Chapter 2 #2
Delia would never forget the last time she saw her mother. They had taken the coach to her father’s ancestral seat in Leicestershire. The entire ride her mother told her how much fun she would have staying in a grand house and that she had a little sister.
For years, Delia longed for her mother to return, but the years went by, and soon Delia was a grown woman.
“Are you ready?” Margaret asked, standing beside Delia, looking at herself in the mirror.
She wore a pretty, simple blue dress. Their father wasn’t the wealthiest of dukes, but he wasn’t completely impoverished. He was able to provide a small dowry for Margaret, and even Delia, though it wasn’t as much as her sister’s.
She took her sister by the arm, her stomach swirling with excitement. Delia did not enjoy the London Season, but there was something different tonight. “I’m ready.”
Margaret led them out of the room and through the once grand house. The fading curtains and torn carpet were all signs of Aunt Francis’ decline in Society.
“There you are. We must hurry if we want to avoid the crush.” Aunt Francis waited at the door, dressed in a green gown, her lips pinched, her dead brown eyes locked on Delia. “I suppose you have nothing better to wear?”
The older woman looked nothing like the late duchess. Aunt Francis was not in possession of beauty, with a hooked nose and beady eyes. She was short and thin, with hair that had grayed well before the rest of her.
Delia gazed down at her purple gown. It wasn’t unpleasant to look at. In fact, she quite liked it. The sarsenet had long lost its vibrancy, but the delicate Belgian lace at the bodice and the hem of the skirts, made the dress perfect to her.
“On the contrary, this is my best dress,” she responded coolly, not allowing the older woman to demean her.
She may have been born a bastard, but she wasn’t going to allow anyone to mistreat her.
Aunt Francis turned and rushed out of the townhouse, Margaret following dutifully behind. Delia huffed, not caring one wit that the woman didn’t want her in her home. She shouldn’t have accepted Delia’s father’s offer if the thought of his bastard daughter in her precious home upset her so.
“Your shawl, miss,” Jenny called to her, gazing around nervously.
“Oh, thank you, Jenny.” The maid handed Delia the shawl along with a folded piece of paper. “What—”
“It’s about your sister’s earl,” Jenny whispered urgently. “He’s the new rake of the month in The Rake Review.” Her words were rushed, as she looked to the approaching butler.
“The Rake Review? But I thought only scoundrels were mentioned in that gossip,” Delia said, shocked that the Earl of March would be mentioned in such a scandalous paper.
“Miss, the mistress is waiting for you in the carriage,” the older butler informed her, eyeing Jenny.
Delia nodded and rushed to join her sister and Aunt Francis in the carriage. She hastily put the folded paper into her reticule, wishing she could read it.
If Margaret’s earl was mentioned in The Rake Review, then he definitely was no Mr. Knightly, and it was Delia’s job to protect her sister, no matter what.
Delia slid through the crowded ballroom of the Duke and Duchess of Karrington, desperately ready to leave.
Their wealth was apparent from the gleaming chandeliers, painted ceiling, and embroidered carpets to the gold candelabras on the wall.
A host of servants circled the massive ballroom serving iced champagne as the chosen of London’s Society mingled amongst themselves.
Delia swallowed, holding her head high as gaze after gaze tracked her every step, followed by hushed whispers.
The attention had been constant at every event they had attended in the short time they’d been in London.
It was true that she hadn’t expected Society to care about the by-blow of a duke, but it seemed she had been wrong.
Every event was the same, whispers and stares, followed by an overconfident lord assuming she was like her mother.
She wasn’t.
Delia had chosen her one lover for the simple fact that she didn’t want to remain untouched for the rest of her life.
The circumstances of her birth, and her inability to pretend to be someone she wasn’t, ensured Delia that she would never marry.
Not unless her husband was hopelessly in love or daft.
After excusing herself from Aunt Francis and Margaret, she gained a free moment to read The Rake Review and walked to the ladies’ retiring room. She wasn’t an avid reader of gossip sheets, but everyone had of course heard of the infamous author, the Belle, even in Leicestershire.
Once she was safely ensconced in the ladies’ retiring room, she found a small, burgundy settee in the corner. It was blessedly empty, as everyone was still arriving and busy trying to get a glimpse of the Earl of March.
It was strange that while he’d been at other balls, this was the first one that the entire room was abuzz with him being in attendance.
Retrieving the poor crumpled gossip sheet out of her small reticule, Delia straightened it, desperate to learn more about the man her sister claimed to be in love with—in such a short time.
Delia scanned the article, shock filling her at what the Belle revealed.
Reading the words out loud slowly, Delia couldn’t comprehend their meaning.
“Standing at six feet, two inches, with smooth chestnut skin, dark brown hair, and light green eyes that bewitches one with a single gaze. Our rake has a body built from years of caring for horses and the love of the great outdoors. He enjoys fencing, bare-knuckle boxing, and a good game of faro. Our current scoundrel will send even the most stoic among us into a swoon.”
Perplexed by the words on the page, and the man she’d seen speaking to her sister in corners of ballrooms, Delia read the sheet a third time.
“Oh God!” a woman said from the center of the retiring room, her bright green eyes striking against her light brown skin. “Here I was trying to escape my brother, and you are reading about him!” She let out a growl of frustration that brought a smile to Delia’s face.
“Your b-brother?” Delia stood, surprised by the new turn of events.
The woman in front of Delia was like her, with brown skin and thick curls. She and the earl were as different as Delia and Margaret.
“I must say your surprise is refreshing,” the woman said as she took the seat beside Delia. She wore a beautiful gown of crimson and gold, her silky, thick curls pinned up in an elaborate style that Delia’s hair would never cooperate for.
“Why is that? Surely, not everyone knows that you are brother and sister,” Delia said, relaxing against the arm of the settee.
She let out a hearty laugh. “Is this your first Season?”
“Is it obvious?” Delia asked.
“Yes, everyone in the Ton knows exactly who my brother is. After all, he is magnificent.” She waved toward the gossip sheet. “Lady Helen Wakefield.” She held out her hand to Delia.
Dread filled her at the thought of revealing who she was. When people found out that she was the bastard daughter of the Duke of Cliffbury, everything changed.
“Adelia St. George,” she said quickly, wanting to get it over with.
She waited for the disgust to fill those green eyes, but it never came. Lady Helen arched a perfect eyebrow, a knowing gleam on her face. “The Duke of Cliffbury’s other daughter? You’re nearly talked about as much as Hunt.”
Hunter.
For some reason, Delia had thought perhaps Lady Helen misunderstood who Delia was reading about, but the name confirmed they were speaking of the same man. The Earl of March.
She wanted to question his sister on his intentions with Margaret, but she would do that when they were formally introduced with their siblings.
Lady Helen stood, fluffing the skirts of her gown. “I must go tend to my mother, but we should be friends.” She pointed between Delia and herself. “Come to March House for tea on Wednesday.”
“Are you sure?” Delia asked.
Lady Helen was born respectable. Adelia didn’t know the dynamics between the earl and his sister, but for the woman to introduce herself as a lady meant she was legitimate.
“Why wouldn’t I be sure?” she waited for Delia to answer.
“Because I’m a bastard, and you are not,” Delia told her simply.
“To fathers, all girls are bastards. I’ll see you Wednesday, Miss St. George.” Lady Helen marched out of the retiring room, passing a pair of debutantes who gaped wide-eyed at Delia before they put their heads together and whispered furiously.
Delia released a weary sigh and stood to leave.
It was nice to talk to another woman who didn’t judge her by her birth.
Margaret was really her only confidante, and often she didn’t quite understand Delia’s lot in life.
Three years younger and blessed with a much more pleasant disposition, Margaret was the more docile of the two.
Entering the crowded ballroom, Delia gazed around in search of Margaret or Aunt Francis but could not locate either in the crush.
Turning, she bumped into a hard body, nearly toppling backward.
Before she could completely embarrass herself, strong hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her upright.
Delia couldn’t find her breath, her heart thumping like rain on a stormy night. Her skin burnt where the man’s grip branded itself around her. Dragging her gaze up his long body, she gasped when their eyes locked on each other.
Dazzling green eyes, like the forest on a rare sunny day, stared back at her.
High cheekbones that should’ve been out of place on such a man but suited his obscenely proportional face perfectly.
The man in front of her was blessed with an aristocratic nose, smooth mahogany skin, a scandalous beard that had her longing to run her fingers through its short, cropped hair.
A thin upper lip, accompanied by a plump bottom that was made for kissing, created the perfect man to threaten everything Delia held dear.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice deep and commanding.
This man…was magnificent.