The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey

by Carolyn Miller

  “You do not like it?” she said in a whisper.

  “I cannot say it accords to my taste.”

  She shook her head. “I do not know what to make of it, except”—her brow wrinkled—“it does not seem right that he should spend so much on this when he has not bothered to give you what you are due.”

  “Hush,” he said. “We are not here for that.”

  “No?” Tessa arched an eyebrow in a way that made her seem suddenly so much more knowing than a seventeen-year-old had any right to be.

  Or perhaps that was simply the effect of the gown she was wearing. Ben smiled at her, barely able to see his baby sister in the beautiful young lady before him. Dressed in the palest of sea greens, and with her hair intricately coiled atop her head and with her shining face, she made all the other ladies present seem either overly fussy or too plain. Her youth and beauty shone like a beacon in the sea of people, and he’d noticed more than one man put up his quizzing glass to eye her with an appreciative smile.

  Conscious she still watched him, he drew her close again. “I think we both know why we are here.”

  As her cheeks tinted pink, Ben heard a muttered oath behind him, “Dashed fine pretty girl!”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Ben spied an older gentleman, whose coat of many medals suggested he’d seen action in not a few wars. He was eyeing Tessa like a bulldog might eye a prime leg of lamb. Ben cleared his throat, causing the gentleman to turn his attention to him.

  “Yes? What?” He peered closer. “Say, don’t I know you?”

  Ben bowed. “Benjamin Kemsley, at your service, sir.”

  The older man coughed, studying Ben with a frown between his eyes. “Not the captain?”

  “Of the Ansdruther, yes.”

  “Ho, ho! Look!” The man gestured to some others. “Heathcote, Vincent, come here!”

  Within a short space of time Ben was surrounded by people demanding to know if the legendary walk as reported in the papers were true. The older gentleman, whose name turned out to be Palmer, had somehow made him the recipient of as much fervent interest as any of the Regent’s exotic decorations. Ben drew Tessa to his side, and before he knew it, she too was being peppered with enquiries about his time, and invitations to dinners and teas and all manner of excursions.

  Every so often he scanned the crowd, searching for the viscount or the claret-colored gown Tessa had intimated would be Miss DeLancey’s attire tonight. He found himself bracing, straining to hear each time a name was announced. Talk and color swirled around him, forcing him to pay attention to dull bores when he’d rather watch the door. He was half listening to an account of a Mediterranean voyage gone wrong when Tessa grasped his arm. “There she is!”

  Ben followed his sister’s pointed finger. The crowd surged, then parted again, and he saw her. Smiling at the Regent. Turning her beautifully coiffed head. Spying them. Her features lighting.

  His heart thudded painfully as she drew near. Dressed in a burgundy a shade darker than the red ornamenting the room, a color that made her skin seem fairer, her eyes more luminous, and her hair lustrous as sable, she appeared perfectly regal, as if born to live in such a place. Uncertainty twisted within. What right did he have to wish for her to be his? “Miss DeLancey.” He bowed.

  “Clara!” Tessa hugged her. Envy spiked. How he wished to have that right. “Oh, Clara, this is everything most wonderful!”

  “I’m so glad. You look so very lovely.”

  Tessa sighed. “Oh, I feel so very lovely. You cannot know how grateful I am.”

  The green eyes flashed with amusement as they turned to him. “You have met the Regent, then?”

  “I have.”

  “But he didn’t seem to remember Benjie,” Tessa said. “Which is not very good of him, is it?”

  The eyes flashed again but with something other than amusement. She placed a hand on his arm. “There is time yet.”

  He covered her hand with his own. “I know.”

  For a moment the whirl of gaiety and excess seemed to fade as they gazed at each other. Desire strained within him, pushing against his chest like a caged beast. If only there was a way to show himself worthy. What could he do to remind the Prince? What could he do to show Clara’s society-obsessed parents that he would do anything to protect her?

  As if summoned by his thought, Lord and Lady Winpoole appeared. The viscount eyed Ben’s hand atop Clara’s, forcing his release. “Good evening, my lord, my lady.” He bowed.

  “Mr. Kemsley. Miss Kemsley.”

  “Good evening,” Tessa curtsied, blushing.

  The viscount nodded, his mouth bending upwards slightly. He drew his daughter away before moving with his stiff-backed wife as the crowd moved toward a central set of doors. Ben watched him move away in disbelief. Had that been—well, if not exactly approval—acceptance, at least? Might his suit be deemed satisfactory, one day?

  He drew his sister’s arm through his as they joined the procession. Beside him, he could sense Tessa’s agitation as she searched for Lord Featherington’s fair head. Perhaps Clara had been misinformed; perhaps he would not be here, after all.

  They entered through mirrored doors into the Saloon, decorated in blue, lilac, and gold. Again the influence of the Far East was evident in the painted panels of Chinese scenes and the tasseled lanterns hanging from the ceiling, painted the palest blue with drifting clouds to resemble the sky. A richly gilded cabinet, however, contained hints of Indian influence, with its carved arch of shells and lotus blossoms, and mirrored backing reflecting urns of ormolu and brass. It was, once again, so very ostentatious.

  Footmen mingled, offering refreshments. Ben plucked two glasses from a tray and offered one to Tessa. She took a sip, made a face, then said, “I don’t think that was lemonade.”

  Ben sipped it cautiously. Sourness tingled on his tongue. “No.” He held out his hand to retrieve her glass, but her face had paled and she was looking past his shoulder.

  He turned just as she whispered, “He’s here.”

  Viscount Featherington paused in the doorway, simply dressed in plain black that would do Mr. Brummel justice. Two haughty looking personages, with such similar coloring and features they could only be his parents, strode forward before melting into the crowd. Lord Featherington cast a bored glance around the room, before his gaze chanced upon them. He blinked. For a moment his jaw sagged, then was closed with a snap. Seconds later he was at their side, casting Ben a cursory greeting before turning his attention fully on Tessa.

  “My dearest!”

  The joy in his eyes coupled with Tessa’s rapturous look bade Ben turn away, only to encounter Miss DeLancey’s soft smile of pleasure from across the room. She met his eyes, blushed, and half turned away. In six quick strides he was at her side. “You knew.”

  “I hoped.” She bit her lip.

  “What is it?”

  “I trust you do not disapprove?”

  He chuckled. “A man would have to be blind to not see his affection. I believe absence has not impaired his feelings.”

  “And if his parents can be brought to realize that also, perhaps there is some hope.”

  So she had arranged this. Fresh appreciation for her kindness welled within. “You are wonderful.”

  She shook her head slightly. “I wish only to make amends. I … I know he cried off because of … of my association with you all.”

  He reached to gently clasp her hand. “You are wonderful.”

  She smiled at him; a little smile that soon bloomed across her face.

  His chest glowed. In this weird clash of cultures, where gently bred English sat surrounded by Oriental flamboyance, somehow it did not seem so very strange to be holding a viscount’s daughter’s hand, as if the realm of fantasy could actually be made real.

  A gong drew their attention to the front of the room where Lord Houghton held up a hand for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would follow me, I assure you we shall be enchanted by the talents of some w
onderful musicians, including our most excellent and esteemed host.”

  The company filtered into the next chamber, a room painted gold, complete with flying dragons clutching tasseled lanterns in their feet. In one corner a gleaming pianoforte stood near a small group of musicians, their instruments and music poised.

  Ben turned to Miss DeLancey. “Will you be performing tonight?”

  “I believe so, but nothing has been said so far.”

  He was about to offer assurance that she would most definitely be asked soon, when her parents returned, gesturing for their daughter to join them. Ben bowed and found his sister already seated next to the viscount. He only had time to take his seat beside her, in the row behind the Winpooles, when the Regent moved to the front of the room amid loud applause. He turned to the musicians, murmured something, and without further ado they commenced to play, and he began to sing.

  Ben had never considered himself an expert on musicianship, but he thought the Regent’s singing voice quite fine. The copious clapping when he finished suggested the audience agreed—or at least were not prepared to offend their host and future king. This led to an encore performance, before the Prince bowed and waved a hand at their ovation.

  “Thank you, thank you. So kind. Now, perhaps I can ask some others to exhibit?” The Regent called forth a young lady to accompany him on the pianoforte as he sang. Her performance was pretty, but Ben paid more attention to the way in which Miss DeLancey’s fingers were clenching and unclenching. She was nervous, poor thing. He shot up a prayer for her to have peace.

  The music concluded, applause renewed, and the Regent helped the lady back to her seat.

  “And now, I believe,” the Regent scanned the seated audience members, before his eyes alighted on Ben. For a moment he held the gaze, an almost curious look on his face, before his eyes slid to Clara in the row ahead. “Ah, Miss DeLancey. Would you grace us, please?”

  She murmured an affirmative, gifting Ben a shy smile as she rose. A moment’s conference with the Regent, which resulted in his raised brow and nod, and then she was sitting at the instrument as the Prince announced the song. “One of my favorites, which I hope you shall all enjoy.”

  Ben settled back in his seat, anticipation beating his chest as she began to play. The notes rippled smoothly as her fingertips danced across the keys. The tension banding his chest eased. Of Clara’s musical ability there could be no doubt. The Prince once more began to sing, only this time his tenor was accompanied by Clara’s higher, sweeter tones, their voices blending beautifully well.

  When the music finished, the clapping was much louder and sustained. Ben clapped louder and longer than most, enough to draw her father’s attention and look of speculation. But he did not care. He only wished he might show the entire world exactly how he felt.

  Clara sank back into her seat with a sigh of relief. Her most public part of tonight’s proceedings might be over, but there was still so much to do. The futures of Tessa and Mr. Kemsley depended on her.

  Her mother patted her hand, and they listened to the remaining performances. When they finished, and footmen arrived with trays of filled glasses, she was surrounded with well-wishers, including Tessa and her viscount.

  “Oh, Clara, you were wonderful!” Tessa exclaimed. “I was telling Lord Featherington how you were responsible for my being here tonight.”

  Lord Featherington rubbed at the back of his neck. “Never in my wildest dreams … I am in your debt, Miss DeLancey.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I trust”—he swallowed—“I hope you will be so good as to overlook some of my … less discreet comments in the past.”

  “They shall remain in the past, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” he said, offering her a small, but genuine-looking smile.

  A knot in her heart loosened. “It may interest you to learn, sir, that I have found myself the recipient of your cousin’s forgiveness, and now realize just how powerful that can be.”

  His smile grew. “And it may interest you, Miss DeLancey, to learn that I have been challenged by Lavinia about the very same. I find I cannot hold a grudge when she refuses to.”

  “She believes in showing grace to the undeserving.”

  “And in doing so follows our Savior’s example.”

  Tessa looked up at him quickly, her eyes wide. “You believe?”

  “I find I cannot ignore truth.”

  “Oh!”

  Her beaming smile brought an ache to Clara’s heart. She turned away. She did not wish to be thinking of herself, but oh … if only she were free to gaze adoringly at the man she loved.

  Loved.

  She peeked up. Mr. Kemsley was listening patiently to an elderly gentleman with a swath of medals across his chest. She lowered her gaze; she would not wish him to be embarrassed. But she could not deny the hot tumult that swirled within whenever he drew near. The way her insides clenched whenever she caught his scent, a delectable blend of salt and spice and some indefinable masculine essence all his own.

  His strength seemed to pass into her, his confidence seemed to make her more so, the very excellence of his qualities compelling her to wish to be more like him in generosity and kindness. And he was so brave! And so forbearing. How had he coped with her awkwardness, her family’s rudeness for so long? If only she could show him what he meant to her—

  “Miss DeLancey?”

  “Oh, Lord Houghton.” At his quick gesture she hurried to his side. “Did the Regent mention I wished to speak to him? I am sorry to bother him, but I so wished to have a word.”

  “Of course.” His expression remained bland. “Please come this way.”

  She looked an apology to Tessa, but the young woman was caught up in meeting the viscount’s parents, their gracious smiles looking more genuine than usual. It was probably best they did not associate Tessa with Clara. Their son might have learned the power of forgiveness, but she rather doubted the marchioness would forgive her any time soon.

  Her parents were likewise engaged, chatting with Lady Sefton, while Mr. Kemsley she could no longer see at all. But still, that would not matter. Just one quick word, and she would be back. It was not as if anything could be seen as untoward. The Regent was old enough to be her father, after all.

  Lord Houghton led the way into another room, a far quieter chamber. Here were none of the garish decorations of the other rooms; instead it seemed a place where one could recover from the exotic excess. He gestured to a bronze-colored settee, designed with shells and nautical themes, and she lowered onto it gratefully. “Shall I fetch you a glass of something? I’m sure you must be parched.”

  She did suddenly feel thirsty. The rooms remained quite warm. “Yes, thank you. That would be greatly appreciated.”

  She perched on the edge of the settee, looking around, breathing slowly to calm the rapid beating of her heart. This was certainly not usual, but when else would she have opportunity? When else would he?

  Lord Houghton returned holding a glass, which he offered, and she accepted, and drank.

  A peculiar light-headedness came over her. She stared at the glass. “What was that?”

  He smiled, and came toward her. “Just a glass of punch. It might have had a special additional ingredient.”

  “Might have had?” His face seemed to leer at her. She blinked. He’d assumed his usual bland expression.

  “Miss DeLancey, do you know how lovely you look tonight?”

  “I … er,” She placed a hand to her forehead. Why did she feel so ill? “I beg your pardon?”

  “You look so very charming. Quite the best-looking lady here tonight, even allowing for your sweet companion. I confess, I had thought her more to my taste, but realized she seemed quite attached to another. But you on the other hand …”

  His words made no sense. “What do you mean?”

  “… afraid the Regent is so busy …” He drew nearer still. “What is it, Miss DeLancey? You don’t seem terribly well. Perhaps you s
hould lie down.”

  Before she knew it, he had pressed her back onto the settee, was smiling down at her most peculiarly. She closed her eyes against the sight, tried to think. What had he just said? Her eyes flew open. “What do you mean the Regent is too busy? Then why am I here? I don’t underst—”

  “He’s such an important man, my dear. And I was sure anything you wished to say to him was something I could assist in. And I’d much prefer to be the one to assist you.”

  The look in his eyes. No …

  “Surely you must know that I do not issue favors without expecting some reward in return?” He chuckled and lowered himself to sit beside her. Close beside her. Far, far too close.

  “My lord—”

  “Hush, now, Clara. I trust I may call you Clara? After all, we’re going to be such good friends. And after tonight, when your father realizes we must wed, I shall call you Clara as often as I like. Now close your eyes, that’s a good girl. This won’t hurt a mite—”

  “No!” She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down. All strength seemed to have abandoned her; her bones felt like liquid. “Please sir, get off me.” Why did her tongue feel so thick? Why did her words seem to be slurring? Wait, why was his face looming over hers? “No!”

  She felt the hot, sour stench of his breath on her face. A large meaty hand pawed at her gown. She tried to scratch him, to push him off, but he was too heavy, too insistent. From somewhere deep within she felt a scream arise. Who cared what people might come in? She’d caused enough scandal in her life, hadn’t she? One more breach in propriety would matter less than if Lord Houghton had his way with her. A desperate prayer escaped. Lord, help me! His lips were on her neck; her skin was crawling, her stomach heaving. “Get off me!” she gasped and turned away.

  And saw the door had opened. A little part of her died. The man she’d hoped to marry held blackness in his face and contempt in his eyes.