Darling Dilly

By Ellie Cort

They say the pleasure of love lasts a moment and the pain of love lasts forever. The Honourable Dilianna Wescott could well believe the later. She has loved Lord Nicholas, the Marquis of Rushton, now a widowed misogamist, since she was in leading strings. So when he asks her to play the role of his inamorata for a Season to keep matchmaking mamas and milk-toast chits at bay, she agrees, but only on the condition that he grant her a favor in return.

But soon, circumstances beyond their customary control force both of them to consider carrying the marriage banns, either with each other or another, and quickly. Nicholas and Dilly are doggedly determined to dodge duty, but forces beyond their ken conspire to cripple their burgeoning relationship. 

So begins the knotty entanglement of temptations, trials, and triumph. Could Darling Dilly's final favor be their saving grace, proving to them once and for all that the pleasure of love can truly last a lifetime?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellie Cort
• Release date: Mar 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476263724

Ellie Cort

Ellie Cort began reading romance novels at age 12, and she promised to write her first romance novel by graduate school. She did. Ellie grew up on the summer-sun soaked beaches of Grand Haven, Michigan, and did not stray far from home. She currently lives with her husband, two daughters and two dogs (Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley) near Lake Michigan.

Book preview

Prologue

Avondale, England 1802

Her teeth chattered. Two braids, like wet ropes, dangled along her cheeks. Taking a soggy step toward her foe, the ten-year-old imp declared, I'll get you for this, Nicholas Rushton!

The object of her fury, sitting cross-legged on a moss-covered boulder not far away, tossed a swath of black hair from his eyes.

I'm terrified, he said with a devilish smile.

As usual, the young lord looked anything but.

Miss Dilianna Wescott scowled and shook herself like a dog, flinging water droplets in every direction. Minutes before, she had been minding her own business, foraging for quartz and rocks in Blackery River, her bare toes sinking into the sandy bottom of the deep stream on a bright summer’s day. Suddenly, she was on her head instead of her feet, her body completely submerged beneath the current.

She had discerned the culprit in an instant.

Now, shivering, she stalked from the river and peeled off her wet petticoats.

"Is this how you intend to treat all the ladies? She lowered her voice like a man's and sketched a bow. Good evening, Miss Milktoast, I am honored to meet you. Would you care for a drink?" She pantomimed the dunking of a young maiden in the river.

The fifteen-year-old heir of the Marquis of Rushton laughed brightly, a sound that tripped along her spine.

'Tis one way to cut a dash, I suppose.

She scooped a hand into the river, sending a spray of water his way. It missed its mark. Affecting her haughtiest mien, she strode toward him with as much dignity as her dripping figure allowed.

Heed my words, Lord Nicholas Rushton, you will pay for this.

And how do you intend to make me pay, little Dilly? he said, slipping off his perch with the ease of one who believed he had tamed nature and her elements long ago.

He stood before her now, looming a good two heads taller than she. Forced to look up at his tremendous height, she craned her neck and cocked a brow.

Someday, mister lord of the land, she said, jabbing her finger into his chest, "I will be your master."

A chortle burst from between the lord's lips.

Dilly, Dilly, Dilly. Has your governess been tippin’ the bottle during lessons again? Surely you know a mere girl can never be a master.

His words were designed to infuriate her, and they did.

Her jaw tensed in tandem with her will.

When I grow up, things will be different. Women will be masters, and I will be yours, she declared defiantly.

How exactly do you hope to become my master? he asked, his lips sliding into a taunt.

She tossed her braids and tapered her eyes. "I will become your wife."

Nicholas's frozen gape of horror at such a prospect warmed her belly with liquid delight. Grinning from ear to ear, she spun on her heel and stomped in the direction of Wescott-by-the-Moors, eminently pleased that, for once, she had had the last word with the infuriating Lord Nicholas Rushton.

Chapter One

Avondale, England 1815

They say every good friend was once a stranger. Dilly wondered what they said about a good friend who remained a stranger.

Dilly, Nicholas said, you're a saint.

Dilly flashed Lord Nicholas, the Marquis of Rushton and the Earl of Avondale, a smile as she laced his tea with a jigger of sherry, just as he liked it. Her longtime neighbor was still heartbreakingly handsome, attired in a bath coat of navy superfine and a pair of buff breeches that hugged his physique to perfection. The premature platinum peppering his coal-black hair just above his ears added to rather than detracted from his virility, and suggested a man accustomed to enduring the nearly unendurable. But it was the vivid glint of intelligence and wit lightening his eyes that left a lasting impression.

Ah, indeed, her good friend was still a stranger, and, alas, he still did strange things to her heart.

It’s hardly saintly to provide a neighbor with nourishment on such a day of this, she replied, handing him a teacup that teetered precariously in its saucer. Indeed, it's the least I can do. No doubt you would proclaim to all and sundry that I am the shabbiest of hostesses if I failed to quench your thirst after such a jaunt. She tossed him a saucy smile. And, I refuse to give you ammunition of any sort lest you start some ill-advised shenanigans.

Nicholas grinned and easily caught the wavering cup, raising it to his lips. His eyes met hers over its rim, and the negligent heat of his gaze singed the fibers of her heart.

I daresay we have not seen a dry day since Alejandra’s death, he remarked, his eyes straying to the Palladian windows overlooking Dilly's gardens, turned now into green fog by a monotonous rain. 'Tis only appropriate I suppose that the earth weep with the rest of us at such a paragon's passing, he added bitterly.

Dilly’s lips formed a moue, and she quickly bit back her instinctive response. Did he still not know the truth about his wife, nearly deceased now one year? If not, she had a sore wish to tell him that his beloved marchioness had harbored such an insatiable taste for other men that only a London lightskirt could lay claim to more lovers. To make such statement, however, would be distinctly lacking in class, not to mention a thing about compassion. Yet, she longed for him to see his late wife the way the rest of the Society saw her.

How true, she said instead, recomposing her features into a customary mask of polite regard. She arranged herself primly on a gold settee. I cannot imagine, however, that you traversed this distance to simply repine upon the past, so come and tell me, what are you about?

He bent a heart-stopping grin and settled his frame into the brocade chair directly opposite her. Can you not let a man revel in the warmth of a blazing fire before hitting him between the brows with such a question?

Perhaps most men, Nicholas, but not you. She dropped a sugar cube in her teacup. We have never been particularly formal in our manners, you and me. Have things changed? Her gaze held his.

With two pointed questions in the space of a breath, 'tis clear that things have not changed a wit.

Good. I would have it no other way between us.

Nicholas toasted her with his cup. And neither would I.

She granted him a small smile and sipped her tea, her free hand smoothing the folds of her gown. When the marquis took a lazy sip of his own hot brew and helped himself to a scone, she mentally cursed his unflappability.

So, tell me, what is the purpose of your visit? she said, relieved at the even sound of her voice.

Ah, yes, the purpose of my visit. Nicholas stretched well-muscled legs before him and crossed his glossy boots at the ankle. Would you be surprised if I told you I journeyed from Avondale Glen simply to have a comfortable coze with my longtime friend?

By faith, you are a tease, she said, wagging her finger and narrowing her eyes. She assiduously kept her gaze trained on his face rather than on his well-hewn figure. I would more likely believe that I've just sprouted whiskers and a tail.

His lips split into a broad, white grin, an action that wrested the breath from her lungs. He chuckled before continuing. I promise to behave from here on out, he said. In fact, I shall tarry no longer in telling you the precise reason for my visit. You see, I am in need of an escort.

Dilly crinkled her nose. An escort?

Yes, an escort for the London Season. Surely you recollect that I will be reentering Society for the first time in more than five years, taking my seat again in the House of Lords and mingling like a nonesuch. We chatted about it last month at Lady Barberry's country ball.

I recall your intent to reenter Society, she said. "I am not as daft as that. But why on earth should you need an escort? What kind of an escort, dare I ask?"

Not one with foot-dogging devotion to be sure, Nicholas said, setting his tea cup aside and leaning forward. Look, Dilly, attending a London Season for one such as me is like tossing a slab of mutton into a pack of starving beasts. I will be besieged at the outset by matchmaking mamas and milk-faced chits.

You poor dear, she retorted dryly, although in truth she understood his predicament. Society mercilessly devoured titled, wealthy and supremely handsome Eligibles such as the Marquis of Rushton.

You must listen to me, he pleaded. He breached the short gap between them and seized her hands, his much larger ones dwarfing hers in his clasp. You recall your first Season, do you not? You recall the tales of my first few, undoubtedly. Although we were never there together, I cannot imagine that our experiences were much different. Surely you can understand my position.

She did remember those years, all too well. She, too, had been beset with suitors during her four Seasons, myriads of them clamoring after the heiress who was neither too long in the tooth nor too wide in the girth. Of course, Nicholas had already left for the continent before her first Season, serving a stint in the King's army with Wellington's men. He had returned a married man, effectively slicing her heart in two. In his absence, he had missed all the young bucks begging for her hand.

She could not apprise him of these details, however, for although they were close friends in matters of the mind, they were distant strangers in matters of the heart.

She extricated her hands, lifted her cup and swallowed the remaining tea before settling it into its saucer again. All right, Nicholas. Let us assume you need an escort for the Season, an escort that, if I understand you correctly, is necessary in order to dissuade the greatest number of young misses, all of whom expect to become the next Marchioness of Rushton. For all intents and purposes, therefore, she would be your pretend 'intended.' How exactly do you propose I go about helping you to obtain such a person?

Dilly, Dilly, he chided, reclining into his chair once more. "You are missing my point entirely. I am asking you to be my escort."

Her eyes widened, and her hand flew to her chest. "Surely you jest. I cannot possibly pretend to be your inamorata during a Season."

He hiked his ink-black brows. And why not?

Because it is entirely unseemly for one thing, she reasoned. What would people think of an unmarried lady squiring a mighty Corinthian about Town? Honestly, Nicholas, I wonder if this weather has addled your brain completely.

He smiled his brilliant grin, his ocean blue orbs dancing mischievously. "Is that the only defense you can contrive? If so, it is an entirely poor excuse. It would not be you escorting me, per se, but rather me dancing attendance on you. Certainly no one could take umbrage at that."

Except me, perhaps.

You? Nicholas queried, his eyes turning serious. You are not affianced, are you? I don't recall you informing me of such a fact.

She rolled her eyes. Don't be ridiculous. I am not affianced, she said, her retort carrying more sting than she had intended. She sighed wearily. How could she go about explaining her reticence without revealing the whole of her heart?

With no suitor waiting in the wings, there is nothing to stop you from being my escort this Season, he persisted.

Other than proprieties, of course, she said.

"What proprieties? he said with exasperation. Dilly, I am not asking you to commit a social faux pas or to relinquish your reputation. I only ask that you attend the various required routs and musicales with me as my lady friend so that I can keep the young misses and their clawing mamas away. If we are regularly seen together, they will soon leave me alone in search of more pliable prey."

She furrowed her brow. And the books at White's Club will no doubt burst with wagers about an expected proposal of marriage, from you to me.

He shrugged. I do not care what our peers think. I daresay you should not either.

But think of the personal cost, she said, twisting her hands. I must tie myself to you, thus effectively snuffing out any hopes that I may have of making a match this Season. At two and twenty, I daresay I should have posted the marriage banns years ago. I’m a veritable ape-leader as it is! At the end of the Season, Society will no doubt proclaim that I failed to bring you up to snuff by milking a marriage proposal from you. It should quite ruin my hopes of ever making a successful match. She issued a faint sniff.

Nicholas rubbed his jaw with a long forefinger. Do you really hope to make a match this Season?

She looked at her hands, tucked now in her lap. Her shoulders sank. In truth, no.

Nicholas grinned victoriously. Marjory informed me that you had turned down no less than half a dozen offers already. I doubted you would be pining for a match this year.

Dilly felt her cheeks grow as hot as oven coals, and she jutted her chin. Your sister had no right to tell you— she began indignantly, but Nicholas raised a hand between them.

You know my sister is an inveterate gossip. If you had no wish for her to repeat the information, you should not have disclosed it to her.

Dilly fumed, crossing her arms over her chest in a healthy fit of pique. She doubted she would ever forgive Marjory, now the Duchess of Longville, for her perfidy on this account.

Nicholas Rushton, you are insufferable.

I know, and I intend to have my way. He studied her through steepled fingers, his intoxicating eyes probing hers. Surely you knew that at the outset. Now, as to your dilemma about being labeled as my cast off, I have already decided that at the end of the Season, I shall set it about Town that you have grown weary of me. Or, if you'd like, I could say you rejected my offer of marriage. That should set the tongues to wagging.

She sighed. Nicholas was too persistent by the half and always had been. She never had the will or strength to say no to him, and she doubted her ability to do so now. In truth, her heart leapt at the prospect of being his inamorata, if only for a few months. And, perhaps, just perhaps, she could turn the favor to her own advantage.

All right, I concede. She shook her coif and lifted her chin. I will be your pretend intended, but for this Season only and on one condition.

A condition? This gets more interesting by the turn, Nicholas teased, although relief at her capitulation pranced in his eyes.

She stood, placing hands on her hips. 'Tis a simple one. If, in the future, I request a favor of you, you will reward me for my participation in this lark by granting that favor, whatever it is, agreed?

It would be my greatest pleasure to do so, he declared, popping the last of a pastry into his mouth.

She permitted him a smile, allowing herself to think that she would ask him to marry her as a favor. Knowing he would suffer an apoplexy at this request, however, she squelched the wanton thought.

Instead, she gave him a coy smile.

Truth be told, I am sure I have yet to collect on even one past favor from you. You must owe me a thousand. Your chances of me calling good on this one are slim to none, as you no doubt already know. She offered him her hand nonetheless.

Standing once again, Nicholas took her fingers between his and briefly cupped them in solemn promise, the way he had done on each occasion upon which he had extracted a pledge from her. She tried to ignore the electrifying impact of his mere touch.

Dilly, he said, finally gathering his cape and beaver hat. "Tell me, why is it that you turned down so many offers? Surely they weren’t all from foppish dandies and blithering idiots. You are noblewoman and a wealthy one at that."

She steadied herself with the help of the wing chair and quickly composed her features. She was ill prepared for such a query and especially one from him, but she could not have him know it. What you must think of my attributes, Nicholas, to fashion such a court for me. She spoke as lightly as possible. I wonder if you think I could do any better.

He tilted his head in such a beguiling way that she caught her breath.

Come, we are friends, are we not? Have you become a newly proclaimed misogamist like me?

A misogamist? Is that what you are? She shook her head and rolled her eyes. My, how droll. You and a legion of others, I dare say. Yet his comment intrigued her.

He chucked her chin. And you, dear lady, are avoiding my question entirely.

I did not accept any of the offers because you did not proffer them, dear Nicholas, she longed to say, but they were not good enough friends for that.

I would rather die of a broken heart than marry for lack of love, she said instead. There, she thought, an utterly ambiguous answer, and one that should put the matter to bed.

Lack of love? He eyed her with a glimmer of mirth. Little Dilly, I hope you don’t hold out for such an elusive thing as love. He donned his hat. You shall be sadly disappointed if you do.

Sketching a perfect bow and promising to return on the morrow to discuss the upcoming Season, he strode through the door, leaving Dilly and a heart full of unspoken feelings behind.

Chapter Two

They say it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. Nicholas suspected that only a poetic ninny could have contrived such dribble and an unmarried one at that.

No, love and marriage were certainly not for the likes of him again. One marriage had been enough, too much, really, when one considered the trials and tribulations spawned by his first conniving marchioness. The mere thought of another made him shudder. Indeed, no dowry was large enough to offset the mental bankruptcy invariably engendered by a wife.

Your drink, mi’lord.

Thank you, Simmons, he said, acknowledging his valet and downing his ritual glass of claret. With a satisfied grunt, he surrendered the glass to Simmons and dropped unceremoniously into a wide leather armchair. There, he studied the flames blazing brightly in his bedchamber grate.

Before long, a discreet cough scattered his thoughts like grapeshot.

Will that be all, mi’lord?

Nicholas glanced distractedly at his servant, a long-suffering and decidedly loyal man, one whose growing yawn was impossible to ignore.

I can attend myself this evening, Simmons, he said, waving a hand dismissively. As if to prove his point, he snatched his cravat and promptly disposed of it. His pocket watch immediately followed. Carry yourself off.

The servant bowed gratefully. "I shall begin packing the valises on the morrow, mi’lord, although I trust you will be visiting Weston upon your return to London. Surely you will wish for several new coats and waistcoats before your grand