What a Lady Most Desires (12 page)

He felt something touch his face, and he flinched. Her hand came to rest on his. She was not wearing gloves. He clasped her bare fingers.

“We are under a rose arbor and the petals are dropping,” she explained. “You're quite covered with them.”

She let go of his hand, and he felt her gentle fingers brushing at his hair, and the soft exhale of her breath on his face. He reached up to touch her cheek. She stopped moving, and he rolled his thumb over her skin, found it softer than any rose petal.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, “I am being most presumptuous. I was wondering how you looked. Surely this is against all the rules of polite behavior.”

Her hand came up to cover his, to press his palm against her cheek. “I think the normal rules need not apply here, my lord.”

He imagined her looking up into his eyes. What would he read in her expression if he could see it? Admiration, pity, mirth? And what was she reading in his face? His thoughts and emotions weren't invisible to her.

“No indeed, the normal rules do not apply,” he repeated her words, and lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed them, a thank you for her kindness. Or was it more? His chest grew tight, and desire stirred.

“We should go back,” she said breathlessly. “It's nearly time for luncheon.”

He tucked her hand under his arm, liked it there. “Then I shall trust you to lead us onward.”

 

Chapter 24

D
elphine woke to the sound of rain the next morning, and sighed. There would be no walking in the garden today. The ground would be slippery underfoot, and dangerous even for someone who could see.

She lay in bed, remembering how he had kissed her fingers, touched her cheek. His expression had been soft, thoughtful. She had stared into the depths of his eyes, but knew he had not been looking back at her, could not.

No, the normal rules of etiquette did not apply to them. He had to touch her in order to see, to stand close to feel safe. His nearness made her feel safe as well. Since he could not see her, she was free to be herself. There was no need to smile until her face ached, or bat her lashes, or worry whether her hair was perfectly combed.

She had planned to press sprigs of mint into his hand today, give him flowers to smell, describe the butterflies and birds that flitted around the fountain, let him touch her face, hold her hand. Would it be enough to heal him? She told herself she must be content with friendship, but longing still burned.

But it was raining, and if the low, sour clouds were any indication, it would not stop anytime soon.

Worse, the post did not arrive, and without that, there were no newspapers. She went to the library to select a book to read to Stephen instead and found Nicholas there. He greeted her with a smile. “Good morning, Del. Looking for something to read since it's too wet to go riding?” he teased, knowing Delphine disliked horses intensely.

“I had intended to walk out with Stephen, but we will have to stay indoors. I thought I might read to him. Can you suggest a book he might like?”

Nicholas looked at her speculatively before turning to the shelves. “Perhaps this one.”

“
The Use of Artillery in Battle
,” she read the title aloud. Her heart sank, but she forced a smile. “It sounds like just the thing.”

“Are you sure about this, Del?” he asked.

“Of course, if he's interested in artillery.”

“That's not what I meant. I can't imagine your father would approve.”

“Approve of what?” Delphine chirped, as if she had no idea what he meant, but she felt hot blood filling her cheeks. He leveled a sober look at her.

“You and Stephen are both listed among the ­people I care most about. I would not wish to see either of you hurt by an inappropriate attachment.”

She laughed. “My, how serious that sounds! Is there anything wrong with helping someone in need?”

“No, if that's all it is,” Nicholas said. “But I suspect there's more to it than that, Del. He can't see that look in your eyes, but I can. Stephen is a careful man, and if he hurts you it won't be because he intends to. He's lost in the dark, and he could pull you in with him. Do you really want that?”

“Perhaps I can be a candle?” she suggested.

Nicholas sighed. “You've always had the softest heart. Don't give it away just yet.”

“Give what away?” Stephen asked from the open doorway, coming through it with Browning.

Nicholas turned. “You're up early. Do you have plans for today?”

Stephen smiled. “I'm just anxious to hear the news of the day. Delphine has been reading the newspaper to me the past few days. I have been woefully out of touch with world events. I have a lot of catching up to do.”

Nicholas was looking from her to Stephen, and Delphine tried to keep her expression bland, but she felt her blush rising anew at just the sight of Stephen. Nicholas sent her a warning frown.

“Yes, well, the post hasn't come, so you'll have to be content with a book, or conversation. Probably a bridge or a road has been washed out with all this rain,” Nicholas growled.

“I have just the book,” Delphine said quickly. Stephen smiled. He was heart-­stoppingly charming this morning, she thought, breathless, her heart thumping against her ribs.

“Shall I order tea?” she asked nervously. Surely even Nicholas could not find anything salacious in tea and a treatise on artillery.

Nicholas's brows rose as he watched Stephen find his way to the settee using his cane, obviously impressed at how far his friend had come. He looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged, denied the credit as she slipped into a chair across from Stephen's, opened the book and began to read as Nicholas left the room.

“Did you choose this book?” Stephen asked a short while later.

“I must admit that Nicholas suggested it,” she said. “How very interesting it is . . .”

He made a face. “Do you truly think so? I would hardly have imagined artillery would thrill any woman, save the wife of a gunnery officer.”

She sighed. “No, not in the least. But if you're enjoying it, I am happy enough to continue.”

“As a cavalry officer, I spent my time avoiding artillery whenever possible. I'm afraid I find this book dreadfully dull.”

Delphine shut the book with a snap. “Thank heaven!”

“Will you choose another book, or shall we stroll in the garden if the weather has by chance improved?”

She glanced at the silver streaks on the windowpanes. “It's still raining, I'm afraid.”

“I can smell the moisture in the air, feel it as an ache in my ribs,” he said. “I wonder if it will always be so, even after my bones mend.”

She smiled. “My aunt swears she can tell when the wind will be high. Her ankles pain her dreadfully.”

He made a wry face. “I suppose it might be useful then, if only to be able to amaze ­people by my uncanny ability to predict the weather. I am still willing to go out if you wish to.”

“I think it might be best to stay indoors,” she said.

“Then tell me, what book would you have chosen if Nicholas hadn't suggested that one?”

“For a rainy day, I find a novel is best. Miss Austen's latest, Mansfield Park, perhaps—­or something by Louisa Stanhope, or even one of Fanny Burney's stories,” she said.

“My sister often read novels, but I have not found the time.”

She bit her lip. “I'm sure you prefer serious treatises.”

“I quite enjoy poetry,” he said. “I read Byron's
The Corsair
last year. Have you read it?”

“Lord Byron is a Whig. My father would be most horrified if I read his poetry, and my mother believes he is far too scandalous,” she said.

“And?” he prompted.

She raised her chin. “Of course I've read it.”

He laughed. “Perhaps we should stick to the poetry of Mr. Wordsworth, then.”

“Oh, no. He
used
to be a Whig,” she said with mock horror.

“Then we must choose a novel about some safe topic, written by a person without any political thoughts at all.”

“There's Fanny Burney's latest book,
The Wanderer
,” Delphine said. “But it is somewhat critical of the role of ladies in society.”

“In that case, I understand the long gallery is good for strolling when the weather is inclement,” he said. “Could I persuade you to be my escort?”

She bobbed a playful curtsy, though he could not see it. “With pleasure.”

“T
he second duke was quite a dour looking fellow,” Delphine said, describing the portraits as they passed them. “He's painted with an equally disagreeable-­looking horse too.”

Stephen laughed, seeing it in his mind's eye. Every noble family had such portraits. “Which one resembles Nicholas more, the duke or the horse?”

“He looks like the lady in the next portrait, the second duchess. She is much more attractive than her husband, and it is easy to see why he married her. Nicholas should be most grateful that the Hartley men have been fortunate in their choice of lovely wives through the generations, else he would not be as handsome as he is.”

“I daresay you must be beset by hopeful suitors, then,” he said. She stumbled slightly at the compliment, as if she was not used to flattery, or had not expected such a comment from him. He felt her hand tighten on his sleeve. His skin flushed at his incautious comment. “I mean, I recall how lovely you looked at the Duchess of Richmond's ball. You were wearing a gold colored gown with flowers in your hair, if I remember correctly.” She did not reply, and he wondered what she was thinking. “What color are you wearing today?”

“Green,” she said. “With a paisley shawl.” He heard the soft sigh of the garment as she drew it closer around her shoulders, felt the soft wool fringe brush over his hand. Green, to match her eyes, he thought, remembering the way the candles had shone in the emerald depths, turned her skin to gold. She'd kissed him. The urge to relive
that
made his mouth water. He moved a step back from her, a polite distance.

“Shall we return to the salon?” he asked.

“Only if you do not wish to go further.”

“It depends. Are there any landscape paintings? I like those far better than portraits.”

“Just ahead. There is a harvest scene of folk cutting hay.”

“I assume there is much of that going on outside at the moment—­at least when the sun shines.”

“They're just finishing. The stooks are high, and there's to be a party in a few days. Nicholas promised to hold a picnic supper to celebrate the harvest.”

“My grandfather also did that. I can recall running around with my cousins looking for newborn mice in the mown hay,” he said.

“You didn't kill them!” Delphine gasped.

“Worse than that. We put them down our sisters' backs.”

She laughed, and the merry sound echoed down the long length of the gallery. Her laughter made him feel ten feet tall.

She began talking about the harvest supper but he wasn't really listening. His body was healing, growing stronger. Surely desire for a woman was natural. Even if he could not see her, he knew she was beautiful.

Her hand tightened on his sleeve as she emphasized her words, and he found himself leaning in to listen, not to what she was saying, but to the sound of her voice. It was soft, her comments quick and clever. She pointed, her breast brushing over his hand for a moment, then remembered he could not see, and lowered her arm. It was a moment, no more, but he felt his body harden insistently. If he
could
see, he might have turned to kiss her. But he was blind, broken, and an accused coward. He frowned. She'd made him forget even that for a while.

“What is it?” she asked, and he realized he'd stopped walking, was standing still.

“I think we should go back,” he said. How far had they come? The gallery seemed endless, cavernous, dark, and dangerous.

She turned at once, and they began the long promenade back the way they'd come. He loosened his grip on her arm, used his cane, uncertain, shambling like an old man.

She clasped his hand suddenly. “I have an idea. The gallery is long and straight, and there's a row of chairs along the walls. We could string a rope, and then you could walk here whenever you wish. Wouldn't that be marvelous? I'm sure Meg wouldn't mind, and it would give you a further measure of independence.”

Had she tired of his company so soon? A woman like Delphine would surely wish to be admired for how she looked, told she was beautiful, flirted with, danced with, and complimented outrageously. He was capable of none of those things. “That would be best, I think,” he said quietly, diplomatically.

“Good, then I shall arrange it this very afternoon.”

There was nothing diplomatic about the way his body responded when she squeezed his arm, her breast brushing against his shoulder, her knee bumping his. That suggested she was not tired of his company after all.

 

Chapter 25

C
aptain Lord Peter Rothdale—­or Viscount Durling, as he was now since his elder brother had the decency to die and leave the title to him—­sat in his father's study, his booted feet propped on the mahogany desk next to a glass of the earl's finest brandy. A cigar smoldered between his fingers.

He would not, of course, have behaved this way if his father had been present, but the Earl of Lowe was in the country, mourning the death of his favorite son. Peter had no doubt that the old fellow would prefer to be mourning Peter's demise instead, and had probably expected—­and possibly even hoped—­that he would perish in battle. It might even have given him some honor in his parents' eyes.

He recalled the disappointment on his mother's face when he returned home from war, hale and healthy, having walked off the field without a scratch, mere days after his brother had died horribly in a carriage accident here in England. Peter's mouth twisted into an ugly smirk, and he flicked ash onto the Turkey carpet. Damn them all.

He stared at the crumpled letter on the desk, from his father, trapped under his left heel. There had been a flurry of letters. The first one reached him in Paris, where he was celebrating as one of the victors of Waterloo, with all the wine, whores, and merriment a hero deserved. His father's man had found him in a brothel, on his knees dicing with a few of the other patrons and losing badly. He had informed Peter of his brother's death, and his father's insistence he must come home at once. The servant had been forced to pay the winners before they would allow Peter to leave.

The next letters—­four to date—­reminded Peter of his new responsibilities, his duty to his family name, of the need to behave with the kind of dignity and grace befitting a Rothdale, and warning him that it was past time he grew up. Grew up—­Peter was twenty-­six, for God's sake, and a war hero. He puffed on his cigar. Well, a soldier, anyway.

The most recent letter insisted that Peter must marry as soon as possible, and breed heirs for the title. That, according to his father, was his primary duty. There'd been a list of suitably well dowered, titled females included.

“What's the latest news from your pater?” Sebastian St. James asked, flicking the ash from his cigar into the empty fireplace, since Peter had not offered him a more appropriate vessel.

“He wants me to find a suitable chit and marry her, post haste, now, at once,” Peter drawled.

“My condolences,” Sebastian said lightly. “Anyone in mind?”

Peter retrieved the list and passed it over to his friend. “See for yourself. Do you know any of them? The only one I have any recollection of is Lady Amelia Smithers-­Ottway, and only because of her exceptionally large teeth.”

Sebastian scanned the list, his lips pinching tighter at each name. “Well, they're all wealthy, though none of them are lovely. Most of this year's crop of pretty debutantes are already married, or just about to be.”

“What about you?” Peter asked.

Sebastian's brows shot into his hairline. “Me, marry? Good Lord, no. I'm not the marrying type—­yet.”

“But you are your father's heir.”

“Yes, but my father takes a sensible view of these things. Ainsley is in his prime, and he won't die until he's certain he can trust me to carry on without error. My mother is still trying to marry off my sister. I dread to imagine what will happen once Delphine is safely tucked between the sheets of her nuptial bed. I suspect I will suddenly become the focus of the efforts of parents and sisters, all eager to see me tightly clasped in leg shackles. A bachelor can't be tolerated in a family filled with married women. They won't stand for it. In my opinion, the only thing that makes a married person more unhappy than their own wedded state is seeing someone happily
un
married.”

“So where should I choose to pitch my woo?” Peter asked.

Sebastian set the page down. “Why don't you come to my father's house party? Delphine will be there, along with a number of my father's political associates, and my mother's society friends. They always invite a number of eligible ladies for my sake as well. Since I'm not interested, perhaps you might avail yourself of the opportunity to meet a potential bride.”

Peter sat up. “Delphine will be there?” he asked.

“Of course. Actually, she was in Brussels with Eleanor for a while. Did you see her there, by chance?”

Peter recalled the Duchess of Richmond's ball, his encounter with the lovely Delphine, and Stephen Ives's unwelcome intervention. He remembered Ives's threats to ruin him too. Where was Ives now? Peter hadn't seen him since he'd found him half dead on the battlefield. He'd made sure that Ives would not cause anyone any trouble—­if he lived. He hadn't heard if he had or not. He shrank from checking casualty lists. A good many men who were far better than he was had died, while he, wastrel that he was, had survived. He did feel at least a small measure of guilt.

“Delphine,” he tried her name on his lips. “No. I met her only the once with you here in London. I would have gladly renewed our acquaintance in Brussels, but our paths did not cross.”

“Pity. She's staying with friends in the country at the moment—­Nicholas Temberlay and his new duchess. Do you know them?”

“I know of the man's towering reputation, of course. Isn't he known as Devil?”

“Indeed he is,” Sebastian chuckled. “Though married life has tamed him somewhat.”

“How dull,” Peter drew on his cigar until the end glowed scarlet. “Still, if Delphine will be at your father's party, I might consider attending.”

“I'll arrange an invitation,” Sebastian said. “Shall we retire to White's for the evening?”

Peter considered. “Better Brooks's, I think.”

There were too many men at White's he owed money to.