Chapter Ten
Trentham had already imbibed more wine at dinner than he had intended, turning to his glass to distract himself from the fact that the only person at the table with whom he wished to be talking was the charming Miss Delancey.
He had no interest in Lynch’s brandy, even if it was superb with just the right notes of cherry.
More to the point, he did not want to stand about in the cigar-smoke-filled cardroom watching his friend bend over backwards to win Wrotham.
Not that they would discuss the new bill tonight.
This was a social event. But mellowing the opposition was a time-honored tactic.
Wrotham was grumpily against, but thought to be swayable.
Melvin, on the other hand, was firmly against, but good natured about it.
Good nature could be a bulwark. Lynch would never sway him.
So much effort expended with so little chance of success. Ah! His staunchest ally had always set him a good example. An easy goal was not worth attaining.
After one glass, he conceded the superiority of Lynch’s new cognac, then pretended to suddenly notice the grotesque stain on the arm of his jacket.
“Simms will make my life miserable,” he said with a chuckle.
The others would understand. He was not the only peer who lived in dread of irritating his valet.
“Lynch, excuse me for a bit, if you would. I’m going to sneak into your kitchen and see if one of the scullery maids can find me a dab of water and bicarbonate. ”
“Mrs. Dobbs will help you,” Lynch said.
With a nod, Trentham stepped out. It would be harder to face the formidable housekeeper than Simms.
It took a few turns and the help of a maid to locate the kitchen, a fact that saddened him.
He had practically grown up in the previous Lynchford home and had known every nook and cranny: he and Lynch had run the staff ragged when they were boys on break from school.
Their one-time friend Gilliam, an overly earnest third wheel, had joined them too, on occasion, he recalled with a twinge of unease. Oh, call it by its name: guilt.
The old Earl of Lynchford kept looser tabs on “the scamps” than did the old Duke of Trentham.
Lynch’s father was lax; Lynch was disciplined.
Trentham’s father had been strict. And Trentham had run rather wild.
There was no lesson to take from that observation.
Only it had hurt to see the old Lynchford home sold.
Mrs. Dobbs took one look at his jacket sleeve and tutted. “You ought to have taken care of that sooner.”
“I was at supper!” His voice squeaked like a pubescent’s.
“Hmph. Well, you might take it off and let me have a go.”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t ask that.” The staff had enough to do in the wake of a party. “Just a damp cloth. If I can’t rub it out, I’ll let my man throw it away.”
That earned him another harrumph. But she left and returned with a dampened bit of cloth.
He stepped into a corner and shrugged out of the jacket.
It was not his habit to wear jackets that required two valets and a bootjack to plaster the wearer into or out of them.
That cut flattered the broad-shouldered and trim-waisted—of whom there were surprisingly few considering the popularity of the style.
He would not stoop to padding either; false shoulders were absurd.
One risked leaving them behind if one turned about too fast. Growing up, Lynch used to tease him that he was of a fortunate build.
In a scrap, his strength came as a surprise to his opponent while he was also an impossible-to-hit target. That joke that had not aged well.
The corner of the kitchen was a dim place. He couldn’t see what he was doing. He folded the jacket over his arm and left to seek somewhere quiet with a good strong lamp.
The library would do. It had a number of lamps. Moreover, he could use a few moments of peace before returning to the hearty good humor of peers who, by now, would all be a trifle bosky.
He could find his way there without help, having spent a good deal of time in the new Lynchford library.
Although, most recently, more so in his imagination than in reality.
He had left his home twice in the past few days, convinced that there was no harm in paying another call on Miss Delancey and Dessie—then forced himself to go elsewhere.
Because of course there was harm in it. He could not act as though he were paying court when he was not.
The library door was ajar. He stepped inside and closed it with a soft thud, then heard a startled “Oh!” Miss Delancey stood near the bookshelves, an open book in her hand.
He hoped she was hiding for no more serious a reason than that the dull gossiping of the hens had driven her away.
But misfortune seemed to follow her. Something must have happened.
“Was it bad?” he asked, coming closer.
She held up her hand as though to ward him off. “Not horrible. Just rather farfetched.” Then she glowered. “What on earth are you doing in here?”
He lifted his jacket to show her. “Trying to rub out a spot. I had a bit of bother.”
Her whole face went soft. “Oh, yes. That was so very kind of you.”
He could not keep from smiling. “One of us,” he said, “is not making sense. And this time, I am fairly certain it is you.”
“I’m making perfect sense. It was kind of you not to draw attention to Dessie’s embarrassment. This dinner party has put her…put us all rather in a tizzy.”
“So you had to withdraw?” he asked gently. Whatever happened must have been mortifying if it had made Miss Delancey retreat.
“What? No, of course not.” She huffed. “I promised Lady Melvin that I would loan her my book. I told Dessie I would just run to fetch it. But I still had five pages to read. You see, I thought I would not be missed in the time it took to finish.” She clapped the book shut.
“I thought it would be a simple thing that could not possibly cause a problem. Yet I find myself behind a closed door in a rendezvous with a half-dressed duke.” She turned her face heavenward and muttered, “Why do these ridiculous things keep happening to me?”
“You’re right. It is rather farfetched,” he said, laying his jacket across the back of a chair.
“Scrub your spot,” she said, tucking the book under her arm. “I can guess the ending.”
“Please, give me just a moment.” He caught her by the wrist as she tried to brush past. The book fell to the floor. “I should apologize for the other day.”
“Apologize for? Oh—you mean for your long-winded answer to a simple question?”
“Ah, no.” He grinned, entertained. “And it would have been a short answer if you had not kept interrupting.” He had intended to apologize sincerely, but having botched it…
“I meant for this.” He took her hand in both of his and caressed it.
Her skin felt satiny-smooth, except for the small, roughened callus on the pad of her index finger.
He swirled his fingertip around it. A suggestion of what else he might like to do.
She did not pull away this time. Instead, she looked him full in the face.
Unblinking. Her lips parted, and he could hear her soft, uneven breathing.
This and her darkening eyes drew his vague and unformed thoughts toward the specific and decidedly carnal.
He swayed toward her. Noticeably.
“My God,” he said, steadying himself, embarrassed by his lack of self-possession.
He attempted to make light of the dizzying wave of emotion that he recognized as lustful but that was somehow not simply lust. “I’ve never swooned, of course; but once, I was punched, just between my eyes, by a man who knew what he was doing.
I was felled like a stone.” He could not pull off light-hearted teasing.
He finished solemnly. “That is how I felt just now. Felled.”
Her eyes narrowed. Then she laughed, an abrupt, forced laugh.
“You are full of flummadiddle.” Before he could protest, she said, adopting his accent to a T: “I am known to be a world-class flatterer.” She tossed her head, and, at the same time, removed her hand from his.
“I don’t know what passes for flattery in Britain, but I’ve never before been compared to a mini-fisted pugilist.”
“A what?”
“Whatever happened to ‘you have beautiful eyes’?”
“Oh,” he scoffed, finding his footing. “How commonplace. Amateurish.”
“Well, then, ‘your hair is the color of winter wheat.’”
“How is it flattery to inform you of the color of your hair? I might as well tell you that you have very white teeth.”
“No gallant in New York would ever speak of teeth. It is acceptable to say that I have a beautiful smile.”
“Good Lord. If I am to stand here and list each part of you that is beautiful, we will be here all night.”
She apparently had a retort at the ready, but didn’t speak it. Instead, she looked a bit jolted, and murmured, “Bravo. That is closer to the mark.” She lowered her gaze and parried weakly with: “But still hardly world-class.”
“Any New York calf complimenting your smile was not admiring your white teeth. He would be referring to your lips. If there is a word for their color, it escapes me.”
“We will steer clear of my lips.”
That was wise. But he was not. “Will we?”
He cupped her chin in his hand and slowly drew his thumb along her bottom lip, delighted to see the shiver he’d meant to cause.
There was nothing more arousing than watching a lover’s response to his touch.
Since she didn’t pull away, he lowered his head and kissed her.
He didn’t press the advantage he was taking.
One might even accuse it of having been a chaste kiss, though he was unsure of that, having never given, or intended to give, a lovely woman a chaste kiss before. He drew back.
She didn’t protest. Or slap him. Or encourage him to try again and do better. Wordlessly, she bent to pick up her book, then, without hesitation, she walked around him and left the room.
The door clicked shut.
Blast! What was he thinking? Why in God’s name was he behaving so recklessly?
If she reported this to Lynch, he’d be tossed out on his ear, never to return.
And it wasn’t just that this was Lynch’s sister-in-law.
Miss Delancey was a lady. An American, yes, but still a lady.
And he was not in the habit of seducing marriageable young ladies.
If he didn’t stop this immediately, he was going to set his rehabilitation back years.
He didn’t have years. He had four months.
If he could not redeem himself by the time he turned thirty—a self-imposed deadline, the most binding kind—he did not deserve to carry the honorable name of Wormsley.
He was not—as charged—a “dissolute rake” or a “moral degenerate.” He groaned inwardly: so why did he still behave as one?
The Barrington’s ball, then. He could not drag his feet any longer.