“Don’t be absurd,” Delia shot back. “As I said, she’s too young for you.”
To her immense irritation, he laughed. “No man ever cares about things like that.”
“Well, you should. She’s only eighteen, almost the same age as your sister, for heaven’s sake.”
“So?”
Delia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You said just last night that your sister is far too young to be married!”
“Ah, but we’re not talking about my sister, are we? We’re talking about my possible future wife.”
Delia made a sound of utter exasperation. “Men. You are all such hypocrites about these things.”
He laughed again. “What’s wrong, Delia?” he asked, looking mortifyingly pleased with himself. “Are you jealous?”
She was. Oh, God in heaven, she was. And he knew it, too, the wretch.
She opened her mouth to deny it and declare him quite off his chump, but the knowing amusement in his eyes told her further denials would only prove his point. He knew the truth—had known it before she had.
Given all that, there was only one thing a woman with any sense could do.
Delia took a deep breath, downed the last of her champagne, and met his amused gaze head on. “I am, actually,” she confessed, and as she noted his stunned expression, she felt an odd, dizzying thrill. How liberating, she thought, how intoxicating to admit one’s feelings to a man openly, instead of dancing around them, dropping delicate little hints in the approved ladylike fashion. It had been a long time since she’d felt so free.
After her last husband’s death, she’d left all notions of romance and desire behind her. But now, for the first time in over five years, she felt them coming to life, a breath of wind stirring the ashes.
With that in mind, Delia took a deep breath and burned her boats completely. “I’m jealous as hell,” she said and gave an exhilarated laugh. “So put that in your pipe, Simon, and smoke it.”
With that parting shot, she turned away and took her seat beside Max. Her cheeks were flushed, her heart was racing as if she’d been running, and she felt as giddy as a girl of sixteen.
It was glorious.
Had anyone asked Simon to offer a considered opinion of Puccini’s new opera, he’d have been hard-pressed to do so. Sitting directly behind Delia, he’d been far too distracted by the slender column ofher neck, the scent of her perfume that occasionally wafted to his nose, and the graceful tilt of her head whenever she turned to whisper something to her cousin to pay any attention to the performance on the stage below.
Her throaty laughter from earlier this evening continually overrode the music of the orchestra and the soaring voices of the performers, and her words kept coming back again and again to torment him.
I’m jealous as hell.
Even now, he could hardly believe he’d heard her correctly. The idea that Delia, of all women, could be jealous of a girl barely out of finishing school was ludicrous in the extreme. But he had to admit, every time her confession echoed through his mind, it made him smile with pure, manly satisfaction.
And that, he appreciated, made his warning to her in the carriage truer now than ever before. Being anywhere near Delia threatened to destroy his objectivity, hurt the investigation, and betray two of his dearest friends. Besides, Delia was the sort of woman who could wreak havoc on a man and deem it nothing more than jolly good fun, and he had no intention of being that sort of amusement.
Good thing he was going to the country on the morrow, for that would give him some breathing space, enable him to get clear of her and the desire for her that was beginning to bedevil his sleep and muddle his thinking. Unfortunately, there was something he had to discuss with her before he caught the morning train, something that could not wait for his return.
As the evening progressed, he watched for any opportunity to speak with her, but there was none. During the intermission, the short walk back to the Savoy after the performance, and supper in the hotel restaurant, her attention was commanded by others. And when the supper was over and goodnights were being said, he was cornered by Lady Ferridale, and she slipped away.
It took him at least five minutes to extricate himself from the baroness and her obvious matchmaking and go in search of Delia, but he soon discovered she had not gone to her room. That, he supposed as he stood outside her door, was probably a good thing, since it would have taken all the willpower he had to stand in the doorway to her room without giving in to temptation, hauling her into his arms, and showing her she had no reason to be jealous of a slip of a girl.
He knocked again, but there was still no reply. Not knowing whether to be frustrated or relieved, he turned and started toward his own room at the other end of the hotel, but as he passed the elevator, he realized there was one person who might know where she’d gone, and he pressed the bell to summon the lift.
A few minutes later, his search was over and he was on the roof, watching her.
She was standing by the balustrade overlooking the Thames and wrapped against the cold winter chill in her full-length opera cloak of black cashmere, a lamp on the balustrade beside her casting a glow on the pale skin of her profile.
He gave a cough, alerting her to his presence, and she turned. “Hullo. Finally extricated yourself from Lady Ferridale, I see.”
“It took some doing.” He started toward her across the rooftop. “Why are you up here? Thinking about your hothouse idea? Remember,” he added before she could reply, “I can’t approve it until I have all the information, and even then, the board will have to agree.”
“I’ll have a full proposal on your desk as soon as I possibly can,” she promised.
