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It began with a mere touch of his lips upon hers, light and teasing—but clearly skilled, because in seconds and virtually without her realising, the kiss grew deeper and more fervent, just as the light circle of his arms strengthened into a crushing embrace. He worked so subtly and quickly, in fact, that Delilah felt like one caught in a treacherous undertow which was tugging her gently but inexorably towards the open sea of destruction.
Just as it was dawning on her to disentangle herself, Lord Berne drew away and apologised. Then he promptly embraced her again, declaring himself helpless, lost, confused, bewitched, overcome.
He did not, however, declare himself in the more formal, accepted manner. This is to say, no hint was given concerning rings or parsons or a company of witnesses, and Delilah, though rather giddy, only teetered on the brink of being swept off her feet. Then she regained her balance and pushed him away.
His eyes glistening with tears, he begged her to take pity on him. He worshipped her. Just one more chaste kiss—that was all he wanted. He took both her hands and kissed the fingers, then the palms. Then he fell to his knees, still firmly clasping her hands, and—apparently too distracted to realise what he was doing—began pulling her down to him.
Though Delilah was not a fragile young miss, she was hardly a match for a six foot, twelve stone male in excellent physical condition. She tried to pull free, but his grip was relentless. He was deaf to her protests, being utterly absorbed in his all-consuming passion for her, and she had neither dagger nor pistol with which to restore him to full consciousness.
She would have to kick him in the usual place, she concluded—though, despite her apprehension, she rather wished she didn’t have to. Still, Papa had ordered her not to be seduced, and she most certainly had no intention of being ravished in a field, like some unfortunate dairy maid. She closed her eyes, steeled herself, and was just raising her foot from the ground when she heard what sounded like thunder.
She opened her eyes again and looked towards the sound. Lord Berne, surprised, looked too, and released her hands abruptly when he saw what it was.
Though his was not a violent nature, the spectacle which met his eyes as he rode across the meadow threw Mr. Langdon into a towering rage, and an impulse seized him to trample his childhood friend into a bloody pulp.
Fortunately, Jack’s better nature reasserted itself. Masking his fury, he coldly informed Lord Berne that Mr. Desmond’s horse was wanted.
“You’d better go at once,” said Jack, “because you’re wanted at Wemberton as well. A message came from your mother not an hour ago,” he lied, “and I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Though Lord Berne’s mother was forever summoning him and he saw no greater urgency in this latest demand, he did suspect that withholding the Devil’s horse while simultaneously attempting to ravish his daughter was a tad excessive. Besides, with Jack by, there was nothing more to be accomplished with Miss Desmond at present. Quelling his frustration, Lord Berne consoled himself with one languishing glance at his beloved before taking his leave.
Jack now turned his own gaze to that dazzling object. “Where’s your groom?” he demanded.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Delilah answered with great nonchalance. “Probably several miles back, casting up his accounts. Not that it is any concern of yours, sir,” she added haughtily, though two spots of colour blazed in her cheeks.
“If you ride with Tony unescorted the matter will be everyone’s concern, Miss Desmond.”
“I am still unescorted, as you put it,” she returned. “If you have so much regard for petty gossip, you would be better employed finding Peters.” She marched towards her horse, which was tethered to a nearby bush.
Jack quickly dismounted and followed.
“Since I am obviously not a lady, I can mount without assistance,” she told him as he came up beside her.
Mr. Langdon lost his temper. “Damn it all!” he snapped. “I’m very sorry I interrupted your interlude, Miss Desmond, but I wish you’d save your righteous indignation for later. I only came because we have a problem. That is, you have a problem. Really, I don’t know why I’ve been galloping about Rossingley like a lunatic and telling lies to my friends when you’re so splendidly capable of managing your affairs.” So saying, and oblivious to her sputter of outrage, he flung her none too gently into her saddle.
A stunned Delilah gazed for a moment speechlessly down upon the unkempt brown head of this unexpectedly masterful Mr. Langdon.
“What problem?” she finally managed to gasp out.
“I saw Atkins just now,” said Jack, glaring at her right boot. “His hands were all blistered and dirty. Then your great aunt told me some nonsense about moles invading her garden. I think Atkins has got hold of the memoirs. I thought you’d wish to know. I should have told your father instead,” he grumbled. “He at least doesn’t use me as a whipping boy.”
He stomped back to his own beast and mounted.
Delilah drew up beside him. “Are you sure?” she asked, alarm quickly superseding all other emotions. “How could he possibly have found out? And why would he be at the house again if he’s already got them?”
“I don’t know. I know only what I saw and heard,” was the grudging response.
“Oh, please, don’t be angry with me now,” she begged. “I’m sorry I was nasty, but I was—” She hesitated.
“Was what?” he asked testily.
She bit her lip and dropped her eyes. “I was embarrassed.”
Her frankness was disarming and Jack was, in spite of himself, disarmed. She had only to appear the slightest bit repentant or troubled and his heart went out to her, in spite of his brain’s warnings that she was a consummate actress. Really, it was no good his brain telling him anything, because he just wouldn’t listen.
Suppressing a sigh, he told her he was not angry, only anxious. They had better hurry back to find out if they could whether his suspicions were founded in fact.
With a nod, Miss Desmond urged her horse on, and the two hast
ened back to the house.
“Oh, Lord,” Delilah cried as they arrived, panting, at the book’s grave site. The flower bed looked as though it had been bombarded with cannon.
“If he did find it,” said Jack, “it was obviously not on the first attempt. And one cannot tell from this whether he did dig in the right place.”
“Well, I’m going to find out,” said Delilah. She started moving down the path towards the potting shed, but Jack stopped her.
The gardener, he told her, was already beside himself. Jenkins would not remain quietly elsewhere if anyone set foot in his domain with a spade in hand. Furthermore, he’d be sure to inform Lady Potterby, and how did Miss Desmond propose to explain further outrages to the garden?
“I’ll make some excuse,” she answered impatiently.
“You have no more excuses. There’s no sign of the seedlings. They’re obviously destroyed.”
“So I’m to stand idly by, not knowing whether the manuscript is already on its way to print?” she cried.
“I wish you’d keep your voice down,” Jack warned. “Do strive for a little patience, Miss Desmond. I’ll come tonight and search. Tomorrow morning first thing I’ll report to you.”
“No, you will not. I can search tonight myself—”
“You most certainly cannot. A young woman—at night—all alone—digging in the garden? Are you mad? If Atkins failed last night he may try again— or he may send someone better adapted to such labour. You don’t know who you may run up against.”
Delilah glared at him. “What does that matter? I’ll bring my pistol.”
“This is no enterprise for a lady.”
“Since I’m obviously not—”
“Miss Desmond, I just told you I’d see to it—and I’ll see to it my way. If you even think of leaving the house tonight I shall—” He paused briefly, then in steely tones went on, “I shall spank you.”
Delilah stared at him. As usual, his hair was untidy and his clothes had subsided into their customary matching state. At the moment, however, his face was that of a stranger. It was positively feudal. The eyes gazing down his long, aristocratic nose at her were as steely as his voice, and the set of his jaw was the very model of dictatorial obstinacy.
