Lady Scandal

11

The following morning, Delia found a note from Ritz on her breakfast tray, asking for a meeting with her that afternoon. He was spending Sunday at home with his family and then departing for Paris first thing Monday morning, the note said, and he wanted to discuss hotel business with her before his departure.

She had a pretty fair idea that the hotel business in question involved Simon, however, and that made everything terribly awkward. On the one hand, she understood Ritz’s misgivings—his dislike of being undermined, his concern for the staff, and his resentment of the changes. She had felt the same, in the beginning. But during the past few weeks, she had also come to see Simon’s point of view. A hotel that lost money could not stay in business. Both Simon and Max had forced her to accept that brutal truth, but Ritz still seemed to be under the illusion that nothing had to change.

Easy for him to be so cavalier, she thought, tossing the note back on her breakfast tray, since he was never around for more than a few days at a time. He had clearly not yet appreciated that the changes Simon was implementing were going to be made, no matter how many of the employees he rallied to stand against them.

Delia bit her lip, staring at the note on the tray, feeling torn. She owed Ritz so much, and she honestly didn’t know where she’d be today if it weren’t for him. But she also knew when to accept the inevitable. And she had the feeling that the entire purpose of the meeting Ritz wanted was to force her to choose a side, and that was a position she did not want to be in. Stalling, she decided, was her best bet.

Fortunately, she had the perfect excuse to avoid a meeting. Her day, she knew, was going to be full, for she had to pave the way for Cassandra’s introduction into society tonight. Inviting Simon and his sister to the opera had been an impulse on her part, but if Cassandra hoped to move in society, the poor girl was clearly going to need some help. Simon might understand balance sheets and income statements, but he was clueless about what a seventeen-year-old girl required to make a successful debut.

The opera was an excellent way to begin the process. The boxes that lined the perimeter of the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden were the perfect place to see and be seen by anyone who mattered, and though early February in London wasn’t the most exciting time, there would still be plenty of the ton’s aristocratic members in attendance to see just who Lady Stratham had invited to share her box for the year’s first performance of Puccini’s new opera.

Despite the ideal setting, it was a tricky business to launch a girl, and Delia knew choosing whom else to invite had to be done carefully. Adding to the difficulty, she didn’t have much time to make the arrangements.

With that reminder, she dashed off a note to Ritz explaining that she was fully engaged all day and evening, expressing her sincerest apologies, and suggesting they meet the minute he returned from Paris. She then summoned Molly, got dressed, and left the hotel to begin making her arrangements for the evening ahead.

As she’d suspected, filling the remaining five seats of her box was not an easy task. No one liked receiving last-minute invitations, particularly for the benefit of a girl they’d never met whose brother had not been to the manor born. In addition, word of Simon’s new policies at the Savoy had gotten round, ruffling quite a few aristocratic feathers, requiring her to send one telegram, make a dozen calls upon acquaintances, and use every bit of her skill at persuasion. But these efforts proved worthwhile, and in the end, those in her box that evening included one baroness and her daughter, one very eligible baronet and his sister, and one very exasperated duke.

“Really, Delia,” Max grumbled as they stood by the refreshment table, waiting for Simon and his sister to arrive, “the favors you ask.”

“Oh, stop,” she replied as she accepted a filled glass from the footman pouring champagne. “I’ve asked bigger ones of you in the past.”

“That’s hardly a point in your favor. You realize I’m a busy man?”

She negated that point with a scoff. “In February? Hardly.”

“Even in February, it’s not a simple matter to drop everything and come all the way to London. Especially when I was given no explanation.”

“I did explain.”

“Not really.” He pulled a slip of paper out of the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. “‘Need you in London immediately stop,’” he read. “‘Your investment in Savoy may depend on it stop Take two o’clock train stop Will reserve room for you tonight stop Bring white-tie stop Much love Delia stop stop.’ That,” he added, giving her a wry look, “was not very illuminating.”

“Well, a telegram doesn’t allow for long-winded explanations. And it piqued your curiosity, didn’t it?”

“Which it was obviously designed to do,” he agreed, shoving the telegram back in his pocket. “So, how does my investment in the Savoy hinge on my presence at the opera?”

She bit her lip, giving him a look of apology. “That might have been a bit of an exaggeration on my part. But you can’t complain,” she added as her cousin made a sound of aggravation, “since I’m really just following your recipe for success.”

“Which is?”

“I’m sucking up to my new boss. Who,” she added, spying Simon and his sister in the doorway, “has just arrived.”

“Using me to suck up to Calderon wasn’t precisely what I had in mind,” Max muttered in her ear as they started forward together to greet the new arrivals.

“I’m doing this for his sister. She’s a lovely girl, and a duke’s condescension would be very helpful to successfully bringing her out in May. So I expect you to follow the same advice you gave me and be your most dashing, charming self.”

There was no time for more.

She halted by the doorway to greet the new arrivals, and as she did, her heart gave a strange little flutter. Simon looked every bit as handsome in his white tie and tails as he had the night before, and it took her a moment to find her tongue.

“Lord Calderon,” she managed at last, hoping she didn’t look as gauchely nervous as she felt. What on earth was wrong with her?

“Lady Stratham.” He bowed. “I hope we’re not late.”

“Not at all.”

“If we are late, it’s my fault,” Cassandra put in. “It was a mad scramble trying to find something to wear, for I didn’t bring anything suitable with me.” She brushed her hand nervously over her pale pink silk gown. “I hope this is all right.”

“You look lovely,” Delia hastened to reassure her, then she turned, gesturing to the man beside her. “Lord Calderon, I believe you already know my cousin, the Duke of Westbourne. Max, allow me to present Lord Calderon’s sister, Miss Cassandra Hayden. Miss Hayden, my cousin, the Duke of Westbourne.”

Wide-eyed, looking suitably impressed, Cassandra dipped her knees in a deep curtsy. “Duke.”

“Miss Hayden,” Max replied, playing up beautifully with his most elegant ducal bow. “A pleasure to meet you. And may I say that if you were late, one look at you and all would be forgiven at once.”

Delia feared such a lavish compliment might have been a bit over the top, but Cassandra’s face lit up like a candle, and she breathed a soft sigh of relief.

“I didn’t know you’d be here this evening, Duke,” Simon said, joining the conversation.

“I didn’t have much choice. I was pressed into service.”

Delia’s sideways kick in his ankle was ignored. “I understand,” Max went on, “you’ve been making some significant changes at the hotel?”

“I have. I’d be happy to discuss them with you, if you’re willing.”

“Of course.”

The two men exited the box to talk business, and Delia turned to the girl with a rueful smile. “I think your brother is trying to avoid me.”

“Oh, no! Why would he?”

“The obvious reason, perhaps?”

“You think he doesn’t like you?”

Delia considered, then admitted the truth with a laugh. “I don’t know what your brother’s opinion of me is, to be honest. But dislike is quite possible.”

“I doubt that.” Cassandra shook her head so adamantly that Delia was startled. “Simon never pretends. He despises hypocrisy and dishonesty. If he disliked you, he’d never have accepted your invitation for tonight.”

“Even though an event like this is a good entrée into society for you?”

“Especially then. If he didn’t like you, he’d have good reasons for that opinion, and he’d do all he could to keep me away from your influence. Both our parents are dead, you see, so we only have each other.”

“You have no other relations at all?”

“A few scattered cousins, but we hardly know them. So Simon feels his responsibility for me very keenly.”

Delia smiled. “You don’t have to tell me that. It’s plain as a pikestaff. When I mentioned to him last night that he’d need to bring you out, he looked as if I’d just asked him to jump off a cliff.”

“He worries that society won’t accept me.” She bit her lip. “I’m afraid that’s partly my fault. I rather cried on his shoulder about some things in my last letter.”

“He doesn’t want you to be snubbed and get hurt, which is perfectly understandable. And that is where I come in. Stick with me, my dear, and you’ll soon have more friends than you know what to do with. Now,” she added, putting her arm through the girl’s, “come with me, and I will introduce you to my other guests.”

She suited the action to the word, and before long, the four youngest members of the party were all seated together, chatting away like old friends as they waited for the performance to begin. But Delia had barely congratulated herself on finding Cassandra a group of suitable companions before Baroness Ferridale was standing by her side, making inquiries about England’s most recently elevated viscount.

“I’m told he’s exceedingly rich. Is that true?”

Delia saw the speculative gleam in the other woman’s eyes, and, given that the baroness’s very pretty daughter was about to be put on the marriage mart, that could only mean one thing. Delia froze, dismayed, her glass of champagne halfway to her lips.

“Delia?” the other woman prompted when she didn’t reply. “Are you all right?”

Delia recovered her wits with an effort. “Of course,” she lied.

“Well, then?” the baroness urged with a hint of impatience. “Is he rich or not?”

She gave the other woman her most innocent stare in return. “Heavens, Selina, I’ve no idea.”

“No? Really, Delia, I feel quite let down. You usually know these things.”

“In this case, I’m afraid I don’t,” she was happy to reply. “I’ve no idea what he’s worth.”

“When you invited me for this evening, you told me he’s quite a successful captain of industry,” Selina reminded her. “And that he’s terribly clever. So he must be rich, mustn’t he? And so handsome, too. Quite possibly the handsomest man in London. Don’t you think so?”

“His looks are all right, I suppose,” she countered with a shrug, almost wincing at such a palpable understatement.

“All right?” Selina echoed, laughing. “Is that all you can say? Really, dear, your eyesight must be going. It starts to happen at about your age, you know.”

That was a bridge too far. “For heaven’s sake, Selina, I’m only thirty-three!”

“Exactly.” With that last catty remark, the baroness moved to join her daughter and the others, leaving Delia to glare resentfully at her back. Thirty-three, she told herself, was not old.

“And they say eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.”

Simon’s murmured voice behind her made her jump. “Goodness!” she gasped, turning around. “I didn’t know you were there.”

He grinned. “Your failing eyesight must be to blame.”

“Don’t you start,” she said, giving him a warning scowl.

“I’m just getting a bit of my own back. After all, you said I’m merely all right. Still, you did sing my praises to her this afternoon, so I suppose that’s some consolation.”

Delia mustered her dignity. “I was singing your praises for your sister’s sake. It was necessary so that the baroness would come this evening and bring her daughter. I thought Miss Ferridale would be a good companion for her, since they’re coming out together.”

“Of course,” he said gravely, but there was a distinctly knowing glint in his eyes that made her decidedly uneasy. “Nonetheless,” he went on, “it’s gratifying to know the baroness considers me a handsome fellow, even if you don’t. But the crucial question, really, is what does her exceedingly pretty daughter think?”

Aghast, she stared at him. “It shouldn’t matter. You’re far too old for her.”

“Your ability to wound me knows no bounds, it seems. But my masculine pride demands that I point out you’re only three years younger than I am. As for Miss Ferridale…” He paused to study the girl on the other side of the box as he took a sip of his champagne, seeming to actually consider the question of becoming her suitor. “A baron’s daughter… quite pretty. I daresay I’d be a lucky man.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Delia shot back. “As I said, she’s too young for you.”

To her immense irritation, he laughed. “No man ever cares about things like that.”

“Well, you should. She’s only eighteen, almost the same age as your sister, for heaven’s sake.”

“So?”

Delia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You said just last night that your sister is far too young to be married!”

“Ah, but we’re not talking about my sister, are we? We’re talking about my possible future wife.”

Delia made a sound of utter exasperation. “Men. You are all such hypocrites about these things.”

He laughed again. “What’s wrong, Delia?” he asked, looking mortifyingly pleased with himself. “Are you jealous?”

She was. Oh, God in heaven, she was. And he knew it, too, the wretch.

She opened her mouth to deny it and declare him quite off his chump, but the knowing amusement in his eyes told her further denials would only prove his point. He knew the truth—had known it before she had.

Given all that, there was only one thing a woman with any sense could do.

Delia took a deep breath, downed the last of her champagne, and met his amused gaze head on. “I am, actually,” she confessed, and as she noted his stunned expression, she felt an odd, dizzying thrill. How liberating, she thought, how intoxicating to admit one’s feelings to a man openly, instead of dancing around them, dropping delicate little hints in the approved ladylike fashion. It had been a long time since she’d felt so free.

After her last husband’s death, she’d left all notions of romance and desire behind her. But now, for the first time in over five years, she felt them coming to life, a breath of wind stirring the ashes.

With that in mind, Delia took a deep breath and burned her boats completely. “I’m jealous as hell,” she said and gave an exhilarated laugh. “So put that in your pipe, Simon, and smoke it.”

With that parting shot, she turned away and took her seat beside Max. Her cheeks were flushed, her heart was racing as if she’d been running, and she felt as giddy as a girl of sixteen.

It was glorious.

Had anyone asked Simon to offer a considered opinion of Puccini’s new opera, he’d have been hard-pressed to do so. Sitting directly behind Delia, he’d been far too distracted by the slender column of her neck, the scent of her perfume that occasionally wafted to his nose, and the graceful tilt of her head whenever she turned to whisper something to her cousin to pay any attention to the performance on the stage below.

Her throaty laughter from earlier this evening continually overrode the music of the orchestra and the soaring voices of the performers, and her words kept coming back again and again to torment him.

I’m jealous as hell.

Even now, he could hardly believe he’d heard her correctly. The idea that Delia, of all women, could be jealous of a girl barely out of finishing school was ludicrous in the extreme. But he had to admit, every time her confession echoed through his mind, it made him smile with pure, manly satisfaction.

And that, he appreciated, made his warning to her in the carriage truer now than ever before. Being anywhere near Delia threatened to destroy his objectivity, hurt the investigation, and betray two of his dearest friends. Besides, Delia was the sort of woman who could wreak havoc on a man and deem it nothing more than jolly good fun, and he had no intention of being that sort of amusement.

Good thing he was going to the country on the morrow, for that would give him some breathing space, enable him to get clear of her and the desire for her that was beginning to bedevil his sleep and muddle his thinking. Unfortunately, there was something he had to discuss with her before he caught the morning train, something that could not wait for his return.

As the evening progressed, he watched for any opportunity to speak with her, but there was none. During the intermission, the short walk back to the Savoy after the performance, and supper in the hotel restaurant, her attention was commanded by others. And when the supper was over and goodnights were being said, he was cornered by Lady Ferridale, and she slipped away.

It took him at least five minutes to extricate himself from the baroness and her obvious matchmaking and go in search of Delia, but he soon discovered she had not gone to her room. That, he supposed as he stood outside her door, was probably a good thing, since it would have taken all the willpower he had to stand in the doorway to her room without giving in to temptation, hauling her into his arms, and showing her she had no reason to be jealous of a slip of a girl.

He knocked again, but there was still no reply. Not knowing whether to be frustrated or relieved, he turned and started toward his own room at the other end of the hotel, but as he passed the elevator, he realized there was one person who might know where she’d gone, and he pressed the bell to summon the lift.

A few minutes later, his search was over and he was on the roof, watching her.

She was standing by the balustrade overlooking the Thames and wrapped against the cold winter chill in her full-length opera cloak of black cashmere, a lamp on the balustrade beside her casting a glow on the pale skin of her profile.

He gave a cough, alerting her to his presence, and she turned. “Hullo. Finally extricated yourself from Lady Ferridale, I see.”

“It took some doing.” He started toward her across the rooftop. “Why are you up here? Thinking about your hothouse idea? Remember,” he added before she could reply, “I can’t approve it until I have all the information, and even then, the board will have to agree.”

“I’ll have a full proposal on your desk as soon as I possibly can,” she promised.

“Is this where you want to put it?”

She nodded. “I think so. There’s enough space on this side, and it has the best view.”

He glanced around, noting the inky blackness above their heads, the faint, snaky outline of the Thames beyond the balustrade, and the glow of the streetlights lining the Embankment below. “Not much to see now, though.”

“Not at this time of night, no. But for luncheons and cotillions, there’s no better prospect.” She turned toward him, leaning one hip against the balustrade. “Is that why you’re up here, too?” she asked. “To envision my idea in its proper setting?”

“Actually, no. I came looking for you. I tried to catch up with you after the party, for I wanted to speak with you before I leave for the country in the morning, but the baroness cornered me, and I couldn’t get away.”

Delia sniffed. “Wanted to sing her daughter’s praises to you, no doubt.”

He grinned as he remembered her admission of jealousy earlier, but she gave him no time to enjoy it.

“So you came looking for me up here?”

“No, actually. I assumed you’d gone to your room, so I went there first—”

“Coming to a lady’s hotel room in the wee small hours? And when I recently accused you of this nefarious intention, you denied it, you liar.”

“I want to talk with you, not have an assignation.” Even as he said it, he thought of how he’d felt standing outside her room, the doubts and temptations that had momentarily flitted through his mind, and his throat went dry at the memory.

She sighed. “You really know how to flatter a woman, don’t you?”

“I’ve never been very good at that,” he admitted. “But to return to the point, I asked the lift attendant if he knew where you might have gone, and he told me he’d brought you up here. He was quite surprised by that, it seems.”

“I daresay. It’s not the sort of thing the guests would be inclined to do, is it? But why did you come in search of me? Hotel business, I suppose?”

He shook his head. “No, I wanted to talk with you about something else entirely. My sister,” he supplied when she frowned in puzzlement.

“Ah.” Her brow cleared and she gave a laugh. “Want to know if she passed muster with my aristocratic friends?”

“In a way. Is she sufficiently prepared to do the season, do you think?”

“Absolutely. The question is, will you let her?”

He made a face. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really, no.”

He nodded, not surprised. He’d already accepted the inevitable fact that he was going to have to put his baby sister into the teeth of high society. He just hoped she would not get hurt. “I’m taking her back to Berkshire tomorrow. As you suggested, I’ll call on my new neighbors to pave the way for her so that she can make some friends there. In light of that, do you have any advice?”

“Don’t ever let them think they’re better than you. They’re not.”

That made him smile a little. “Are you saying that because you want me to know you’re not a snob?”

“No, I’m saying it because it’s true. But if you now appreciate that I’m not a snob, all the better.”

“Any other sage wisdom to offer?”

“No, but—” She broke off, considering, then she gave a nod. “Actually, yes; I do want to say one very important thing. It’s not advice, exactly. More like a warning.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Your sister is remarkably pretty, and very sweet. And she’s been quite sheltered for most of her life. She is also, as you know, very young. A scoundrel will be quick to see that.”

“I’m painfully aware of that,” he said with a grimace. “Thinking about all the rotters out there who’d take advantage of her has kept me up at night more than once.”

“I daresay. Any girl without a mother to keep a sharp eye on her every minute is a tempting target, but girls of Cassie’s temperament are especially susceptible to men of that ilk.”

“As you were?”

She shook her head. “My first husband wasn’t a scoundrel. Roger was an addict, and he was weak, perhaps, but he wasn’t a scoundrel. And besides, I may have been as young as your sister back then and equally sheltered from life’s harsh realities but—” She broke off, giving him a grin. “I was never sweet.”

He laughed. “I can well believe that. But what makes you say it?”

“At Cassandra’s age, I was regarded as something of a hellion.”

“Really?” he said dryly. “Imagine that. What did you do?”

“Well, for one thing, I was an accomplished poet.”

“Writing poetry makes one a hellion?”

“Well, my poems did. At finishing school, I composed a long and lurid ode to the gardener’s handsome young assistant, particularly the way his trousers hugged his shapely, muscular legs.”

“Indeed?” He was tempted to glance down and imagine how trousers would look on a certain pair of wholly feminine legs, but he refrained.

“But I think,” she went on, “it was my limerick about the headmistress’s lack of internal organs that did it for me in the end.”

He frowned in puzzlement. “Lack of internal organs?”

“My headmistress was born in Park Lane,” she recited. “She has no heart and no brain—”

His shout of laughter interrupted this impudent epistle. “I begin to see how you acquired your reputation. What happened?”

“My parents, God rest their souls, were advised to come and collect me forthwith. That was my first finishing school.”

“I take it there was more than one?”

“I was expelled from three.”

“Three? Good God.”

“I did manage to graduate from the fourth one. Either way, I may regret these confidences, for after hearing them, you’re probably not too keen on the idea of me befriending your sister.”

She was right about his lack of enthusiasm, but not for the reasons she was assuming. “Why were you at finishing school at all? I mean, Cassie was in finishing school only because our mother had died and I had another year to serve in the army. Reserves, of course, but I was still stationed in Africa, so boarding school was the best thing for her. But aren’t girls of your class usually schooled at home by a governess?”

“Usually, but having been through a slew of nannies and governesses, my parents thought perhaps finishing school would be a better choice for me. Obviously, they were wrong.”

“Your poor parents.”

“Just so. That’s why they allowed me to marry so young. I was wildly in love with Roger. He was a poet, too, you see. We were mad about each other, and my parents thought a husband would straighten me out.”

“Given what you’ve told me about your first husband, and what I know of you, that plan doesn’t seem to have succeeded.”

“Not a jot. Roger was far too weak to control me.”

“And your second husband?”

“Armand?” She shook her head. “Heavens no. He was a French count, insanely attractive, and a stone-broke fortune hunter. He was also reckless, dangerous, and completely without regard for consequences. He drove motorcars, sailed yachts, and chased women. When he chased me, I fell for him like a ninepin. I’d never met anyone like that, you see, and he harkened to my own adventurous side. We ran off together a month after we met, got married in Gibraltar, and spent the next three years living off my money in the south of France—gambling at Nice, sailing the Mediterranean, and driving his favorite motorcars along the C?te d’Azur.”

“You didn’t mind him living off your money?”

She shook her head, giving him a rueful smile. “I probably should have, but the truth is, I loved every minute of it. Until…”

“Until?” he prompted when she fell silent.

“Until he died in a car crash.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She paused again, staring down at her gloved fingers. “When Armand died, I wasn’t in the car. I wasn’t even in France at the time. He was with another woman. They both died. She wasn’t… she wasn’t the first, I learned later.”

He studied her bent head, thinking of last night when she’d escaped outside after dinner. “I see.”

“What do you see?” she whispered, not looking at him.

“Why you said you’re a bit blind about men.”

She gave a deep sigh and nodded. “Just so.”

“What was your third husband like?” he asked after another moment. “Another waster, I suppose?”

“On the contrary. Hamish was over twenty years older than me, mature and sensible.”

“A complete contrast to your previous husbands, then.”

“Oh, yes. He was quite fond of me. He said he wanted children.”

Her emphasis on one particular word did not escape his notice, but she rushed on before he could even think of a way to inquire further.

“So did I, more than anything. I fell in love with him—partly, I admit, because he was a safe choice. At least—” She paused and laughed again, but to Simon’s ears, there was no humor in it. “At least I thought he was.”

He tensed, his misgivings growing. “What do you mean? What was wrong with him?”

“Well, for one thing, he had a dicky heart. It gave out less than a year after we married. And then—”

She broke off abruptly, her face twisting with sudden pain.

“And then?” he prompted.

“It doesn’t matter.” She turned her head, meeting his gaze. “Some in society call me the merry widow, you know.”

“I’ve heard it said.”

“But my enemies have a different name for me. They call me the black widow.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” he admitted.

“From Helen, I daresay. I can’t blame her,” she added, looking away when he didn’t deny it. “After all, that nickname is probably closer to the truth. Sometimes I wonder…” She paused, taking a deep breath, staring out over the water. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s my destiny. That I’m cursed or something.”

“Nonsense.”

His stouthearted denial made her smile a little. “Somehow,” she murmured softly, “I knew that’s what you’d say. You’re not the superstitious sort.”

“Bad luck can happen to anyone, Delia. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

“Oh, I know. Still, three husbands in ten years is a bit thick. Either way, society loves to speculate about who my next husband’s going to be. How long after the wedding, they wonder, will the poor chap drop dead? Whenever it looks as if I have an admirer, bets are laid about it at White’s and Boodles. Everyone thinks I ought to stay as far away from men as possible.”

“And you don’t agree?”

“Should I?” she flared, a note of defiance in the question. “Why should I put myself on a shelf to wither away and collect dust?”

His mouth curved, a hint of a smile.

“What?” she asked, her defiance faltering. “What’s so amusing?”

“The idea of you ever sitting on a shelf collecting dust.”

She stirred, tossing her head. “Just so,” she muttered. “In spite of everything, I still like men. I like romance. And I like lovemaking. I may have forgotten these things for a while, but I still like them and want them. There, I’ve shocked you, I daresay.”

“Not really, no,” he said. “But,” he added, his smile widening, “I suspect you were hoping you would.”

“Maybe a bit,” she admitted, laughing, her usual good humor restored. “But it’s your own fault, you know.”

It was his turn to laugh. “You needle me and tease me and say outrageous things solely in order to provoke me, and that’s my fault?”

“Yes. Teasing you is irresistible. It’s because you’re so… straight, so upstanding and honorable.”

He wondered suddenly how honorable she would think him if she knew his real mission at the Savoy, and he hastened into speech. “My friend Devlin says the same.”

She made a face at the mention of that name, clearly not impressed by the comparison. “Speaking of scoundrels…”

“He’s not. I know you disagree,” he added as she opened her mouth to argue the point. “And your loyalty to your friend Lady Kay does you credit, but I’ve known him for fourteen years, and I know the soundness of his character. I started life with nothing, and I’d probably still have nothing if it weren’t for him. He persuaded me to stake him in a gold-mining venture in Africa, and I put every shilling I could spare into it. It paid off, giving me enough to buy my first hotel when I returned to England.”

“That doesn’t mean your friend isn’t a scoundrel when it comes to women.”

“There’s usually blame on both sides when love affairs go awry. But please, Delia, let’s not argue. I enjoyed myself far too much this evening to let an argument spoil it.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?” She blinked as if that was an unexpected admission. “Really?”

He looked into her eyes, his gaze steady. “Yes, really.”

She smiled, a wide, radiant smile of pure pleasure she made no effort to hide, and Simon felt something sharp and sweet pierce his chest, a reminder that he’d best tread carefully. A few more smiles like that from her and his heart might be in jeopardy.

He swallowed hard, hoping to hide it, but despite his efforts, she seemed to sense, at least a little, the thoughts passing through his mind. “You’d better watch out,” she warned, her voice carelessly light. “Too many more nights at the opera together and people will start to think I’m after you to be husband number four. You could be endangering your life.”

It wasn’t his life he was worried about, but before he could think of a way to set her straight without giving himself away, she spoke again. “It’s clear the only safe thing for any poor chap who becomes entangled with me would be a torrid affair.” She heaved a sigh. “I’d only do that if there could be explosions.”

At once, delicious images of her naked in his bed crossed his mind, and arousal hit him square in the groin. Desperate, he curled his hands around the balustrade in front of him, gripping it hard as he fought for control, reminding himself of all the reasons this woman was out of bounds. She might be a thief, for one thing, but he was beginning to appreciate that his masculine nature didn’t care one bit about her morals or lack of them. Hell, if she were caught robbing the Bank of England, he’d probably still want her. She was flirting with him, but he suspected that flirting with men was as natural to her as breathing; it didn’t mean anything. And even if she were genuinely attracted to him, she’d surely change her tune once the truth came out.

“It’s a good thing,” she added dryly, breaking the silence, “that I’m not holding my breath waiting for those explosions to happen.”

“That,” he said in a harsh whisper, “is probably wise of you.”

“You really are the most vexing man,” she cried. “Any other chap would take these shameless hints I’m throwing his way and start planning a wicked weekend for us in an obscure country cottage somewhere. But of course, you’re far too good and honorable for that sort of thing.”

Exasperation flared up inside him, mixing with his lust. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, letting go of his death grip on the balustrade and turning to face her, “stop talking as if I’m some sort of saint.”

“You mean you’re not?”

“Hardly,” he said. “If I were—”

He broke off, his gaze sliding irresistibly to her mouth. “If I were a saint, I wouldn’t find you such a damnably tempting little morsel, would I?”

“Am I tempting?”

He met her eyes, and the desire he saw in their midnight-blue depths called to the lust within him like a siren song. Lying, he realized, was pointless. “You know you are. I daresay plenty of other men have found you so.”

Her full pink lips took on a rueful curve. “Well, I’d like to think so, but with you, I’m never really sure where I stand, to be honest.”

That was a bit reassuring, but then she moved closer, the heat within him flared even higher, and any sense that he might actually gain the upper hand with her went straight out the window.

“Most of the time,” she murmured, “I feel as if you can’t stand me.”

He swallowed hard. “Indeed?” he managed.

“But then…” She paused, her tongue flicking out to lick her lips, and heat curled in his belly. “But then you look at me the way you’re looking now, and I wonder.”

He didn’t reply. The night air was crisp and cold, but the heat of her body seemed scorching hot, even from several inches away. The scent of her perfume was in his nostrils, his heart was thudding like a trip-hammer, and his wits were hopelessly fogged.

“What about you?”

He frowned at the sound of her voice, trying to think. “Me?”

She stirred, moving a few inches closer. “Don’t you want to know? I know I do.”

His wits felt thick as tar, his body was fully aroused, and he had no idea what she was talking about. “Know what?”

Her lashes lowered, but there was nothing demure about her glance over his body. “What it would be like.”

She looked up at him again as she closed the last scrap of distance between them. Her breasts brushed against his chest, her hip touched his groin, and the pleasure of the contact nearly drove him to his knees.

He groaned, and the sound impelled him to grasp one last time for sanity. “What what would be like?”

She lifted her hands between them, cupping his face in her palms as she rose on her toes. “Lighting matches,” she whispered and kissed him.