He curled his fists and hammered at his temples. “I know, I know. It’s what I’ve strived for.”
His distraught aspect worked upon Delia’s heartstrings. Before she knew it, she was up, catching at those unquiet fists. “Giff, tell me!”
He did not attempt to release himself, but let out an overwrought breath. “I hate this place! I don’t want to live here. I don’t even want to live in England. At least, I don’t think so.”
Shock made her release him and step back. Her heart plummeted. Her voice came out an anguished whisper. “You want to go back!”
He did not meet her eyes, his gaze swinging to his uncle, who put out a hand towards him. “My poor boy. You are missing India, is that it?”
A sound as agonized as Delia felt escaped Giff. “It’s my home.” He wafted a hand to encompass the room. “This isn’t. It’s dark and gloomy. It’s not what I’m used to.”
Delia sank onto the sofa, the desperate hope she’d cherished, which had fluctuated crazily, rapidly dropping. In the background of her despair, she heard the Reverend Gaunt, speaking in a bracing fashion.
“Not now, perhaps. It is not to be expected, my dear boy. You don’t know the place. But you will grow accustomed. And you may change what you don’t like. Besides, once you have established an agent to take care of the estates, you may take time to visit India and perhaps spend a couple of years with your stepfather.”
Giff drew in another heavy breath, but did not look to be encouraged. His glance travelled from his uncle’s face to the walls and thence to Delia. His expression changed. It came to her she’d been staring at him. Had she allowed her feelings to sit naked in her face?
“What do you think?”
There was vibrancy in his tone, but she was hard put to it to answer with any degree of calm. “It’s — it’s not my decision, Giff.”
“It might be.” Harsh and urgent.
Her heart jerked and began a heavy tattoo in her breast. His eyes holding hers, he came to sit beside her, catching one of her hands. “Delia, could you live here? Would you wish to? If I asked you to come with me to India, would you do it?”
She trembled, hardly able to believe the words were coming out of his mouth. Such words as she’d never thought to hear. Somewhere in the back of her buzzing mind, she heard the rector speak.
“Dear me. I fear I am somewhatdetrop.”
Delia hardly noticed him rising. Nor did Giff, it seemed. A soft click signalled the closing of the door.
Giff’s voice was softer, almost a murmur. “Well, my flower girl?”
She could not speak, mesmerised by the look in his eyes. Then all ability to think left her as Giff’s arm came about her and he drew her close. So close, she could see the faded bruise at the corner of his lip before it met hers and she had to close her eyes.
An eon later, Delia came to herself as from a dream. Her pulse was in disarray, her mind chaos and her body thrummed with an unaccustomed heat. She became conscious of a fierce embrace and Giff’s voice came guttural in her ear.
“Do you care enough, my precious flower girl? Are you mine?”
Her heart’s answer came without will. “Yes. Oh, yes, Giff, always!”
He drew away, looking down into her face, urgency in the beloved features. “Will you be with me? Will you go where I go?”
A thread of panic snaked into her bosom. “To India, you mean?”
“To the ends of the earth, if need be. You never balk, my plucky wench, at anything. I want you with me, don’t you understand?”
There was fire in his eyes, passion in his voice, such demand as she’d never hoped to inspire. Bemused and enchanted both, Delia uttered the first thing that came to mind. “You want me with you?Me?”
A sudden grin dispelled the unusual intensity. “Who else, silly wench? Do you see another female in the room?” He had his hands on her shoulders and Delia thrust them off, agitation claiming her.
“But you haven’t even said you love me!”
He groaned. “Must I? Can’t you tell?”
“No, I can’t, horrid creature! At least…” She eyed him in sudden doubt. “Oh, help! This is not because of Aunt Gertrude, is it?”
Giff reared back. “Who the devil is Aunt Gertrude?”