Daphne’s body knew what to do before she knew which words to form; her knees dipped in a curtsy.
“Delilah! Oh, my goodness . . . what a pleasure . . . I cannot believe . . . that is . . . it’s been so long. Forgive me . . . ought I to call you . . . Lady Derring?”
Mortified heat rushed into her face. What an appalling hash of a sentence.
There really was no gracious way to say, “The last time I saw you, you were about to marry an earl, and now look at you! Here at a boardinghouse by the docks not one hundred feet away from where I was nearly robbed.”
It had been perhaps eight years. Funny how time races when juggling one disaster after another.
And to think her life had once been orderly and elegant and scripted. Belatedly she realized it was because she’d seldom been presented with social situations that defied convention.
Daphne was—had been—perhaps still was?—Delilah’s social superior in every way: in wealth and stature and family name.
But Delilah had possessed a different sort of social supremacy: she was beautiful. It had proved to be Delilah’s impoverished family’s salvation.
Daphne had not ever resented her. After all, they were united by the tension that beset all women: the rest of their lives depended upon making perfect matches. Daphne had money and stature; Delilah had eyes like a doe. These were what they brought to the marriage mart and her doe eyes had helped Delilah captivate the Earl of Derring.
And furthermore, the last time Daphne had seen Delilah, she’d been so certain of her own future, so satisfied with how she envisioned life unfolding with Henry, it was simply impossible to begrudge a poor knight’s daughter the attentions of an earl.
Delilah’s cheeks sported bright pink spots, too. She’d apparently wisely opted for silence instead of attempting a sentence. But she couldn’t stop her famously lovely dark eyes from moving wonderingly between Daphne and the man standing next to her as if she’d been presented with an equation impossible to solve.
“Life has been eventful indeed in the intervening years,” Delilah began with a little laugh. “It’s an honor to be able to welcome you to my home.”
Delilah had been to Daphne’s home for teas and picnics and assemblies. They had liked each other. And yet both had been aware that Daphne had been extending graciousness and charity to the poor daughter of a knight.
“I’m not certain whether such news would have reached you, but the Earl of Derring passed away not long ago. I’ve remarried. I’m known as Mrs. Hardy now.”
“I had not heard. I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.” She grasped hold of this platitude gratefully.
Intriguingly, Delilah hadn’t qualified the earl’s passing with a “sadly.”
“I’m very well and happy,” Delilah added hurriedly, and, Daphne thought, with a frisson of defensiveness. “My husband is—” She pressed her lips together, then gave another little laugh. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Forgive me. Do let me start over, Daphne! In my delight and astonishment in seeing you again I have quite forgotten my manners. Allow me to introduce my dear friend and fellow proprietress of The Grand Palace on the Thames, Mrs. Angelique Durand.”
So, Delilah, a former countess, now ran a boardinghouse near the docks.
The golden-haired Mrs. Durand curtsied. “How do you do, Lady Worth?”
Hers was another soothing accent: it spoke of education and refinement.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Durand.” Daphne’s knees recognized those words as a cue for another curtsy.
Throughout these exchanges, the large, fearsome stranger who had apparently thought he was leading her to a bordello remained so quiet and watchful he might have been one of the gargoyles lining the roof.
There fell the inevitable awkward pause, during which torment ramped in Daphne.
Because the three of them were such well-bred ladies, and as such were bound by and observed the social rituals and niceties, Daphne knew what they expected her to do next.
But she couldn’t do it.
More specifically, because she hadn’t the faintest idea what to say.
Delilah prompted gently, tentatively, “Dot tells us you’d like a suite. How lovely! This must be your . . . husband?”
In truth, there wasn’t quite an ellipsis’ worth of hesitation before she said the word husband.
But the minute pause fair echoed like a chasm.
Because they all knew there was only one acceptable answer.
And it was the glimmer of hope in the words that cut Daphne so savagely: Delilah hoped Daphne had not plummeted so far in life that she was now the unmarried lover of a large pirate. Delilah clearly hoped that her life was as happy as her own apparently was, when it was patently not.
If Dot hadn’t already made it clear to Mrs. Durand and Mrs. Hardy she was amenable to sharing a suite with this man, and if anyone else at all besides Delilah had asked the question, she might have been able to spontaneously invent an alias and a story. An alias had been her plan, after all, when she’d gone out the window.
But she didn’t know Delilah well enough to tell her the truth of her life as it was now. Moreover, her pride wouldn’t let her.
And the truth was scaldingly painful, humiliating, frightening, and messy. To tell it properly she would need to start with what had happened with Henry. She in fact knew no one intimately enough to entrust with her truth, unless it was Henry. He’d once been the beating heart at the center of her everything. Everything else had been a tributary that ran to and through the fact of him.
There was the shorter truth: Oh, this man? I found him in an alley while I was leaping from a window, right into his arms!
And as another second ticked by Daphne realized that chasm of silence had a crumbling edge. The man standing next to her was a terrifyingly unknown quantity. In less than an hour, she had come to believe he was capable of anything.
He proved her correct by doing the most shocking thing of all.
“Aye, just call me Mr. Lady Worth. For indeed, I am Daphne’s proud husband.”
He bent his big frame in a bow so low, slow, and graceful it flirted with parody. It was a sensual caress of a bow.
Daphne noted that Delilah and Mrs. Durand were at once transfixed.
When upright he said, “I more typically answer to Mr. Lorcan St. Leger. It is indeed a pleasure to meet any friend of my wife’s. Thank you both for welcoming us to your establishment. I understand The Grand Palace on the Thames is very exclusive and it’s easy to see why.”
It was such a pretty speech it was almost impossible to believe he’d recently hissed a death threat to a knife-wielding thug. If she’d closed her eyes, she could almost believe he was a gentleman. Almost.
Relief and humiliation and relief again visited her in violent succession, like those slaps he’d applied to the thief. He’d solved a problem and created another.
But wasn’t that the run of her life lately?
Daphne realized she had never before outright, baldly lied to anyone. A lie made up out of whole cloth. And in a moment of startling epiphany, she realized it was because she’d never really needed to. She wondered how many things she would be willing to do if she were cornered. If self-righteousness was really just the bastion of the comfortable.
“Thank you, Mr. St. Leger,” Delilah said. “That is very kind of you to say.”
Both Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand were regarding him with the sort of fascination and amazement to which he was no doubt accustomed.
Which made her wonder what sort of men they’d married.
Another silent interval ensued.
Aplomb was in short supply in the pink room.
“Well. Daphne!” Delilah turned to her. “My goodness. I suppose we can both attest that life certainly takes turns we do not anticipate. As do our hearts, I expect,” Delilah added, delicately.
It was a tremendously kind thing to say.
“Aye,” Daphne croaked. Absurdly. After a long moment.
She could not look at Mr. St. Leger.
“We thank you for your kind words, Mrs. Hardy,” St. Leger said soberly.
“Thank you, Mr. St. Leger. Please, do have a seat. Dot should return shortly with the tea, and I expect you’ll both need it. Perhaps you would like a little brandy to take off the chill?”
“We are so grateful for your hospitality,” he said again. “Brandy would be most welcome.”
We. The word clanged against her ear. “We” had meant something else altogether to her once, something nearly sacred. It had belonged to her and someone else.
She was painfully reminded of the shelter and promise in the word. Because even though hearing it abraded her soul a little, she was oddly, pathetically grateful for the moment to be part of a “we.”
“How did the two of you meet?”
It was a perfectly reasonable question, one not typically met with the mute stares with which she and Mr. St. Leger presented them.
“Would you like to begin, my dear?” St. Leger prompted, gently.
My dear. Oh God. She should probably prepare herself for more of this. She would probably need to issue endearments of her own.
She hesitated.
Then she cleared her throat. “Well, we met on a night much like this one . . .”
She turned toward him, tentatively.
“. . . stormy and thrilling and a little bit dangerous. Just like me, my darling wife is fond of saying,” he added.
“Ha ha!” Daphne laughed cautiously. “We do have our little jokes.”
Delilah and Angelique smiled patiently.
“Alas, the missus has quite domesticated me,” he said with every evidence of satisfaction.
Which was funny, because by virtue of settling onto a pretty pink settee, he looked twice as feral as he had before.
Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand watched, appearing somewhat spellbound, when he slowly leaned back and crossed his legs.
He surreptitiously nudged her with an elbow.
“It’s a rather long and very bit of a, well, personal story, in truth,” she began. “You see, I had come to London for a visit. And I . . . I found myself in a bit of a predicament, and in need of some urgent assistance. In part because I had dropped something very important to me . . . and there he was. He simply refused to take no for an answer when it came to helping.”
“I could not possibly leave such a lady dangling in distress,” he said humbly.
Miraculously, Delilah and Angelique appeared content with this halting little story.
“And I am grateful for this quality in him,” Daphne added.
This was true. However complicated that gratitude. However much she wished no one on earth had witnessed her ignominious window escape.
She turned toward him and looked up. “And then, after one look at his . . .” Earring. Scar. Glower. Eyes. Lips. Black, black hair. She faltered. “One look and I . . .”
His eyes mesmerized her. By rights they ought to be black and fierce, but they were surprisingly light and clear. Shades of mossy green shifted into golden brown. They reminded her of the eyes of a wild animal, perhaps a fox or a wolf, in that they seemed ageless and remote. The eyes of a creature whose acquired wisdom and instincts and experience were entirely alien from her own.
But gradually, before her eyes, they took on a gleam of wicked amusement.
It occurred to her that Delilah and Angelique probably thought they were blissfully lost in each other’s eyes rather than paralyzed in indecision about which lie that wasn’t a lie to tell next.
He freed her from his gaze by turning to their now riveted audience. “One might say it was destined.”
She nodded. “Destined,” she echoed weakly.
This story, remarkably, seemed to touch both Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand. They were both now wearing indulgent expressions.
“We’ve had more than a little experience with destiny here at The Grand Palace on the Thames,” Delilah reassured her. “And we have both met our husbands under unusual circumstances, haven’t we?”
“Indeed,” Angelique said. “And we’re both very happy.”
“My favorite memories usually begin with unusual circumstances,” Mr. St. Leger said, probably truthfully.
“It’s so good to know you are well and happy, Daphne,” Delilah said.
“Very kind of you to say,” Daphne replied. “And you as well. It certainly seems like serendipity to see you again on a night that portends to be as brutal as this one. L-l-orcan’s bones tell him,” she explained hurriedly, absurdly thrilled to have an actual fact to impart. “About the weather.”
She mentally kicked herself for the stutter. She keenly felt the tiny embarrassment of using his first name.
Lorcan nodded sagely. “How well she knows me.”
“What brings the two of you to The Grand Palace on the Thames this evening?” Mrs. Durand asked.
“Well, my ship reached harbor yesterday, ahead of the storm. I’ve been in London all day conducting business. Daphne had earlier seen an advertisement for The Grand Palace on the Thames in a shop. It sounded like just the sort of fine, cozy place she’d like to stay.”
Good heavens. He not only remembered her disjointed babbling, he’d managed to interpret it correctly.
The mention of a ship was interesting, indeed.
Unless he was a pirate.
Angelique and Delilah exchanged a satisfied glance.
Daphne glanced toward the doorway at the sound of clinking. Dot was approaching at a stately pace, bearing a rattling tea tray laden with a pot and porcelain cups.
Delilah cleared her throat. “Your ship, Mr. St. Leger. Are you a . . .”
Dot froze like a statue on the threshold. Her breath appeared to be held.
“A privateer, Mrs. Hardy. For nigh on three years.”
(It was a crestfallen Dot who delivered the tea tray, which rattled more profoundly on descent, but did not crash.)
It seemed ridiculous to feel relieved that her fake husband was not, in fact, a pirate, but she needed a blessing to count.
She knew what privateers did. It was piracy of a sort, sanctioned by the crown, supplementing the work of the navy. Capturing enemy ships for cargo and ransoming crews. Dangerous. And often very, very lucrative.
“And do you travel with your husband, Mrs. St. Leger?” Mrs. Durand set about pouring and handing cups around.
Daphne went still.
Mr. St. Leger had just said his ship had docked. Her heart picked up a beat.
“I have indeed traveled with him,” she said carefully.
One hundred entire feet, unless one also counted the air distance from the crates to his chest.
Surely it was unseemly to feel triumphant each time she managed to tell a lie that wasn’t a lie.
She wondered if this indelicate instinct for survival at any cost had simply lain dormant until it was needed.
“Life on a ship with your husband!” Angelique exclaimed. “How thrilling that must be.”
Daphne smiled at her. “It is unlike anything I’ve ever before experienced.”
“She’s surprisingly resourceful in risky situations.” St. Leger sipped his tea. The little white teacup looked as crushable as an egg in his big hand.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Delilah said stoutly, thereby surprising Daphne. “Perhaps you already know this, Mr. St. Leger, that Daphne was the lady of her house from the time she was . . .”
“Eleven years old,” Daphne completed.
“Isn’t it remarkable?” was what St. Leger smoothly chose to say. “I suspect it’s how she became so resourceful.”
Daphne turned to Angelique. “My mother passed away then, leaving just my father and me and my brothers.”
“I’m so sorry. I lost my mother at a young age, too,” Angelique told her.
The warmth of commiseration bound them all for a moment.
And then Delilah surprised her again. “My mother always pointed you out as an example of fine young ladyhood I should strive for.”
“How delightful for you,” Daphne said dryly. “I’m so sorry.”
Angelique and Delilah laughed.
“Everyone admired Daphne for being so clever when we were younger,” Delilah, who had been admired for being beautiful, added wistfully.
The compliment made Daphne flush. “I didn’t realize. It isn’t always particularly valued in a woman, cleverness.”
“No truly strong man is frightened of a clever woman,” St. Leger said.
Thus ensuring he was at once bathed in fond looks of approbation.
“Angelique is very clever, too,” Delilah said proudly. “She speaks five languages. She was a governess.”
That word. Even after all these years it was like a quick shiv prick to Daphne’s rib.
The tiny shock of it blanked her mind for an instant.
When Lorcan’s earring glinted in her peripheral vision she realized he had turned to look at her because a little conversational lull had set in.
Daphne was practically an Olympian at composure regaining. She’d had a lot of practice.
It began with a deep breath, which she took.
Suddenly everyone pivoted toward the sound of boot heels swiftly crossing the marble foyer.
And into the room without preamble swept two of the most strikingly handsome men Daphne had ever seen.
Delilah and Angelique rose to their feet.
But not before they exchanged a quick “what on earth?” glance.
Lorcan slowly rose to his, too. Daphne followed suit.
Daphne noticed Lorcan’s hand flex at his side. As if he were regretting the absence of a sword.
Her arms went cold with nerves.
“It seems our husbands have blessed us with an unexpected visit,” Delilah explained. And while the word “husbands” was rich with wry warmth, the word “unexpected” was given an interesting emphasis. “Allow me to introduce mine, Captain Tristan Hardy.”
The man with cool, silvery eyes and close-cropped hair bowed.
“And my husband, Lord Bolt,” Angelique announced.
Bolt’s dark hair was longer; he had a long, fine-boned face and unusual green eyes. And he bowed, too.
Both were tall, slim, broad of shoulder, and fierce of expression. Both were profoundly different in appearance in nearly every other way, from their clothing to their posture.
Delilah and Angelique scooted together to the middle of the settee so their husbands could flank them, as it seemed clear that neither intended to leave.
“Last time we met, Lord Bolt,” St. Leger said slowly, “we were dispatching pirates in the Atlantic.”
Bolt’s fixed regard evolved swiftly into delighted recognition. “St. Leger! Almost didn’t recognize you without a sword at your hip.”
“Funny, I always picture St. Leger wearing a noose.”
Captain Hardy said this so lightly that it was a moment before the words registered among those gathered.
And when they did the silence and stillness was so abrupt it sucked the air from the room like a gasp.
