And other women, he’d added, feeling no pangs of conscience about throwing Helen under the trolley after she’d gone behind his back, were known to be jealous of other women’s beauty and charm, and could be vindictive.
He arrived back at the Savoy just before midnight Sunday night, bone tired and with no idea if his efforts would bear fruit. He’d fought the good fight, but he knew that with Helen on the warpath, Delia could very well lose her job anyway.
Fortunately, he had a new post in mind for her—if she’d give himthe chance to go down on one knee and propose it. Given her quick temper, he knew she might not.
Ritz, her dear friend and the mentor she revered, would be fired, disgraced, and humiliated. Like all the other men she had trusted in her life, Ritz would fall off his pedestal and all her illusions about him would be shattered. In addition, she would know the part Simon had played in bringing about the other man’s downfall, and she’d probably lay a good bit of the blame at his door. And she’d undoubtedly subject him to a thorough tongue-lashing as well.
He might mitigate the damage to his own image in her eyes by voting in Ritz’s favor, but he could not do it. He could not vote against his conscience, not even for Delia. The man was guilty and the evidence undeniable, and even though it would be hard for her, she would eventually have to accept the truth that the mentor she revered so much was crooked as a fishhook. She might also face the loss of her own job and blame Simon for that, too.
Regardless, he knew his own course was set. After it was all over, he intended to be by her side. And there he would remain, whether she wanted him or not, because that was the only way he could prove to her that there was one man in her life who would never let her down, and that man was him.
She’d need that sort of reassurance if she was ever going to agree to marry him. And marriage it had to be, for he was not the sort of man who could ever accept less. Her hints about a torrid affair were all very well, but free love had never appealed to him and never would. He was old-fashioned that way. And she wanted children; she must, or her miscarriage would never have grieved her so deeply that suicide had seemed a viable alternative.
He stared into the darkness, daring for the first time to imagine what married life with Delia would be like. Glorious, if those quixoticmoments in his library were any indication. Tumultuous, no doubt, with fights and makeups, and probably many, many times when he’d act like an imbecile. Ah, well.
One thing he did know, and it made him smile: life with Delia would never, ever be dull.
By this point, he’d almost decided permanent bachelorhood was his destiny, for in his entire thirty-six years, he’d never met a woman he could see sharing a lifetime with. But then, he’d never been in love before. Lust, of course. Infatuation, certainly. But love? Never.
Until now.
He honestly had no idea if Delia felt about him as he did about her. He’d liked to have been able to say with certainty that those hot moments in the library proved her feelings and that they would remain unshaken, despite the events that would soon change her world, but he knew quite well that with Delia, nothing was certain. That was, he acknowledged ruefully, part of her charm.
But it could very well be that she did not feel as he did. She might never forgive him for keeping the truth from her. What then?
Before he could even begin to contemplate that wrenching possibility, a soft knock sounded at his door.
Simon frowned, lifting his head. What the devil?
Perhaps he’d imagined it, he thought, but then, the knock came again, a bit louder this time, and he got out of bed. He switched on the nearest electric lamp, then retrieved his dressing robe from the armoire. He slipped it on and tied the sash as he crossed the room, hoping to hell Cassandra hadn’t taken it into her head to come for another unannounced visit or that Ritz hadn’t somehow learned of his looming comeuppance and had come to his room to shoot Simon with a pistol.
Both of those possibilities seemed extremely unlikely. It must be,he decided as he reached for the doorknob, a member of the staff. Some hotel emergency, no doubt.
He opened the door to find that his third guess had been right, but the member of staff wasn’t Ricardo, or Agostini, or even his own secretary. Instead, much to his astonishment, he found Delia standing in the corridor.
She was scandalously clad in a filmy nightgown with some sort of silk kimono over it, and at once, hope leapt in his chest and desire flared in his body. Sadly, however, there was a frown on her face that made it unlikely she was there to fling herself into his arms and make mad, passionate love to him. Could she know already? he thought wildly. Could Helen, perhaps, have told her? But why would Helen—
“Just tell me one thing,” she said, cutting off the speculations rattling through his head, her voice low, brusque, and unmistakably urgent. “Do you or do you not have a mistress?”
“What?” The question was so unexpected and so ludicrous, he couldn’t help a laugh of disbelief.
“You were away last night,” she went on, “and the rumor going around the hotel is that you’ve been with your mistress at a house in St. John’s Wood.”
He rubbed his eyes, still not quite able to believe she was standing here and baffled by this nonsensical conversation. “Delia, what are you doing here? It must be after one o’clock in the morning.”
“Is it true? If it is true…” She paused, her chin lifting proudly even as her cheeks flushed a delicate, embarrassed pink. “I think I have the right to know.”
Simon didn’t know quite what to say. He knew all about St. John’s Wood, of course; most men with money did. But why Delia was coming to him at this hour to ask him about some silly rumor defeated him utterly. But then, he noted her lower lip caught worriedlybetween her teeth and the hint of what might be jealousy in the frown drawing her dark brows together, and he began to understand.
“People think I’ve been staying with my mistress in St. John’s Wood?” he asked, striving to sound nonchalant even as a powerful wave of exultation rose within him.
“And that you keep her in a house there,” Delia went on. “Do you deny it?”
Her jealousy was unmistakable now, and it took all the sangfroid he possessed not to smile. “I do deny it,” he said gravely, rather enjoying that he wasn’t the one assuming things for once. “I was not in St. John’s Wood. I was in Hanover Terrace. Granted, that’s right below St. John’s Wood, but not actually in it. And it wasn’t a house. It was a hotel.”
“Oh.” She looked away, and her chin quivered. “I see.”
“Why do you ask?” he said, watching her, wanting so badly to haul her into his arms and kiss her. “Are you jealous?”
