Page 12 of Miss Devoted
“I do not care that,” she said, snapping her fingers before his perfect nose, “if you drop in at the wrong bordellos or the right ones, if you inebriate yourself on blue ruin in the privacy of the night, or duck into the gaming hells that adorn London like so many ripe peaches dangling before a man’s best intentions. I ask only after your safety.”
“There are right bordellos?”
“I was married, Mr. Delancey, and my husband was no prude. Stop prevaricating. Why risk your welfare alone at night on London’s streets? You are not by nature a foolish man.”
“You flatter me.”
Psyche waited with the patience of a woman who’d been wed to one of the most determined, pigheaded fellows ever to tie a coachman’s knot in his starched linen cravat.
“I was foolish,” Mr. Delancey said, reverting to soft tones. “As a young man, I became intimately acquainted with any number of those gaming hells, to my everlasting sorrow and shame. I amassed debts far beyond what I could manage. Another party connived to aid my ruin, though even at the time, I was well aware that I was making stupid choices.”
“Mr. Delancey,” Psyche said gently, “there is a reason why the phrase ‘young and stupid’ comes so easily off the tongue. Inexperienced young people have been behaving foolishly in Town since the Romans built the city walls. Forgive yourself.”
“I have, but I also believe self-discipline is like a muscle, and the more we ignore temptation, the easier that exercise becomes, so I walk past my old haunts and keep right on going.”
Psyche put a second biscuit on his plate. “The more we deny ourselves, the more insistently our yearnings clamor for our attention. I’ll bid you good evening. You will say nothing about my flower girls?”
“Berthold doubtless already knows they are yours.”
“He’ll keep his peace,” Psyche said, rising and putting sufficient coin on the table to pay for the meal. “I’m asking you to keep yours.”
Mr. Delancey got to his feet as well. “You have my word.” He took her cloak from its peg and would have held it for her had Psyche not snatched it from him.
“Thank you.” She swirled the cloak about her shoulders, relishing the weight and swing of the garment. Male attire was such a pleasure to wear. The fit was tailored for comfort and movement, and the fabrics were rich and soft. A hat on the head was so much easier to deal with than a dratted frilly bonnet, though the occasional veil was useful. “Don’t forget your biscuits, Mr. Delancey. You face a long march.”
He glanced around the coffeehouse, took out a plain linen handkerchief, and wrapped both sweets carefully before depositing them in a pocket.
“My thanks for a pleasant conversation,” he said, waiting for Psyche to precede him through the shop door.
They gained the chilly walkway and readjusted scarves accordingly. “I really wish you’d take a cab, Mr. Delancey.”
“I prefer to walk. I believe the cab stand is that way?” He nodded toward the west.
By the meager light of the shop lamps, his features took on a different sort of beauty, sharper, more formidable. Ye gods, Psyche’s hands ached at the sight of him.
“Good evening to you, Mr. Delancey. Until next we meet.” Psyche touched her hat brim and swung her walking stick up to her shoulder. Mr. Delancey sketched a bow and would have again disappeared into the darkness, except that Psyche called after him.
“I don’t suppose you would ever sit to me for a painting?”
He kept walking another few paces.
“Privately,” Psyche yelled.
His steps slowed.
“Professionally,” she added as Mr. Delancey came to a halt. “For hire, of course, not out of the goodness of your well-disciplined heart.”
He stopped, and after what felt like an eternity, he turned and retraced his steps. “I’ll walk with you to the cab stand.”
She saw the smallest movement of his arm, a gentleman’s reflexive courtesy when escorting a lady. He quelled the impulse on the instant and instead gestured gracefully with his hand.
“This way, I believe?”
Psyche set a modest pace for the cab stand, mentally preparing for a delicate negotiation. She hadn’t meant to ask him to model for her at her studio, but over a plate of cheese toast, something had shifted between them.
She could trust him, and he could trust her, at least as far as old business and artistic ambitions were concerned. “What are your terms, Mr. Delancey?”
“You will pay me double what Berthold does, and I will sit to you only on Thursday evenings.”
