From the moment she woke up Sunday morning, Delia resolved to forget about those fiery moments with Simon on the roof. But duringthe two weeks that followed, fate seemed determined to circumvent her. He remained at his estate in the country, so she didn’t have to see him, but reminders of him seemed to be everywhere.
When Michel came to her to discuss the flowers for Lady Gray’s upcoming luncheon party, she thought of the day six weeks ago when she’d first met Simon, and how baffling it seemed now that she had ever thought him cold.
When she left the hotel one afternoon to meet Kay for luncheon, she saw that the hyacinths were starting to crop up in the Embankment Gardens, and her mind went back to the day she’d sent him breakfast and flowers and tried to broker a truce with him. He’d tossed her efforts quite decidedly back in her face and questioned her motives, and why? For the flimsiest, most ridiculous reasons.
I suppose you wear that seductive perfume and dresses that cling to your curves when you meet with duchesses and debutantes, too.
To hear him talk that day, anyone would have thought she was a shameless opportunist for putting on a little perfume and a pretty dress. What woman didn’t do that when she wanted a man on her side? Would he have preferred her to don sackcloth and ashes and smell as if she hadn’t bathed for days? Would that have persuaded him to make peace and see her point of view?
As she requested bids and worked on the proposal for the rooftop hothouse, there was no way she could avoid thinking about their dinner together at Westbourne House, and how, after giving her every sign in the world that he found her deuced attractive and wanted to kiss her, he’d walked away. His explanations for that had managed to be both delightfully flattering and maddening as hell. They had also, she was forced to admit, only served to make him more attractive than ever.
And then, when at last her curiosity had gotten the better of her, when she had thrown all caution and feminine decorum to the winds and kissed him, she’d been thoroughly spurned for her trouble.
God, you are the most relentless woman alive.
Delia grimaced and leaned back in her chair, shoving aside her notes for the greenhouse and staring glumly at the ceiling of her office. That’s what a girl got for taking the initiative with a man. Rejection and insults. She was a fool, and this mooning over him was becoming ridiculous.
He’d made his opinion of having an affair with her perfectly clear. Why keep reliving it?
Because when she’d been in his arms, with his mouth on hers, it had been the most intoxicating, glorious kiss of her life. That was why.
But it hadn’t stopped him from walking away,again, had it?
How many times, she thought, angry with him and with herself, was he going to spurn her before she got it through her head that what she wanted—what she knew they both wanted—wasn’t going to happen? And why was she more wildly attracted to him than ever?
Because she was deranged.
Delia sat up in her seat, scowling at his empty desk through the doorway, frustrated beyond belief. He was the most impossible, unfathomable man she’d ever met, and yet, he’d awakened in her desires more powerful than any she’d ever experienced. Unfortunately, he welcomed her advances about as much as he’d welcome a plague epidemic.
On the other hand, given her history, who could blame him? She was the black widow, after all. Was it really so surprising that even if he wanted her, he would run from her as fast as he could?
“He probably doesn’t want to die,” she muttered, half in jest.
But even as she tried to joke about it, her shoulders slumped, and she gave a sigh.
Despite how much he exasperated and infuriated her, the truth was that she had really begun tolikehim, damn it all. She actuallyliked his implacable will. She admired his honorable, upright nature and his insistence upon playing by the rules, and she was vastly entertained by his almost puritanical notions of sexual conduct, even after he’d just kissed her within an inch of her life. That combination of qualities made him unlike any man she’d ever had a pash for, including her late husbands. Especially her late husbands.
Melancholy stole over her suddenly, a misty, brooding fog as gray as the late February day outside, and she realized in horror that she was rapidly sinking into a hopeless morass of self-pity. How ghastly.
With that thought, she resolved to stop thinking about that man, stop feeling sorry for herself, and get back to work, but she’d barely picked up her pen before she was interrupted with yet another reminder of him.
“Good morning, my lady.”
She looked up as his secretary came through the doorway with a handful of letters. “Morning post,” he added, placing the letters beside her.
“Thank you, Ross. Do you know,” she added on impulse, “when Lord Calderon will be back?”
“I am not certain, my lady, I’m sorry. Perhaps next week, he told me. But we correspond daily. Was there something you needed?”
“My sanity,” she sighed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Thank you, Ross. You may go.”
He returned to the office next door, closing the door behind him, and Delia picked up the first letter on the pile he’d given her, reminding herself she had work to do.
Her virtuous intentions lasted about three seconds, long enough to read the name of the sender penned on the back flap of the envelope.
