Page 27 of The Danger of Desire
That was the trouble: Delia was a conundrum. And he loved unraveling conundrums, especially the ones wrapped up in a fetching female with spirit.
So he of course stayed for luncheon, easily overriding Delia’s objections. Her aunt ignored them, too. Lady Pensworth wasn’t daft enough to let a wealthy marquess slip away, especially one who’d shown interest in her niece. And since Warren was standing there expressing his great pleasure in having the opportunity to spend more time with Miss Trevor and her family, Delia had no choice but to surrender.
He did so enjoy when she surrendered, soft as silk, willing and wanton. Those kisses... God, he hadn’t had the like in years. Innocent yet eager, they made his mouth water.
A cautious man would stay away. But he’d never been that. He much preferred recklessly attempting to get her to surrender again.
When he reentered the drawing room of the town house, he was introduced to Mrs. Trevor, Delia’s young sister-in-law, who was busy sketching, a very ladylike endeavor. She was a beauty with abundant brown curls, whose gray-and-black half-mourning gown somehow accentuated her fulsome curves and creamy skin. But she lacked a certain something he couldn’t put his finger on.
Delia’s brashness, no doubt. Mrs. Trevor didn’t look the sort to ever dress in men’s clothes and gad about a gaming hell. She was too reserved, too subdued.
He glanced at her intricate images of classical subjects. “These are very good,” he said with some surprise.
Mrs. Trevor blushed. “They’re designs for porcelain. I figured that if Wedgwood could use the designs of women like Diana Beauclerk and Lady Templetown, perhaps they might consider mine.”
Apparently Delia wasn’t the only one trying to find ways to make money for the family. Though sadly, he didn’t imagine that selling a few designs to Wedgwood would ever save Camden Hall.
“Your time would be better spent elsewhere,” Lady Pensworth said, “though I supposesomegentlemen might find such a talent attractive in a prospective wife. Now come, let us adjourn to the dining room.”
Warren bit back an oath. Delia and Mrs. Trevor were clearly under quite a bit of pressure already to marry, and Delia, at least, was not taking that well. He wished her aunt wouldn’t bequiteso forceful about it, since it was driving Delia in a different direction entirely.
As soon as they were seated around the smallish dining room table, with Delia across from him and the other two women on either end, Mrs. Trevor turned to him with a polite smile. “So, Lord Knightford, do you have any favorite pastimes?”
“His lordship’s favorite pastime is to be annoying by day and wicked by night,” Delia said less than cordially, obviously still chafing at the way he’d ingratiated himself into her household.
“I beg your pardon.” Warren sipped his wine as he stared her down. “I try to be wicked by day as well. I’m wounded that you haven’t noticed.”
“Inoticed.” Lady Pensworth eyed him over her glass of wine. “And it’s hardly something to brag about, sir.”
“His lordship fancies himself above the rules of society,” Delia said with a lift of her pretty raven brow.
“For a woman I only met yesterday,” he drawled, “you have a great many ideas about my favorite pastimes and what I fancy. In any case, I find that the only firm rule in society is to not be boring.”
“Perhaps that’s the rule for marquesses.” She held up her own glass. “The rest of us are required to behave.”
He stifled a retort involving pots and kettles, but he wasn’t ready to unveil Delia’s nighttime activities to her family yet. She’d made some valid points in the garden about how it could ruin her life.
“Lord Knightford,” Mrs. Trevor put in hastily, as if to smooth things over, “I do hope that gambling isn’t one of your wicked pastimes.”
Odd that she’d chosen that particular vice. Could the woman be privy to Delia’s secrets? “Surely gambling is everyone’s wicked pastime. Why, do you disapprove of it?”
“I disapprove of what it does to families. My father and late husband were both gamblers.” Mrs. Trevor’s eyes darkened as she toyed with her lobster salad. “That didn’t turn out well for any of us.”
Belatedly he remembered the gossip at the club. “Does that mean none of you play cards?”
“Don’t be silly,” Lady Pensworth put in. “Everyone plays cards. We just don’t gamble. Not even Delia, though she could if she wished. Piquet is her forte.”
“Is it? I happen to like piquet myself.” He cast Delia a veiled glance, noting the color brightening her cheeks. “She and I shall have to play sometime.”
“Be careful,” Mrs. Trevor warned. “She’s quite good. The whole Trevor family is.”
“Including you?” he asked.
“Oh no. I’m horrible.”
“Only because you hate figures,” Delia said.
“I do not hate figures,” Mrs. Trevor protested. “I just want them to add up and be logical. How does it make sense for an ace to beat a king? Or sometimes not? If it’s a one, it should always be a one. Honestly, I don’t know who comes up with these lackadaisical rules.”
