“Thank you, my lord.” Margaret took Delia by the arm dragging her back to the terrace door.
It took everything in Delia not to turn around and give the rude man the tongue lashing he was desperately in need of.
It was men like him and the other gentleman who’d cornered her moments ago that gave men of Society a bad name. Though he was obviously rich and overconfident, Delia could sense a kindness in her mysterious rake.
The heat and stench of the ballroom assaulted her at once. Delia tried not to let it affect her, but it was impossible to walk through the crush and not feel as if she was on the verge of expelling the contents of her stomach.
Taking her sister by the hand, she pulled her aside to a dark corner. “What were you and the earl doing alone out there? And what did he mean when he said he wouldn’t delay your love another moment?”
There was something very wrong with the Earl of March. Delia didn’t quite know what it was exactly, but whatever it was, she didn’t want Margaret anywhere near the man.
Her sister’s gaze wandered over the crowded ballroom, avoiding eye contact with Delia. “Nothing. He’s going to write Father properly, that’s all.”
Margaret St. George was a highly accomplished young woman, but the one thing that Delia’s sister could not do was lie. And Delia was well aware that her sister was lying.
Delia woke the following morning in a disastrous mood. She tossed her body from side to side in the small bed, trying to wake herself for the day. It was difficult to find sleep, especially when all she saw when she closed her eyes was brown skin, green eyes, and a beard. Usually, she thought a beard on a man looked unkempt, but not on him. It molded to his skin, begging to be caressed.
Drat!
She was doing it again.
“Stop it, Delia!” she reprimanded herself.
Sitting up, she stretched, glancing around the room for Margaret, but found it empty. Unlike Delia, her sister was an early riser, preferring to start her day with the sun’s rising.
No, thank you.
“Good morning, miss,” Jenny said, entering with a small tray of coffee, eggs, and toast. “I saved your breakfast for you.”
“Thank you, Jenny. Are Aunt Francis and my sister cross with me?” Delia asked, perfectly aware that the older woman wanted her down for breakfast every morning.
Delia had long been in charge of herself. What choice did she have at the age of seven in a house full of strangers and a woman that loathed her very existence? Margaret’s mother, the late Duchess of Cliffbury, could barely stand to be in the same room with her. She often complained about Delia to anyone who would listen, in order to appease her stepmother and have moments of peace, Delia learned to care for herself.
“Is Lady Margaret not here?” the maid asked, looking around the room.
It wasn’t a grand house, their shared room was small. There weren’t many places one could hide, except behind the screen divider that hid the chamber pot.
“Margaret,” Delia called, rising out of bed.
Reaching the screen divider, she peered around, finding it empty.
That was odd.
A sinking dread settled itself in the pit of her stomach. Clutching her dressing gown, Delia rushed to the wardrobe, opening it to find two of Margaret’s dresses missing. Like her, Margaret had a limited amount of clothing, therefore it was easy for Delia to ascertain what was missing.
“Do you think she left with the earl, miss?” Jenny stood frozen, still clutching the small tray in her hands.
“Of course not! She wouldn’t…” Delia trailed off. Suddenly bits and pieces of the conversation she’d overheard last night came to her.
“I won’t delay our love another moment.”
That was what the Earl of March had said to her sister. What the hell did that mean exactly?
Jenny’s gaze locked on the dressing table. “Miss, a letter.” Jenny placed the tray down on the bed before walking to the dressing table. Delia’s body was frozen in place as Jenny picked up the small piece of paper and held it out to her.
Delia took it, unable to breathe as she unfolded it and read her sister’s rushed handwriting.
Dear God, her sister had gone to Gretna Green to marry the Earl of March.
