited. Foolishness, of course—a viscount’s daughter must remain forever out of reach, even if by some miracle the Regent paid his vow. But was it that harmful to dream?

  He glanced at her, walking beside him, the breeze teasing strands of hair loose from her bonnet. She seemed more determined than he remembered, more at ease within herself, even if Wilson’s actions had caused a moment’s fright. Not that he blamed the man. She was pretty, with a figure a godly man fought not to dream about. And talented, as the music he’d heard in London attested. At times he’d even thought she shared his sense of humor. His lips curved. He welcomed her quickness in following his lead without any of the arguing Mattie would offer. Yet despite this submissiveness, Miss DeLancey must hold more spunk than he’d realized, if she was so willing to perform for the poor and thus defy societal decrees—and most likely her mother.

  They turned the corner of the Steyne and hurried along Marine Parade. She kept her head down, as if fearful of recognition. He tried not to let it bother him that it may be because she might not wish to be seen in his company. Probably it was because she simply did not want it reported back to her parents just where she had been. That had to be it. Didn’t it?

  “Miss DeLancey?”

  She glanced up at him, those green eyes he found so entrancing now more filled with light than ever. “Yes?”

  “You—” He swallowed. He wanted to say something about her beauty, something about how he’d be happy to have her on his arm for the rest of his days, something about how he knew such a sweet, modest young lady should not be the subject of the scandalous speculation as found in London. He settled for, “You have been missed.”

  She blushed. “I … I understand poor Tessa has not had an easy time of it.”

  “No. She will be pleased to see you again, though.” As I am, he added silently.

  They passed on a few more steps. He found himself wishing the Royal Crescent was even farther. Walking on a sunny summer’s day in the sea air with a pretty lady on his arm made him wish the walk was ten times as long.

  “How is”—she breathed deeply—“Miss Amelia?”

  “Amelia? I wouldn’t know.”

  She stopped. Glanced up at him, a frown in her eyes. “You wouldn’t know? That is hardly right.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How can a man have so little regard for his betrothed?” She drew her arm from his.

  “His betrothed?” He frowned. “Forgive me, I do not take your meaning. I did not think you had met George yet.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I have not met him.”

  “Then how can you think him so careless of Amelia’s feelings?” He grinned. “I assure you, he takes the utmost care of maintaining her and her parents’ sensibilities in the manner to which they are accustomed.”

  She blinked. “Amelia is George’s betrothed?”

  “Yes. Why, you didn’t think she could be mine, did you?”

  Her cheeks deepened in hue, but before he could study this fascinating development, she had hurried off, leaving him to catch up.

  “You did think that, didn’t you?”

  “Matilda never mentioned which brother was engaged.”

  “And you thought it me.”

  She said nothing, but neither did she need to. It was written all over her face.

  “Let me assure you, my dear Miss DeLancey, that Miss Amelia Windsor is not the type of young lady to engage either my interest or my heart.”

  “I’m sure I have not the least idea why you are telling me such things.”

  “No? I’m sure I have not the least idea why I feel you must be told.”

  She peeked up at him then. He smiled, biting back a laugh as she quickly turned away and resumed walking.

  “I can only say that I am partial to brunettes, especially those with hair as dark as ebony.”

  He caught the way she bit her bottom lip. Did she still not take his meaning? He hurried to add, “Especially a brunette with the most intriguing green eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  “You … you should not say such things, sir.”

  “Probably not,” he agreed. “But I find myself quite unable to cease from doing so.”

  She shook her head. “You are a tease.” She turned to ascend the step to her door.

  He stilled her with a gentle hand. “I am serious.”

  “Then you are unwise.”

  Her eyes caught his, reminding him of starlit seas, of tropical lagoons, of jade carvings he’d seen in the Far East. His heart snagged afresh. He swallowed. “Perhaps I am unwise, Miss DeLancey, but I find I must tell you one more thing.”

  She took a step back. Clutched a tall iron spike as if needing support. “What is that?”

  “I think you are beautiful.”

  She gasped, turned paler still, then turned and hurried inside.

  Leaving him ruing his folly, ruing his haste, but unable to forget the joy, the rightness, of feeling her tucked under his arm. Or her scent. Or her lips.

  He strode through the park, down to the clifftop, and faced the sea. He glanced over his shoulder back at the house, in time to see a curtain flick back into place. Had she been watching him?

  He hoped she might look on him favorably. He wished he had something more than a heroic past to offer her. For she felt so right beside him, her voice, her scent, her kindness, all that was intriguing. He wanted to know her more, to push past the reserve and understand why she kept him at an arm’s length, why she seemed to care that he was not attached, to learn what went on in that pretty little head. He smiled, remembering her modesty as she backed away from him, as if unable to believe his words, her steps faltering, her face pale …

  Wait.

  His skin prickled.

  He stopped. Paused. Turned around to eye the freshly shrouded window.

  Had he once met Miss DeLancey atop a wild and stormy cliff?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  WHAT HAD HE meant? Clara placed cool hands on hot cheeks and watched the captain stride away along Marine Parade. Surely he had to be joking. He could not think her so much as pretty, let alone beautiful. Hadn’t Richard always made fun of her too-pale eyes and her too-dark hair? He had always said the combination of dark eyebrows, pale skin, and green eyes made her look witchlike. Certainly not beautiful.

  She watched as Mr. Kemsley turned once more, eyeing the window as if he knew she was there. She drew back. Did he know she watched him still? Did he know she could look at no other when he was around?

  Her heart thumped. Blood rushed in her ears. He was not engaged!

  Joy-filled warmth saturated her chest. He was free! All the thoughts she’d once entertained toward him, all the flutterings of hope and attraction, could be dusted off and encouraged to live once more. Couldn’t the
y?

  Or was she like poor Tessa, indulging in dreams that might come to nothing—again?

  She glanced across at the dressing table, adorned with the gloves and hair accoutrements deemed suitable for her night at the Pavilion. Mother had not been reticent in her hopes that Clara might still find a suitable match from among those who frequented the Regent’s soirees. Precisely which princely acquaintance Mother wished Clara to attract was a mystery, and would doubtless remain so until they learned who else had received an invitation—Father said a summons—to appear at the Pavilion.

  Clara swallowed. She liked Mr. Kemsley more than anyone else she’d met in such a long time. His humor appealed as much as his forthright manners, his care for his sisters as much as his blunt good looks. He was certainly gentlemanly enough, even if he lacked the title of his brother or possessed much in the way of finances to provide. But was that enough? Mother would say no, as would Father, even though he understood now how a man’s fortune could be affected by circumstances not of his own making.

  Her pulse picked up in pace. How could Mr. Kemsley say she was beautiful and gaze at her lips as though he wished to kiss her if he did not have serious intentions?

  She pressed two fingers to her lips. What would it feel like to be kissed? How would she even know what to do, when—if—the time came? Was she supposed to close her eyes? Touch his cheek? Sigh something? Her parents but rarely demonstrated affection. Perhaps she should watch Matilda a little more closely and observe how she interacted with her husband. Though it was difficult to imagine the meek and mild vicar holding his wife in a bone-crushing embrace—

  “Clara!” She jumped. Spun around. Met her mother’s flinty gaze. “What on earth are you doing?”

  Her hand dropped to her side. “I … I was just thinking.” Heaven forbid Mother ask just what she had been thinking about.

  Her mother scowled as if she knew just what Clara had been so focused on. “Is it true that you were seen by Lady Osterley walking with a man not less than half an hour ago?”

  Clara thought through what had just been said, working to disentangle the truth. “I cannot say with any degree of certainty what Lady Osterley might have seen in recent times.”

  “Clara!”

  She lifted her chin. “If you mean to ask if Mr. Kemsley walked beside me whilst I returned home, then that is true.”

  “Clara!”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Oh!” Her mother’s face screwed tight in consternation. “I do not like to be informed by anyone of your misdemeanors, and especially not by that woman.”

  “It is most unfortunate, given her propensity for doing so.”

  “Do not speak to me in such a manner.”

  “But, Mother, if I had walked home alone, surely that would give just as great a cause for concern.”

  “What I want to know is why you were out to begin with! You told me you were staying at home.”

  “I went to see Matilda.”

  “That woman!”

  “Yes.” Clara swallowed the protest. “Her brother did me a kind service of escorting me home, thus protecting my reputation.”

  “You were seen to be looking at each other in a most particular way.”

  “Really?” Fierce joy erupted within. So she hadn’t just imagined it! She fought a smile, working to smooth her countenance to disinterest. “Is that what she said? Well, we both know that woman to be a troublemaker, don’t we? Not everything she says can be relied upon. I’d think it best not to listen to whatever she may say. Now, how did your visit at the mantua-maker’s go?”

  Thus distracted, Mother soon regained her amiability. But, Clara thought with misgiving, for how long?

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Clara and her mother were surprised by a group of visitors in the drawing room. Barely had Mother begrudgingly permitted Meg to advise they were at home—and thus receiving visitors—then the door had opened once more to admit Matilda’s family.

  “Clara!”

  Before she knew it, she was enveloped in a hug. She tentatively wrapped her arms around Tessa. Hugs had never been the pattern in her family. “You have been in my prayers and thoughts,” she murmured.

  “Oh, thank you.” Tessa’s clasp intensified.

  Clara peeked over her shoulder to see her mother’s expression of horror. She held her friend longer. Poor girl. She understood only too well what it was to have your heart broken by a careless man. “It will get better, one day,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  Tessa shuddered.

  Clara pulled back. “It feels an age since I saw you.” She glanced at the others, her heart racing as her gaze skimmed past Mr. Kemsley to land on the gentleman and young lady beside him. This must be the brother and his intended. She nodded. “Good morning.”

  Matilda performed the introductions. The baronet seemed not unimpressed by her father’s title, although his manner seemed a little stiff and overly formal. She gathered he and Miss Amelia Windsor had heard something of her story, judging from the way they glanced at each other. Miss Windsor she found a little unprepossessing, a little too eager to please, as if she had finally found a gentleman willing to propose and daren’t do a thing to make him wish to cry off.

  Sympathy stirred within. How well she knew that desperate desire to impress, to hide her true thoughts in the hope the man she loved might continue to think well of her. She lowered her gaze, shame curdling the edges of her soul, remembering the girl who had blatantly praised everything about the earl as “wonderfully fine.”

  Sir George cleared his throat. “Miss DeLancey, I understand that you have been honored with an invitation to play for the Prince Regent next week.”

  “I will be one of many, no doubt.”

  “Oh, my dear,” said Mother, before breaking into an extended monologue as to why Clara was the most perfect candidate for such an evening, that indeed, the Prince Regent was the one who would be honored, as Clara’s great talent …

  His throat was cleared again. Tessa and Matilda’s smiles suggested this was not an unusual way of his to capture attention. “Your maternal affection does you great credit, my lady, but I am sure Miss DeLancey understands just what an honor this is.”

  “Thank you, Sir George,” Clara murmured. “I assure you I am made aware of this almost hourly.”

  She caught the flicker of amusement crossing Mr. Kemsley’s features, laughter mirrored in the faces of his sisters, before they, too, resumed their masks of polite indifference as Sir George delivered a near homily espousing his preference for the conventional and staid.

  After the quarter hour deemed suitable for such visits concluded, their guests left, but not before Clara managed to whisper to Tessa the hope of talking privately soon.

  Tessa’s eyes lit. “I would like that more than anything!”

  “Perhaps after services on Sunday? I could meet you, and we could walk along the beach.”

  “Oh, yes!”

  So it was arranged, and Clara returned to soothe her mother’s ruffled sensibilities about being preyed upon by social climbing nobodies from the back of nowhere.

  And to quiet the disappointment within, and the questions of why Mr. Kemsley had barely looked at or spoken to her at all.

  Two days later

  THE SUNDAY SERVICE was still on her mind as Clara hurried along Marine Parade, trailed by an unwilling Meg. Her parents took the notion of a day of rest literally, so escaping the house had not been problematic. Meg was used to having half Sundays off, so Clara foresaw little trouble in getting rid of her once she had provided an element of propriety and escorted Clara to the shore.

  The service had been about forgiveness, the sermon preached by Matilda’s husband causing Clara to look into her heart and cringe. How much resentment had she kept in her heart over the years? Whilst she may have recently released the pain over the earl and Lavinia, still she held on to so much more. Some people, like Matilda and Mr. Kemsley, seemed immune to resentment; slights seemed to roll off
their backs like water droplets from an oilskin parasol. But Clara, like her mother, seemed made of different stuff, and slights and offenses had always left a permanent stain on her soul, like rain-spotted silk. She wanted to change. Knew she needed to change. So in the prayer time after the preaching, she’d asked God to help her once again.

  Later, while the congregation milled around, she’d managed to escape her parents for a brief moment to speak with Tessa and thus arrange more precisely the time and destination for their private meeting. Afterward she’d encountered Lady Osterley’s hard gaze, but instead of feeling anxiety as she usually had, today she’d felt more free, so free she’d even smiled a genuine smile at her, which had taken that lady by surprise as she’d blinked, blushed, then turned away. Perhaps forgiveness was linked to choosing to be kind to one’s enemies. Or perhaps it was simply realizing that each person had their own struggles and challenges, and one could choose to treat them with a hard heart or with compassion. Having realized for herself just how much unmerited favor she’d been shown—by Lavinia, by Lady Sefton, by Matilda, by God Himself!—surely it behooved her to show some of that grace to others.

  Smiling to herself, Clara continued her walk. The day was sunny, the waves were glistening, her heart felt lighter than it had in years. She was going to play for the Prince Regent! Excitement rippled within. She had chosen her piece; something technically challenging yet well within her range. Her new gown from Madame Sabine—Brighton’s finest mantua-maker—was to be delivered tomorrow, ready for any final alterations. Everything felt in readiness. Everything felt full of possibility. Even the fact Mr. Kemsley was in town—

  No. She tamped down that overly exuberant thought. She would not stir up feelings for a man her parents would never approve. Had he a title or some money, they might be persuadable, but he had neither, so although she now believed God could do miracles, she highly doubted He would care to waste another one on her.