He was even larger than she’d recalled. If she were anybody but herself she would have been intimidated by his size—he had to be well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, perhaps the broadest she’d ever seen, and long, long legs that threatened to touch hers as he sprawled on the sofa.
But Della was not easily intimidated.
“Me?” he replied in an incredulous voice, leaning forward to stick his face close to hers. He glanced up to the ceiling as though exasperated. “You are not the only one. Perhaps it’s a sickness that’s going around.”
He was exceedingly attractive in addition to all that size. Even though he was currently spouting nonsense.
Although she should not be noticing his appearance right now. But she couldn’t help it; he had long dark curly hair, far too long for Society’s liking, and it was clear he hadn’t shaved in some time, judging by the thick stubble on his face. His eyes were dark also, and focused on her so intently she felt his gaze throughout her entire body. His mouth was lifted in a sly grin, as though he knew how he was affecting her.
He probably affected every woman who saw him the same way. Imagine all that force and power engaged in—stop it, Della! she chided herself.
“Yes, you.” Della dragged her eyes away from his face to look in the corner of the room. There was a bookshelf with what appeared to be discarded knitting, and she wondered if this enormous viscount-captain had a wife. And if he did, Della envied that woman more than she would like to admit.
But this wasn’t his house, was it?
None of that mattered. Focus, Della. “The thing is,” she began, directing her words to the knitting, “you were the captain on the HMS Royal Lady three years ago.”
He laughed. “I know that,” he said in a condescending tone.
Hmph. “And the ship capsized.”
“I know that as well,” he interrupted, his tone less obnoxious.
“And some of your crew was lost.”
She waited for him to say something cutting, but apparently even he could be silenced. “One of the crew members was a Mr. Henry Wattings. I am hoping you can tell me what you know about what happened to him.”
“What happened?” he repeated. “What do you mean? He wasn’t one of the lost crew members, I know that.”
She turned to look at him again. His expression was just as intent, but it was far more somber than before. “Wattings returned to London three years ago. I set him up with letters of reference, and I thought he was headed south.”
Della exhaled. At least this behemoth hadn’t said Sarah’s husband had been lost at sea, as they’d feared.
“What is this about?” he continued. “Why is a lady such as yourself interested in the fate of a black seaman?”
Disappointment flooded through her. She hadn’t realized how much she had been hoping for a miracle—Mr. Henry Wattings? Oh, he is currently in the prime of health aboard my ship now, even as we speak. Allow me to take you to him.
“Thank you for your time,” she replied, not answering his question.
She rose, and he leapt up also, meaning they were a bare six inches apart from one another. She addressed him midchest. “I was hoping you could help me find him, but since you apparently were last aware of his whereabouts three years ago, you can offer me no assistance.”
She dipped her head in thanks. The feathers on her hat likely poked him in the eye. Serves him right, she thought. Although why she had such a visceral reaction to him she couldn’t say—or wouldn’t say.
Because she knew damn well it was because he was so large, handsome, and forceful. Entirely everything that had gotten her in so much trouble before. Everything she had promised herself never to fall for again.
So much for not saying.
“Hold on a moment,” he said, putting his hand on her arm. “If Wattings is missing, I want to help you find him. But I have obligations. Obligations,” he repeated, as though to himself.
His expression shifted, and she could see when he arrived at some sort of conclusion in his head.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Her eyes snapped up to meet his. He was grinning down at her, as though he knew how she might interpret his words. She felt her cheeks heat, and quickly returned to staring at the knitting. Much safer. With the added bonus that the knitting needles would make an excellent makeshift weapon, if she needed to defend herself.
“I need a woman,” he continued.
So . . . was her initial interpretation correct?
She began to move toward the knitting, but his grip tightened. “Wait, I’m explaining this all terribly,” he said in an amused tone. How could he find any of this humorous?
“You certainly are,” she replied as she shook his hand off. “If you will excuse me?”
“I will help you find out what happened to Wattings if you do something for me.”
“You’re still not explaining all that well,” Della said through a clenched jaw. Was it possible he was that dense not to realize what he was implying? No, of course he knew. Hence his laughing tone of voice. Was it possible he was that much of a lout?
Entirely possible.
“Do you mind sitting down?” he asked as he sat again. Not waiting for her to sit first. So perhaps her assessment of him as a lout wasn’t far from the mark.
“Of course. Do explain,” she said in a prim voice. Della lowered herself into her chair, placing her hands on her lap.
“It turns out I will be reentering London Society. As the heir to the Duke of Northam.”
“Fascinating,” Della murmured. She wished she could restrain her response to him, but she couldn’t. It was either maintain her antagonistic facade or leap on him.
She knew which option she should take, even if it wasn’t the one she wanted to take.
But he was speaking. She had to concentrate on what he was saying, not how he made her feel.
“I have faced battleships, fearsome storms, and the most voracious boll weevils while at sea. None of them terrify me as much as the thought of all those unmarried Society ladies discovering there is an eligible duke’s heir in their midst.”
She had to laugh at his horrified tone.
“It’s not a laughing matter,” he said, even though his expression acknowledged that it indeed was. “I want you to be my guide and to let these women believe I am already spoken for. Already engaged to be married, in fact. You will not, of course, be obliged to marry me. I would make it a part of our bargain that you do not.”
“You’re that irresistible?” she said, accompanying her words with an eye roll. Even though she knew the answer to the question.
“It’s not that, although yes, I do believe I am,” he answered, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “It’s that someone who is in line to inherit a dukedom, no matter what he looks like, would be irresistible. I do not want to end up accidentally married. I don’t want to be married at all.”
He sounded so decided she had to wonder what had set him against the tradition. He couldn’t have had the same experience as she; he was a man after all.
But that was not her concern.
“So am I to understand that you want me to pretend to be your betrothed so that young ladies won’t fling themselves at your head?”
“Something like that, yes. And in exchange I’ll help you find Wattings.”
“That sounds like a wonderful bargain,” Della said as she stood again, “but there is a flaw in your plan.” She hesitated, but she had to be honest. Even to this loutish viscount. “I am not accepted in polite Society.”
He howled in laughter. Not the response she was expecting.
“That makes it even more perfect!” He had a wide grin on his face, and if he weren’t currently irking her so much, she’d find herself smiling back, his smile was that infectious. “So when we break things off, it will be entirely understandable.”
Hmph. She didn’t like the thought of being used for her unacceptability, but if it meant he would help her . . .
Damn it.
“Pardon me,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. He spoke in a serious tone, markedly different from how he’d just sounded. “I mean to say I would very much appreciate it if you could do me a good turn, and I would endeavor to do you one as well.” He spread his hands out as he continued. “You can be returned to Society, and perhaps you can find yourself a husband, after you have convinced all those fine people of how you’re truly not that bad. I am very persuasive, as you can tell,” he added with a wink. “Consider it my continued rescue of your fair person.”
She didn’t want any of that, although being accepted back into Society would help her sisters, at least. She definitely did not want a husband, but that wasn’t any of his business. What she did want was his help, and she was fairly certain he wouldn’t assist her with finding Mr. Wattings if she didn’t assist him with this.
He gazed at her, one brow raised as he awaited her response. One corner of his mouth lifted as though aware she had no choice, not if she wanted his help.
“I accept,” she said. “With a few stipulations.”
“Name them.” His tone was confident, as though there was nothing she could say that would make him change his mind.
“You might have me as a pretend betrothed, but I will not be told what to do, what to wear, or how to behave.”
The brow rose higher.
“Not that I am going to behave improperly, of course,” she added hastily. She would definitely have to restrain herself around him, for example. “I am a duke’s daughter, I am cognizant of what is acceptable. But you have to promise you will allow me to make my own decisions at any time.” She felt the tightness at the thought of being controlled again rise in her chest, and she had to take a deep breath to push it away.
“It’s not usual to make this kind of request. I suppose you don’t want to tell me why?”
Della gave a vehement shake of her head. “No, I do not. It has nothing to do with our bargain. And I do promise I will behave faultlessly and hold up the facade that we are truly betrothed.”
He shrugged. “I have no intention of forcing you to do anything, so I agree.”
She exhaled. She was going to do this, wasn’t she?
“And we’ll need to come up with some story of how we met.” He nodded. “And, of course, how we’re going to break it off.” Even the thought of not having a planned escape from a pretend betrothal made her anxious.
She held her hand out to him. He was still sprawled on the sofa, his limbs seeming to take up the entire room. She would have to have a discussion with him about the appropriate behavior when a lady rose.
Teaching young children their multiplication tables, even given her own difficulty with maths, was likely far easier than teaching this man some manners.
“Excellent.” Finally he stood, taking her hand. His hand was enormous, engulfing her own entirely. “It’s a bargain.”
As he’d first thought, the lady clearly had secrets.
Lady Della turned to him, her cheeks still delightfully pink. That mouth of hers, however, was pressed into a thin line, indicating just what she thought of him.
Blackguard, rogue, scoundrel. Nothing he hadn’t heard before. Nothing that wasn’t correct either.
“I reside at 568 Grace Court. Not the most fashionable part of town.”
“Not that I’d know that,” he interrupted with a grin. “I’ve just returned to London, remember?”
She rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed. Which only made him grin harder.
“Tomorrow. For tea. I will introduce you to Mrs. Wattings.”
Mrs. Wattings. So Wattings had a wife? Now her interest in finding Wattings made much more sense. He wondered how his new betrothed had met Mrs. Wattings, but he suspected she wouldn’t tell him.
“Until tomorrow, my lady.” He took her hand, raising it to his lips. Placing his mouth on the back of her hand, wishing she weren’t wearing gloves so he could taste her skin.
She snatched her hand back and nodded, then turned and marched out the door, the maid scurrying behind.
Griffith watched as she descended the stairs. There wasn’t a carriage outside, so she’d come in a hansom. Was she too poor to afford a carriage? Or her situation didn’t require one?
He realized he was desperate to know more about this woman, a lady who did not appear to be at all daunted, either by his appearance or his lack of conventional manners. Just the sort of woman he had always longed for, but despaired of ever finding.
She leaned across toward Sarah, taking her hand. “I would do anything to give you that peace of mind.” She cleared her throat. “And he did say he wouldn’t ask me to do anything I didn’t wish to. It was part of our deal.”
Sarah squeezed her hand in reply, still looking worried. “I wish you didn’t have to is all. I know how cruel people can be, and I don’t want you to have to suffer for me.”
“It’s not suffering,” Della replied, waving her hand airily. “I get to buy some new gowns, attend a few parties with my fake betrothed as I fend off eager young ladies, and watch my parents wrestle with whether or not to acknowledge me. It will be delightful.”
Besides which, how long would he tolerate being in her company when so many people were directly rude to her? She had warned him, it wasn’t as though he could claim ignorance. And then she could remain at home while he continued to help her. Because she knew that under everything, he was a gentleman, and he would keep his word. And if he wasn’t a gentleman, she would remind him that she was already ruined, so she wouldn’t hesitate to spread rumors about him and his behavior if he stepped out of line.
In any scenario, she would get what she wanted.
Her friend shook her head, but Della could see that Sarah wasn’t going to argue the point anymore. Perhaps because she knew it was pointless?
“Fine. But you have to promise me that if you become uncomfortable at any time that you won’t continue.”
That wouldn’t happen. Or perhaps it would, but Della would never admit to any kind of discomfort, not while Henry’s fate was unknown.
Sarah bit her lip, her eyes moist. “Thank you for doing this. I want to know. Whatever it is, I want to find out.”
Della nodded. She and Sarah were both aware it was more than likely that Henry was dead, but they also both knew that Sarah would be agonizing over it until it was a certainty.
“And now that that is settled, how about we go visit the dressmaker so I can purchase some new gowns? I need to look appropriately outrageous as the scandalous Lady Della, the presumed betrothed to the Viscount—what’s his name again?”
“Griffith Davies, Viscount Stanbury,” Sarah replied with a soft smile. “You’re going to have to know his name if you’re going to be betrothed to him.”
“Fine,” Della said with an exaggerated sigh. “Stanbury, Stanbury, Stanbury.” Della rose, holding her hand out for her friend to take. “Let’s go.”
Sarah stood, allowing Della to lead her to the front of the house where they gathered their cloaks.
“Becky!” Della called. They heard footsteps, and then the maid appeared. For once, her chin was not quavering. Perhaps she was finally settling in.
“Mrs. Wattings and I are going out for a bit. Can you mind the girls? They’re upstairs playing.”
“Of course, my lady,” Becky replied, curtseying.
“And we’re off on our adventure,” Della said as the two women walked outside.
“Heaven help us,” Sarah murmured, at which Della just laughed.