What a Lady Most Desires (11 page)

 

Chapter 23

H
e was seated in a chair when she arrived in the library. He was freshly shaven, dressed in a waistcoat, cravat, breeches, and boots, his arm still in a sling. He took her breath away. She smiled at him, and smoothed a hand over the sprigged muslin of her dress before recalling that he couldn't see her. The thrill of delight in her breast dimmed only slightly. He waited quietly, his eyes fixed.

His lack of sight permitted her to stare in a way she wouldn't have dared if he could see. His eyes were still clear and gray and intelligent, his countenance as handsome. The cuts and bruises left by the battle had healed, leaving a few small scars, which would fade. She curled her fingers against a desire to touch the little marks. Did they still hurt? Her belly tightened, remembering how he'd arrived at the villa, so close to death.

“Lady Delphine? Are you there?” he asked, turning his head, his brow furrowing. She stepped forward.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said, and sat down at a mahogany table near him.

“What has the world been up to lately?” he asked. “I trust Napoleon is still safely in British custody.”

“Indeed he is. Apparently, the Duke of Randwick had himself and a party of friends rowed out to the
Bellerophon
. He demanded to be taken aboard to have tea with Napoleon. He was most put out when Captain Maitland refused to allow it.”

“Quite correct,” Stephen said. “He is a prisoner, not an honored guest.”

“There is a caricature that shows His Grace in a rowboat pointing a pistol at the captain. The captain in his turn is pointing a cannon at the duke.” She was rewarded with Stephen's smile, noted the dimple in his cheek.

“What news is there from Paris?” he asked.

“King Louis has made Lord Talleyrand both his foreign minister and his prime minister. The king has insisted that he will not have his relatives on his council of state, not even his heir.”

She watched the emotions cross his face as he listened and considered—­interest, disapproval, frustration. She could imagine him there, in Paris or Vienna, an envoy and a witness to these great moments of history. He would be there, if he had not been injured.

“Did you know the French foreign minister well?” she asked, seizing on his reaction to Talleyrand's name. “I've heard it said he's a wily adversary, and from what I have read, I think he gained far more than he deserved at the peace talks in Vienna—­” She stopped speaking, remembering that Stephen had been present at those talks, probably found her opinions dull and uninformed, but his face showed surprise, not disdain.

“Yes, he was wily—­and very charming, which is likely why he succeeded as he did. I daresay Wellington will find him less agreeable. His Grace is a soldier first, and a diplomat second.”

“But surely he will find it necessary to be both for the moment,” she said.

“Yes, of course. He is an excellent general, used to anticipating his enemy, to outmaneuvering him. He reads a battlefield like a newspaper, uses his wit and intellect as well as his gut to make decisions,” he said passionately. “Wellington's strategy is swift and decisive. Talleyrand will not find it as easy to switch tactics and change the rules now.”

“How do other diplomats manage such great events?” she asked.

“We listen, gather information, and move with care.”

She leaned on her hand and gazed at him. Was he even more handsome now? His eyes were keen, his face alive. He sat forward, leaning toward her, his uninjured hand moving in explanation. She put her hand on the table, an inch from his, their fingers almost touching, but not quite.

“You sigh, my lady. Am I boring you?” he asked. She pulled her hand back. “Tell me, how would you handle such events, ­people like Talleyrand, if you were a diplomat?”

She considered. “Well, I suppose I would start by watching them, learning about them. I imagine it is not just a matter of demanding what you want, and expecting your opponent to agree. You must put yourselves in their shoes, so to speak. There is a great deal of misunderstanding in any social interaction, is there not? The nuances of a glance can be easily mistaken for something unintended, a sigh or a sniff, or a frown, for instance—­”

She looked at him, wondering if she was boring him, or amusing him, or just sounded like a ninny.
He'd turned away
, all those months ago. She held her breath and waited for him to turn away now.

“Go on,” he said. “What then?”

What then indeed? If she were handling a thorny duke, cajoling him to her father's point of view, or rebuffing an ardent suitor, what would she do? “Charm him,” she murmured. “You make them think you are giving them exactly what they want, let them believe they've won. You cannot allow them to see that you are as clever as they are—­cleverer, in fact. Then, when they think they've got you, offer a compromise. No, dinner would be quite impossible, but the last dance in the third set, perhaps. A stroll in the park would be preferable to ride in a closed carriage . . .” She was babbling. She put a hand to her forehead, waited for him to give her a wan smile of utter boredom and plead tiredness.

He leaned toward her instead, and smiled. It stole her breath, made her set her hand over her heart. “Exactly right. You let them expose every facet of themselves, while you keep the truest parts of yourself hidden away,” Stephen said.

Is that how he did it? “Yes,” she said. “Exactly as it is when navigating the
ton
. They're also best handled with diplomacy.”

“Not politics? Power versus tact?”

Was he mocking her? She raised her chin.

“My father is a prominent member of parliament. They say he may be Prime Minister one day. I was raised to become the kind of wife who would support her husband's political opinions—­which would, of course, match my father's.” A slight untruth, that—­she had plenty of opinions, and they did not always agree with Ainsley's.

“And yet you haven't married. Are Tories thin on the ground at present?”

She felt her heart constrict. Did he truly not understand?
You showed me what I could be, who I am. You left me ruined for the kind of man my parents want me to marry . . .
“Yes, that's it,” she murmured.

“Truly?” he said, his brows rising.

“The truth is—­” She swallowed. “The truth is that I have not found a man I wish to marry.”

“What kind of man do you want?”

You, she thought, shutting her eyes. But he did not want her, and such a comment would only embarrass them both. She could not think what to say.

“Are you still there?” he asked. “Is it such a difficult thing to know?”

“Perhaps I am the thing that is most difficult, or stubborn. What of you? Why aren't you married?”

He smiled again, another a flash of white teeth. “Oh, you would make an excellent diplomat—­turn the tables on your opponent, make them talk while you reveal nothing. Very good! The truth is that I watched my sister lose her husband and her child to fever. It nearly destroyed her too. As a soldier, I stand a greater chance of being killed in battle. I do not wish to cause another woman such terrible grief, the loss of the man she loves. I had once thought—­” He shook his head, and she wondered if he was thinking of Julia, married elsewhere. His hand curled to a fist beside hers, knuckles white.

“Surely we must risk unhappiness to find happiness,” she said, resisting the urge to lay her hand on his.

“Yes,” he said, his brow furrowing. “But if you lose—­” he swallowed. “Perhaps it's time for a lighter subject.”

She saw the pain in his expression, watched his face close. “Then what would you like to talk about? I am well informed on a number of subjects. We could discuss the corn laws if you wish, or we could return to the Duke of Randwick and gossip about how he recently arrived at the Countess of Lenmore's ball quite foxed, and it took four footmen to carry him out to his coach. Or we could talk about the latest fashions, or French art—­in French if you like, since I am quite fluent.” It was her usual range of topics—­politics, gossip, fripperies, and nonsense.

Now he turned away. A soft breeze stirred the curtains at the open window, ruffled his hair, and he turned toward it. “Is the sun shining today?” he asked.

“Yes, it's a lovely day.” She got up and went to the window. “The roses are coming into bloom. Would you like to go out?”

His nostrils flared, and his hand gripped the arm of his chair. “I think not. If you wish to go out, I will wait here.”

“I would prefer an escort.”

“Are you taunting me, my lady?” he asked. “I am hardly fit to escort you.”

“Not at all, my lord. I have a desire to walk in the garden. As a gentleman, you are obliged to accompany me, are you not?”

“Under ordinary circumstances I would most certainly do so,” he said, stiffening.

“Well, it is a Tuesday morning, the weather is fair, and the roses are in bloom. I can think of nothing more ordinary than that.”

“Perhaps Browning will assist me to the terrace, and I will be within hailing distance if something should befall you. I can send him to your rescue at once.” She heard regret in his tone.

She rose. “Browning is not here. I sent him to the village on an errand. It would take him some time to come to my aid. I must count on you, and you on me. I see no reason why you cannot offer your arm and allow me to be your eyes.” She went to the fireplace, and picked up the poker. She took it to him, boldly picked up his hand and wrapped it around the wrought iron handle. His fingers closed on it. “Use this as your cane if you do not trust me.”

“It is myself that I do not trust,” he muttered.

She gave an exaggerated gasp. “My lord! I am flattered by the sentiment, but I shall not allow you any liberties—­you can trust that, if nothing else.”

His brow furrowed for a moment, then he laughed. “My lady, I do believe you are quite used to getting your way. Yes, you would have made a skillful diplomat indeed.” She flushed at the compliment, preened, but he could not see it. He held out a hand to her and got to his feet. “Lead on, then, and I shall do my best to keep up.”

She took a breath and put her hand on his sleeve, felt a thrill of delight, and took the first step toward the open French doors.

S
tephen felt the sun on his skin. He shuffled across the flagstones of the terrace, slow and hesitant. Then there were two terrifying steps down to the lawn, and he poked at them with his makeshift cane before setting his feet down. He concentrated on that, trying to ignore the woman next to him, though he was holding on to her arm for grim death. She was steady, careful, and patient. For a moment, he'd seen the woman he'd met at her mother's ball, the interesting, charming, clever Delphine, the lady he'd admired wholeheartedly the instant Nicholas introduced them—­until the moment she left his side for better company. He'd watched her fawn over a duke, flirting outrageously and laughing too loudly. He had decided that the shallow coquette must be the real Delphine. He wondered now, as he had in Brussels, if he'd been wrong.

“There's a step ahead,” she said now, and he gripped her arm tighter still. He could feel the softness of her muslin sleeve, the strength of her arm beneath. He felt the slight brush of her breast against his shoulder. He was surely crushing her, and he was improperly close. He wanted to stop moving, step away and stand still, wait until Browning came to rescue him. His chest was tight, his heart lodged in his throat, but she was by his side, as calm as if he really was a proper escort, and he kept moving forward, took another step and survived it. Her skirt swished against his leg, her step matching his. He could do this, then—­walk in the garden, a simple thing he'd once taken for granted—­but only because she had insisted. He wasn't sure if he was the weakest man on earth, or the most fortunate.

He felt the grass, soft and thick beneath his feet. The scent of roses grew stronger, the buzz of bees louder.

“There are sheep out beyond the wall,” she said. “They look like clouds on the lawn.”

“The black faced ones?” he asked.

“No, they're white-­faced Border Leicesters—­fat and fluffy with long ears and hooked noses like Lord Wellington's.”

He smiled. “You sound as expert as a Leicestershire shepherd.”

“My maternal grandfather—­the Duke of Aubrey—­took a great interest in the sheep on his estate. When we visited, he would insist that Sebastian memorize the various breeds and their qualities, since he would one day control agricultural estates of his own.”

“I can hardly imagine Lord Sebastian St. James as an expert on sheep,” Stephen said.

She sighed. “He isn't. I absorbed far more information than he did. I can tell you which breeds are the hardiest, which are best for milk or meat, and which give the best wool.”

He tilted his head. “Politics and sheep. A rare combination, my lady.” A man would be fortunate indeed to win Delphine's hand.

She laughed, a silken sound. “Is one not much like the other? In the meadow, the herd follows the strongest ram. In politics, it is much the same. Though I suppose you have a much more sophisticated view.”

“I do believe you have the right of it.”

He felt the coolness of shade. “We've reached a bower of roses with a bench beneath it,” she said. “Shall we sit down for a few moments?”

He waited until she sat, and lowered himself beside her. He was sitting too close to satisfy the rules of polite behavior, even given the narrowness of the bench, but she did not move away. He was aware of her arm next to his, of the soft fabric of her gown spread between them, of her slippered foot near to his booted one. What would he see if he could turn and look at her? He pictured her flushed with the summer heat, her eyes bright as she looked across the lawn at the sheep. She would be angled forward, her lips moist and sweetly pink, curved into a smile as sultry as the weather.