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“You hate me,” she said.
He gazed at her in exasperation. “I was not trying to seduce you, Miss Desmond.”
“Well, I most certainly was not trying to seduce you. Why are you so angry with me?”
“I wish,” he said quietly, “you had your pistol. I wish you would just shoot me and be done with it.”
Delilah sighed. “Oh, very well, have it your way,” she said. “I apologise for whatever it is I’ve done, though I do think you are monstrous unjust and ungallant in this. Still, I can’t let you go in to tea looking like an outraged Zeus or Aunt will be scolding me for hours. She’ll probably send me back to Scotland,” she added.
“She ought to,” said Jack. “You are perfectly impossible.”
“I know,” she said, her face penitent.
Delilah Desmond penitent was a sight calculated to unman the most obdurate of tyrants, which Mr. Langdon certainly was not. He was, in fact, painfully aware that his behaviour had been criminal in the first place and rude and insolent in the second. Even though she had slighted his masculinity, he had no business being enraged. He’d slighted it himself often enough. All the same, he was very upset. Her sarcastic remarks still smarted, and he wanted to throttle her. He wondered fleetingly if he were possessed, because by rights he should throttle himself.
“Miss Desmond, I am not angry,” he said wearily. “I am deeply ashamed of my behaviour. I promise never to repeat it. We’ve disposed of the book. Can we please dispose of this distressing conversation?”
“Yes,” she said in an oddly subdued voice. “Do I look a fright?”
No, he thought, only more maddeningly beautiful than ever.
“Yes,” he said. “You have dirt on your face and the state of your hair makes you look like Medusa. You had best go tidy up or we’ll be subjected to a most intensive interrogation. No one will mind me,” he added with a wry glance at his stained trousers. “It’s exactly what they expect.”
As an unusually docile Miss Desmond took herself away to be tidied, it may have occurred to her that, in Mr. Langdon’s case, people really had better not place too much reliance upon their expectations.
***
Mr. Atkins returned to his latest inn, which was only slightly less uncomfortable than the first, with every intention of proceeding to Streetham Close as soon as he had revived his sagging spirits with food. His hostess was slow, however, and by the time he had finished his meal, the sky was darkening ominously.
He had just climbed into his vehicle when lightning crackled. From a distance followed the low boom of thunder. In the next moment, the heavens burst about his ears, and by the time he’d regained the shelter of the inn, he was drenched.
Nonetheless, he set out for Streetham Close the following morning, sniffling and sneezing the whole way. The earl, never eager for his company in the best of circumstances, did not trouble to disguise his disgust with the repellent spectacle before him.
Mr. Atkins refused to be cowed. Doggedly, between blowing his nose and sneezing, he reported what he’d seen. He declared that even a simple man like himself could see Lord Berne would have a very difficult time obtaining the young lady’s trust when she was so busy trying to ensnare Mr. Langdon.
“I think, My Lord, we’d best increase our offer,” the publisher went on. “The alternative I shudder at—though I suppose it can be done. That is to say, the manuscript must be somewhere in the house, and I understand there are persons who may be hired to—to deliver it up to us.”
Lord Streetham drew himself up. In no uncertain terms he informed the publisher that bribery and theft were not in his line. Persuasion was another matter. “As I have already pointed out to you,” he said, “my son is perfectly capable of persuading the young lady.”
“He hasn’t done it yet,” Mr. Atkins muttered, rubbing his red nose.
Of this his lordship was frustratedly aware. Aloud, however, he only cited the heir’s many responsibilities, and advised Mr. Atkins to return speedily to London where Mrs. Atkins might give him proper care.
After Mr. Atkins had taken his nasal leave, Lord Streetham summoned his son.
“I see I must deal with this myself,” his lordship said frigidly. “Obviously you cannot be counted upon to assume any of the responsibilities of your position. While you amuse yourself at common hostelries, Jack Langdon is seducing Miss Desmond— in her great aunt’s garden, no less.”
Lord Berne was, sad to say, a very fickle young man. His interest in Miss Desmond had dwindled with every passing hour of her absence, which time he had pleasantly whiled away in a rendezvous with his father’s former mistress and a lively flirtation with the fair and saucy Sarah. Along with decreasing interest in Miss Desmond had grown an increasing reluctance to antagonise her formidable parent.
Men far more reckless than himself became circumspect when dealing with Devil Desmond or anything connected to him. To deceive his daughter, especially for a useless lot of ink and paper, seemed wantonly self-destructive.
Now, however, as he left his irate father, Lord Berne was outraged. That poky Jack Langdon should succeed with the girl so easily—in a mere day or two—when that same young woman had proved so incomprehensibly indifferent to the viscount’s own irresistible charm... it was not to be endured.
Chapter Seven
Delilah gazed in disgust at the Gordian knot of stitches that was supposed to pass for embroidery. “Isn’t that typical?” she muttered. “I make a mess of everything.”
Her father looked up from his sporting journal. The two were spending a few quiet hours together while Lady Potterby visited an ailing neighbour, and they were abnormally quiet. Normally, Delilah and her father could converse endlessly. Today she was unable to find any entertaining topic because yesterday’s garden episode preyed on her mind.
She still could not believe that she, Delilah Desmond, had very nearly succumbed to the clumsy embrace of the provoking, stodgy Mr. Langdon. She had travelled over half the globe with her parents and encountere
d every sort of scoundrel. She had met with every seductive trick and heard honeyed speeches in half a dozen languages. Always she had been immune, observing her pursuers’ efforts with the same cool detachment with which she studied her cards and bluffed her way to victory over the most cunning Captain Sharps.
She could not understand why her instincts had failed her yesterday—and with him, of all people, a muddled, naive bookworm. It was too humiliating for words.
Now, as Delilah met her father’s calm scrutiny, her conscience pricked her. She was not used to keeping secrets from him.
“Papa, if I tell you something,” she began, “will you promise not to do anything violent?”
“If I didn’t yesterday, why should I today?” was the disconcerting reply. “As you say, Mr. Langdon left with all his limbs intact—though I cannot speak for his mind.”
The daughter’s eyes widened. “You saw?”
“The entire household might have seen, for all I know. The corner window of the drawing room looks out over that section of the perennial beds. Luckily, Lord Rossing and your great aunt were dithering at each other on the opposite side of the room, so I had no need to act the role of outraged parent, thank heavens. Beastly weather, worse than the West Indies. At least last night’s storm has cleared the air somewhat.”
Miss Desmond’s embroidery had fallen unnoticed to the carpet. “It was an accident, Papa, I assure you.”
“Indeed? Which part?” he asked as he laid his journal aside. “Did you entomb my memoirs accidentally on account of sunstroke or are you referring to the subsequent performance?”
Embarrassed, Delilah took the offensive. “You were spying on me!”
“Not at all. I was looking out for Mr. Langdon. When you hauled him so hastily out of doors, I began to fear for his life. I grew increasingly alarmed when I saw that trowel in your hand. Awkward things, trowels.”
Delilah glared at an insipid porcelain shepherdess standing on the small table at her elbow. “I suppose you found the entire scene immensely entertaining,” she grumbled.
