Eight

Blast, blast, blast. If there had been anything to kick on the sidewalk, Miles would have kicked it. Instead, he kicked the air, glad that he was the only one on the dark street. Darkness had fallen completely while he had been at Delilah's house.

He shouldn't have gone there. Or perhaps he should, but then not charged forward like he had. Not believed that he could do more than he could. Because he clearly could not be with a woman anymore. Not in that way at least.

Blast. He kicked the air again, then jumped with surprise as a cat ran in front of him and he almost kicked it. He scowled as it disappeared into the darkness. He wouldn't have kicked it, though, if it had stayed. He was not a savage. Just enraged.

He had been at his club, being a bit bored about a game of whist and then it had occurred to him. It would be more fun to be with Delilah right now. He had departed shortly after, only to see her step out of a hackney. He had felt dumbfounded that she had anywhere to go at night, and then even more baffled that he had such stupid notions of her.

Nevertheless, he hadn't been able to refrain from asking her where she had been. She was right that it wasn't any of his business. It was merely . . . he had never been with a woman like her before. Usually, he knew whether the women he was sleeping with were sleeping with other men as well.

He had only been with prostitutes a few times, but then, of course, you would know that you were not the only one. The widows he met with usually only had him. The disappointed married women were a bit trickier. Some still had to sleep with their husbands, but most didn't.

Miles guessed he just liked knowing whether he was the only one a woman slept with or not. The feeling he had as he had watched Delilah step out the hackney certainly couldn't be jealousy or possessiveness of any kind. He had no right, nor did he want to. He just needed to know, and when she said that she hadn't seen another man, he was allowed to feel relieved because certainly it was comforting to know that, even in his state, he was enough to satisfy her. That she didn't need another man.

A pile of seed pods on the pavement under a large tree was too irresistible not to kick even though by now he was close to his home and people who would recognize him. The seed pods smelled sickeningly sweet and sent pollen into the air that made him sneeze.

Blast. He wasn't even good at being angry anymore. Or have anything to be angry about. Delilah should be looking out for them, for both of them. He didn't want a bastard child by a former courtesan. And frankly, he was thankful that she didn't want one either.

But he had wanted her so much and it had been so good. Miles stopped to contemplate for a moment whether he should go back and take her up on her offer of going upstairs. But he was several streets away now, closer to his own home than to hers, and besides, he wasn't calm enough. He still had too much nervous energy rolling around his body.

He walked on. Even faster now. He would have liked to go riding, but it was clearly out of the question in the darkness.

His mother would probably be in bed already; perhaps he could run around their garden until he was tired enough to sleep. If any of the servants were up and saw him, they would think that he had gone mad. But then again maybe he had. Or maybe he would.

***

"Eleanor and Lord and Lady Riplingham are coming to tea today," Miles' mother announced as he joined her for breakfast.

Miles nodded. This was nothing new; his mother saw his intended far more often than he did. But he figured it was only natural; they would most likely end up spending a lot more time together than he and Eleanor would.

"I expect you to be there," his mother said, looking pointedly at him over her teacup.

Miles met her pale blue eyes that gave him a stern look. He did not resemble her in the least; she had been blonde when her hair had color, now it was white, tucked under a bonnet. One of his sisters had the same blue eyes as her, but the rest had brown eyes like Miles.

She was close to seventy years old, having had Miles when she was 39. She had given birth to four daughters and two stillborn sons before that, and Miles knew that it had been a huge relief for her that she had finally been able to give her husband an heir. She had doted fiercely on Miles as a child, and he had relished being spoiled more than his sisters. After he had grown, her continued attention was less welcome, though. She kept trying to fix his life and he would often try to send her to live with one of his sisters, who were all happy that she was not staying with them.

"I think it's time we set a date," his mother went on when he didn't confirm that he would indeed attend.

"Right," Miles said, since it seemed to be the only word that he was able to say. A date. Of course, they would have to set a date for the wedding. He and Eleanor had been betrothed for what . . . two or three months?

"You hardly need me for that," he said, since he'd rather stay as far away from wedding preparations as possible and choosing a date seemed like the straight route to getting too involved.

"George, you have to think of Eleanor. She will want you to be there, I'm sure of it."

The way she said "George" almost made Miles look for his father. Usually, his mother had referred to his father as Lindley, but when there was a matter she really wanted him to do – and usually it would coincide with matter his father felt no inclination to what so ever – she would call him George.

Like: "George, you must attend the Miltons’ ball with us tonight."

His father would always sigh and say:

"Yes, dear."

Miles had never viewed his father as someone who was whipped, but merely a man who knew how to choose his battles.

And thus, Miles sighed himself now and said:

"Of course, I'll attend."

His mother nodded happily, and they continued their conversation down other paths.

After finishing the meal, his mother rose to go to the drawing room to receive morning callers, and Miles rose to fill his plate once more at the buffet. As they passed each other, the glass of pills Delilah had given him fell from his coat pocket. He had placed it there, meaning to have it refilled when he saw her this evening.

Flustered, he bent to pick it up, even though his mother could, of course, not know what it was. But despite her almost seventy years, his mother was quicker. She bent and picked up the jar, looking at the content. Miles felt himself blush for the first time in about twenty years.

"Ah, Perrymount's peppermints. You've become addicted too, I gather," she said and then she opened the lid and took one of them.

Miles looked horrified at her, as if her head might explode. She thrust the jar into his hand.

"Don't look so alarmed; it wasn't the last one. There's one more left. I'll have someone fetch more if you find the notion of running out of peppermints so terrifying." And with that she left the room.

Miles sat down, completely forgetting that he had meant to fill his plate once more. He looked at the jar in his hand with one pill left. He had noticed that they tasted of peppermint when he placed them on his tongue, but he had merely thought that it was something that had been added to make them easier to swallow. He placed the last pill in his mouth, feeling how the peppermint almost bubbled on his tongue, nearly making his eyes water.

What was this? Not only had Delilah's treatment the last two weeks not given him the result that he wanted, but she had also tricked him into swallowing peppermints believing that they would help him. Blast. He had even told her that he felt that they were working. She must have had a hard time keeping a straight face. What was this? Some kind of scheme on her part?

Miles quickly rose, rushed through the house, and grabbed his coat and hat himself from the coatroom.

"I'm going out," he announced to the butler who hurried into the hallway at that moment. Then he strode out the door. He flagged down the first available hackney he saw, almost stepping in front of it to make it stop.

At Delilah's house, he quickly paid the driver, jumped out, hurried up the stairs and knocked fiercely on the door. The ride there had not made his mood any better. Nor had the fact that he had to wait what seemed like at least two minutes before the door was opened by the housekeeper.

"Lord Lindley," she said surprised. "Miss Delilah is not receiving today."

"Well, she will have to see me," Miles barked, the nagging feeling that she was with someone else rising again.

"But she's ill," the housekeeper said.

Miles only sneered at that, pushing her aside and hurrying up the stairs. He opened the door to the purple bedroom, but it was empty. The door to the purple drawing room next to it was open and unless Delilah and whomever she was with were hiding along the wall, the drawing room was empty too.

"Where is she?" he barked at the housekeeper who had followed him.

"Upstairs in her private bedroom," the housekeeper said, pointing toward the ceiling.

Miles ran up the stairs and opened a couple of doors before he found the right room. In a room with bright green wallpaper, like the earliest leaves on the trees in spring, was a much smaller bed than downstairs. Delilah was lying in it, covers off, dressed in only a thin night gown and drawers, clutching a hot brick at her stomach, her hair sticking to her sweaty forehead.

"Lord Lindley," she said in a tired voice. "What are you doing here?"

"I tried to stop him, Miss Delilah. I said you weren't receiving," the housekeeper said behind Miles, panting a little from running up the stairs.

"It's alright, Martha," Delilah said and it was clear from her voice that she was in pain.

Miles felt like someone had removed the bones from his body. She had been perfectly fine last night. He had thought that it was simply an excuse when the housekeeper said that she was ill.

"What happened to you?" he said gently, as if she would break if he spoke too loudly. He walked into the room and heard the door close behind him, but he didn't turn to look at it.

"This happens every month," Delilah said in a tired voice, clenching her teeth in pain.

"But why?" Miles said, still not following. He had never heard of women having stomach aches like this unless they were giving birth or had appendicitis.

"It's my monthly courses. Have a seat."

She gestured toward a chair by a delicate white dressing table. Miles moved the chair closer to the bed and sat down. He had never known that a woman's monthly courses were this painful. His mistresses had only ever hinted that they were annoying, and even though his sisters would not speak of such things in front of him, he certainly knew that they hadn't been bedridden like this.

"Is this normal?" he asked gently.

Delilah laughed, then her face contorted in pain again. It was at least a full minute, if not more, before she spoke.

"Oh, no, this something quite unique for the women of my family. I've never met anyone else suffering from cramps as badly as mine."

She rested her head on her pillow and closed her eyes, seemingly still going through pain.

"Is there nothing that can be done about it?" Miles asked.

"I take laudanum to help me sleep," she answered, her eyes still closed. "My mother and my sister tell me that the pain lessens significantly after having had a child."

He could hear from her tone of voice that she did not expect a child of her own. It was only sensible given her social status.

"Why are you here, Lindley?" she asked after a moment. His gaze sought her face; her brown eyes were open now and studying him with a mixture of curiosity and another emotion. Perhaps annoyance. Miles took the glass from his pocket.

"Do you need more?" There was no sign on her face that showed she knew they weren't medicine. Could she have been fooled herself? If not, she would make an excellent gambler.

"They are peppermints," Miles stated, not feeling any anger toward her anymore.

"Oh, you figured it out then," Delilah said, smiling a bit sheepishly. "I'm sorry; it's a trick my sister often uses when her customers have troubles . . . rising to the occasion."

His face must have shown some kind of shock or horror about the fact that her sister was a lady of the night, because she laughed shortly, before her face contorted with pain.

"No, it's not like that," she said after a minute, a little out of breath. "She owns Aphrodite’s Retreat."

"I believe the owner’s name is Madam Dubois . . ." Miles began, but then stopped when he saw her raised eyebrows and remembered what the owner looked like: dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, high cheek bones and a rather pointy chin, like Delilah. Even though Madam Dubois was shorter and chubbier, it was clear that they were sisters.

"Right," he said and nodded.

Delilah smiled.

"I'm sorry about deceiving you. I just wanted to help you. Often when men think the pills work, they will."

Miles nodded, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his palms pressed against his eyes.

"There really is no cure for this, is there?"

Delilah didn't answer right away, and when she did, he could hear the pain in her voice.

"I think you've already improved, but no, as far as I know, there is no certain cure."

They were silent for a minute or so before Miles straightened.

"What do you do when you're in here all day?" he asked to change the subject.

Delilah shrugged.

"Nothing much. Stare at the ceiling, look at the pictures in the books." She glanced at a stack of books lying on the table by the bed. "When Martha has time, she reads to me. We’re reading Northanger Abbey."

Her eyes moved to the books again and Miles noticed that it was lying at the top. He retrieved it, finding the page that was bookmarked. Having four sisters, he had heard Jane Austen's books read out loud at least a thousand times during the winter months, where it was just the seven of them at their country estate.

"You're in too much pain to read," he assumed.

Delilah didn't answer right away, which made him look at her. Her face wasn't contorted with pain, thus there had to be another reason for her not answering.

"I can't read," she said defiantly and sent him a warning look.

"But you write . . ." Miles blurted before he realized that, of course, it couldn't be her, then, that wrote the notes in response to his.

"Martha writes all my letters," she said and looked away.

This was clearly a sore spot. And why wouldn't it be? She was a wealthy woman, yet a woman in her employ had an ability that she didn't. It probably wasn't uncommon, given her background. What was uncommon was that she had risen so high. Miles didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry” was at the tip of his tongue ,but didn’t seem appropriate.

"The only thing I feel sure how to write is Alicia Jones," she confided, her eyes toward the ceiling.

"Who is Alicia Jones?" Miles asked.

She sent him a disbelieving look. Right, of course, prostitutes and courtesans never used their real names.

"Alicia," he repeated, looking at her. It was a refined name for someone with her background. But then again, she was refined in many ways. "It suits you," he then said.

She smiled and for a moment, they looked at each other. Then she winced and looked away in pain.

"My first name is Miles," he then offered. “Or George,” he added after a moment. “But no one calls me that.”

Lindley still at times felt like his father, and having a woman moan it at the height of her pleasure didn't sit well with.

"Miles," she repeated with a smile, clearly knowing that she became a member of a select club by being allowed to call him by his given name. But then again so had he, only few people would know what her real name was.

"Do you want me to read to you?" he asked, realizing that he still held the book open. She nodded and closed her eyes.

Before he knew it, Miles had spent several hours this way. The housekeeper brought them tea and refreshments, they talked for a bit, then he read to her again and Miles found that he actually liked Northanger Abbey, despite him previously thinking that Catherine Morland was by far the silliest of Austen's heroines and that Henry Tilney was a fool for falling in love with her.

It was well into the afternoon before he returned to Lindley House.

"Your mother and her visitors are in the yellow drawing room," the butler informed him.

Miles almost slapped his forehead. Eleanor and her parents. He hurried up the stairs, pausing to catch his breath.

"George," his mother said, before he had even greeted Eleanor and her parents. She was smiling brightly. "We have decided that the wedding will be in six weeks. It's tight, but it needs to be before the end of the season if we want the wedding to take place in London."

Miles smiled, trying to discreetly dry the sweat from his brow and not just from running up the stairs. He desperately hoped that Alicia had another matter up her sleeve than peppermints, since he would have to perform on his wedding night in only six weeks.