A Woman of Virtue Page 12

  ———

  Lady Walrafen’s crested carriage drew up before the mission promptly at eleven. Her footman put down the steps, and she and Etta went in together, just as usual. But strangely, nothing felt as it usually did. On the journey east, the streets had looked far dirtier. Once inside the storefront, the room seemed narrow and more confining than it had the previous week. And she knew that when she went upstairs, things would be worse.

  She had really believed that he would not come. Or that if he came, he would straggle in around teatime, looking jaded and lethargic from a night of debauchery, with that arrogant smirk etched upon his too-handsome face. And yet, the moment she crossed the mission’s threshold, she knew instinctively that Delacourt was already in her office.

  Well, perhaps it was not, strictly speaking, her office. But she cast her eyes heavenward and knew that he was up there. And Cecilia had every idea that the black-hearted devil would be sitting in her favorite chair with his glossy black top boots propped upon her very own desk.

  And so she sailed up the steps and through the door, her arms full of ledgers, her head held high.

  But to her surprise, Delacourt sat at the desk nearest the wall, which was by far the smallest of the three. His height and shoulders dwarfed it, and in response to her entry, he did not so much as lift his head.

  His arrogance was simply too much to bear with any measure of grace. Cecilia dropped her ledgers with a deliberate thud.

  Slowly, Delacourt tore his eyes from the letter he had been studying, and Cecilia was surprised to see comprehension dawning in his eyes. It would appear he truly had not heard her enter. She had thought—dreaded the fact, really—that he would be watching for her. Waiting to torment her.

  “Well!” she announced preemptively. “You are here again, I see.”

  “Where else might I be?” he asked, calmly unfolding himself from the small chair to stand beside the desk. “For unless my sense of time went astray with my morals, this is Monday morning.”

  Cecilia jerked out her chair with a harsh scrape. “It is eleven o’clock, my lord,” she coldly returned. “Your morning, I regret to inform you, is long gone.”

  “As I’m well aware, ma’am, having spent the better part of it here, as opposed to lounging in my bathwater in Park Crescent.” Delacourt gave her a dry smile. “Now, do you wish to continue this childish spat? Or shall we get on with the business of the day? I believe we have some.” He held up the letter and gave it an impatient twitch. The Home Office crest was plainly visible.

  Cecilia felt a moment of grave uncertainty. He sounded... entirely serious. “Really, Lord Delacourt,” she managed. “Surely you do not mean to—to stay on?”

  Again, he lifted his piercing green gaze to hers. “Most assuredly, ma’am. If that continues to trouble you so deeply, then perhaps you’d best go?” He said the words softly, almost hopefully, she thought. And yet, his eyes were still dark and mocking.

  It really was too much for Cecilia. “But I have always enjoyed my work here,” she said quietly. “Why do you now wish to torment me when, in the past, you’ve always avoided me?”

  Delacourt’s expression was inscrutable. “Avoided you?”

  Cecilia tried to harden her glare to no good effect. “Not two months past, you gave me the cut direct and walked out of Ogden’s house party.”

  “What? I—?” Delacourt’s face lit with an amusement she could have sworn was feigned. Slowly, he circled from behind his desk. “Cecilia, my dear, perhaps you flatter yourself. Urgent business recalled me to town. Were you at Ogden’s?”

  As usual, Cecilia’s cheeks flooded with heat. “Yes—I was—I mean to say, you did. Everyone saw it.”

  Slowly, he crossed the oak floor toward her, his heavy boots echoing through the cavernous room. “Cecilia, you still blush so easily. And so very prettily.”

  He seemed very close now. Too close. Too tall. Her heart began to race, and then to pound. “I do not believe you,” she managed to say.

  Carefully watching Cecilia’s every move, Delacourt clasped his hands tightly behind his back. “Then what do you believe, my dear? That I left Ogden’s because of you?” He dropped his voice seductively. “Or that you do not blush prettily?”

  “You deliberately snubbed me.” Cecilia tried to lift her chin. “And it was not the first time.”

  The softening in her gaze disturbed him. He’d rather have her hissing and clawing. But those big blue eyes—oh! They left him awash in awkward emotions; frustration, anger, confusion. Even, devil take it, a measure of temptation. But he’d be damned if he’d show it. Or surrender his pride to it.

  He clasped his hands until his fingers felt numb, but his voice was perfectly smooth. “Do you somehow imagine, Cecilia, that I’ve been suffering from unrequited love these last six years?” He threw back his head and forced himself to laugh. “Unrequited lust, perhaps. But a man does not trouble himself to run from that piteous emotion. Not when it is so easily slaked elsewhere.”

  Nervously, Cecilia’s eyes darted about the room. One small hand fluttered up, then settled uneasily at her waist, as if it stood ready to push him away. Did it? His gaze chased hers. She wished to avoid his eyes. Perversely, he willed her to look at him.

  Suddenly, their gazes locked. He stepped nearer, studying her. And then, hidden deeply in her wide blue eyes, he saw it. Anger, yes. And fury. But there was something else, too.

  Desire? Yes, the merest hint. But he could sense its keen edge tormenting her, for Delacourt was a master of seduction.

  Briefly, his senses reeled. And on the heels of that came relief—and of the worst sort, too: relief of a fear he’d not known he possessed. What the devil was he thinking? Delacourt shut out the questions and slid his finger beneath her chin, tilting up her face. One flame-gold curl brushed the back of his wrist like a trail of silken fire.

  And suddenly, something—another confusing emotion—welled up inside him, threatening to choke the very breath from his chest. But he resisted it with his infallible arsenal. Cool flirtation. Biting sarcasm. “Yes, I desire you, Cecilia,” he admitted, forcing a blasé tone. “What man with blood in his veins wouldn’t?”

  “Do not you dare to make a joke of me, sir!” Cecilia jerked her face from his hand.

  “A joke?” Delacourt echoed. “Ah, lovely Cecilia! Can you be so naïve, I wonder?” He paused, lifting his eyebrows in deliberate inquiry. “I can easily prove the truth, since the evidence is rather—er, hard to conceal.”

  Cecilia drew back, her eyes flaring wide. Cruelly—for it could only have been cruelty which drove him—Delacourt followed her, backing her up until she bumped into her desk.

  “No!” she growled. “Oh, no! You said—”

  He knew he should stop, yet Delacourt leaned into her, crowding her. “I said what, my dear?” he murmured, fascinated by the long dark lashes which fringed her eyes.

  Cecilia’s delicate brows snapped angrily together. “I believe, my lord, that you vowed you’d sooner cut it off!”

  “Oh, but what if I lied, Cecilia?” he whispered, snaring her hand in his and dragging it to his mouth. “I may have.” He pressed his lips to her skin. “I often do,” he murmured, turning her hand over and lightly touching his tongue to her pulse. “And I do it so well.”

  He studied her from beneath his lashes. Cecilia’s breath had sped up to short, desperate pants. She was afraid. And enthralled. Quite deliberately, he drew a tiny bit of her flesh between his teeth and nibbled ever so gently. He watched, spellbound, as her eyes dropped nearly shut and her delicate nostrils flared wide.

  Good God, he wanted her.

  And she wanted him.

  He was not perfectly sure which truth frightened him more.

  Both were best put to an end. Slowly, he opened his mouth, pressing two more fervent kisses to her wrist. “Yes, my dear, if one of us is to leave, I think it must be you. As you see, I can but barely control my animal urges. I could be unhinged by my lust for you at any
moment.”

  As if a magical spell had been broken, Cecilia snatched her wrist away. “You arrogant devil! Must you flirt with every woman whose path you cross? And why in heaven’s name do you flirt with me?”

  Innocently, he lifted his gaze to hers. “Because you expect it,” he softly returned. “Confess it, Cecilia. You want me to flirt with you. To act the rogue. To justify your poor opinion. After all, a true gentleman would not inspire lust in a virtuous woman’s heart, would he?”

  For a moment, Cecilia was rendered speechless. “You inspire nothing but loathing,” she finally managed.

  Suddenly, his sarcasm fled, and an emotion far more dangerous seized him. Delacourt leaned nearer, forcing her to bend back. “Really, Cecilia,” he whispered, his breath stirring the soft hair at her temple, “I think you lie almost as well as I do.” And then—later, he could never quite understand how it happened—he was kissing her, and not entirely without her consent. But Cecilia was by no means unafraid.

  It was a novel experience, to kiss a woman who was completely confused, half aroused, and more than a little apprehensive. Delacourt was not perfectly sure how one managed it, since he’d been half drunk the last time he’d done such a witless thing. And so he gentled his embrace and softened his mouth to hers.

  It seemed most effective.

  Lazily, he let his lips slide over Cecilia’s, nibbling, tasting, and very gently probing, while his fingers twisted indolently around another loose curl at the nape of her neck, until her anger receded, then melted away. At last, she relaxed against him, and ever so delicately, he touched his tongue to hers. Asking her, pleading with her, but without the words he was so loath to speak. As if in answer, Cecilia’s hand—which had been pressed against his chest—curled into his lapel in an instinctive, artless caress.

  Delacourt tried to tell himself that he was still in control. That he was merely toying with her. Then she moaned softly into his mouth, and he was lost. He slid deeper—metaphorically, literally—plunging inside, covering her mouth with his own, drawing her scent of soap and plain lavender into his lungs. His fingers fisted painfully into her hair while his opposite hand slid to the delicate curve of her spine, dragging her against him until her full breasts were crushed against his chest. He ceased to think of why he did not like her and thought only of how long he had wanted her. Needed to taste and feel and smell her again. He felt a shudder run through him at the admission of the truth.

  Suddenly, Cecilia’s breath caught, a desperate, urgent sound. And then she hesitated, as if she meant to draw away. Something inside him wanted to cry out. Delacourt tightened his grip, but he could not salvage the sweetness. It lay just beyond his reach. As it had always been.

  At once, he felt the stirring of true panic inside her. And this time, he was both old enough and sober enough to know whom he kissed. In short, he had no excuse at all.

  Gently, Delacourt lifted his mouth to look down at her and saw something more than fear, worse than anger. It was rejection. And its taste was old and bitter.

  She tore her gaze away and stared past his shoulder. “Just leave me alone, David,” she asked quietly. “Just take your hands off me, please.”

  “My hands are by my sides, Cecilia,” he said very quietly, feeling the rush of unwanted emotion recede. “Where, pray tell, are yours?”

  Her face a dawning mask of horror, she looked down at the fingers which were still curled into his lapel.

  Delicately, he cleared his throat. “I think—but perhaps I am mistaken—that you will find your other one somewhere beneath my coat. At the small of my back, perhaps.”

  She jerked her hands away as if he’d just burst into flames.

  Delacourt forced a jaded tone. “Ah, the consequence of honesty!” he said, stepping back from her. “I am again forsaken.”

  Her eyes wild and desperate, Cecilia circled around, placing the desk between them. “Get away from me, Delacourt!” she hissed. “Don’t—don’t force me to—”

  “Oh, no, Cecilia,” he softly interjected. “You’ll not blame me alone. I am not the sort of man who forces women to do anything.”

  “No?” she challenged. “The others fall willingly at your feet, then?”

  Delacourt obliged himself to smile. “Sometimes.”

  “I shan’t!”

  To his surprise, Delacourt heard it then—the tormenting uncertainty in her voice. “Cecilia,” he said softly, forcing the sarcasm from his tone, “desire is not the simple matter of right or wrong you wish to imagine it. Forcing one’s attention on another is wrong. Always wrong. I think you know the level of force I mean—yes?”

  Cecilia seemed to grow angrier still. “Well, just tell me this, Delacourt,” she challenged. “What sort of woman would wish to be seduced by a man who has assaulted her?”

  Suddenly, he understood the emotion which drove her. It was self-loathing—the worst sort of uncertainty. He knew firsthand its malignance. “My dear,” he said softly. “Don’t you think it’s time you forgave me for making you feel sexual desire? And forgave yourself for wanting someone you don’t particularly respect?”

  Across the desk, all the color drained from Cecilia’s face.

  Against his better judgment, Delacourt tried again. “Cecilia, the response—the lust—which flares spontaneously between two people—that’s just fate. Bad luck. Good luck. Call it what you will—but Cecilia, we have it. Heaven help us. But don’t blame me. That’s not fair.”

  She made a little sound then. A laugh? Or a sob? He wasn’t sure. “It’s like an itch, Cecilia,” he quietly continued. “It drives you mad. So you scratch. And maybe that’s the end of it.”

  Or maybe not. The words hung in the air, unspoken.

  “You’re very good at this, aren’t you?” she finally whispered.

  “Good at what?”

  “Seduction.”

  Mutely, David just shook his head. Why was he even talking to her? What was the point?

  Clearly unconvinced, Cecilia let her open palm slam down upon the desk in exasperation. “Oh, why can you not just go away?” she pleaded, her voice fraught with torment. “For if you do not, then I must. I shall have to.”

  Suddenly, Delacourt felt a spurt of bitterness. “Oh, fine, Cecilia, leave!” he said softly. “That will be one more thing for me to feel guilty over.”

  “You have never suffered a moment’s guilt in your life.”

  It was far from true, but Delacourt would not deign to answer it. “You called me a fribble, Cecilia,” he said quietly. “A man cannot be expected to bear such an insult without a fuss.”

  “You impudent dog! You call sticking your tongue halfway down my throat a fuss?”

  Delacourt had to admire her audacity. And in truth, he had been insane to kiss her. “Very well, Cecilia,” he answered with a sigh. “You win. Stay. I swear, I shan’t so much as touch you. Then I shall be your captive audience, and you may exact your revenge by doing what you ought to have done years ago.”

  “What?” she asked grimly. “Shoot you?”

  “No.” Delacourt smiled weakly. “Reform me.”

  Cecilia’s mouth fell open, and she stood frozen to the floor. Suddenly, a fist rapped energetically against the door. They spun about to face the entrance. Mrs. Quince sailed in, a veritable clipper ship of Christian indignation, flying her sails of gray serge. “You’d best come with me, my lady,” she began, jabbing a finger at the ceiling. “It’s that Nan again. Pulling Molly’s hair and cursing like a boatswain. And all of it over the boy what delivered the coal this morning!”

  ———

  Cecilia never returned from lecturing the errant Nan. Delacourt supposed she managed to while away her afternoon in the workrooms, providing the denizens of the Daughters of Nazareth Society with all manner of moral guidance and lady-of-the-manor munificence. Delacourt tried to convince himself that although he missed her presence in the room, it was the sort of missing one felt after having a bad tooth drawn; there was a tender, e
mpty hole, yes, but what one really felt was the absence of acute discomfort.

  Yet, even dislike could be edged with some perverse sort of attraction. He’d simply been alleviating his boredom as he always did—by flirting with a beautiful woman. But dash it, Cecilia needed to un-bend just a tad. She was a lovely, vivacious creature. A widow! She ought to relax and enjoy the freedoms society granted her.

  But she wouldn’t be enjoying any more of them with him this afternoon, for she did not mean to return. His unerring masculine instinct told him that much. And so he forced his attention to the stack of notes and correspondence which Cole had left him. The letter from the Home Office was the first. Apparently, his bullying down at the High Street Public Office had been effective. The investigation into Mary O’Gavin’s death had been permanently given over to the elite River Police, an unusual but impressive step. He felt marginally comforted.

  He ripped through the seal of the second letter, which had clearly been hand-delivered to the mission. To his shock, a bank draft from Edmund Rowland drifted down onto the scarred wooden desk. Delacourt picked it up, looked at the neatly etched zeros, and gave a low whistle. Good God! The jesting at Brooks’s had been in earnest. Such a sum must have drained the old boy. How the devil had that flame-haired minx done it?

  Cecilia again, damn her! Must the woman spring to mind at every turn? Viciously, Delacourt slashed open the next letter with a violent flick of his penknife.

  Blankets. David sighed. A parish in the north wished to donate a dozen. That was very good news, he supposed. After that, there were self-important letters from two of the mission’s larger benefactors—probably people like Rowland, who gave money to assuage a guilty conscience.

  And unlike Cecilia, Cole, or Lady Kirton, none of them was apt to actually do anything, other than throw supercilious advice and easy money at the problem. Indeed, it struck him that if one truly wished to make a difference among the East End’s crime and poverty, then one needed to roll up one’s sleeves and wade into the human morass which constituted its population.