What a Lady Most Desires (16 page)

 

Chapter 35

M
r. Brill walked out through the garden when his discussion with the duchess was finished. The duchess was a very fine lady. Not too high and mighty, not flighty or weepy as some women were when they were expecting. She was sensible, yet charming. The duke was a fortunate man. If he was known as Devil for his feats in battle, then perhaps Her Grace deserved to be called Angel. Brill was chuckling at that when he came across a man seated on a bench under a tree.

“Good morning,” he said politely and the man looked up, unsmiling, and Brill's smile faded at the sight of the scar on the man's cheek.

Brill made himself step forward. No matter how the poor man came by the dreadful injury, he was one of God's flock, and Mr. Brill's as well. “What are you reading on this fine day, my good fellow?”

The man held up the Bible, and Mr. Brill's smile returned once more. He sat down on the bench. “I am the Reverend Mr. Brill. Which portion of scripture has caught your eye today?”

The man hesitated only a moment before handing over the Bible. “Genesis, I see. ‘In the beginning—­' ” He laughed at his own joke, but the man did not join in. “What is your name, if I may ask?” The man opened his mouth to show Brill that half his tongue was gone, as ruined as his cheek. Brill felt his stomach roil. “I see. Waterloo?” he asked as evenly as he could. His companion nodded. “You are a guest here?” He shook his head. “A servant? Yes.” The fellow was looking at him earnestly, his dark eyes intense, but not unkind or menacing. Not servile either. There was a kind of plea there, and Mr. Brill blinked.

“Let's see what you're reading, and we might talk about it for a little—­” He realized what he'd said and almost choked, but the fellow smiled as best he was able.

Brill looked down at the good book. The pages were well thumbed, some soiled by fingerprints. Certain words and phrases had been circled in pencil. He glanced at the inside cover, and saw a name carefully printed there. “Alan Browning. Is this you?” He earned a nod.

Brill scanned the circled words. “
God saw that it was good
.”
It
was crossed out, and a wavering
He
written in. “
Waters . . .
”
Brill read out. “ . . .
All the host of them . . . It is not good that man should be alone; I will make him a helpmeet . . . I was afraid . . .
” Brill frowned, trying to divine what it might mean.

The man pointed to the next circled phrase. “ .
 . . It shall bruise thy head . . .
” Brill read aloud, and Browning pointed to his own throat.

“The battle?” Brill asked, feeling a spark of divine inspiration fill his breast. “Is that what this is about? I can get you pencil and paper to write with, my good fellow, save you having to make marks in this holy book—­”

Browning took the book back and rose, ending the conversation. Brill read disappointment in his gaze as he walked away.

“Another soul in need,” Brill murmured, and cast his eyes toward heaven. “You are good to trust me with so many, dear Lord. I shall do my best.” He picked up his hat and clapped it on his head, and went to see a farmer who'd lost a child and was grieving, forgetting Alan Browning and his mysterious scribblings.

 

Chapter 36

D
elphine looked at the clock. She'd been waiting for Stephen for nearly an hour. In truth she was nervous about seeing him this morning, after the kiss they'd shared last evening. Would he kiss her again? She would allow it, she decided. Kisses could do no harm, could they? Her heart thumped against her stays at the thought of his mouth on hers, his hair falling softly over his brow, his hands circling her waist. She glanced at the clock again, and her heart fell.

He wasn't coming.

All the uncertainty he'd ever released in her took her breath away now. Perhaps she'd been too forward. Or Nicholas might have warned him off—­her face flamed.

Nicholas was only being protective, of course, as her host, or as a brother might—­not a wild and unruly brother like Sebastian, but one with her best interests at heart. But she was an adult, and she could make her own decisions about whom she kissed.

She glanced once more at the clock. Perhaps it wasn't Nicholas at all. Perhaps it was Stephen, and he simply didn't want her. She had waited for two Seasons for him to notice her, and now, once again, he had turned away. What was wrong with her?

She felt tears sting, and fled the room. She heard footsteps as she passed the long gallery, and glanced through the archway and down the length of it. Stephen was walking quickly toward her, muttering—­something about tea, and biscuits, and the grace of God. For a moment she thought he could see her, since his gaze was intensely fixed in her direction, his head up, his footsteps sure. Then he reached for the rope, checked his bearings, and turned and walked away again without giving any sign he knew she was there. He touched the rope again, once, then twice, while traversing the length of the gallery, as if he knew the way, was confident. Surely it was a good sign, one that said he was ready to go further afield. The ropes were the key.

It gave her an idea.

Delphine hurried down the hall to the morning room where Meg was knitting yet another bonnet. If the baby was born with four heads and changed hats seven times a day, he could not possibly wear half the bonnets his doting mother had knitted for him. Delphine was as hopeless at knitting as she was at embroidery, though she could stitch a wound closed if she had to. She was resourceful. Meg looked up with a soft maternal smile.

“May I borrow a few skeins of wool?” Delphine asked.

Meg looked surprised. “Of course, but what on earth for?” she blushed. “I mean, I thought you didn't like to knit.”

“I don't.” Delphine smiled. “It's for a surprise,” she said, and carried away the skeins like a mischievous cat.

 

Chapter 37

“G
ood morning, my lord,” Stephen heard Delphine's voice following him down the length of the gallery the following morning. He'd been down the full length and back four times, thinking about her, and her upcoming wedding, and how he could possibly avoid attending it, or even hearing about it if he was still here at Temberlay. He was blind, and who wanted a blind man at a wedding? He could not remark upon the flowers, or the happy smiles of the ­couple, or even reliably drink a toast to their health without spilling the champagne.

Nor could he tell the bride she was beautiful and be believed, though he knew she was. He felt another pang of regret in his gut, which turned to surprise when she called to him. He stopped and waited for her to travel the length of the gallery to his side, bracing himself for her gushing news, knowing he'd have to smile, offer congratulations. Lady Sydenham.

He couldn't do it. His tongue dried in his mouth.

He turned and began to walk away from her, but she reached for his arm, tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and he was enveloped by her perfume, her sweetness, and there was nothing for it but to keep walking, pretend that his gut wasn't twisting with jealousy.

“Will you come out with me today?” Delphine asked, breathless, and he wondered if he was walking too fast. He'd grown used to being able to move down the gallery in long, confident, healthy strides, the way a sighted man like Sydenham would. Was her intended fit and athletic? He forced himself to slow his pace, accommodate her.

“Do you wish to go out into the garden?” he asked stiffly. Would it be easier to hear the news there?

“To the river,” she said. “I thought perhaps a picnic—­”

He stopped. “I can't. You know that,” he said sharply. Did she feel she must break the news gently, tell him far from anyone who might see his despair? By God, she thought highly of herself. He'd given no indication of any attraction on his part, well, save the kiss.

She squeezed his arm. “You walk quite well along this gallery every day, and the weather is perfect.”

She sounded insistent. He felt panic rise in his chest. “I can walk here because I know precisely how many paces it is from end to end, and I have ropes and the safety of walls.”

“I'll keep you safe,” she said softly, and he swallowed. That was the most dangerous thing of all.

“What if I fall?” he said stiffly, hating to admit he was afraid—­afraid of pain and of looking like a fool, of letting his emotions slip.

“There are no cliffs or deep ditches.”

“I— What if it rains?” he finished lamely.

She laughed lightly, and he imagined ten generations of Temberlays staring down at him from their portraits, laughing with her.

“Then we'll get wet, I suppose,” she said merrily. “I shan't leave you alone until you agree. We shall be forced to pace up and down this same hallway together throughout eternity.”

“The third duke would be unhappy to have his solitude so disturbed,” he said, knowing they were passing his portrait. “Or his view of the long drive obscured,” he added, knowing the wide window that overlooked the front of the castle was directly across from the portrait.

“Oh, he doesn't look nearly so disapproving as Her Grace, the fourth duchess,” she quipped. “She's urging you to say yes.”

“Then I have no choice but to go, do I?” he asked, sketching a stiff bow to the duchess's will.

She squeezed his arm once more, happy. “None at all. Shall we go now? Everything is in readiness.”

“T
hree steps down,” she murmured, and he used his cane to find each one, to place his foot carefully down into the darkness. “The rose garden is on your left. Can you smell it? The blossoms are covered with bees, and the little pool in the center is filled with birds—­sparrows, I think, all splashing like children.”

He used the cane to move along the smooth path. A trickle of sweat snaked down his spine, and he wondered how he'd manage once they reached the woods. There'd be roots, shrubs, and overhanging branches. His breath caught in his throat. She was here now, close by his side, a hand's breadth away, but what would he do when she was gone, married?

The flagstones gave way to lawn. He could smell the grass and the scent of wildflowers on the breeze. The sun was warm on his skin, and the breeze blew his hair back from his brow. “I don't think it will rain after all,” she said. “The clouds in the sky look very benign indeed, small and white and friendly. And the sky is very blue.”

It made him think of the blue tunics French troops wore. The sight of them marching had been terrifying, but not as terrifying as walking into unknown darkness.

“We are nearly at the path that leads into the woods,” she said blithely. She took his hand, her fingers soft and cool. He fought to keep from trembling, showing her how afraid he was. Could she tell anyway? She didn't try to soothe him. She placed his hand on a taut string. “There's wool strung along the path to help you find your way,” she said.

He closed his hand on the lifeline. “You did this?” he asked.

“Yes. Yesterday.”

He hesitated. He could hear the breeze whispering in the trees, the high trill of birdsong, and he felt the coolness of deep shade. “Is Browning following?”

“No,” she said.

“Your maid, then? A footman?”

“Are you afraid I have designs on your virtue?” she asked.

She was deliberately misinterpreting him. What if he fell, lost his nerve, couldn't go forward, or back? He swallowed. “Of course I'm concerned about your reputation, but—­”

“I am almost beyond the age of needing a chaperone.”

And she was to be married so soon, he thought grimly. By rights it should be Sydenham who was here with her. Would the viscount take her in his arms, tucked out of view of the castle by the leafy trees, and steal a kiss? Stephen thought of the softness of her mouth on his, and stumbled. He tightened his grip, felt the rough bite of the wool against his palm, and forced himself to concentrate on moving forward carefully, one hand on the string, the other waving his cane before him. The earth was soft under his feet, damp and fragrant with ferns and the sharp scented bark of the trees. How could he have forgotten the pleasure of being in the woods in high summer? They walked in silence, enjoying the day.

“I hear water,” he said.

“There's a waterfall just ahead.”

His foot faltered against a root, and he stepped around it. “Are we at the top of it, or at the base?”

“At the base. Another few minutes and we will be beside the pool,” she said. “The river is on our right, just beyond the trees. Our picnic will be waiting for us.”

“You've given this quite a lot of thought,” he said.

“I wanted you to enjoy the day.” She brushed a stalk of grass over the side of his face, and giggled when he batted at it.

“You're in a playful mood. Do you have good news to share?” he asked. Better to get it over with, like ripping the bandage off a wound—­he knew the feeling well enough. He'd endured that, but this—­he mentally braced himself.

“Can I not just be happy with the day and the company?” she asked.

“Perhaps you're thinking of other company?” he prompted again.

“Not at all. Here is the blanket. Come and sit down.” He lowered himself to the ground, felt the rug beneath him, listened to the creak of the wicker basket. “Oh, there's enough food for an army—­cold chicken, plums, wine, cheese, and bread. Even cherry tarts—­taste.” She put a tart to his mouth, and he bit into it, felt the sweetness burst on his tongue, and her fingertips brushed his lips, sweeter still. “Delicious, aren't they?”

He let her feed him, like a pasha waited on by a harem girl. Between bites she described the sparkle of the waterfall, the rainbow in the mist by the rocks. He could smell the green scent of the water. She told him about the birds and insects that moved around them. He feasted on her company as much as the meal. When had he enjoyed a day, or a woman's company, as much as this? Being with Delphine felt as natural as if they'd always known each other, were old and dear friends. Yet they weren't. Part of him remained tense, on alert, waiting for her news, knowing like battle it must come, and no matter how prepared, how ready he was, it would be overwhelming. But the meal ended, and he stayed where he was, listening to her moving around him, and imagined her doing some silly picnic-­day thing, like braiding daisies into a crown. Daisies, like the ones she'd worn in her hair at the duchess's ball. He'd carried her daisy into battle, in the pocket of his tunic. He wondered what had happened to it.

“Are you wearing flowers in your hair?” he asked, leaning up on one elbow.

“Actually, I'm wearing very little at all.”

He felt the shock of that pass through him. “What on earth does that mean?”

He heard a splash, then a cry. “Delphine?” There was no reply. “Delphine?” he called out again, louder this time, and groped for her. She wasn't there.

She'd fallen into the river. Even now she was likely drifting downstream, weighed down by petticoats and stays and layers of clothing. He pulled off his boots, cursing, and stumbled toward the water. The bank was slick under his feet, and the mud oozed between his toes. He walked in—­skidded, really—­and felt the icy chill of the water come up over his ankles, his calves. His balls shriveled against his body, but he kept going, and his heart pounded in his throat. He thrashed the water with his hands, trying to find her. He heard a splash to his left, and turned his head. “Delphine?” he called, terrified for her. What use could he be? He'd get them both drowned.

“Here,” she said.

“Thank God. Are you all right? Did you fall in? You can't swim, can you? What woman can?” he babbled, wading deeper. “Keep talking if you can, and I will swim to you. Don't panic.”

The water had reached his chest, and his feet lifted off the bottom, and he began to swim. The water bore his weight, and the chill turned to pure pleasure. “To your left,” she said, and he adjusted his direction slightly. He paused, treading water.

“Where are you?”

“Here,” she said, by his side. She hardly sounded like a woman drowning. She was breathless, but calm. He reached out, touched the cold sleekness of her arm, felt fabric floating around him, something light and filmy. “Doesn't the water feel wonderful?” she asked.

“I was afraid you'd fallen in, were drowning,” he said, annoyed now that he knew she was safe.

“I
can
swim,” she said. “I used to swim at Neeland with Sebastian and Eleanor.”

“In your clothes?” he demanded.

She laughed. “My gown is on the bank, along with my shoes and stockings.”

He felt a hot flare of shock, or perhaps it was lust. He stopped treading water for an instant and swallowed a mouthful of water. She floated over and slapped him on the back. Her hair swirled around him like weeds. “I assure you I am not naked. I am very decently clad in my shift.”

“It will be quite transparent when it's wet!” he said, and she laughed again, and he realized at once how foolish that sounded. He couldn't see her. Still, the image of her naked—­or nearly naked—­clad only in a transparent slip of muslin hit his brain like a shot of warmed whisky, and even though the water was cold, he was instantly hard.

She swam past him playfully, brushing against him. “I won't tell anyone if you don't. There's no one here to see,” she said. “If anyone comes, we'll hide behind the waterfall until they go away.”

“But your clothes—­and my boots—­are spread on the bank,” he said, being practical, seeing the possibilities for disaster in the suggestive disarray of discarded clothing next to an empty picnic basket. No one who happened by would see anything innocent in this at all. “I must insist—­” he began, but she laughed.

“You worry too much. Come, lay back and float,” she said. What could he do but acquiesce? He turned onto his back, his face to the sun, his limbs buoyant in the cool water. She clasped his hand, and they floated side by side, listening to the gurgle of the falls, the cry of the birds, and the hum of insects. Her fingers were cool, and he pictured a mermaid by his side, her hair spread wide around her in the water, decked with water lilies. Was this truly Delphine St. James, the flirtatious society miss, the haughty snob, the woman who sought power and gain with every bat of her lashes, every waft of her fan, who used and discarded men like bonbons, was infinitely choosy about the company she chose?

She'd chosen, he reminded himself. Lady Sydenham.

“Aren't you getting cold?” he asked.

She sighed as if she hadn't a single sensible thing on her mind, as if this, here and now,
him
,
was all she wanted. “I suppose we should get out and dry off for a little while in the sun.”

She guided him back to the bank, her limbs brushing his—­long, naked limbs, left exposed as her shift floated up and away. He tried not to think about it, but it was impossible. He suppressed a rush of lust, but she pressed close against his side, helped him climb the slippery bank, and they collapsed on the grass in the sun. He felt the solid ground beneath him, and wished himself back in the water. The sun felt good on his wet skin. She was wet too, in only her shift.

“What do you look like right now?” he asked as he stared into the sky.

“Quite dreadful, I'm afraid. My cheeks are probably red from the sun, and by evening, I'll have freckles on my nose. My mother would be horrified.”

“That you don't wear a bonnet when you swim?” he asked, grinning. “I imagine a wet bonnet would only make you look worse.” He leaned up on his side. “May I touch you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, her voice breathy. She leaned up on her elbow and took his hand, placed it against her cheek. It was as cool and smooth as marble, but it warmed instantly under his touch, and he wondered if it was the heat of the day, or if she was blushing. He ran his fingertips over the bridge of her nose. “You would be quite fetching with freckles.”