Secluded with the Rogue

3. Delia Doesn’t Know Jack

Delia Doesn’t Know Jack

D elia stiffened, glancing sideways at her dark-haired hero, but then relaxed when he assured her that he only had her well-being in mind.

In all her one and twenty years, no man had ever held her like this—not even her father. Not that her parents didn’t love her, but they were not overly affectionate and had left most of her rearing to the nanny and then the governess.

As a proper lady, she ought to be embarrassed and insulted by such familiarity. But how could she be either of those things when such proximity warmed her better than any blanket? His woodsy cologne tantalized her nostrils, and with his much harder body pressed along her side she felt… protected. For the first time since beginning this journey, she wasn’t afraid.

He was being heroic—acting as any true gentleman would to guarantee her welfare.

She would have died if he hadn’t come along.

“Are we almost to the village?” Already they’d traveled farther than she’d ever anticipated walking. What had that innkeeper been thinking, leading her to believe she could walk all the way to Old St. Vincentshire with a storm moving in? If that man were here right now, she’d have a mind to?—

“I don’t know your name,” Delia cut off such futile thoughts. It would be best, perhaps, if she knew what to call him. That way, he wouldn’t be a perfect stranger.

“Jack.” He dipped his head to peer outside. “Tricky to tell, but it’s just up ahead. You’re from London, you say?”

Jack…

But that told her nothing about him! He could be a solicitor or an actuary. Or perhaps he was a detective! A spy? That would explain why he hadn’t provided his full name.

“Do you have business in Old St. Vincentshire?” she queried.

“No.”

She pinched her lips together, hoping he’d tell her more, but he too, remained silent.

Perhaps she wasn’t too far off in suspecting him to be some sort of spy.

“Are you going home for Christmas… Jack?”

He answered with a grimace. “Will anyone be missing you over the holidays? Somebody back in London?”

“Oh.” For all of two seconds, memories of Christmases once taken for granted squeezed her heart—of her mother hanging decorations on Christmas Eve, of watching Rachel and Bartholomew burn their fingertips trying to pluck raisins out of a flaming bowl of brandy.

And then taking a turn herself.

There would be no celebrations this year.

No sucking brandy off her burnt fingertips, no gifts, no singing, no games and parties that went on for the twelve days of Christmastide.

Not for her this year. And most likely, never again.

The rest of her life was going to be spent in service.

If her older sister Rachel failed to land a husband this coming spring, she too would have to find a position. Would Bartholomew change his ways? Or would he merely bury her parents deeper in debt? Delia’s mother would miss her, Delia had no doubt, although her father would barely notice her absence—if at all.

But Jack was waiting for a simple answer.

“My mother will miss me. And I have a few friends, but they’ll be busy at a Christmas house party.”

He nodded, and then laughed ironically. “Nothing like the holidays to bring out an abundance of feigned sentimentality. Revelers consume too much rich food and wine imagining they can cultivate the same joy they knew as children. But it’s all for naught. It only makes extra work for the servants, what with the large meals, not to mention evergreen needles littering the carpets. And for what purpose? Christmas is ultimately a disappointment.”

“But—" She’d never known a person who hated Christmas so… vehemently.

“Not to worry, Miss Somerset,” he interrupted before she could defend the most wonderful time of the year. “I must admit that having found you, things seem to be looking up.”

Having found her…?

Things were looking up…?

She blinked. Did that mean he was attracted to her? Or that he was simply pleased to have her company? Or that he could feel satisfied in that he’d saved a life?

Surely it didn’t mean that he was glad to have found her —Delia Somerset—perpetual wallflower who was only ever noticed because she was Rachel Somerset’s younger sister?

Before she could ask for an explanation, the carriage slowed to turn, and shops and houses came into view outside the window. Unfortunately, before relief had a chance to set in, her blood ran cold. Because although she wasn’t lying dead on the side of the road, her spectacles and her money, along with her night rail, a pair of slippers, and the two gowns she’d managed to fit into her valise, were.

“I don’t suppose the inn will have any available rooms—or cots.” She sighed. She’d not had any luck convincing the other innkeeper to extend her credit, but perhaps this one would take pity on her. If not, she was simply going to have to spend the night on a bench in the taproom.

If the taproom customers were anything like the coarse fellows she’d left behind a few hours before, she doubted she’d get much sleep. She’d need to stay alert. Such circumstances, she realized, were one occasion where she really wouldn’t mind being unnoticeable.

But she must be grateful. A wooden bench in a taproom was far better than a snowdrift in the middle of nowhere.

She was safe. She was alive.

“They’ll have a chamber for me.” Her rescuer sounded quite confident. Was this because he was a spy, or because he was willing to pay extra if necessary? Or was it simply because he was a confident gentleman?

What must that be like?

When the carriage drew to a halt, Delia stared down at her soaked half-boots and let out a heavy sigh. She wasn’t ready for him to remove his warmth from along her side. Despite what he’d said about things looking up since he’d discovered her, they would part ways shortly. Even if their paths did, by chance, cross sometime in the future, he’d not have much reason to put his arm around her again.

It was… nice.

She swallowed hard.

Jack pushed the door open, and a cold rush of wind and thick flurries blew inside. And climbing out behind him, she already felt bereft to leave the privacy and coziness of the carriage.

“I’ll bring your bags around after I’ve got the horses put away in the stables.” The voice reminded her that they were not alone—that a very sturdy-looking gentleman had been driving them.

“Thank you, Mr. Coachman, for stopping,” Delia offered up, surprising the driver. “You saved my life.”

“Ah, yes, my thanks as well, Cyril.” Jack seemed to find her expression of gratitude humorous. The driver, this Cyril fellow, simply shook his head and then urged the horses to pull away.

“Don’t the horses mind the cold?” Delia asked. Having lived in the city for most of her life, she’d never before considered the ins and outs involved in traveling long distances in these sorts of conditions.

Having walked through some of it herself now, she couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the horses and driver.

“Racehorses wouldn’t like it much, but this pair, Reliable and Sir Finch, are accustomed to harsh weather.” Jack didn’t bother looking at her as he answered. Head down, he all but dragged her by the arm, intent upon getting them inside. “And their feet don’t feel the cold at all.”

“Why not?”

“Below the knees, they’re mostly just skin and bones. No fat or nerves to be bothered by it.”

Delia twisted around, wondering which was Reliable and which was Sir Finch, but the horses had already disappeared behind the building.

“Do you intend to spend all night out here?” Jack held the door, and annoyed voices shouted complaints from inside.

“Oh, no. I’m sorry.”

This taproom was even busier than the one in Half-Moon Village had been. With the door closed behind her now, after a few curious looks, the patrons went right back to their eating and drinking. Most were playing cards, and one burly fellow with a cigar dangling from his mouth pulled one of the few women in the room—a barmaid—onto his lap.

She laughed and slapped at him playfully.

Delia inhaled, filling her lungs with a not entirely unpleasant aroma of beef stew, ale, smoke, and… perspiration.

A fire burning in a large hearth, along with so many bodies, ensured the room was anything but cold.

Jack hadn’t released her arm yet but pulled her along beside him.

Not having any plan set in place for herself, she followed him meekly, vaguely noting that patrons stepped aside for him to pass.

Before they arrived at the bar, the man behind it glanced up. “Your regular suite this evening?”

“The drive up the rock would be impossible.” Jack finally released her arm and rested both of his on the long, smooth counter. The innkeeper nodded while glancing suspiciously in Delia’s direction.

Although she couldn’t be sure without her spectacles.

“I figured you might be needing it.” The man flicked a glance in her direction. “We’re all filled up for the night, madam. You’re welcome to bed down in the stables if you like.”

Was he suggesting she sleep with the animals? He was!

Her heart sank into her belly, but she reminded herself it was better than dying on the side of the road. And it was rather appropriate, really, with Christmas just a few days away. She was determined to find a silver lining.

“Thank you, sir?—”

“She’s with me. Miss Summers is?—”

“Somerset,” Delia corrected him, garnering a scowl.

“My apologies,” Jack smirked. “Miss Somerset will be staying with me this evening. In fact, the lady needs a change of clothing as she lost most of her belongings in the storm—and any other accessories Molly deems necessary.”

“Of course. I’ll have her send some garments up shortly.”

Delia wished she could get a better look at their expressions. She was at a considerable disadvantage without her spectacles.

“Much appreciated Mr. Long. We’ll need dinner sent up as well.” It was becoming apparent that Jack was indeed quite familiar with this establishment.

“As you wish.” Mr. Long dipped his chin and then handed Jack something shiny. Delia squinted: a key.

Self-consciously fingering the ends of her hair, Delia wished she’d thought to at least weave a braid before leaving the carriage. Without a bonnet or her reticule, she must look like the worst of hoydens.

Her dress and coat were in even worse condition, covered in mud. It was a wonder they’d allowed her inside.

Halfway up a nearby staircase, Jack glanced backward with a cocked brow.

What was happening? Did he genuinely mean for her to join him?

“Well, are you coming Miss Somerset ?” A hint of laughter lifted his voice.

Delia tilted her head. “I—” She weighed her options. She could remain in the tavern in her soggy dress and coat, her hair hanging in tangles down her back, not even a single shilling on her person, and sleep with barn animals, or she could follow her handsome hero who had ordered food and who was, it seemed, willing to share his suite. “I’m coming.”

Dashing up the stairs behind him, she dared not imagine what her mother or Rachel would have had to say about any of this. For all appearances, it was most improper. But she hadn’t any choice.

Besides, it wasn’t as though he was some sort of rogue inviting her to share his bed. On the contrary, he was a gentleman assisting a lady in distress—a considerate hero who’d saved her from freezing to death.

Jack hadn’t looked back to see if she was following, so she studied him from behind.

Black hair curled over his cravat and the collar of his jacket. His shoulders were broad but not too burly, and she didn’t believe he wore padding. The length of his greatcoat prevented her from inspecting more thoroughly than that, but she couldn’t help but remember how hard his thighs had felt pressed against hers inside the carriage.

He stopped at the door, and she very nearly collided with him. When he turned to acknowledge her presence, his face was shockingly close to hers.

Something blazed in his eyes, and then she saw the laughter again.

“I’ll order a hot bath.”

For her?

“For me?” She attempted to clarify.

In answer, he trailed his gaze down the length of her body and then up again. “Do you have any objections to that?”

Did she object to soaking in a hot bath and ridding herself of the stench of this disaster of a day?

“Not at all.” And then she smiled. “You are too kind.” He’d also requested clothing brought up for her. She doubted even her own brother would be so thoughtful as that.

Delia followed him inside, and although the room was more spacious than most inn rooms—in her limited experience—it contained only one bed.

A maid knocked on the open door behind them. “Clothing for the missus.” She hurried across to the bed, dropping a small stack of folded garments onto the counterpane, and then curtsied. “Water for a bath will be brought up shortly.”

Once the door closed, Delia became all too aware of the fact that she was alone with a gentleman, in a bedchamber, and utterly at his mercy.

She froze in indecision.