In which Lord Delacourt Attends a Funeral
Following the graveside prayers, Cecilia lingered just
long enough to slip the priest a generous donation to
cover the cost of Maryโs burial, then with Lord Delacourt
still at her side, she walked out of the graveyardโs cold
shadows and into the brilliance of day. It seemed somehow
inappropriate that the sun shone so brightly on such a
dreadful afternoon. She only hoped that poor Mary had
found such a light at the end of her journey.
Standing pensively by the wrought iron gate, she looked
down the length of Bunhill Row to see that almost everyone
had already vanished. Somehow, Delacourt had already
managed to send for her carriage which had been left
behind at Finsbury Square. It now awaited her in the
street beyond.
Gently, he urged her along the footpath, and without
waiting for her footman, he opened the door himself. The
creaking of the door hinges brought her back to reality,
and to the truth of just who it was standing at her elbow.
As her skirts brushed past him, Delacourt turned to look
at her, his expression inscrutable. "You will return
straightaway to Marylebone, will you not, Lady Walrafen?"
he asked forcefully, as if he did not mean to accompany
her.
Cecilia drew her cloak a little nearer and looked upโquite
far upโto stare at him. How had she managed to forget how
incredibly tall the viscount was? "No, I fear I cannot,"
she finally responded. "I must go back down to Pennington
Street. I have things yet to do."
Lord Delacourt looked displeased. "You have taken a nasty
blow to the head, ma'am, and suffered a most trying
afternoon," he firmly asserted. "You would be well advised
to rest."
Cecilia mounted the steps into her carriage. "But you have
left your equipage at the mission," she returned, settling
herself on to the seat. She looked back at him with an
exasperated sigh. "Oh, look here, Delacourtโyou may as
well get in. I mean to go, whether you like it or not."
With a grim expression, Delacourt hauled himself up. "You
seem to possess an extraordinary fondness for that
particular expression. Indeed, you mean to do a great many
things which are ill-advised."
Cecilia made no answer, and merely stared into the depths
of the carriage. She was acutely aware that her anger had
irrationally surged forth again, but she felt powerless to
stop it. Really, what was her problem? His manner was no
more high-handed than that of any other man of her
acquaintance, and yet, she seemed unable to ignore
Delacourt as she did them. He seemed too large, too close.
In his proximity, her heartbeat skipped and her
temperature climbed, and Cecilia found herself wishing to
punish him for it.
Abruptly, Delacourt wrapped the brass knob of his stick
impatiently against the roof. "Walk on!" he commanded, and
the vehicle lurched into motion.
She snapped her gaze back to his. "I'll thank you not to
order my coachman about, if you please."
Delacourt lifted his brows haughtily. "You wished to
return to Pennington Street, I believe," he coldly
returned. "To do that, someone must give the command."
"Then do it in a more civil tone."
Delacourt ripped off his very elegant hat and tossed it
onto the bench. "You really do mean to quarrel, do you
not, Cecilia? You really must insist upon it."
Cecilia jerked loose the frog which closed her cloak. "I
did not invite you to accompany me here, Delacourt," she
said, shoving the cloak off her shoulders with a sharp,
impatient motions. "That was your decision."
"And what choice did you leave me, madam? You were clearly
unwell. And I think my reputation has suffered enough at
your handsโ"
"Your reputation?" she interjected.
Coldly, Delacourt cut her off. "And I will not be thought
less than a gentlemen for permitting a woman to go haring
back along a cesspit like Whitechapel whilst injured and
unaccompanied."
"My maid would have come, had you not done so!"
"But you failed to mention that, did you not?" His voice
was low and rough. "Indeed, Cecilia, I sometimes think you
wish to torment me quite deliberately."
Cecilia drew back into the shadows so that he could not
see the color which flamed in her cheeks. Good heavens,
why must she be cursed with such a complexion? And with
such a companion! He made her acutely uncomfortable. "I
did not give you leave to use my Christian name," she
answered in a cold, quiet voice.
Delacourt slid forward on the carriage seat and leaned
very intently forward, right into her face. "Oh, but you
must have, my dear," he said, his voice lethally
soft. "Recollect, if you will, that to all the world, we
were once betrothed. A love-match, it was said, until you
came to your senses and saw me for the blackguard that I
am."
Smoothly, Delacourt lifted his long, elegant fingers and
brushed them ever so lightly around the turn of her jaw,
skimming her flesh like silk.
The caress was brief, but not quite gentle. And though he
sat cloaked in shadows, Cecilia could see the wicked green
light which flared in his eyes. Delacourtโs mouth was a
hard line, the skin drawn tight across the lean lines of
his face.
Cecilia shuddered, a bone deep tremor of lust and loathing
and confusion. "Just leave me alone, Delacourt," she
whispered.
Delacourt saw right through her. "Why should I? Why should
I leave you alone, Cecilia, when I could do things to you
that no decent man ought? I could make you scream and
scratch and claw at me like a madwoman. If I wished too.
Thatโs what you think, isnโt it?"
"I said leave me alone."
But he would not be silenced so easily. "Remember,
Cecilia?" he whispered silkily. "Remember the first time I
kissed you? Put my tongue deep into your mouth? I
remember. Oh, yes. For I still have the scar down the back
of my neck to prove it."
She could almost smell the surge of antagonism, deeper
than anything she might have expected from him. And why?
In the years since their sham betrothal, Delacourt had
never shown her anything but cool disdain.
Alarmed by his proximity, she drew further into her
corner. With a look of disgust, he moved his hand again,
apparently intending to retrieve his hat. But in the
shifting light, she foolishly mistook the motion. "Do not
touch me again!" she hissed, recoiling.
The intensity in Delacourtโs expression flared, then
suddenly burned down to simple disdain. "Not if you were
the last woman on earth," he whispered, his eyes
narrow. "Iโd sooner cut it off and pickle it in a cask of
haโpenny gin than offer it to you again."
Suddenly, the carriage lurched hard to the right, making
the turn onto Bishopsgate. Unprepared, Cecilia was tossed
gracelessly against the wall, almost losing her bonnet.
Grabbing at the door with one hand, she threw up the other
to grasp her hat, somehow managing to whack the lump on
her head.
"Ouch!" she yelped. With the bonnet slid over one eye, she
must have looked ridiculous. Delacourt's mouth twitched
suspiciously, and pressing one knuckle to his sinful lips,
he cut his eyes toward the window.
A sharp retort sprang to her mouth but she bit it back.
The coach lurched again, sending light and shadow
flickering across Delacourt's face. "Ah, Cecilia," he
remarked in a silky voice. "You are stuck with me, my
dear."
"Not for long," vowed Cecilia, jerking her gaze from his.
"For three whole months," he whispered, grinning at
her. "Three . . . long . . . months."
Darkly, Cecilia turned a challenging gaze upon him. "Then
I wish you joy of it, you arrogant devil. Perhaps we will
find it improving upon your character."
And then Delacourt did the strangest thing. He threw back
his head and laughed. He laughed with a rich, unrestrained
resonance she'd never dreamed he possessed.
And he continued laughingโto himself, like some sort of
Bedlamiteโall the way down Bishopsgate, all along
Houndsditch, and into the environs of the dockyards.
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