Free Barbara Metzger by A Debt to Delia Page B

Furthermore, I am absolutely not entertaining Dallsworth’s suit. Not now, not ever. We have been over this before, cousin, with the same results.”
    “But that was when you had other choices,” Clarence said, deliberating between the bread and butter or the ginger biscuits. “You’ve got none left, Dilly. Asides, we gave you time to get over your grief, and this other do-good nonsense. Now you have to marry. You must see that.”
    “I do not see that at all.” Delia could see where Clarence and Gwen would not want her in their home, but that did not mean she had to wed.
    “Well, I am in charge now,” Clarence insisted. “And I say you will accept Dallsworth.”
    She tried to make light of his command. Her cousin, after all, was her legal guardian, trustee of her funds. “What, Clarence, are you going to drag me, kicking and screaming, to the altar? That’s the only way I would get there, you know, and I still would not repeat my vows. What, to honor and obey a man who picks his teeth in public?”
    Clarence sputtered, and put his penknife back in his pocket.
    “But why are you two so keen on Dallsworth’s suit,” Delia wondered out loud, “especially with another eligible gentleman so suddenly in our midst?”
    “Dash it, girl,” Clarence shouted. “It ain’t for you to question me.”
    “What, did he promise you a patronage position in exchange for my dowry? An apartment in his London town house? Are you to profit by the marriage settlements?” Delia’s own voice was raised now. “What is it, Clarence, that you have to gain by my wedding that wantwit?”
    Clarence turned an unattractive shade of purple, especially next to his lurid waistcoat, and Gwen said, “Nonsense. Remember your place, girl.”
    “I have no place, remember? But I will not help you, whatever your self-serving motives. I am not going to marry that—”
    “Of course you are not going to marry Mr. Dallsworth, my dear Miss Croft” came in firm tones from the doorway. “You are going to marry me.”
    Two teacups—and Gwen—hit the rug at the same time.
     

Chapter 10
     
    After Miss Croft left him, Ty sank back on his pillows, exhausted. Twenty minutes in the female’s company was like a month of fevers. He must have drowsed, for he awoke to weeping and moaning again. Lud, was his proposal so offensive? No, he recalled, both sounds seemed perpetual in this house. He would have gone to investigate except that most of the noises seemed to be coming from the family rooms, above, where he had no possible excuse for exploring.
    Then he heard shouting, from much closer by. The argument was going on in the next room, in fact, unless he missed his guess. The words were coming so clearly, Ty did not consider himself an eavesdropper as much as an unwilling audience—until he heard his name mentioned.
    Someone was yelling at Ty’s Miss Croft, for that was how he considered her. He also considered that, while he might wish to shake some sense into Delia’s pretty red head, no one else had the right to disturb one of those bright curls. From what he could gather, Clarence, the cousin mentioned in George’s letters, was decidedly disturbing her peace of mind.
    Ty jumped out of bed, then steadied himself and his reeling senses against a side table. Still unsteady, he grabbed his pantaloons from the back of a chair and pulled them on. He tucked George’s nightshirt down the waist as best he could, then struggled into his uniform coat. His boots were missing, taken off by Mindle and Dover so the boy could learn how a gentleman’s footwear was properly polished. He missed his sword more than the boots as he followed the sound of the angry voices. Blasted civilian life!
    Sir Clarence’s speech was growing louder as he threatened Miss Croft with Dallsworth. Ty was truly beginning to despise the merest mention of that man’s name, and he did not think much of the new baronet, either. Even Ty knew that planting him a facer in the lady’s