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Lord Berne registered her dismayed surprise with satisfaction, though he took care to appear hurt. “You underestimate the strength of a man’s affections,” he reproved. “For some fortunate men there does come a love that consumes all else. Some of us give our hearts completely—and only once, for all eternity.”
Chapter Fourteen
If miss desmond had begun to suspect what her trouble was with Mr. Langdon, Lord Berne’s enlightening comments put an abrupt end to this species of self-examination. Delilah had not required the viscount’s additional heavy-handed hints to grasp the facts of the case: Mr. Langdon had been and evidently still was in love with Lady Rand. That was unfortunate, considering the lady had given her own heart and hand elsewhere and seemed ecstatically happy with her choice.
Still, that was Mr. Langdon’s problem. Human beings had been disappointed in love since the beginning of time, yet the human race continued. She need not go into mourning seclusion just because he was unhappy.
All the same, in the following days, her social life seemed to lose its sparkle. Potterby House was crammed with callers and the same glittering group of Fashionables surrounded her at every affair. They only made her weary.
She felt she never would fit in this world and began to understand why her parents had been as pleased to shun Society as it was to shun them. With the rare exception, such as Lady Rand, everything seemed so false about these people. Their excessive politeness barely masked a great deal of bored discontent, ill nature, and varying degrees of treachery to relatives and friends alike.
Caroline Lamb was only the most glaring example of the immorality that all was too commonplace, and she was castigated mainly because she had been indiscreet. Not that Delilah wished particularly to contemplate Lady Caroline or the lady’s abused husband. Miss Desmond saw too many similarities to her own temperament and wondered if she, like poor William Lamb’s temperamental wife, must be one day goaded by boredom, frustration, and hunger for sensation to cast discretion to the winds.
Certainly the world seemed to expect it. Delilah could not shake off the feeling that the Beau Monde was waiting for her to fail... and fall.
There was as well her own mounting anxiety about the manuscript. Papa had been unable to locate either it or Mr. Atkins. Until that business was settled once and for all, how could she possibly feel at ease among the victims of her papa’s pen? Even if the matter were settled at last, how long before she could settle her own business and get a husband? It seemed she would have to be a paragon of rectitude for ages before anyone would be sufficiently convinced of her virtue to marry her—and by then she would be too old. She’d never dreamed she’d be tested so. This might have been expected, since it was the way of the world, but she could not help feeling profoundly discouraged all the same.
Nonetheless, Delilah was not sufficiently weary of life to reject Mr. Langdon’s invitation to drive with him, a few days after Lady Fevis’s ball. His proposing an unfashionably early hour only added to his offer’s appeal.
At least, she thought as he guided the horses into Hyde Park, the entire Beau Monde would not be there to gawk at her. For all that she was tired of being ogled, she had spent two hours fretting about what to wear. She was still fretting. She knew her green frock became her very well and her new capote was entirely a la mode, yet her companion appeared utterly oblivious. Or perhaps, being too honest to lie and too tactful to tell her she looked a fright, he had simply decided to hold his tongue altogether.
That he was the epitome of sartorial elegance—his linen crisply immaculate against the form-fitting brown coat—only irritated her. Perhaps this was why she did not behave, as she’d intended, entirely carefree and delighted with her recent popularity. Surely this must be why, instead, all—or nearly all—her pent-up frustrations came spilling out of her, and she found herself confiding in Mr. Langdon more freely than she had even her father.
Papa was never home, she complained, and for all his investigations, day and night, could obtain no word of his manuscript. Aunt Millicent still scolded at least a dozen times a day, until the grand-niece despaired of ever pleasing her. Not a single occupation in which Delilah was truly skilled was she permitted. If she played cards, it must be for chicken stakes—and with idiots. She couldn’t go anywhere without a chaperone. She could not go to gaming hells, Manton’s, or Tattersall’s at all. She was, in short, bored to tears.
“At least you have your routs and balls,” said Mr. Langdon, after sympathising with these trials. “And, of course, all your beaux. That must be some compensation.”
“I didn’t come to London just to dance and flirt,” she said crossly. “I came for a husband. I’m denied everything that might be pleasure and then I can’t even get my business done.”
He threw her an odd glance. “That is plain speaking.”
She sighed. “Mr. Langdon, if I cannot be frank with you, then there’s no one. Except for Lady Rand, the ladies do not invite confidences. If I were frank with most of the gentlemen, they’d get an earful, I promise you. But I must be unspeakably proper and pretend they’re properly respectful, even when they stare at me in that disgusting way.”
“They’re bound to stare, Miss Desmond. But disgusting?”
“They leer, and I assure you it is not at all agreeable.”
“I’d have thought you’d be accustomed to attracting attention,” he said philosophically. “If the men do leer sometimes, you must understand that they may be unable to help themselves.”
“They ought to help it. They could if they wished to. They don’t treat other young women so. Imagine any of them daring to ogle Miss Melbrook.”
“Miss Melbrook is not as beautiful as you are.”
“She’s accounted a diamond of the first water— and I am not begging for compliments, Mr. Langdon,” she added, though to her distress she did feel unspeakably gratified. “They look at me the way they do because they’re all waiting for my wicked character to reveal itself.”
“That is a grave error on their part,” he said. “You’re not at all wicked. What you are is dangerous. I only wonder you haven’t shot anyone so far, if you’re so displeased.”
She could not help smiling. “I cannot shoot them, since I cannot carry my pistol about with me,” she said. “Evening dress is a tad too revealing, and a weapon does weigh down one’s reticule.”
“Still, if this behaviour distresses you so, we must put a stop to it. I could, I suppose, call the fellows out—but there seem to be a great many of them, which means a lot of rising at dawn and spoiling my boots in some muddy field. No,” he said gravely, “Mr. Fellows would never countenance that.”
“I suppose he would not,” she sadly agreed.
“You’ll have to fight the duel yourself,” he said as they approached the Serpentine. “But instead of swords or pistols, you must use a more formidable weapon—your eyes.”
He drew the carriage to a halt.
“Now,” he went on, “look at me—not at my cravat, Miss Desmond, though I admit it is an astounding sight. Full into my face.”
Puzzled, she obeyed, though the instant she met his gaze she felt so uneasy that it took all her concentration not to look away. She’d never noticed before how thick and dark his lashes were or the faint beginnings of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.
She grew more uncomfortable still when the dreamy grey eyes abruptly became those of a stranger. An exceedingly wicked stranger, moreover, whose bold survey began at her bonnet and continued appraisingly down to her neckline, at which point she felt she might as well not be wearing anything at all. He had not touched her—had not moved a fraction closer, yet it seemed as though his mouth and hands had been everywhere his glance had been.
An eternity later, it seemed—though it ha
d been but a moment—the feral expression vanished.
“Was that the way of it?” he asked, quite as though he had merely recited a verse from the Iliad, instead of practically ravishing her with his gaze.
“Y-yes.”
“I thought so. You nearly turned purple, Miss Desmond.” Heedless of her sputter of indignation, he continued, “What you must do is immediately fix your mind elsewhere and stare right through the fellow.”
“Elsewhere? How in blazes am I to do that with you—you leering so?”
“If you concentrate on what he’s doing to you, you’re bound to blush and appear discomfited, which will please the chap no end. If, however, you appear coldly indifferent, both to the stare and to him, you’ll discomfit and confuse him. It does work, I assure you,” he added. “I’ve seen Gwendolyn do it countless times, on far less provocation.”
Whatever Gwendolyn could do, Miss Desmond must obviously be twice as capable of doing, she adjured herself as her companion once again commenced his visual assault. Though her pulse rate had apparently quadrupled and her entire body seemed to be burning up under his impudent appraisal, Delilah did as he ordered.
She stiffened her spine, adopted an expression of ineffable ennui, and let her own gaze flicker coldly over his face, as though instead of beholding a disturbingly handsome countenance, she were regarding a slug.
Since they were only playacting, it was with some surprise that she observed his colour deepening. A muscle twitched under his left cheekbone.
“Well done, Miss Desmond,” he said rather stiffly. “Not that I’m surprised. I’ve been subjected to that withering expression before.”
“That’s impossible. You’ve just instructed me.”
“Actually, it was more in the nature of the reminder. The skill you already possessed. You simply didn’t realise it would be as effective on these occasions as on others.”
