A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) (11 page)

“That’s quite enough, Melville,” the Marquess replied. “I am very aware that I would look like vagabond on the streets if not for your efforts, but it does seem in poor taste to remind me daily of my sartorial shortcomings.”

“It is among the various reminders I endeavor to provide to your lordship on a daily basis.”

“For which I am, of course, infinitely grateful,” Durham said with a twist to his smile. “You, Melville, lack that quality that is most sought after in contemporary domestic help, and that is the quality of obsequiousness.”

“I must apologize for all of my inadequacies quite frequently, my lord.”

“Which are, of course, nonexistent. Speaking of your talents, any news on the ship that concerned us?”

“Not at this time, your lordship. However, I do anticipate a communication that might clarify some of our difficulties in the next several days, even if it only eliminates one potential source of the mischief.”

“Brilliant, as usual, Melville,” replied Durham with an appreciative nod. “As I have absolutely no idea, which is quite terrifying.”

“I endeavor to give satisfaction, my lord.”

“You endeavor correctly. I will be back later this afternoon after lunching at my club.”

“Indeed, sir.” Melville’s tousled appearance looked more than usually untidy and the Marquess wondered if he hadn’t been out the night before, asking his contacts for any information they might have on fraudulent ships, France, brandy or any other of the million things he had likely decided might aid them in their search.

Once outside, Durham headed immediately to 19 Charles Street. He had elected to walk, rather than take his own curricle or horse, because he did not wish it to be recognized in the unlikely event that anyone discovered
it was Lady Delia Ellsworth who resided at that address. He was certain absolutely no one would believe his denials after that, including himself. It was a nearly forty-minute walk from Durham House in Grosvenor Square, but the brisk exercise did him good and the Marquess preferred the chill air to the confines of a hackney coach. Upon approaching the tidy but hardly fashionable address, he presented himself at the door and produced a card to request “Mrs. Mannering.”

The neat
maid, who bobbed a small curtsy and gave her name as Sissy, opened the door and did not recognize him. He presented himself as the Marquess of Durham and her eyes widened.

“Ma’am is not home, milord!” she squeaked.

Durham frowned. This was not a popular time for calls, and he did not assume that she would be out.

“Do you know when I might return and find her at home?” The Marquess asked patiently. The girl looked backward up the stairs nervously.

“I’m not rightly sure, milord! I just don’t know!” She looked back up the stairs again. He wondered if Lady Delia had instructed her not to open the door to anyone, regardless of who they might be. Perhaps that was why she kept looking back.

“Perhaps I will call again later,” Mason replied and turned around to walk back down the steps into the street. He looked back at the house and then upstairs to the windows and thought he saw a lace curtain move, but could not be sure. It seemed possible that Lady Delia would be avoiding him, but she could not avoid him forever. And he did not intend to wait long.

After lunching at his club, he decided to return to see if Lady Delia had yet decided to receive him. This time, at his ring, the door was answered by a lady who appeared to be a cook and gave her name at “Martha” at his inquiry. He again presented his card.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Mannering is not at home,” she said after glancing at his card.

“I called earlier, my good woman, and was hoping that she had returned.”

“I do apologize, my lord, but I must tell you that Mrs. Mannering isn’t in. I can, of course, give her your card, if you like?”

The Marquess handed over his card and turned to walk down the small steps of the house. Lady Delia was most definitely avoiding him. 

Chapter 20

When Lady Delia returned home that evening, it was after a long day with her editor and publisher, reviewing and revising the novel. The gentlemen at Wright & Wright were indeed pleased with her most recent effort but had complained that the manuscript was not yet finished. She had pled for more time but was also aware that these concerns of timeliness were of the utmost import, when they suggested her readership would suffer with any more significant delays. The attentions of the
ton
,
they reminded her, were notoriously capricious. Reluctantly, she had agreed to finish the book in two additional weeks, which meant she would need go immediately to work on the manuscript that night and continue to write, day and night, to get it finished.

Lady Delia stepped into the neat and modest entrance of her home and called for Amelia, but her
maid did not respond. She walked into the strangely empty drawing room and jumped as she saw the Marquess of Durham sitting comfortably in one of her attractive, serviceable chairs.

“
What
are you doing here!” she nearly shrieked, managing only barely to keep her reticule from falling from her shocked fingers as she jumped with surprise. 

“You have been avoiding me.”

“Indeed I have not! And even if I had, that by no means should give you leave for entering my home without permission!”

“But I did have permission, Lady Delia. You may be content that I am invited, as your maid Amelia left me to wait in this charming drawing room.”

“She
left
you in this room?”

“Quite. After I had explained that I was here on a matter of some urgency involving your guardian—that matter of urgency
being that Mr. Rosewood is searching for you and not so far behind you as you would prefer. She immediately comprehended the necessity of permitting me to wait for you.”

             
Delia gasped and her brows drew together in confusion.

             
“How do you know—how could you possibly?” Delia began.

             
“My dear Lady Delia, you wrote the story of the whole thing in that absurd romance novel you published under a barely disguised
nom de plume
! Could you possibly not anticipate that I would guess you had fled Mr. Rosewood?” Delia gazed at the Marquess with incomprehension not unmixed with a new feeling of approbation.

             
“
You
read romance novels?”

             
“I can assure you that your original suspicions on that front are correct. I do
not
read romances. However, I heard the tale from my dear sister Harriet, who noted its marked similarity to a story, currently circulating in the
ton,
regarding a Lady Delia Ellsworth and myself. I read
your
book only to verify that it was in fact, likely to be
you
who wrote it and I confess I found my suspicions to be quite justified.”

             
Delia felt slightly dizzy and walked quickly to the settee to sit down. For the first time in her acquaintance with the Marquess, her lightheadedness wasn’t even due to his large, intimidating presence. She was, frankly, horrified. It appeared that everyone in society knew what had occurred at Washburn Court.

             
“Why on earth should you do that to me? You made it
quite
clear from that night you refused to be responsible for ‘ruining’ me—so why would you tell anyone? Just to punish me for frightening you?” Her hand shook slightly and she fought back tears. Durham was immediately at her side and, taking her hands, he looked directly into her eyes. Lady Delia looked into his suddenly sympathetic and compassionate dark eyes and felt her heart give an alarming lurch.

             
Those black eyes were framed by gorgeous long lashes and dramatic brows that made him look like a copy of a patrician but devilishly handsome Greek god. The look in them, in such contrast to her previous encounters, was so compassionate that she could hardly bear that he would do something so pointlessly cruel. His voice came out, low and harsh and the depth of feeling surprised her.

             
“My dear Lady Delia, you mistake me. It was not me who spread the vile rumor. I had no intention to so abuse and expose you. The one who is responsible for the rumor is your guardian, Christopher Rosewood. The story circling society is that it was he who told your guest, Mrs. Smythe-Dunston, the gossiping harridan, that you had spent the evening in my chamber. Not only is it untrue, I am uncertain how he could know that you were there at all? And why he would tell this woman is beyond me. I only know that I am eager to repair your reputation in any way that I can and that I do—sincerely and deeply—apologize for my behavior that evening. It is very clear I reached the wrong conclusion upon discovering you that night.”

             
Delia’s mind turned furiously over his words and she could hardly speak. It was impossible that he should apologize in this fashion. Impossible. She continued speaking to clarify her swirling thoughts.

             
“But why would he do that?” she countered, trying to make sense of both Mr. Rosewood and the Marquess’ incomprehensible behavior, “My guardian had been increasingly forcing his attentions on me, culminating in the day you arrived. I believe he wishes to marry me and, I presume, gain my inheritance. Though, he does not even seem to like me.” Her only vaguely coherent thoughts tumbled out, continuing in particular order. “Not the Earldom—that will go to my cousin Augustine, of course, who is traveling back from the Indies, but my own fortune, a legacy from my mother. His attentions were most unwanted!”

Delia forced the memories of his assault in the garden from her mind and as Mason’s hands tightened on hers. She was surprised to realize that she felt no revulsion but only
a delightful warmth in his grasp. “That evening, I heard footsteps and it was too late to bar my door. I was only able to dash into my sitting room and then into the corridor to escape. I swear to you, my lord, that I had no idea yours was the room I fled to! I only wanted to escape. He must have seen me!”

             
Delia could see the extreme displeasure that was marring the Marquess’ generally attractive and indifferent face. “I am certain that if he was in your room, he observed the room you ran into and if he did not yet know that it was mine, he certainly would have determined so from the housekeeper. I collect he then told Mrs. Smythe-Dunston, whom he knew would tell anyone who would listen in society, that you had joined me in my chamber for the night! It seems clear then that he would be able to persuade you to marry him when your name was shockingly blackened. I would kill him myself,” said the Marquess, gazing at Lady Delia. 

             
“No! No, you mustn’t!” the lady replied, squeezing his hands in spite of herself. “I confess I would not see you hang for killing such a worm,” she said with a bit of a smile.

             
“You are right of course,” replied the Marquess. “But he will be punished.”

             
“I am less concerned with punishment than of clearing my name! It will be impossible for me to ever return to a normal life if the entirety of civilized society believes me to be ruined by the notorious Marquess of Durham! And I
must
think of a way to put myself forever beyond the reach of the ghastly Mr. Rosewood! He is to be my guardian until I reach five and twenty and I am sure I cannot wait that long to return to Washburn Court! It’s too much. Though, I am happy here, in London. In my little house,” she looked around. “Indeed, I am happy writing novels. But I am afraid I cannot hide forever, as he is my legal guardian. It is too much to hope that he might not find me for years to come.” 

             
“I can assure you that hiding for that period of time is not likely to be a success. However, we will simply have to find a way to unravel the guardianship provisions,” the Marquess began. “My solicitor is rather a clever man and has not yet disappointed me. I should put him on it directly. Though I am certain that there must be ways to remove a guardianship. It seems a breach of fiduciary duty might do the trick and an attempted forced marriage would certainly qualify.”

             
“I had hoped to do something of that nature myself!” responded Lady Delia, “but I am afraid that in my grief I was ill-equipped. I know who my father’s solicitor was, but I have no idea that he would even speak to me or if I had any rights. And it’s not as if I could do anything at Washburn Court without Mr. Rosewood immediately discovering it.”

             
The Marquess had been looking at her for some minutes. His enormous shoulders blocked the lamplight from the street and no one had lit the lamp in her drawing room, as he had unceremoniously dismissed her servants. It was getting very dark and she realized suddenly the enormous impropriety of their situation.

             
“You shouldn’t be here! It is past dark and we are unchaperoned,” she said.

             
“After what has already happened between us, I should hardly think you would be concerned about a bit of darkness.”

             
“Which is precisely why I am this disgraceful situation in the first place!” she reminded him. “Because I was discovered by some person, in a compromising situation with
you
!”

             
“It was certainly not any of my actions that drew you to my bedchamber, so I must protest that this improper encounter is my first.”

             
A dark flush crept up her cheeks and she looked down. She remembered the feel of Mason’s body against hers that night. His lips, hot and damp on her body, and she closed her eyes.

             
“Hardly! You kissed me that night!”

             
“What else was I supposed to do when I discovered a beautiful lady in my bed?”

             
“You would remind me of that!” she managed to say with a quavering voice.

             
“Though I would greatly hate to remind you of my words, which were inexcusable,” Durham replied, moving a hand from cheek, gently, down her neck, tracing over her ear. His hand swept up behind her head, delicately entwining his fingers in her soft hair to find and remove the pins. “But I cannot forget the vision of you that night,” he whispered against her ear as his hand found a pin in her hair and one curl fell, loosened, to her shoulder. “It is burned in my memory and returns to me at night, at breakfast, every hour, unbidden.” He kissed her eyebrow and found another pin to pull free. “You have tormented me and I can think of nothing else.” She drew in a ragged breath.

             
“You must be mad,” she whispered. “You hate me.” But one delicate arm had crept around his waist and the other hand, still in his, grew warmer by the second.

             
“Never say that again,” said Durham roughly. “You are quite one of the bravest women of my acquaintance and I cannot say how much I cursed myself last evening when you fled the opera. When I saw you again, in that gown, your hair dressed and looking so achingly beautiful, there with Freddy, I thought the worst and went a bit mad.” Her hair was entirely loose and free now. His fingers separated the curls and one hand crept to the buttons at the front of her spencer. He unbuttoned the first button of the jacket as his lips finally met her eager and willing mouth in a kiss that declared the unspent passion of the past months. Unable to stop, his arms dropped from her hair and pulled her onto his lap, crushing her against him as his mouth took hers with the ferocity of a lifetime of deprivation. He groaned and pressed her closer, though they could hardly be any nearer each other if they had been one person.

             
Delia pulled back to catch her breath and looked up at him, her eyes liquid pools of violet. Her dark lips were plump and bruised from his kisses but he could think of nothing else but taking them again. He kissed the corner of her mouth and her jawline, and, with slightly shaking fingers, undid the rest of the buttons of her spencer. Still kissing her, he pulled off the jacket and tugged the sleeves from her arms. Her modest walking dress was pale gray but Durham wanted nothing between his eyes and her body. With tremendous effort, he kept his fingers from the buttons behind her neck and instead tried to sate himself with running his hands down her back, enjoying the feel of her body beneath his hands, clothed in the soft muslin.

             
“Where is Amelia?” Lady Delia asked, half wishing to be disturbed by her maid but also desiring nothing but to stay alone with the Marquess forever.

             
“When I told her who I was, she was a great deal more accommodating than your other servants, who kept telling me you were not at home today,” Mason began.

             
“But I
wasn’t
at home today!” Delia protested.

             
“Where on earth were you for the entire afternoon? A little girl named Sissy kept looking upstairs while telling me you were out!”