Page 23 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

Chapter Eight

Trentham gave his card to Peters at the door and waited upon the formalities, unnecessary though they might be. He would always be welcome at Lynch’s. If ever that ceased to be true, it would be a sign he should simply give up. There were worse fates than being a social pariah.

The butler left him in the entryway for only a few minutes before returning to admit him into Miss Delancey’s presence. To his disappointment, Peters led him toward the library rather than the music room. He’d hoped to find her enjoying her gift. And thus, thinking of him. Of course, that was self-centered and utterly without merit. Surely, she had better sense.

Lynch’s library, Trentham knew, would be stuffy. He didn’t understand the penchant for dark wood and heavy window dressings in rooms that were supposed to encourage reading. The furnishings were “masculine,” though assigning certain décors to men and others to women made no logical sense. Neither did the implication that men possessed the ability to read in the dark. Or preferred lamplight to sunlight as if they were all vampires. At Wormsley House, he did his reading in the well-windowed drawing room where he could see, even though the “feminine” chairs gave him leg cramps.

Miss Delancey sat enthroned upon a brown, upholstered chair that was bolstered with more pillows than there was human occupant. She had needlework of some sort in her lap; one leg propped on a footstool, and with a blanket draped over it. Fortunately for her eyeballs, the whole assemblage was situated beside a lamp.

He hadn’t expected to find her alone. His first thought was that he should leave. Although modestly dressed, she was not attired to receive callers. Her blond hair was done in one long braid draped down her right shoulder rather than being pinned up. She wore a simple flowered dress of light cotton stuff and had a shawl over her shoulders that someone’s grandmother might wear. He fought a strong urge to curl up beside her and throw off the shawl.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” She beckoned him closer and set the embroidery aside. He took note of a book sticking half out from under the end table as though it had been hastily shoved there. The title was familiar. A borrowed book? Lynch had never owned a novel in his life. The embroidered object was a small cap. There was no floss in the needle poked into it. A sham. He managed not to laugh.

“Good afternoon. I apologize for not calling before this, but Foster is due back at Harrow soon and there is considerable fuss around that.” He dragged a chair close to her footstool, too close, and sat. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“My ankle is. But now my fingers are throbbing.” She smiled at him and held up her hands, wiggling her fingers. “I was playing all morning. I can’t thank you enough. I hope you got my card yesterday.”

“I did. And I hope you don’t mind that I took it for invitation to come hear you play. Though not today, obviously.”

On impulse, he caught one of her hands in his and ran the pad of his thumb across her palm, as if testing her boundaries. Not as if. He was testing her. This was what a rake did. Where the devil was Dessie? Surely Peters had gone to fetch her.

Her smile looked forced as she pulled her hand away. “I will be happy to play for you some other time.”

“Have you been keeping yourself entertained?” he asked, sitting a little farther back in his chair so he wouldn’t be so enticed by her subtle lavender perfume. And her soft curves. And that ridiculously tantalizing shawl.

“Oh, yes. As best I can. It’s grand to have time with Dessie.”

Who was nowhere to be found. He should not have come. Not if his first impulse was to grab hold of Miss Delancey and unwrap her. He thought he’d disciplined himself out of such sybaritic rashness. For diversion, he leaned over and plucked up the book.

“What is that?” she asked, with wide-eyed innocence. “Honestly, Dessie’s housemaids are…”

“It was Lady Florina Thistlethwaite,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, tucking the book back under the table.

“It couldn’t be! No. She was tied up in the lake house. Unless…”

He laughed.

She mimed a pout. “My excuse is that I am forced to do nothing all day long. What is yours?”

“I live a life of idle luxury.”

“I doubt that’s entirely true. How did you spend yesterday?”

“Yesterday?” He shifted in his chair. “I spent the morning with the steward from Lannington, my estate. Signing papers.” And going over accounts. And settling some business about a stud bull. “I lunched with Eli and my brother Foster. Then I went to Tattersall’s. Foster has long outgrown the pony he is so fond of, but I haven’t found the right horse for him yet.”

“That is sweet. I like Foster.”

“So do I. Then I went to my club for the evening.” Pratt’s. He’d been blackballed from White’s. Another humiliation. “A full day in the life of the Duke of Trentham.” He pretended to frown. “That was an odd question. I can’t think of the last time I was called upon to account for how I spent my day.” And he was particularly glad that yesterday was one devoid of any untoward activity—that he had, in fact, given up all activities that were untoward. No gambling, no mistress: he was a remarkably staid old bore.

“It doesn’t sound idle.” Her brow furrowed. “Just not as productive as Lynch.”

“Hmph. No. We can’t all aspire to that.” Lynch was a conscientious manager of his holdings. God knew he had to be, given the state of them. At the same time, he was obsessed with his political crusade for women’s rights. Was Miss Delancey bothered by how many hours he spent working? Was Dessie? He wondered if Lynch’s new wife was feeling neglected. “And where is your sister?”

“Having a rest.” Her gaze drifted downward and spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. “I should really send someone to bring her down, or she’ll think she was terribly rude for not receiving you.”

“I doubt that’s what she will think.” She would think he was up to no good. “I don’t want to disturb her.”

“No. No, neither do I,” she murmured.