A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) (5 page)

Chapter 10

Lady Delia sat in the small, neat drawing room of her hired London house, immeasurably relieved that things had progressed as smoothly with procuring a new residence as she ever could have hoped. The house was in an unfashionable and comparatively inexpensive quarter of town, yet still safe. It was occupied primarily by persons similarly situated to her: temporarily impoverished aristocrats and gentry. Her heart had been racing when she and Amelia had gone to inquire about the house. She had secretly feared that somehow the agent for the landlord would know that she was not in fact, a respectable young widow, but rather the unmarried nineteen-year-old runaway daughter of the late Earl of Ellsworth. 

Fortunately, no such contingency had occurred; the house was safely hers until the end of the Season. Lady Delia gratefully admitted that the mourning clothing she had packed for their midnight flight from Washburn Court had served her well in convincing the agent of her widowhood. Her eyes still had the sad light of tragedy in them and she had played this up, batting damp lashes before the agent and he had been rather taken in at her plight. 

Amelia had also displayed a resourcefulness and bravado that Lady Delia would not have previously suspected; that young woman had contacted some rather distant relations in the city. She had, with their advice as to particulars, supervised the hiring of a cook and housekeeper, in addition to gaining all sorts of information about where in the unfamiliarity of their neighborhood to go for daily essentials. Lady Delia, for all her trips to town prior to her father’s death, had never even imagined the need for finding a reputable agency from which to engage household staff. She reminded herself, for what seemed like the twelfth time that day, that when she was financially in control of her fortune she would set up Amelia to do whatever she wished if she no longer wanted to continue as a maid.

Altogether, Lady Delia thought, her situation could hardly have resolved itself more neatly. With a roof over their heads, she was now free to ensure that they had food on the table, which she seemed to be accomplishing admirably. Since the publisher had accepted the first several chapters of her novel, her motivation to finish had been significant. Romantic novels full of fainting and duels were amusing to write and provided something for her to do during the day, aside from take walks, given that Delia had no callers. She rested her chin on her hands and tried to imagine the perfect way for her hero and
heroine to acknowledge their love for each other. The heroine, a silly chit named
Annabelle
, had already fainted into her would-be lover’s arms twice. Delia had decided that she needed a different ploy. 

Sitting in her drawing room, Delia kept remembering Durham, unbidden, when she wrote love scenes. How his arms had felt around her as he kissed her…how his large body had prevented hers from moving and how his hands had… She blushed, despite herself. She was still furious with him for his abominable treatment but it had at least been her very first experience of a passionate lover’s kiss, even if that lover had turned out to be a cad and insulted her. She reflected back on her behavior, wishing she could have made her motives known and rescued her reputation with him. It hurt her to think that the Marquess thought her a lightskirt, but she could not think of an excuse for being in his room that she could have given. At least she had been able to experience the heated passionate embraces that her
heroine would undoubtedly have when they were finally united with her hero. Without the Marquess’ kisses, she may have had a difficult time conveying quite the level of delight experienced by the flighty young lady at the heart of her romance. Though, that young lady would hardly be subject to the shocking mauling that she herself had experienced.

It did give her some inkling of how her lovely Annabelle must have felt when…she thought about what should happen next…oh yes! Annabelle should fall into the arms of the man she thought was her lover, only to find that his perfidious rival had fooled her at a masked ball. How perfect, she thought, as she took up the pen and paper. Then, she thought, this perfidious rival could actually be her brother in law…and Annabelle could be running from this reprobate brother-in-law, while he pursued her throughout the family town house, and straight into the bedchamber of her lover, who was conveniently visiting! 

Delia scribbled furiously on the page, congratulating herself on the resolution of her heroine’s problems. Her own situation had provided a convenient conclusion to the lurid romance, with an adequate mix of plausibility as well as excitement. It would be both truth and fiction, she thought with delight as she wrote. Her hero, of course, would not suspect the beautiful woman in his bed of being a woman of questionable virtue! But rather a lovely and innocent maid, fleeing the onslaught of the evil brother-in-law, and who needed rescuing… Delia grew slightly pink with anger as she wrote, her fury at the Marquess renewed for his shocking treatment of her, now committed to paper. She wrote faster and found her hand was gripping the pen with unnecessary fierceness. Delia forced herself to take three deep breaths before she continued writing.

Chapter 11

Durham regarded the nude, sleeping body of his new mistress, as she lay sprawled in her enormous bed, some hours after he had first arrived. He had just spent some very pleasurable time in her company, but he caught himself thinking of how perfectly timed her cries and moans had been: never too loud, never too soft, never too often, nor to seldom; he marveled at how good she was at what she did. Always perfectly rehearsed, like a mistress should be. It was in stark contrast to the annoying vision he could not seem to shake of Lady Delia’s naked honesty when he had caressed her in his bed at Washburn Court; how her eyes had gone black, how her entire body had both tightened with tension and melted at his touch. Her gasps and soft moans had escaped uncontrolled and her kisses had changed once her mouth had eased and accepted him. 

“You are so good to me,” Gigi whispered, jerking him back to reality. He turned to look at her, pausing in the midst of tying his cravat. She curved her body to look as desirable as possible, her generous breasts beckoned as she lowered her eyes. Gigi was French, and her dark hair spilled dramatically in a mass of tangled curls against the pale of her sheets. Thick lashes and delicately arched brows framed her dark eyes and her perfect olive skin was a delightful contrast to so many English
maids. She was, Mason decided, the perfect antidote to any English miss, even one with violet eyes who claimed to be a maid but who was nothing of the sort. He steeled himself to stop thinking about Lady Delia. 

“You make me want you, Gigi, and when I want a woman, I please her,” Durham replied, palming the plump breast, then running his hand down her body, the remains of a negligee tangled in the sheets as he exposed her creamy skin. Gigi opened her mouth to kiss him again and Mason tasted the sweet mouth, groaning into it. Smiling to herself, Gigi rose slightly to her knees and straddled him. She leaned forward, pressing her hips down on his and her mouth to his neck
. He leaned forward and lifted her hips and she instantly began to unfasten his breeches.   

“So soon my lover?” Gigi gasped as she pulled at his clothing.

“This is your fault—I don’t do this to myself,” growled Mason, as he lifted her hips to meet his, knowing full well that it was not her fault at all; he was thinking of Delia again.

Durham smiled as he stepped in front of the mirror at his London residence.

“You’ve done very well tonight, Melville,” he said to his valet. “My cravat is quite remarkable. I have no idea how you manage it but given the time it takes, the results had best be spectacular to behold. Once a month, perhaps, I will venture into public with my neck decorated so elaborately. No more, I think.”

“You lie to yourself most convincingly, my lord,” Melville replied, knowing that his master would surreptitiously request The Mathematical in, at most, a week. That design was extremely popular but few valets had mastered its intricacies.   

It was hard to believe the Marquess’ valet could create anything remotely close to the miracle he had achieved with Durham’s cravat upon inspection of
Melville’s own person. His brown hair was disheveled and too long; his shirt tails crookedly tucked, exposing his undergarments and threatening to become entirely un-tucked as the valet’s plump frame threatened to burst free of all its clothing, all of which was somehow constantly cut just a trifle too small.

“You could hardly appear at Lady Tahlman’s ball looking anything less than every inch the English gentlemen, my lord,” Melville said with a knowing nod.

“I know you do not approve of Lady Tahlman, Melville, but some ladies cannot arrest the inevitable progression of years.” Durham smiled as he observed Melville’s delicate shudder. Melville had once had the misfortune of seeing rather too much of Lady Tahlman’s aging bosom in an extremely low cut gown when he had hosted a ball at his townhouse several seasons prior. Though he would never dream of discussing a lady with his master, Durham had witnessed the pain and shock on Melville’s face during the encounter and had known from his valet’s chilly voice whenever the lady’s name was mentioned that Melville hadn’t forgotten either.

“I am sure I do not know, my lord,” he said obsequiously.

“Would you be so good as to have my carriage brought round?” Durham asked as he headed down the stairs for his gloves. 

“Yes, my lord. May I enquire, will we be returning home this evening or shall I set out our night things?” Melville’s eyes looked mischievous.

“Go to bed early tonight, Melville. You know very well I haven’t worn a nightshirt since I was twelve. Mind your own bloody business.”

“Very well, my lord.” Melville returned a dignified look.

Durham tried to look harassed at his valet’s impudence and disapproving upturned nose, but he knew perfectly well that Melville was just being his usual, profoundly nosy self. He collected a pair of flawlessly white kidskin gloves and slipped out of the front door. Tonight was precisely what he needed, he thought to himself. A ball, with hundreds of beautiful debutantes to remind him that London was full of ladies no different from Lady Delia Ellsworth, with the possible exception of their being virtuous maids, ought to help. Hundreds of deadly dull young ladies would remind him of how deadly dull young ladies actually were and how little he wanted to do with them. He was wise and lucky to have secured Gigi so quickly. After an evening at Lady Tahlman’s tiresome ball, a night with his exquisite and talented new mistress would serve to reinforce this pointlessness of continuing to permit his mind to stray to Lady Delia’s charms.

Durham alighted from his carriage at the Tahlman townhouse, only to be greeted immediately by the
ladies Smythe-Dunston. He groaned inwardly at his wretched luck, and then forced a smile. 

“Mrs. Smythe-Dunston, Miss Smythe-Dunston. How pleasant to see you again
so soon.” He took Daphne’s arm and led her into the ball, as her mother recounted the terrors of their trip back to London from Washburn Court. As he had correctly suspected, Sir Roderick and Lady Heppens had not, in fact, been up for entertaining. 

“It was
most
dreadful, my lord,” she was saying, “as you were no longer accompanying us as our protector. Why, the insolence we were subjected to!”

Mrs. Smythe-Dunston was working her way into a fury to which Durham sought desperately
to escape. “My dear lady,” he began, an idea striking him, “may I beg your permission to dance with Miss Smythe-Dunston? I fear we have not had the chance to speak at all since I was called away so suddenly to Evercrest.” Mrs. Smythe-Dunston quickly forgot her lengthy anecdote of woe and readily assented, immediately taking herself off to crow at the triumph of Daphne’s claiming the Marquess of Durham for her first dance.

Durham smiled down at Daphne as she gossiped on about this and that during their turn around the dance floor. He much preferred her constant chatter to her mother’s conversation because Daphne required no response from him, whereas her mother demanded rather frequent affirmation in the form of words and nodding, which forced him to pay attention to what she was saying. He had scarcely uttered two words to the young
lady by the time the dance was over and he left her, surrounded by admirers, to escape to the card room.

As he passed by, two
ladies whispered furiously while their eyes followed him. Generally, Durham was accustomed to being noticed and discussed, particularly by ladies. But something in their eyes and their furious hush as he passed by made him think that the latest
on-dit
about him was more scandalous than usual. As a crowd of very young debutantes passed by, he slowed and moved out of their sight, hearing their voices rise slightly to be heard over the gossiping misses.

“Durham was at Washburn Court with the Smythe-Dunston’s, you know,” the
lady wearing a very low cut silver gown was saying to her companion in a sarcenet ball dress of sapphire blue.

“So
that’s
how they know,” the other woman replied. Durham wondered with an ominous feeling what it was, precisely, that the Smythe-Dunston’s thought they knew. He had been painfully conscious of his every word to Daphne Smythe-Dunston, ensuring that he could in no way be connected to her upon their return to London with any impropriety. He moved to stand behind a large column and waited for the ladies to continue as he pretended to sip a glass of champagne. 

“Why, yes! Mr. Rosewood—he is Delia Ellsworth’s guardian you know—imparted with strictest confidence to Mrs. Smythe-Dunston that Lady Delia had spent the night in the Marquess’ bedchamber!” The
lady in lavender regarded her shocked companion.

“No!”

“Yes, my dear Lady Trumpington, oh, yes.”

“But surely Mr. Rosewood will force Durham to marry her!”

“Mr. Rosewood force the Earl of Durham to do anything? Not likely! Rosewood seemed to indicate that the indiscretion was entirely of the
lady’s
doing. She was not herself, he told Mrs. Smythe-Dunston—who also did say that the girl had been throwing herself at Durham the whole time.”

“Shocking,” said another woman in blue, who was called Agnes Glossop. “I never did countenance the old Earl not re-marrying. Girls need mothers to teach them how to behave properly. Or they go bad.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said the woman in lavender, her chest rising with indignation, “and to think that poor Mr. Rosewood has apparently decided to take responsibility and marry the girl himself. It shocks the conscience.”

“No! Agnes, certainly Mr. Rosewood will not sacrifice himself!”

“Pooh, but she’s terribly rich, you know. He’ll sacrifice himself for those thousands of pounds and then keep her in the country until he’s certain the girl’s not carrying Durham’s by-blow and then have a few babes of his own off her and hope the whole scandal has blown over by the time he wants to return to town with his wife.” Mrs. Glossop uttered these last words with shocking finality. Her companions fell into a torrent of furious whispers and the Marquess strode away, shoulders tight with discomfiture. 

He knew immediately that Christopher Rosewood had deliberately told Mrs. Smythe-Dunston the story about Lady Delia and his bedchamber so that his cousin would be ruined in the eyes of society. But how had he known? Had she been seen entering his chamber? Wouldn’t whomever had seen her remain to see when she left, which was, admittedly, at least a half an hour later? Why would Rosewood want to ruin her? Was it merely so that he could marry her and gain her enormous dowry? And rather convenient that she had sprinted into his bedchamber. But perhaps Rosewood had simply known that the girl was a loose cannon and decided to take advantage of the opportunity. It wasn’t every day you were the guardian of an extremely wealthy young woman caught in a compromising position and Rosewood seemed like the type to capitalize on another’s misfortune.

But why not simply compromise her himself? Had he tried? His blood ran cold at the thought of Rosewood forcing himself on Lady Delia. But
why
had she run into his bedchamber in the middle of the night if not to meet a lover? 

Durham was deep in thought when he walked into the
gentlemen’s lounge and straight into his friend, the Earl of Blackwell. Lord Blackwell regarded him with some interest and motioned him to follow him outside to the terrace.

“Whatever happened while you were at Washburn Court that is generating such furious talk?” the Earl asked, without introduction. “Quite a bit of trouble, from what I’m hearing, and you never said a word! I admit I am very surprised at the gossip that I am hearing, particularly since I never listen to gossip.”

“Well nothing on the order of what you are hearing occurred, Simon,” the Marquess elected to prevaricate a little in the crowded ballroom, “and I am sure I do not understand why Christopher Rosewood would inform a notorious gossip of facts deleterious to his own ward!”

“Facts, Durham? Is it true, then? I have never known you to seduce virgins, at least ones who were put forth as a suitable
parti
for those such as yourself.” Blackwell observed his friend with a look of disapproval and Durham cursed his clouded thoughts.

“I did no such thing!” the Marquess responded with more vehemence than he had intended. Then, striding quickly to the corner of an empty study with his friend following close behind, explained. “In fact, I have told no one, but in truth, I was in my bedchamber--in my actual bed--preparing for a long and peaceful night’s rest, when a young female person, in the form of Lady Delia Ellsworth came running pell-mell into my room, jumped into my bed and pulled the covers to her chin.”

Simon regarded his friend suspiciously. “You didn’t arrange for that to happen?” he queried, warningly. 

“Good God, no! You know very well I have nothing to do with virgins. I was as shocked as she was…” Durham stared off into the distance.
He thought to himself that Lady Delia
had
seemed just as surprised as he was at finding the bed occupied. That probably wouldn’t have been the case had she been expecting someone…would it?

“She was shocked to find you in that bed? I expect she was. It’s a wonder that she didn’t scream her head off.”

“Well, she tried. But I—I stopped her.” For some reason, Durham felt uncomfortable relating the rest of his encounter with Delia.