Page 34 of The Danger of Desire
Some hours later, they were preparing to set off for the musicale when her aunt’s butler whispered something in her ear. When Aunt Agatha blithely announced that Owen was ill with a stomach complaint and would not be attending them, Delia’s heart dropped. Owen couldn’t be ill. He had to accompany her to Dickson’s later.
For the next few hours at the utterly dull musicale, she fretted. She had only two nights left to find her card cheat before the impending house party, and Owen’s inability to protect her would hamper her.
So when she, her aunt, and Brilliana returned home, she sneaked down the servants’ stairs to Owen’s room, as she’d done a number of times before on their nightly jaunts. But when she opened the door, Owen was decidedlynotlooking ill. Indeed, he was in bed, reading a book, fully clothed.
Clearly startled by her appearance, Owen fell to moaning.
Why, that rascal! “Stop that, Owen. You are not ill, and you know it.”
He clutched his belly. “Oh no, miss, I think I ate some bad meat, because my stomach aches something fearful.”
She eyed him askance. “You’re the worst actor I’ve ever seen. You couldn’t convince a flea that you were sick.”
With a tortured sigh, Owen slumped his shoulders. “I told him it wouldn’t work. He just wouldn’t listen to me.”
Trepidation curled about her. “He?”
“His lordship. He was adamant that I was to keep you from returning to Dickson’s.”
“Was he really? And why did you go along?”
“He said he would have me dismissed if I didn’t keep you away.”
“That devil!” Ooh, Warren was infuriating! What right did he have to meddle in her life?
The footman cocked his head. “I think his lordship really cares for you, miss.”
She snorted. “Lord Knightford doesn’t care for anyone, especially not a woman who might catch him in ‘a parson’s mousetrap.’ ” That accusation still stung.
“All the same, I think he means what he says.”
Perhaps. Men didn’t like it when women got the better of them. And it wouldn’t be fair to let Owen risk being dismissed. “Very well. For now, I will not go to Dickson’s. I have no desire to see you end up destroyed by this battle between me and his lordship.”
Relief flooded Owen’s face. “Thank you, miss. I confess I didn’t know what to do.”
Guilt assailed her. She’d never meant to put Owen in such a difficult position. But she knewpreciselywhat to do. Without telling Owen, she would go to Dickson’s without him. Warren couldn’t do a thing aboutthat.
She’d be fine on her own. She would simply take one of her brother’s pistols for protection. Reynold had shown her how to fire it a few times. As she recalled, it was a fairly simple procedure.
In any case, she probably wouldn’t have to use it. Jack Jones roamed the stews often enough that everyone knew and respected him. She would play a few hands of piquet, win some money, see if anyone had a sun tattoo, and then slip out as usual if she found that no one did.
What could possibly go wrong?
Warren was at Mrs. Beard’s long past midnight, trying to enjoy himself. Sadly, he wasn’t succeeding. Because he couldn’t banish Delia from his mind. Two different whores had already attempted to engage his interest and had been unable to do so. It was most uncharacteristic of him.
Now he found himself oddly alone in a sitting room, downing whiskey and wondering if he should go on to another brothel. Or a pub. Or to St. George’s in hopes that he might drum up a game of cards.
Cards made him think of Delia again, damn it. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, trying to picture how she’d looked in that cheery yellow gown. Why did she dress so nicely at home and so badly in society? To put suitors off? Probably.
If she dressed better, other men would almost certainly swarm about her for more than her fortune. He’d never seen her at an evening event. What did she wear then? Pomona green and puce? Fussy bows? Perhaps she draped her head in one of those awful turban hats he disliked... or...
Lulled by the whiskey and images of turbans, he slid effortlessly into sleep.
The dream began as it always did.He was blind. No, it was just too dark to see. The lantern had gone out. But how? No wind here in the old cellar.
A ghost had blown it out. “No such thing as ghosts, no such thing as ghosts,” he chanted, squishing himself into the corner.
How his brothers would mock him if they heard.
