Which meant the problem was unsolvable, because he could not avail himself of this solution. Which involved the two of them, a bed and no clothes.
Cheroot tucked between two fingers, he pondered. She was a worthier competitor than perhaps he had anticipated, but he liked to think he’d won this round. He’d at least gotten the last word. But in truth there would be no winners, and he understood there would never be peace, not even in this cozy smoking room, until she was gone or he was. And he wanted to be gone, and to do that he needed to find Woodley’s daughter, and none of this did anything to sand the jagged edges of his mood.
There was some minute comfort in the absolute certainty that he was also Lady Lillias Vaughn’s problem.
Neither he nor Delacorte spoke straightaway, but that was usual. For the male guests of The Grand Palace on the Thames, the first moments in the smoking room were rather like unbuttoning one’s trousers after a big meal. A spiritual exhale.
“When she’s in the parlor I feel as though . . .” Delacorte tipped his head back, exhaled, consulting the wreath of cigar smoke about his head like an oracle. “I feel as though the back of my neck isn’t quite clean enough.”
He didn’t have to explain who “she” was.
Nor was Hugh going to describe how she made him feel, which was, at this very moment, as though her nude body was pressed against his skin but his hands and legs were tied.
It would have shocked even the well-nigh unshockable Delacorte.
He said instead, “What a strangely specific thing to feel.”
“I don’t know quite how else to describe it.”
Hugh stared at him.
Delacorte gazed back.
“Isit clean enough?” Hugh asked.
“Have a look.” Delacorte twisted about.
Hugh heaved a resigned sigh and peered. “Like new-fallen snow back there.”
“I don’t quite cut the same dashing figure as you or Bolt or Hardy. Clean is all I’ve got.”
“Oh, you’ve likely one or two other as yet undiscovered charms, Delacorte.”
“Ha!” Delacorte loved being teased and quite liked himself. “And it’s not so much what she says. It’s about her whole...” and he gestured again with the cigar and the smoke.
And Hugh could almost see the shape of her in that smoke, like a succubus conjured. He had a feeling he would see the shape of her stamped on his eyelids when he closed his eyes.
And all that made him want to do was close his eyes.
“She’s just a woman, Delacorte,” Hugh said shortly. “And bored, spoiled women are a danger to themselves and everyone around them.”
Delacorte’s furry brows launched upward. It would never occur to him to use the words “just” and “woman” in the same sentence.
“I expect you’re right,” he said cheerfully enough. “She’s like one of them goddesses. Not one of them seems the type to want to sew a button on a bloke’s waistcoat.”
This was remarkably astute.
Since Delacorte had moved into The Grand Palace on the Thames, his waistcoat buttons were always securely sewn on, and they were taxed, indeed. From the side, he rather resembled the letter “D” on legs.
“What do you think of the others?” Hugh asked. As if anyone else mattered at the moment.
“Well... I’d say the Earl and Countess are decent enough for being an earl and countess, but it’s a near thing. The younger daughter, Lady Claire, asks a good many questions and laughs quite a bit and gets on with the others. The boy seems to like himself a good deal. Doesn’t know how to play chess.”
Those last sentences were about as close to a character indictment as Delacorte had ever uttered. Rather like a spaniel, Delacorte tended to like everyone and ultimately gave people no choice but to like him back, despite themselves. Hugh was intrigued.
A polite rap on the door heralded the entrance of, one after another, Lucien—Lord Bolt, Mrs.Durand’s husband—and Captain Hardy—Mrs. Hardy’s husband—both of whom had been out at the ship on business with the Triton Group.
Followed by the Earl of Vaughn.
