“I can’t . . . you must see . . .” Dot was white in the face, but she had a strange, beatific, saintly glow, as if she’d just been visited by a vision.
“She is going to faint. Quick, your vinaigrette, Angelique!”
“I’m not,” Dot insisted, sounding a little less ethereal and more indignant. “But I can’t say what I’m supposed to say because you won’t believe me.” And her voice took on that solemn, awestruck hush again. “You’ll think me a looby, so I cannot say it. You must come down to see for yourself.”
“Dot . . .” Delilah’s patience was not infinite, and this particular “Dot” contained a warning.
Dot took a breath. “The king is downstairs in the reception room.”
Angelique and Delilah exchanged worried glances.
“The king of . . . diamonds?” guessed Delilah gently.
One never knew with Dot.
“Or did you finally beat Mr. Delacorte at chess?” was Angelique’s tolerant guess.
“That would involve a queen, Mrs. Breedlove,” Dot said loftily. “And I swear upon my life, this is a king. Mr. Delacorte is in his room at present.”
They stared, two pairs of eyes fixed in puzzlement, and then the truth began to dawn.
“. . . of England,” Dot expounded.
And Delilah thought she understood. She stood bolt upright so quickly her mending tumbled from her lap.
“A lot of soldiers, too,” Dot added with relish.
Angelique stood more slowly, and straightened out her skirts.
“He said”—and Dot tipped her head back, as if attempting to recall the words verbatim—“a man he holds in high esteem told him The Grand Palace on the Thames was tolerable.”
Angelique and Delilah stared at her.
“I already started the tea,” Dot said matter-of-factly. “I’ll bring it in.”
Dot hadn’t mentioned that the foyer was milling with attendants and guards, all of whom were bristling with weapons. They, in fact, lined the stairs, forming a phalanx of stern, dutiful faces so deep she couldn’t see through to the front door.
They parted, however, to let the three ladies down the stairs.
And Dot all but ran downstairs to the kitchen to get the tea.
Delilah and Angelique moved, in a dreamlike state, into their reception room.
Whereupon they found more guards in more red uniforms. A full half dozen of them, to protect the king from the terrifying ladies of The Grand Palace on the Thames.
And there, on the pale pink brocade settee, surrounded by a full dozen or so armed soldiers, sat the King of England.
He was gloriously corpulent; his clothing was achingly beautiful and sorely taxed to hold him inside. The settee was groaning beneath his weight.
The King.
Of England!
They were awestruck. Oh, they knew how everyone spoke of him. He was someone who could not have helped the accident of his birth, much like Tristan. Who had indulged his fancies, spent and loved recklessly and profligately, who had no real hope of becoming beloved by his citizens, because once contempt settled in, it became a habit, she knew, and he made it too easy for his subjects to mock him, and oh, did they ever mock him.
His indulgences had beset his health, and he likely now had few truly comfortable moments.
But he was still the King of England. The ultimate monarch, the living symbol of the country they loved. And Delilah thought anyone anywhere would still know it. It radiated from him, his history, and his majesty. She didn’t know how anyone could meet the king and ever have a joke at his expense again.
They curtsied deeply.
“Your majesty,” they both breathed. At once.
“We are humbly honored,” Angelique all but whispered a moment later.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I would imagine you are.”
He was flirting. Ever so slightly.
Polite laughter, clearly expected, rippled around the room.
Delilah and Angelique were far too nervous to laugh or even breathe.
“And you are . . .” the king prompted.
“I am Delilah Swanpoole, Lady Derring.”
He didn’t say a word about the late Earl of Derring. But the king’s eyes flickered.
“And I am Mrs. Angelique Breedlove.”
He nodded at both of them, his eyes sparkling. “I am enchanted to meet both of you.”
The King of England was enchanted to meet both of them!
The radiant smile Delilah bestowed on him wasn’t entirely because he was the King of England. And her eyes were shining with unshed tears, but they weren’t just for him. Tristan had asked her to tell him her wildest dream. He had listened. He had made her dream come true.
Everyone went motionless when the king cleared his throat.
“I heard,” the king said, in stentorian tones that could easily reach out the open windows, “that The Grand Palace on the Thames is an uncommonly comfortable, welcoming place to stay.”
It could not have been more resonant if a herald had blown trumpets.
Perhaps a herald was too much to hope for?
She was certain a crowd had gathered outside, because a crowd always gathered everywhere the royal retinue appeared.
And all those soldiers would probably be only too pleased to spread the word.
They were going to be awash in business.
“A certain heroic captain, to whom the crown owes much, and of whom I think highly, told me as such. I find it to be true. I would be happy to stay an entire evening here at The Palace of Ro—”
A courtier leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“The Grand Palace on the Thames,” he amended.
The king sounded as though he’d been handed a script.
And one wondered if the king had been here before. Perhaps a few decades earlier.
And dear God in heaven, did he plan to stay here?
Was he perhaps the mysterious employer of Mr. X?
Surely not. Surely that person would have more subtlety.
“But I fear I cannot stay at present.”
She could not deny a little relief. But she and Angelique did smile at him, with all the radiant warmth in their hearts. After all, in his face, once handsome, now blurred and swollen from excesses, she saw someone who, like everyone else, longed to be loved. Who really hadn’t a prayer of getting that sort of love from anyone else, consorting with older mistresses notwithstanding. Who had lost a beloved daughter, casting all of England into mourning, and mourning himself.
And so they did what they did best: they endeavored to make him feel at home.
“It is, most certainly, a comfortable place to stay, your majesty. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Dot had brought it in, the tray rattling and clinking in her hands.
And so it was that Delilah Swanpoole served tea to the king before the Duchess of Brexford did.
He took a sip—after a nearby courtier took a sip, nodded pleasantly, and did not fall to the carpet, writhing in death throes.
“I understand you’ve a list of rules for people who wish to stay,” the king said. “And that you on occasion have musicales.”
Thus making all of Delilah’s dreams come true.
And as she was fairly certain the Duchess of Brexford was circling outside in her barouche, waiting for an opportunity to speak to Helga alone, her heart soared.
The king and all the various people who’d come along with him stayed for the duration of two sips of tea.
Then he was helped to his feet by four men, and then the lot of them filed out with a good deal of orderly jangling and clomping.
All of them save one.
And so thrumming with the dreamlike thrill of the moment were Delilah and Angelique that they almost didn’t notice him standing in the foyer.
Very still.
Very tall.
Hat in hand.
He wasn’t in uniform. He wore a black coat that fit him as elegantly as his own skin. H
is buttons were silver. His boot toes glowed.
They stared at him until comprehension set in.
And then Dot’s face went brilliant with delight. “Oh, look, it’s Cap—EEP!”
Angelique had leaped to her feet, seized Dot by the arm, and tugged her up the stairs at a swift clip, herding her with little pats like a sheepdog herds a lamb.
Delilah sank back down onto the settee.
He came toward her, slowly, each pace measured, as though he feared she’d disappear or would thrust her hand out, finger pointed at the door, and shout “Begone!”
Delilah felt lit like a candle. Every cell of her body seemed to sing a soft hosanna.
“Please don’t stand,” he said.
She could not have if she tried. Let alone speak.
Imagine a day in which the King of England’s visit was the second-best thing to happen.
“May I have permission to speak?”
Something was terribly amiss if Captain Hardy was requesting permission.
But she merely nodded, because she could not possibly speak.
He sat down gingerly across from her on the settee opposite. The one lately occupied by a monarch. The one Captain Hardy had elevated to a throne the day he’d checked into The Grand Palace on the Thames, and still did.
He drew in a breath. Released it slowly.
He leaned toward her. Hands folded on his knees.
“I am sailing out tomorrow if the weather is good. Up to Dover, to see Massey get married. Then off across the sea.”
She couldn’t say a word. Her heart gave a terrific jolt, as if it had suddenly sprung to life again. If this was the last time she saw him, she would hungrily memorize his face.
“Delilah, I don’t know that I would have or could have done anything differently. It seemed as though I was doing the right thing all along, until I realized that I could not know what the right thing was anymore, because I have never before truly been in love, and then suddenly I was.”
The brightness that burst inside her was almost unbearable. Like a new star being born. Her lips parted soundlessly. She tried to form his name. She couldn’t.
“You once asked me why I wanted you. And what I told you were, in fact, the reasons I love you. The point of you, Delilah, is like the point of . . . the sun. Or a breeze on a spring day. Or a hawthorn, even complete with its thorns. You are funny. And passionate. And clever. You are perfect as you are, and you make the world better simply by being. You are so beautiful that my heart has never quite beat the same way since I saw you. There is no one else like you, of that I am certain, and you know that I am always right.”
Her fingers dashed at her eyes, which were inconveniently blurring and obscuring her view of Captain Hardy. She gave a short laugh.
“It takes enormous courage to be kind in the face of so many reasons not to be,” he said. “I think that the reason the world contains people like you and people like me is so that I can keep you safe should your kindness land on people who do not deserve it.
“But all of those things do not quite add up to reasons why I love you. So . . . I wrote a poem.”
Her mouth dropped open.
It was very likely the last thing on earth she expected to hear. She saw the faintest hint of a smile at her raw shock.
“Somewhere, in the annals of time, these things—poems and that rot—had their purpose. You can buffer a good deal of anguish of feeling with words. It makes them easier to deliver and digest, perhaps. And so I tried. But every word was like a drop of blood squeezed from a wound. I failed. It is a terrible poem. Eleven words was the best I could do. But it is yours. I ask that you read this after I’m gone.”
Astonishingly, he laid a sheet of folded foolscap on the table before her.
She stared at it, wordlessly.
Words seemed superfluous in the face of miracles.
And then he stood up slowly, and looked down at her, his eyes burning as if he were branding the image of her onto his soul.
“I will bear the loss of you, Delilah, as I have borne other things. I will bear the fact that you don’t love me. But just as we are only born once and only die once, I know I will only love once. And if life is ever unkind to you, I want you to remember that you are loved, and maybe take some comfort from that, even if we are oceans apart. I know that you never again want to be at the mercy of any man. Know that I am at your mercy, now and forever.”
He reached into his coat.
And, very gently, laid on the table before her a little paper-wrapped bouquet of daisies.
And while her own eyes were awash in tears, she heard his footsteps across the foyer and the door shutting behind him on its well-oiled hinges.
She couldn’t move for what felt like a full minute. What need of words does the sun have?
She gathered the daisies to her and buried her face in them. They received a veritable shower of tears. And then she sniffed and tossed her head and rubbed her eyes, because she wanted to read that poem.
And with shaking hands she unfolded the sheet of foolscap and read, in writing tall and bold as ships’ spires, as tall as a man who could easily reach the sconces:
Your eyes
your lips
Your heart
my heart
I am undone
“Oh.” The sound escaped her. Pure wonder and pain.
She was, suffice it to say, undone. The foolscap rattled in her fingers and she laid it gently down lest her tears blur the words.
She gave a start when Dot tiptoed in and plucked up the daisies to put in a vase filled with water.
She didn’t spill a drop.
Then Delilah looked up and discovered she was surrounded. Everyone had heard him leave and had crept in.
“He loves you, Lady Derring,” Dot breathed.
“He’s a good eater,” Helga said.
“I miss him,” Delacorte said. “He’s funny.”
“He can reach all the sconces and open the door at night if you go and get him,” said Angelique, not succumbing to romanticism.
Apart from her damp eyes.
Delilah rose. “Dot . . . come upstairs with me. I will need my pelisse. And I need your help with something else I want to do first.”
Ten minutes later Delilah was out the door.
Running. Alone.
And so buoyant she didn’t even care that someone had written “The Palace of Rogues” in the dust on the window.
The Zephyr was the first thing of true substance and weight Tristan had owned, and any man would be proud. It would be his home from now on, that, and the sea. Though now he knew it wasn’t, of course, Home, with a capital H. That Home, he understood now, looked like worn settees and soft carpets and a flower in a vase on a desk; sounded like creaks and groans in the night, and the thundering of little cat feet in hallways; tasted like Helga’s cooking and Delilah’s lips; felt like Delilah’s silken hair and arms.
He had said what needed to be said; it was now up to her. He wasn’t certain whether what he felt was hope, but some terrible burden had lifted from his heart. He knew now, that no matter what she did or decided, she would be well.
He was preparing to row out when something, suddenly, made him turn.
His heart stopped.
Delilah stood on the edge of the dock, the wind lashing her skirts and hair about.
She was wearing a green dress and she was as vivid against the blue sky as a sail.
She’d cast off mourning.
Which is precisely what his heart did in that moment. And his heart felt like the sail on the fastest, sweetest cutter of all.
In case he was hallucinating—not that he’d ever dare taste any of Delacorte’s wares—he walked slowly, slowly toward her, fighting the wind. If she was a vision, he wanted it to last as long as possible.
Her eyes were filled with tears, but her face was filled with light.
“I cannot bear the loss of you,” she said. She dashed at her eyes with a knuckle.
/>
“And I cannot bear thinking of you needing to bear anything. When you could be where you are wanted and loved.”
He didn’t dare come closer.
Not yet.
“I never told you why I wanted you, Tristan. Because the reasons that I want you are the reasons that I love you.”
He scarcely dared breathe.
“I was afraid to say them aloud because I was so afraid to be hurt. Or to lose you. And then it seemed my fears came to pass. And so I lashed out. And I lied. Because I love you.”
He took another step closer. Only one. His impulse was to make this easier for her, but she needed to do this for herself.
“I love you because here you are standing patiently, and you are waiting for me to speak because you want to hear what I have to say because what I say and think matters to you. Because you have a tender heart, whether you know it or not, and a magnificently tough hide. Because your soul is fathoms deep and you speak in poetry and you don’t even know it. And you’re so sure of yourself, which is maddening, but also such a relief because I have never known anyone so strong. I don’t want to need you, but I do. I do. You make everything better. And I don’t have a poem. But I love you.”
Those were the words.
The ones that opened an Aladdin’s cave of riches.
He was moving toward her now, as one moves toward light and air.
“I will make you happy, Tristan,” she vowed. Her voice broken. She was weeping now. “If only you’ll stay. Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave. Please don’t leav—”
He took a liberty: pulled her up against his body and stopped her words with a kiss.
He wrapped her tightly so she could feel safe. So she could feel every bit of his strength and know he was hers.
She clung to him.
And then he kissed her again, because she was Home and she was his.
Slowly, as though they both had all the time in the world.
He closed his eyes and did what he’d longed to do in the hall the day he’d first kissed her: he rested his cheek on the top of her head.
Epilogue
One month later . . .
“It is exactly as you described, sir,” Massey breathed, in pleasure.
Lady Derring Takes a Lover Page 28
