What a Lady Most Desires (19 page)

 

Chapter 40

S
tephen listened to her footsteps fade, and sagged against the wall. She'd said he was the most honorable man she'd ever met, but was it honorable to make love to a woman, to take her virginity, her kindness, her friendship, and leave her with nothing? Was that not cowardice and theft? He felt shame heat his face.

Honor, pride? No, he was a bastard.

He ran his hand through his hair. He'd spent the long hours of the night lying awake, burning with desire, wanting her. Having her once hadn't made it better—­it made it worse.

If he wasn't blind he would have found his way to her room, made love to her all over again.

But that was the problem—­he
was
blind. Making love to a woman in a sylvan setting did not make him any more worthy of her. Delphine was meant for a better man. Even sighted, even if he'd been a hero instead of an accused traitor, he would not be good enough for Delphine. He hadn't the pedigree, or the fortune, or the damned political connections. Nicholas understood that, had tried to warn Stephen. He'd known it for himself, but somehow he'd forgotten the rules.
She
made him forget, and to want and feel. He'd tucked all that away after Julia, or so he thought. He was a fool, pining over yet another woman he couldn't have.

He'd waited for dawn, unable to stop thinking of the intense, white-­hot passion she'd aroused. He tried to convince himself it was simple lust, and nothing more. He'd almost succeeded, until he'd heard her footsteps in the gallery, coming toward him—­eager, hopeful—­and he wanted her all over again. Her sweetness, her spirit, pushed back the darkness. But he would only ruin her life, drag her into the blackness with him if things continued as they had begun by the river.

There was also the fact that he'd promised Nicholas that he had no intention of—­well, doing what he did. He should have stopped, been sensible. He was always sensible and cautious. He analyzed every situation before carefully deciding what the best action would be. But Delphine was a creature of passion, caprice. She turned his mind to mush, and worse, he liked it—­he liked
her
—­or had his feelings already gone beyond that? He was on dangerous ground. He'd been certain before, with Julia, that it was love. He'd been wrong. If losing Julia had broken his heart, what he felt for Delphine would destroy him utterly when she married someone else, and she would. If not Sydenham, another man would come along.

It was self-­preservation. He had to crush all misconceptions that he could offer her anything more than a brief affair that would dishonor them both. It had been necessary to be firm, to ensure she didn't have hopes for more.

But he'd been cruel, not firm. She'd fled, crying. He swore and crammed his fist into the wall—­another rash action he once imagined himself incapable of. He did not fall pray to lust, or rage, or stupidly impulsive behavior. But the pain of his split knuckles said otherwise. He felt the blood dripping, but it was no distraction at all from the ache in his chest.

He stalked along the gallery, not counting his steps, not using his cane or the ropes, not caring if he crashed into a wall.

He crashed into Nicholas instead.

“Where the devil are you going in such a hurry? Where's Browning? Or Del, for that matter?” he demanded. “There's blood on your shirt.”

“I bumped into a wall,” Stephen muttered.

“I thought you were in the library with Delphine,” Nicholas continued. “Where is she?”

“Why would I know where she is?” Stephen snapped. “I couldn't see her if she was standing five feet in front of me!” Yes he could. He'd know she was there,
feel
her there, in every part of his body, even if she made no sound at all.

“Are you sure you suffered no ill effects from the rain yesterday? I could send for the doctor. I only ask because Del seemed a trifle flighty this morning at breakfast. Hardly ate a thing.”

Stephen gritted his teeth. He did not want to discuss Delphine with Nicholas. Not now. “Were you looking for me, or for Delphine?”

“For you,” Nicholas said. “There's a letter from Horse Guards.”

 

Chapter 41

“I
don't think I'll attend the haying supper,” Delphine told Meg as they cut roses in the garden. Meg had come across her friend returning from a morning walk, though Delphine looked more like she had taken a tumble down a hill. Meg could have sworn that Delphine was planning to spend the morning reading to Stephen, yet here she was, without a bonnet or a cloak, looking flushed and rather out of sorts.

Meg's garden clippers stalled in mid snip. “Not attend? Why ever not? Are you ill?”

Delphine studied her fingertips. “Perhaps I did catch a chill in the rain. I'm just not in the mood for a party.” Meg watched the rose petals drop over Delphine's skirt, red as blood against the ice green muslin, and her heart went out to her friend—­she had looked so happy at breakfast. And now, she insisted she had no intention of attending tonight's party. Meg resisted the urge to lay a hand on Delphine's forehead to check for fever, since Del lived for parties, be they simple picnic suppers like this one, or grand
ton
balls.

“But you must come. I'll be so busy with Nicholas.” She patted her belly. “I think he wants to show off his new heir. He's remarkably happy. So am I.” So happy she wanted everyone to feel the same.

Delphine smiled. “I can see that. You're glowing, and so is Nicholas.”

“Stephen will need company tonight.” Meg noted a blush that rivaled the reddest roses in Delphine's cheeks.

“Surely Browning, or even Mr. Brill, can spend time with him.”

“Mr. Brill will be busy blessing loaves, saying grace, and offering prayers, good wishes, and encouragement to his new flock,” Meg said.

“He's quite devoted to his work here, isn't he?”

“I believe he's already ordered a new frock to wear on the day he christens Temberlay's heir,” Meg laughed. “Mr. Brill is quite impressed with Sergeant Browning. He believes he's found a serious Bible scholar, and wonders if the sergeant had some sort of epiphany during the battle.”

Delphine frowned. “An epiphany? I think the sergeant is a man of infinite kindness and hidden depths at the very least.”

“I think we should line up a dozen of the prettiest lasses in the village and let the sergeant dance the night away,” Meg said. “Which means Stephen will need
someone's
company. He doesn't know a single soul other than you, me, Nicholas, and Browning.”

Delphine buried her face in a rose. “I suppose you're right.”

“Of course I am,” Meg said with a smile, and took the blossom from her friend's hand and placed it in the basket.

 

Chapter 42

“A
pparently a letter has been received, addressed to Colonel Fairlie, from Lieutenant Jonathan Greenfield,” Nicholas said, once they'd reached his study.

“I know Greenfield, but isn't he one of the officers who accused me of theft?” Stephen asked.

“Yes. He wrote to Fairlie. He found a ring that he'd reported stolen from his quarters in Brussels here in London, at a pawnshop.”

“In London? Does he now believe I'm innocent?” Stephen asked hopefully.

“No. Apparently, there was a rather valuable antique book stolen along with the ring, and Greenfield was wondering if it could be ascertained if you still have it, or could offer some information on what might have happened to it.”

Stephen felt his skin heat. “I have no idea—­I was only in London for a few hours, too injured—­”

“Exactly,” Nicholas said, and Stephen could hear the smile in his voice, the triumph. “Do you see what this means? Someone else stole Greenfield's ring and pawned it.”

Stephen felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Then I am in the clear? Just like that?”

He heard Nicholas fold the letter. “No, but this is a good start. I'll go to London tomorrow, after the haying party, and speak to the pawnbroker myself, see what he knows. I'll be back as soon as I can to let you know what I find out.”

 

Chapter 43

“Y
ou seem quite well, today, Stephen. I notice you are no longer wearing the sling on your arm,” Meg said to her other houseguest later that morning. He was seated in the library, frowning, brooding, as she arranged the roses in a vase.

“I'm feeling very well, thank you. And yourself?” he asked.

“Delphine pronounced me glowing. I am fit and ready to dance at the haying supper. You are planning to attend, aren't you, since you're so well?”

She watched a flush rise over his face, though his expression remained carefully contained. “I think not.”

She noted the scabs on his knuckles—­fresh ones, the kind a man gets from punching walls in frustration. Otherwise, his appearance was impeccable. Now the sling was no longer necessary, he dressed as any gentleman would, in buff breeches and boots, a crisp linen shirt and cravat, and a dark coat that set off his blond good looks. No wonder Delphine adored him—­and she most certainly did adore him—­of that Meg was certain.

“Oh, but you must come. I'll be so busy visiting with the villagers. There have been four new babies born in just the last month, and I want to talk with their mothers, and Delphine will need company for the evening.”

“You could ask Mr. Brill to accompany her, perhaps—­or is Sydenham attending?”

“Viscount Sydenham? Goodness no. Such a dull fellow.”

“I had the idea he had—­hopes—­for Delphine.”

Meg laughed. “Yes, he probably did, but he and Delphine would not have suited. But I'm gossiping. And you?”

“Me? I abhor gossip.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, you and Delphine. She's blossomed since she's been here, and I doubt it's my company that's done that, Stephen.”

“You too, Meg? You should know that Nicholas has already warned me off.”

“Has he?” she said lightly, but she felt a frisson of annoyance with her husband. Nicholas was a brilliant spy, a war hero, and an excellent duke, but he didn't know true love when it was right in front of him. He'd issued Stephen with a warning, had he? Well, true love ignored warnings, and the potential for pain, and always found a way to succeed—­with just a little help, of course. Meg's heart swelled. “Well, keeping a lady company at a haying supper with a hundred ­people in attendance hardly qualifies as an improper advance. Even Nicholas couldn't think so.”

Stephen didn't reply.

“I just want Delphine to enjoy herself, and not be sitting in a corner all alone while the villagers are too shy to even speak to a lady and—­”

“I'll come,” he sighed. “But I won't force my company on her if she prefers to be elsewhere. Will that do?”

“Thank you. I'm most grateful.” She pressed a rose into his hand. “Aren't the roses lovely? Delphine picked them just this morning,” she said gaily, and watched as Stephen ran his fingertips over the blossom as carefully as if it were Delphine's cheek.

 

Chapter 44

T
he haying party was being held in the largest barn on the estate, an ancient timbered structure that had stood for centuries, and had seen many such celebrations. The meadow outside had been mown and set with tables and benches for supper, larks cascaded through the last of the daylight, and torches flamed orange against the purple twilight sky. Children raced everywhere, excited and happy.

Delphine recalled parties like this one on her grandfather's estate. She had climbed into the hayloft to look for kittens in the hay, and to chew the sweet ends of the grass as she watched the dancing on the barn floor below. She wished she could tuck up her skirts now, climb into the loft and hide. She was not in the mood for a party.

“Look, there's Nicholas and Stephen,” Meg said, and steered her toward them. The two men were deep in conversation. Meg smiled at her husband and caught his hand. “Delphine has arrived. Isn't that wonderful?” she gushed, and Delphine felt her skin heat as Stephen turned his face toward her. He still took her breath away, even now.

“Good evening,” Delphine said, bobbed a curtsy out of habit, and felt silly, since Stephen couldn't see it.

He rose and bowed over her hand as politely as if they were strangers, meeting for the first time. She felt a tingle race up her arm at his touch. Only yesterday the same hand had been caressing her, pleasuring her—­her heart flipped in her chest, and she snatched her fingers away. Stephen's brows rose slightly, but he said nothing. The tension in the air between them thrummed like a wire.

“You are well, I trust?” he asked stiffly.

“Yes, and yourself?” Delphine replied.

“Quite well.”

“There's the steward and his wife, Nicholas. Shall we go and say hello?” Meg said, and Delphine found herself alone with Stephen.

“Are you still there?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.” She sat on the bench, and he sat beside her. She couldn't think of a thing to say. She was aware of his body, a respectable distance from her own, yet only a hand's breadth away. She clenched her hands in her lap.

“I imagine I am the last person you wish to see this evening,” he said.

“Not at all,” she managed. “It is a very pleasant evening to be out, is it not?” she fell into uncertain silence again.

“Then what shall we talk about?” he asked. “We cannot sit here without speaking at all. We've covered the state of our health. Perhaps we could discuss the weather, or the abundance of the hay crop. I know none of the current news of the world, I'm afraid, or any local gossip.” She felt her skin flush at his mild rebuke. She had not read to him today. “Shall I begin by saying the weather is excellent? At least I assume it is, since it is quite warm and we are out of doors. I feel no rain. Is it cloudy?”

She wished she had a fan to ply, something to do with her hands, but this was a country dance, not a
ton
ball. He sat in profile to her, his sightless eyes turned up to the sky. The sun had set, and the first stars had appeared along the horizon.

“The evening is very clear, and there are stars coming out,” she said.

“I see, and what is the phase of the moon?” he asked. She felt as brittle as the tone of his voice, ready to snap in half.

“Three-­quarters full, I believe.”

“And shining merrily upon this happy gathering. What of the décor, and the ladies' dresses?”

“There are wildflowers everywhere—­pots of them on every table—­garlands, sheaves of grain, torches, lanterns, and candles,” she said, scanning the scene before them. “The women are wearing their Sunday dresses.”

“Are there flowers in their hair?” he asked.

“Yes. They look very pretty indeed.”

“Do you have flowers in your hair?”

She resisted the urge to raise her hand and touch them. “I do. Yellow gillyflowers and cornflowers.”

“Blue,” he murmured. He'd turned toward her now. “And are you wearing your Sunday best?”

“Blue muslin.” The torchlight touched the bones of his face, she noted, glittered in his eyes, made his hair gleam. “And a yellow shawl.”

“Cashmere?” he asked. His hands were inches from the trailing edge of it. She hoped he would not ask to touch her now. She could not bear it.

“Wool. Tonight I am a simple country lass.”

He tilted his head. “I am trying to imagine that.”

She swallowed. He found her hand, touched the back of it tentatively, and she twined her fingers in his, squeezed them, and felt him squeeze back. Were they at least friends, then?

“Delphine, I hope—­” he began.

“Would you take some ale, my lady and my lord?” A farm wife held out two tankards of foaming ale, and Delphine snatched her hand away from his.

“To your health,” Delphine murmured, taking them, and the woman smiled and left them. She pressed one into Stephen's hands.

“Do ladies drink ale?” he asked.

“On occasion,” she replied.

“Then let us toast to occasions such as this,” Stephen said, and held up his mug. She noted the pleasure on his face as he drank. She took a careful sip, tasted the bitterness of the brew, cool on her hot throat, as refreshing as a cold swim. She shut her eyes, tried not to think of that. He was simply being polite, as he would to any other lady he found himself sitting beside. It was the proper thing—­the diplomatic thing—­to do. It would ever be thus, if they met again in the future—­bland, polite conversation that carefully avoided any mention of what had happened between them, once, on a summer day. Her heart was a lead weight in her chest.

“I smell something roasting,” he said.

“Chickens,” she said. “On a spit over a fire. They're nearly ready by the looks of it, though I'm no cook. There's fresh bread as well.”

“Lammas loaves?” he asked.

“Mr. Brill is blessing each and every one.”

“I would have liked to own a farm,” he said. “Once my long and brilliant career as an army officer and a diplomat was over, of course.”

She glanced at him in surprise, and saw he was in earnest. “You? A farmer?”

His brows flew into his hairline. “Yes, me. Why not? Can't you picture it?”

“I would have imagined you might wish to enter politics, become a foreign minister, even prime minister, someday.”

“Me? No. Not that it matters now.” He raised the tankard to his lips again.

Her chest constricted. “What will you do if things go badly?”

“At my court-­martial, you mean?” He kept his tone as careful as if they were still speaking of the weather.

“Yes.”

“I shall take a cottage in some remote corner of the country, far from everyone. Except Browning of course, if he'll come, and a cook who can roast a chicken to golden perfection, make ale, and scones, and cherry tarts.”

“You'll need someone to read to you,” she reminded him wistfully. Not her—­he'd made that clear.

“Yes,” he said a trifle sadly.

“What you need is a wife,” Nicholas said, and Delphine turned to find him standing beside her. “A bonny country lass who will be content with a quiet life, and who won't mind when you prattle on about your glory days, fighting in Spain and France.”

“And where would I find such a paragon?” Stephen asked.

Delphine met Nicholas's eyes, and even in the shadows she read the warning in his gaze. He was right of course, if too late. “There are plenty of country lasses here tonight to dance with. And I hope you're up for dancing too, Del. Save one for me? I don't think we've ever danced together, not in all the years I've known you.”

“You left to take up your commission the day before my come-­out ball. I was heartbroken,” she said.

“If it's any consolation, we had no time to dance with anyone in Spain, did we, Nick?” Stephen sipped his ale again. “Though we did drink.”

Meg arrived to slip her hand through her husband's arm. “Come to the table. The meal can't begin until we've taken our places, Nicholas. Stephen, will you escort Delphine?”

“I fear she must escort me,” Stephen said, but he rose to his feet and presented his arm, and Delphine slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, dizzy at even that polite touch.