What a Lady Most Desires (23 page)

 

Chapter 51

D
elphine loved the rain, especially when she was curled up in the library, reading aloud to Stephen. Meg was with them again this morning, sewing something for the baby, listening to Sir Walter Scott's
Waverley
.

Stephen sat by Delphine's side on the settee, and she was aware of every breath he took, each small movement of his feet or hands, the telling quirks of his expression as he reacted to the hero's adventures in the story. It had been eight long days. She'd lain in bed in torment again last night, but she'd promised Nicholas she would not go to Stephen. How long did it take for desire to die? It made it worse, not better, staying away. Even now, in the polite confines of the library, with Meg not ten feet away, Delphine's body vibrated with desire, aware of Stephen, scant inches from her side. Her fingers shook as she turned the pages.

She wondered how she was going to find the strength to keep her word.

She felt the brush of his little finger against hers where it lay on the settee. Surely it was an accidental touch, but it stirred her whole body. Meg hadn't noticed, and Delphine kept reading, trying not to stumble over the words as she reveled even in that tiny scrap of contact.

Stephen grew bolder, caressed the back of her hand with his fingertips, and she gulped back a moan.

“Are you getting tired of reading?” Meg asked, looking up at last. Stephen's hand withdrew.

“Not at all,” Delphine managed. “It's exciting—­this part of the story, don't you think?” She glanced at Stephen. He was staring into the distance, and his hand lay harmlessly on his knee.

“Yes, quite, but I think I'll order some tea,” Meg said, and rose to pull the bell. “I do hope the cook has some quince tarts. I've never liked them before, or at least not as I like them now. My mother says what a lady craves can foretell the sex of the child, even his personality.”

“What does quince signify?” Stephen asked. “My sister longed only for biscuits and strong cheese. Matthew despaired of her ever eating anything else, yet after her boy was born, and he brought her the same cheese and biscuits, she turned her face away, and said she couldn't bear them any longer.”

Meg laughed. “My mother writes that she wanted nothing special at all when she was expecting my arrival, but she could not bear even the sight or scent of ham. My older sister had an intense desire for plums, despite it being the dead of winter. She ate every jar of plum jam in the larder.”

The tea tray arrived, borne by the efficient Gardiner. He set it before Meg. “The post is here, Your Grace. I brought it in with the tea.”

Meg went through the letters as the butler poured the tea.

Gardiner set Stephen's tea on the table near his left knee, where he could find it. Delphine marveled that the household had fallen into so many small accommodations to make Stephen's daily life easier.

The butler turned away to add another tart to Meg's plate, and Delphine felt Stephen's hand touch hers again. This time he gripped her fingers, squeezed. The warm spot in her chest grew, made her nipples tighten, her body buzz. He raised her hand to his lips and laid a kiss on her palm, letting go just as Gardiner turned again to inquire if there was anything else they might want.

She closed her empty hand in her lap and shook her head, unable to speak. Yet Stephen sat by her side as calmly as if nothing at all had happened. But she noted the telltale tightness of his jaw, the way his hand rested just so in his lap, covering evidence of his arousal. It made her desire flame higher still. Tonight . . . she glanced at the clock, counting the hours, and blushed. She had promised—­

“There are two letters for you, ” Meg said, passing two across to her.

Delphine concentrated on looking at them. “One from my mother and one from Sebastian.”

“I thought Sebastian didn't write letters,” Meg said.

“He doesn't usually. He's quite eager about my father's house party this year,” she said. It was the third letter he'd written, singing the praises of his friend, Viscount Durling. He'd gone so far as to mention Durling to Nicholas as well, when they'd met in London.

“When is the party?” Meg asked.

“It's two weeks away,” Delphine said, sighing. She could not bear the idea of leaving Stephen, returning to Neeland to meet another new crop of suitors. She would refuse them all, come back—­

“Oh, how I'll miss you,” Meg sighed. “So will Stephen, I daresay. Won't you?”

“I will indeed,” he said, his tone even. “Who'll read to me, bear me company?”

Delphine noticed that his face was flushed, his jaw tight, his hand now a fist in his lap. He kept his gaze fixed on a distant corner of the room, as if he was angry.

“Tell me who will be at the house party,” Meg said. “Then when you write, I will know the characters you are speaking of. I assume your mother has invited a dozen handsome men.”

Stephen shifted, and Delphine felt her face flame. “Seven this year. Only seven,” she murmured. “Eight, actually—­a friend of Sebastian's is coming down with him from London.”

Meg looked arch. “How intriguing! Who is he? Does Nicholas know him?”

“I don't think so,” Delphine said. She did not want to talk about her suitors, not now, with Stephen here. She glanced at him. He'd turned his head toward her, listening, though his expression remained flat and bland, his blind gaze fixed.

Meg giggled. “Tell me his name—­I'll have my mother find out more—­or Nicholas might look into it. I'm sure there's something dreadful we can find out about him.”

“Is that truly what you want?” Stephen asked. “To find out something dreadful?” His tone offered no clue at all as to how he felt. The tension stretched Delphine's nerves tighter still.

“Do you know Viscount Durling?” Delphine asked.

“No. Nicholas mentioned him. Apparently he was at Waterloo. Did you meet him there by chance?”

She frowned and tried to recall. “I don't think so, but there were a great many officers in Brussels. I suppose I might have.”

“It seems rather odd that a gentleman you've never met should take such an interest in you,” Stephen said.

Meg sniffed. “How ungallant of you, Stephen! I thought you were always charming and diplomatic, especially with ladies. Perhaps Lord Durling saw Delphine across a crowded room, and fell instantly in love with her.”

“Yet he did not trouble to arrange an introduction,” Stephen muttered.

“Oh, but he has—­he's asked Sebastian. Who better? Why, you sound almost jealous,” Meg teased.

Delphine shut the book in her lap with a snap. “I fear we've been reading too many novels! Our imaginations are becoming overtaxed. More tea, anyone?”

She noted Stephen hadn't touched his cup, his eyes were fixed on her face, almost as if he could see her. He didn't say a word, but she saw the tiny muscles in his jaw tic.

He shot to his feet. Delphine watched in dismay as his teacup flew into the air, sending the tea splashing across the rug. She grabbed a napkin, moved to mop the liquid on his boot, but he pulled away. “Leave it!” he said sharply.

Gardiner was hastily summoned back to assist.

By the time the commotion had been tidied away, and all was well again, Delphine realized that Stephen had left the room. He was probably horribly embarrassed. She could go after him, perhaps on the pretense that the tea might have burned him as it spilled, but she did not. Her heart ached with longing, but she had promised . . . Surely Stephen knew that, understood. Nicholas would have extracted the same promise from him, wouldn't he?

She retired to the music room and played Beethoven until it was time to go upstairs and dress for supper.

 

Chapter 52

W
hat the devil was the matter with him? He did not lie, or cheat, or steal, Stephen thought as he tossed the letters he'd taken from Delphine's room onto his pillow.

It had been the matter of a few minutes, slipping up to her bedroom while everyone was at dinner, finding the letters in her writing desk. He'd stood there, surrounded by her belongings, her bed, and her perfume. He put his hand on her pillow, was instantly as hard as a bloody pole, imagining her lying there, with him. If he came to her here tonight, would she welcome him, or had Durling already taken his place in her heart? He crossed the room and opened the drawer of the little writing desk, found her letters and slipped them into his pocket.

And now, back in his own room, he stared at the letters, felt shame. Theft was just one of the crimes he'd been tarred with, accused of creeping into other ­people's rooms, stealing their possessions. He'd been innocent until now. He could still put the letters back, unread, but he knew he would not.

Know your opponent. Wasn't that the first rule in both diplomacy and war?

He crossed to the window, unfolded the latest note from her mother and read it.

Dearest Delphine,

I am overjoyed at the pleasure of writing these lines to you. Sebastian brought me the most charming gentleman, Viscount Durling, to meet while I was in London to visit my modiste. Sebastian says we have met before, though I do not recall the occasion. It seems he remembers you well, my dear. I am most certain that you will agree with me that Lord Durling is quite beyond compare when you meet him—­as a companion, a dance partner, or as a husband, which I dearly hope he may prove to be for you, my darling girl. I am most pleased to tell you that he has been invited to the house party.

I cannot say enough about what a handsome, attentive, charming young gentleman the viscount is. I do not usually take notice of Sebastian's companions, but this time your dear brother is quite right, and I am certain you will also find Lord Durling's attentions most agreeable while he is here at Neeland.

This is most decidedly the match you've been waiting for, my dear! I am counting the days until your glorious wedding. Viscountess Durling! How wonderful that sounds!

Most hopefully,

Maman

The match she'd been waiting for. Viscountess Durling. Stephen read Sebastian's glowing letters too—­Durling was good company, and as handsome as any wench could want, charming, and sure to be the perfect husband for Delphine.

Stephen set the stolen letters aside and rubbed his eyes, tried to recall.
Had
he met Durling in Brussels? He racked his brain. How could he have missed such a paragon of manly virtue? Countess Ainsley gushed over him like a girl, and Sebastian admired him. Would Delphine fall under Durling's spell as well, instantly love him?

I saw something in your eyes once
, she'd told him. Would Durling have the same effect?

Stephen's eyes ached. His vision was still slightly blurry, but it was improving. He hadn't missed Delphine's soft blushes as Meg teased her about her latest suitor. She could barely speak Durling's name without coloring. She didn't blush when Sydenham came up in conversation. In a fit of jealous rage, he'd sent his teacup flying, using blindness as an excuse.

He was acting like a man insane, out of control, without morals, yet he couldn't help it. He felt her slipping away, and he could not bear it.

In the days since his sight had returned, he'd had the pleasure of seeing what his other senses had already told him. He discovered Delphine's smallest gestures. She touched her cheek when she was uncertain, and stuck her tongue out as she concentrated and she thought no one could see her. She twined a lock of her hair around her finger as she read to him.

He knew what she was thinking when she blushed, or pursed her lips, or rolled her eyes. He'd learned to interpret every nuance of voice, every hesitation in her speech, and now he fell in love with the little visible habits that matched her moods. His mouth watered to kiss the little lines that appeared between her brows when she was thinking. The way she bit her lip when she was trying not to give in to laughter made him crazy with desire. And when she did laugh, her eyes crinkled, and she threw her head back, her mouth widening in unabashed joy. It wasn't prim and ladylike—­it was real, and he doubted anyone else had ever seen her in such intimate moments. Only him.

He wanted to watch her face as he made love to her, to look into her eyes every day as she aged beside him—­a bride, a mother, a wife, a grandmother.

But it would be Durling who would have that privilege.

He hid the letters under his pillow and paced his room like a caged bear. He glowered at the paintings on the walls, paintings he could now see for the first time. He pulled open drawers, and stared into cupboards, looking at his own belongings for the first time in nearly three months.

He paused when he saw his footlocker in the back of the wardrobe. He ran his fingers over his initials, embossed on the battered leather. It was like finding an old friend. The trunk had been with him through every campaign he'd been in, through Portugal, Spain, France, Vienna, and finally Brussels. It had been pressed into ser­vice as a card table, a seat, a bootjack, and even a makeshift sort of bed when necessary.

He dragged the trunk out of the cupboard, laid it on the floor and opened the lid. The familiar smell of his possessions hit him—­his shaving soap, the oil he used to clean his pistols, the leather of his boots and belts. He looked through his things. His sword was missing—­lost somewhere on the battlefield, he assumed. His books were there, and his playing cards were still in their leather case. Another box held collar studs and a signet ring that had belonged to his stepfather. There were the gloves and the dancing pumps he'd hastily changed for boots on the evening before Waterloo, the night he'd danced with Delphine.

He found a bulky parcel wrapped in linen. He untied the knots, and opened it.

It was the tunic he'd worn into battle He felt a moment of horror as he held it up. The scarlet wool was filthy, crusted with mud and dried blood, the yellow facings almost unrecognizable under the gore that stained them. The left sleeve had been sliced from wrist to collar, no doubt so they could free him without causing further damage to his broken arm. He felt the limb ache at the sight.

He turned it over, touched the black-­fringed bullet holes on the back, and he knew if he put the coat on, they would match the marks on his flesh. Had he been as badly hurt as this?

He felt his mouth dry. This was a dead man's coat—­or one who should by rights be dead.

He ran his fingers over the facings, the tarnished buttons, the tattered braid, and tried to recall the battle, before—­before
this
had happened. He swallowed, and put his hand into the breast pocket. He'd put Delphine's daisy in that pocket, tucked it in beside Peter Rothdale's vowel. He remembered that.

The pocket was empty. There was no vowel, or even a single flower petal.

His heart began to pound, and he checked the pocket on the opposite side, the one that held his watch through every battle, and a small purse of coins, in case he should find himself far from his billet when the shooting stopped. But Nicholas had told him that Eleanor Fairlie had found those, removed them—­they were here, in the trunk. He checked the pockets again, then rifled through the trunk again, found nothing else.

His brow furrowed. The scavengers would have taken his watch first, then cut away the buttons and the braid, and stolen his boots. Perhaps they'd been interrupted. He shut his eyes.

He saw Rothdale's harsh face the night before the battle. Surely even Peter Rothdale would not stoop so low as to steal from an injured comrade on the battlefield. Or would he? The vowel was worth thousands of pounds. Stephen had threatened to report him for . . . the memory remained elusive He rubbed his eyes. The vowel
had
been in his pocket. He remembered that much.

He looked at the bloody tunic again. He should have died, but he'd survived. And if he'd been able, he would have gone to Fairlie, and told him—­

“No,” he whispered in horror. “Surely even Rothdale would not—­” He dropped the tunic as he remembered. They'd been in Greenfield's quarters, Rothdale had been holding a flask. Stephen felt his stomach turn to water. He had been accused of one of the very crimes he had intended to lay at Rothdale's door—­theft. Could it be a coincidence, or was his memory faulty? Yet he knew, was certain beyond any doubt, that he would never steal. But Rothdale . . . Stephen swore. He might have been able to prove his innocence if not for the charges of theft and misconduct against him. Those accusations made cowardice seem like a small step for such a man. Was Rothdale as clever as that? If he was, he'd seen to it that Stephen would lose everything. His head buzzed. He got to his feet, thrust the tunic back into the trunk, slammed the lid shut. He had to tell Nicholas. Had to show him—­he shut his eyes. There was nothing to show anyone. The vowel was missing, and his fellow officers still believed Stephen was a thief and a coward. They had proof, signed statements, and they believed it was true. All that was left was to pronounce sentence.