What a Lady Most Desires (2 page)

Delphine put a hand to her throat. It was suddenly real and frightening—­all the weeks of watching troops gather in preparation for a battle that seemed like it would never come, or at worst, would happen somewhere else, somewhere far away. Weeks of rolling bandages they were sure would never be needed, of flirting and dancing and picnicking with handsome officers, laughing at their bravado and the brave boasts of the daring adventures they'd have when Napoleon appeared at last. Now he was here, just south of the city. Delphine looked around her at the keen faces of the men, the tears in the ladies' eyes. Despair made her sway. Stephen took her arm more firmly, and tucked it under his own.

“Come, I'll escort you back to Lady Fairlie,” he said gently.

She felt the hard muscles under his tunic, warm and alive. She wondered again just what to say when she may never see him again, and he might—­she closed her eyes, leaned against him for a moment.

He squeezed her hand, and smiled faintly, offering courage. Yet the depths of his gray eyes remained cool, and there was a shadow of something else there, resignation, perhaps, or sorrow. That scared her most of all.

“My lord, what—­” she began, but they had reached Eleanor's side, and he turned his attention to her. Her sister was white-­faced, her lips drawn into a thin line. It did nothing to soothe Delphine to see an experienced officer's wife like Eleanor, a woman who had been through many battles before, looking so grim.

“Ellie.” She took her sister's hand. It was ice cold inside her glove.

Eleanor's grip was like iron. “Fairlie has gone to muster his men. He says we must go at once. We're to return to the villa, keep the horses harnessed, and go north to Antwerp and home to England if it goes badly.” She looked at Stephen. Though her eyes were dry, they were huge, filled with worry. “
Will
it go badly do you think, my lord?”

“We have an excellent commander, Lady Fairlie, and excellent officers under him, Colonel Fairlie among them,” he said. “We can hope for the best outcome, I think.”

“And yet, Napoleon's officers are every bit as fine as ours. I've heard Fairlie say so,” Eleanor said.

Stephen didn't reply to that. “If I may, I think Colonel Fairlie's advice was sound. You must leave at once if things go badly.” He turned to Delphine and met her eyes, as if he expected
she
would be the brave one, the one who'd get her sister to safety, instead of the other way around. “Come, ladies, I'll see you to your carriage. The streets will be filled with troops moving up, and it may take you some time to reach home, so it's best to leave now.” He took Eleanor's arm, and Delphine walked next to her sister as Stephen pressed through the crowds, seeing them safely through the crush.

Outside, the yard was in chaos. Torches lit the faces of panicked horses, their eyes rolling white as yelling coachmen tried to force their way to the door to pick up their passengers. Stephen stayed close, protecting them from the mayhem as they waited for Colonel Fairlie's coach to arrive.

And who would keep him safe, Delphine wondered? He was still wearing dancing pumps. He could not fight in dancing pumps. He'd need to find his boots. She felt hysterical laughter bubble up in her throat. The other officers nearby also wore their formal footwear. No, they could not fight like that, so they must stay. But they were leaving, going to war. Fear formed a hard knot in her throat, and she tried to swallow, couldn't. She watched a grinning officer mount his horse, stilling the beast's panic as it capered anxiously in the crush. He reached down and hauled a lady up to perch on his stirrup, held her close, the satin of her gown shimmering. Her arms went around his neck, and their lips met in a long, passionate kiss.

Such behavior would have been unacceptable at any other ball, on any other night, but at this moment, with battle looming, it was right. Delphine wondered how many of the men here would die tomorrow. She looked at Stephen, so alive, strong and vital. The torchlight shone on his fair hair, lit his eyes, flared over his shoulders, made his scarlet tunic glow. He looked back at her as if he expected her to speak. Her lips parted, and she stepped closer, but the coach pulled up, and he turned to help Eleanor into it before taking Delphine's hand. “Good night, my lady, and thank you for the dance,” he said with cool politeness. “Remember, if things go awry tomorrow—­”

She didn't want to think about that. She threw herself into his arms to stop the words, and kissed him. He caught her, and for a moment he was stiff, his posture indignant, but she stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his, praying he would come back alive.

Then his arms wrapped around her and he kissed her back.

She felt the sudden desperation in him, the need. He deepened the kiss, and she opened to his urging, let his tongue sweep in. He tasted of champagne, smelled of fine wool and leather—­like a soldier on his way to battle. She pressed closer still, and he kissed her with all the passion she had dreamed of.

“Delphine St. James!” her sister cried. “What are you doing? Get into this coach immediately!”

Stephen released her at once, his gaze hot and surprised for an instant. He bowed stiffly, the proper diplomat once more, the officer, the gentleman. “Good-­bye, my lady,” he said, and took her hand in his, and squeezed it, a thank-­you, perhaps—­or forgiveness for her forward behavior. Her heart throbbed in her chest, and she was on the verge of tears.

“You will come back,” she whispered, making it a command.

His eyes swept over her. “English daisies,” he murmured, looking at the flowers in her hair. “I used to pick them when I was a boy, carry them to my mother, my sister, even the cook.”

She plucked one loose and held it out to him. “Take this one for luck.”

He stared at the small pink blossom for a moment before he closed his hand over it. “Thank you.”

He helped her into the coach before she could say another word, his eyes on hers as the vehicle lurched forward.

She fought with the latch, lowered the window, and leaned out so she could watch him walk away. “I will see you again,” she said softly. “You will be safe.” The shadows swallowed him.

Suddenly it hardly mattered if he admired her or not. She only wanted him to live.

 

Chapter 2

S
tephen pushed his way through the crowded streets to his quarters, a house he shared with five other unmarried officers.

Marching columns of men filled every boulevard and alley, flowing like a river toward the city's southern gate. Officers waded through the flood on horseback, bawling orders. Women waved and cried, and children marched alongside the soldiers until their mothers caught their hands and pulled them back. The heavy beat of the march step pounded like thunder in Stephen's breast.

He was late. He should have left the ball much earlier, and he would have, had it not been for Delphine St. James. He hadn't expected to see her there.

She'd kissed him. And he had kissed her back.

It hadn't been a sisterly peck, or a fond send-­off for an old acquaintance. It had been a lover's kiss. It had been surprising and unexpected, but not unpleasant. In fact, he'd found it very pleasant indeed, and that surprised him most of all.

Of all the eligible females on earth, Delphine St. James was the last woman he'd have chosen for what might well be his last kiss. He'd thought that honor would belong to another woman. The familiar ache of losing her filled him. He ran a hand through his hair, but it was the faint ghost of Delphine's perfume, not Julia's, that rose around him. What
had
Julia's perfume been? He couldn't remember.

Odd—­he hadn't thought of Julia Leighton for hours, and it was the first time in weeks that she hadn't filled his mind every waking minute of the day. He tried to picture her as he'd last seen her, at another ball, months ago, in Vienna. He'd lost her to a man far less worthy of her in Stephen's opinion than he himself would have been.

He loathed balls.

Still, if he could choose a man to fight alongside him now, it would be that particular rival. And if there was one woman he'd want waiting for him once this battle was over, it would be Julia, not Delphine. He licked his lips, realized he could still taste her kiss.

He stepped around a soldier locked in the clinging embrace of a tearful woman, kissing her good-­bye every bit as passionately as Delphine had kissed him. It was a night for kisses, for prayers, for farewells, for understanding that until the battle was over, there was no future. A soldier could not plan beyond the intention to fight bravely and die with honor if it came to that.

You will come back
, Delphine had whispered fiercely. Would he? He was not certain he even wished to, with nothing to come back for. It annoyed him for some reason, her pronouncement, as if she'd ordered him to do so, and as a soldier, he must obey. Would she mourn him if he did not? He didn't care. Why the devil was she even in Brussels?

It had been more than a year since he'd met her in London, at a ball given by her mother, the Countess of Ainsley. Stephen had bowed over Delphine's hand, instantly captivated by her vivacious beauty. She had been intelligent, attentive, and charming—­until a duke had caught her attention, and she had turned that charm on that gentleman instead. It had been hard-­edged, practiced, and utterly false. And that wasn't the only time he'd watched Delphine claim the undivided attention of a room full of ­people, or saw her cause outrageous scandal with a whispered word or a flick of her fan. It was his job to observe ­people, understand them, and after his mistaken first impression, Stephen saw the haughty Lady Delphine for what she was: the outspoken daughter of an outspoken political father, a Tory debutante, a wealthy marriage prize for a titled man with the proper political and social connections, and the vast fortune it would take to keep her.

Why the devil wasn't she married by now? She should be the obnoxious wife to an equally obnoxious earl or marquess, busy breeding obnoxious heirs. The fact that she was here, on the edge of danger, helping her sister set up a hospital was something he never would have expected of Delphine St. James. That surprised him almost as much as the kiss.

He'd felt as if he'd been struck by lightning when he turned and saw her on the staircase, her eyes shining in the candlelight. He'd been tempted to bolt for the door as she pushed through the crowd toward him, but dignity and good manners insisted he remain where he was. In truth, he feared she might chase him down if he fled, yelling his name. That was the Delphine he knew in London, the one who always got whatever she wanted, be it attention, favors, or the gentleman of her choice, by whatever means necessary.

Shortly after her mother's ball, it appeared Delphine had set her cap for
him
. With just as much determination, he had set his to deny her. Even if he wanted a wife, it would never be Delphine St. James. She talked too much, and listened not at all.

Yet he recalled how her wide green eyes had taken in the events of this evening without fuss or comment, how she'd held her sister's hand, lent Eleanor bravery and grace. Did she truly understand what tomorrow might bring, what Fairlie's grim orders meant? Eleanor did—­she was an experienced army wife—­but this was Delphine's first foray into war. He had no doubt she'd come as some kind of lark, joining the parade of ladies who had followed their men here to Brussels to await the battle as if it were a pageant for their amusement.

Stephen hugged the rough wall as a trooper rode past him. Battles were not about glory. They were ugly, bloody, brutal events, men at their worst, not their best. And women—­he swallowed. Women were casualties and liabilities. They faced rape and abuse if fortune went against their men. What would happen to a woman like Delphine?

She was still as pretty as he remembered, from her dark hair, wide green eyes, and pale skin, to the slender curves under her fashionable gown of delicate gold silk, embroidered with flowers at the bodice, sleeves, and hem. He'd only taken note of her dress in case his sister asked for details of what the ladies wore to the ball when she wrote to him next. He realized with dismay that he had no idea what any other lady had on. In his defense, the gown
had
suited Delphine well, made her shimmer in the candlelight. He hadn't been the only gentleman to notice.

His jaw tensed, remembering her face when Rothdale had stepped into her path. Her eager smile faded, and the bold Lady Delphine suddenly looked
vulnerable
—­if such a word could ever be used to describe her—­under the captain's overbearing attentions.

Every protective instinct Stephen possessed had come alive, but he knew of Rothdale's reputation. The captain lived on his charm and the prestige of his father's title. He'd purchased his commission because he liked the cut of the uniform. He had his tunics made by London's finest tailor, and polished his boots with champagne so he cut a dash even among his fellow officers. But Rothdale also cheated at cards, abused the men he commanded, and there were rumors he'd forced his attentions on the unwilling wife of a sergeant, among other women.

Stephen held one of Rothdale's vowels for a very sizeable sum of money, and the debt had yet to be paid. As he'd watched Rothdale with Delphine, Stephen hadn't missed the fact that the man was drunk.

Delphine's bright smile had faded when Rothdale kissed her hand with a smack of his lips that Stephen could hear a dozen feet away. She'd looked stricken when the man drew his ungloved hand over the exposed flesh of her arm. He watched the captain smirk at her discomfort when she tried to withdraw her fingers from his grip, saw her blush.

What else could Stephen do but rescue her from Rothdale's clutches? The gratitude in her eyes when he'd asked her to dance had taken him aback—­lovely eyes, the color of lush English meadows, a cool pond on a hot day.

Rothdale's eyes shone like greasy cobblestones, his indignation at Stephen's interruption evident, but he could only watch as Stephen whisked Delphine away.

The entire incident had been annoying in the extreme. Stephen had not intended to dance tonight. He hadn't wanted to come at all. He'd planned to remain on the sidelines, exchange pleasantries with other officers of the allied armies, and to leave well before supper was served.

He was stunned at just how easily she set his plans awry.

Yet dancing with her had not been as onerous as he expected. He studied her face as they waltzed, read uncertainty, curiosity, delight, and sorrow. He saw the concern in her eyes when the news came, her understanding of what this battle could mean for him and for every other man in the room. It spoke of a level of intelligence and compassion he hadn't thought she possessed. And what's more, her concern had been for him, and for Eleanor, rather than for herself. Which was the real Delphine? he wondered, as he had every time he'd ever met her.

As she'd held her sister's hand and listened to Fairlie's orders, he'd had the feeling Delphine would be the one to see them carried out, even if the colonel's wife fell apart. He imagined Delphine with a pistol in her hand, ready to fight off the French if they broke through to Brussels, and hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Stephen reached the door of his lodgings and stepped aside as two other officers hurried down the steps on their way out. They grinned as they passed him, eager for war and glory. Stephen had seen too many bloody battles on the Peninsula to relish another one. He recognized that this must be done, that Europe must be freed from Napoleon's tyranny once and for all, but he took no joy in it.

He took a deep breath. The air was smoky, filled with the tang of horses and gun grease, familiar smells that put his senses on alert, tightened his gut and groin. He always felt this way before a battle. They would grow tighter still as he rode onto the field, lined up to charge and set his spurs to his horse's flanks. From that moment, he'd be in the hands of fate.

He turned as a woman called out in the street, watched her race alongside the marching column of troops, holding out her handkerchief. A soldier fell out of the ranks to snatch the favor from her hand as his sergeant screamed curses. The lad stepped back into place with a regretful smile and marched on, tucking the scrap of cloth into his pocket. Stephen watched him go, saw the hope on the young woman's face, as if a handkerchief could save a man's life. Stephen hoped he'd live to return her token.

There wouldn't be anyone waiting for his return, he thought, even as Delphine's kiss came back to haunt him again. Would it be Julia's face or Delphine's that filled his last thoughts if he fell in battle?

He took the stairs to his quarters two at a time, saw light shining from the room next to his own, heard someone moving inside. “Greenfield?” he said, coming around the half-­open door, expecting to find the lieutenant inside. Greenfield had been at the ball, and was probably just as late as Stephen changing his dancing shoes for boots. They'd have to hurry now. “Come on, lad, we'd better get ourselves—­” He stopped in the open doorway as Captain Lord Peter Rothdale turned to face him.

Stephen took in the captain's unbuttoned tunic, his glazed eyes, and the open mahogany trinket box in Rothdale's hand.

“What are you doing here? Why aren't you with your men?” Stephen demanded, his jaw tight.

Rothdale offered him the same sodden grin he'd given Delphine, all teeth and arrogance. “My sergeant can muster the men. Jamieson owes me a few bob. He told me to come and collect it on my way out.”

Stephen took note of the valuables scattered across the counterpane on the bed, and the gold watch clutched in Rothdale's hand, clearly engraved with Greenfield's initials.

“This isn't Jamieson's room.”

Rothdale didn't even have the grace to look ashamed. “Oh?” He reached for a silver flask on the bed, glanced at the crest engraved on it. “No matter.” He used his teeth to pull the stopper. “Shall we drink to victory?”

Stephen ignored the proffered flask. He straightened to his full height, a head taller than Rothdale, and put steel in his glare, a major facing down a captain. “Why are you in this room, Captain?” he asked again.

Rothdale took a swig of brandy. “It's not your affair, Ives. Turn around and leave.”

“It's Major Lord Ives to you, Captain.” Stephen reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper and held it up. “Is this what you're looking for? A vowel you gave Jamieson—­or Greenfield, for that matter?”

Rothdale stared at the vowel like a hungry dog eyeing a bone.

“No, this isn't it,” Stephen said. “This is the one you gave me. I keep it with me. So does every other officer you owe money to, for eventualities like this one. Your gambling vowels have a way of disappearing, and now I can see why.”

Rothdale took a step toward him, tossing the watch and trinket box onto the bed. “Are you actually accusing me of theft? You wouldn't dare if we were in London.”

“This isn't London. We're at war, Rothdale, and I outrank you here. Just like cards. A major trumps a captain, even if the captain is an earl's second son back home. I intend to make a full report of this in the morning. Go and join your men at once.”

Rothdale clenched his fist, but Stephen held his gaze until he dropped it.

“Don't be a fool,” Rothdale said. “There isn't going to be a morning. Not for you, or Jamieson, or Greenfield. There's a battle coming. What if you die?”

“Then I shall die with honor. If I live, I am coming to find you. You will satisfy your debts to your fellow officers, and then I will see you court-­martialed for insubordination and theft.”

Rothdale threw back his head and laughed. “
If
you survive, Major. Men die in battle all the time. What makes you think you'll be one of the lucky ones?” He pocketed the silver flask, making a show of it, as if he had a right to it. He slammed his shoulder against Stephen's as he headed for the door. “See you in hell,” he said as he left.

Stephen let him go. Rothdale was a blackguard and a thief, but there was nothing he could do about it now.