What a Lady Most Desires (14 page)

 

Chapter 30

S
tephen had felt the music like a blow when Delphine began to play in passionate, powerful strokes. The desire to touch her, to cross the room and kiss her, despite Nicholas's warning—­or perhaps because of it—­had been unbearable. But he couldn't find his way to her in the darkness. He was blind, useless, and Nicholas was quite right.

He fumbled his way out to the terrace that ran the length of the back of the south wing of the castle, found the bench he'd shared with Delphine before, leaned against the wall. He was slowly learning to navigate his way through his dark prison, remembering where furniture and doorways and steps might be—­because she had helped him learn to do so. He didn't need her now, he told himself, though he moved slowly without her hand on his arm, or her verbal cues, like an old man.

He felt like an old man. His ribs ached, his arm itched, and his heart was a tight knot of fear in his chest. He felt the sting of tears as she played the piano, her touch sure, the music rich and emotional—­another talent that he hadn't known she possessed. It spoke of even more unknown depths when he'd thought her shallow. She had not even spoken when he left the room, probably glad to see him go.

He could still hear the piano through the open door, and he let the music wash over him.

He heard it stop when Viscount Sydenham entered, listened as he was introduced to Delphine. He'd offered flowery compliments in his rich mellow voice, sure of himself and filled with undisguised admiration for Delphine. Delphine had been gracious, flirtatious, and eager in return. The man had been captivated. Hell, from here on the terrace, out of sight and mind,
Stephen
had been captivated. He wasn't surprised when Sydenham said he would count the minutes until he saw Delphine again. Is that not how he felt, waiting for morning to come just so he could listen to the sound of her voice as she read to him, or walked by his side?

Sydenham was probably young, handsome, and rich, a noble, eligible gentleman of property and position. He was also a political friend of Ainsley's. He was perfect for her.

And Sydenham could see Delphine's beauty, compliment her, let his feelings show in his eyes when he
looked
at her. Stephen felt the knot around his heart tighten still further. Sydenham had compared her to a rose. He remembered standing in a shower of petals, touching her face. No rules. But there were a great many rules indeed.

Jealousy nipped at him—­he'd felt it before. In his mind, Sydenham became Thomas Merritt, his rival for Julia's hand. Stephen was certain then he was the better man, that he would be the one to win Julia's heart. But she'd chosen Merritt. It had torn him apart. There was no comparison at all between himself and Sydenham.

Still he tormented himself. After dinner at his father's glorious estate, Lord Sydenham would take Delphine walking in the garden in the moonlight, and steal a kiss. Stephen clenched his fist against the wool of his breeches. He had become more aware of things like the feel of fabric, the sound his garments made when he moved, the scent of fresh linen, the way his boots felt on his feet, the sweetish smell of his own healing wounds, the enjoyment of soap and warm water—­and her, damn it, Delphine. He knew her scent, the sound of her gown as she walked by his side or even breathed, the way her shawl was warmed by her skin, the curl of her fingers on his sleeve when she was describing something, the soft tickle of her hair against his cheek if he leaned toward her. Those details had become part of his world.

Would Sydenham notice them? He didn't care. He loved Julia Leighton, or thought he had. He was
not
falling in love with Delphine. He didn't even like her. Or he hadn't, until—­ He pushed himself upright, moved away from the cool shadows near the wall, into the heat of the sun, three carefully counted paces forward. He turned his face up, but saw nothing. Not even the light of the sun could penetrate the darkness. He felt his heart kick in panic, and he gasped for breath.

He drew another choked breath. Of all the women in the world, she was the last one he would choose to love. And yet, something had changed. Was she different now, or had it taken blindness for him to see her as she truly was?

Nick's warning had come too late, had only made him realize how much he wanted Delphine St. James, and in all the ways a man could want a woman.

And he couldn't have her.

 

Chapter 31

T
he haying supper was scant days away. The fields were adorned with stooks of hay drying in the sun. Soon, the crop would be piled on carts and wagons and carried away to fill the haylofts and stables. Delphine took a deep breath, and tasted the dust of the road behind her teeth as the carriage lurched toward Temberlay village. Still, the day was perfect—­the blue blaze of the sky was embroidered with skeins of blackbirds, and fields lay golden with the promise of a good harvest.

Meg fanned her flushed face in the sultry heat. “Thank you for coming with me today. I have several stops to make. We've got a basket to deliver to Mrs. Grainger, first of all—­her husband was killed at Waterloo. Then we must stop at the Emmings farm. Mary Emmings is to marry in just a few weeks. Her sweetheart survived the war, and now that he's home, he wants to wed as soon as possible.”

“How sad to have women at both extremes of emotion. How will Mrs. Grainger manage without her husband?” Delphine asked.

Meg smiled. “Oh, we've found a perfect solution. Mrs. Grainger's children are grown and gone, and she's alone. Since she cannot run the farm by herself, Nicholas has suggested that Mary Emmings and her new husband move in, so they'll have a farm of their own. Mrs. Grainger will stay on, help where she can, among family. She's a cousin of Mrs. Emmings's.”

“So there will be a wedding to plan in the next few weeks,” Delphine said, smiling.

“Yes, which is why we must see the new minister, Mr. Brill, about calling the banns. He has just arrived from Scotland, where he officiated at the marriage of the Earl of Glenlorne to Lady Caroline Forrester. I fear our quiet country village may be a rather dull living for him. Still, we'll keep him busy—­he'll say the grace at the haying supper, wed Mary Emmings, and baptize Ann Bell's new baby girl. Perhaps he'll christen our child as well, when the time comes.” She ran a hand over the swell of her belly with a fond smile.

“Meg, is there a local doctor?” Delphine asked.

Meg's smile faded. “Do you think I'll need one? There's a midwife—­”

Delphine patted her hand. “I'm sure you will do very well when the time comes. I meant for Stephen.”

“But our physician in London said he was fine, and all he would need was rest and time. Is something wrong?”

Delphine looked out the window. There were wildflowers growing along the side of the road—­red, blue, and yellow amid gold and green grass. “I don't know. He's been so angry and restless lately. I wonder if he's still in pain. He used to meet me in the library every morning and we would read the newspaper together, or just talk. He did not come this morning, or yesterday.” She bit her lip and looked at Meg. “Has Nicholas had bad news about the court-­martial?”

“I don't think he's heard anything at all. There are no new witnesses.”

Delphine's heart thumped. “But if his accusers have disappeared, can they still try him?”

Meg sighed. “It does seem unfair. Surely he's paid enough for whatever he might have done.”

“He hasn't done anything! You cannot truly believe that Stephen Ives would commit theft, or play the coward!” Delphine cried passionately. “He's innocent, Meg. I know he is.”

“But they have documents, letters, statements from witnesses and men who knew Stephen,” Meg said.

“What of—­Julia?” Delphine asked. The other woman's name was thick on her tongue. Had they been lovers? “Might she speak for him?”

“Julia is in America,” Meg said gently. “Whatever was between them is surely over now.”

Delphine watched a cloud slide across the face of the sun, blocking out the light, turning the fields gray. Panic made her sweat. Wasn't there anything she could do?

“We've arrived at Mrs. Grainger's. Let's go inside where it's cooler,” Meg said as the coach pulled up.

Delphine looked at the trim white cottage, and envied the happy ­couple their simple life.

 

Chapter 32

“G
ood evening, Sergeant.”

Stephen's ears pricked at the sound of Delphine's voice.

“How is the major this evening?” she asked, and he knew by the rustle of silk that Browning, damn him, had stepped back to let her come into his room. He turned his head toward her and waited, not bothering to get up from where he lay stretched on the settee.

“As you can see, I'm fine, my lady.”

“Indeed, but since I have not seen you outside these rooms for two whole days, I thought I should come and check on you. Not that I haven't been busy myself . . .” She left the statement hanging, obviously hoping he'd ask what she'd been doing. He did not. It was probably a carriage ride or a picnic with the charming Viscount Sydenham. Tonight she would go to dinner at Treholme, meet his esteemed father and sister, gain their approval before he proposed marriage to Delphine. How could they help but approve? It was as good as done.

“I was in the village with Meg today. There's a soldier coming home from the wars next week, and there's much excitement. There's also sorrow, for there are also a number of men from the village who will not be returning at all,” she said, not waiting for him to ask after all. He stayed still, listening to the sound of her voice. “And there's a new minister at Temberlay,” she babbled on. “He'll bless the haying supper, and there's a wedding in the works.”

His stomach leaped. A wedding? Not Delphine's, surely. Not so soon. Or was she merely anticipating Sydenham's offer? He pictured her in the man's arms in the moonlight as he offered a massive betrothal ring, the kind of gem that had been in his family for generations. Since yesterday, Sydenham had become handsomer and more heroic in Stephen's tormented mind, roguish, charming, and irresistible—­the kind of man who made women of every age melt to mush and giggle hysterically when he merely smiled at them.

Would Delphine accept Sydenham? She seemed happy tonight, overbright and full of chatter. Was she nervous or hopeful? Or simply confident she could engineer the proposal if the words got stuck in her viscount's throat? Perhaps he'd sing his declaration, being musical.

She shifted again, and he heard the movement of her gown, the sibilance of silk.

“Are you wearing the same gown you wore at the ball in Brussels?” he interrupted her cheerful chatter. She fell silent for a moment.

“No, a different one. It's the first time I've worn it.”

And she was wearing it for Sydenham, to dazzle him, to stop his breath in his throat, make his mouth water to take her in his arms and kiss her. “Describe it,” he said. He heard her swallow, draw a breath before she spoke.

“Well, it's silk, the color of new cream, embroidered all over with small dots of silver. The sleeves are short and puffed, and trimmed with lace. There's a pink ribbon under my—­” She paused again, and he wondered if she were blushing. “At my waist, that is, and silk roses—­also pink—­that gather the skirt on one side, at my knee, to create a draped effect.”

“Do you have flowers in your hair?” he asked. He was tormenting himself.

“No, pearl clips, with a matching necklace and bracelet.”

He was silent, imagining how lovely she was,
knowing
how lovely.

“Well? Will I do?” she asked.

He frowned. “Perhaps you'd best ask Sydenham, or some other sighted man to tell you that.”

She came closer. He could smell her perfume now, breathed it in, a garden, exotic and lush, with Delphine at its center.

“My shawl is silk as well, embroidered with pink and silver roses. My shoes are rose satin with silver bows,” she went on, almost breathless. She took his hand in hers. “I am wearing white satin gloves.”

He squeezed her hand. “I cannot see you. May I touch your gown, feel the fabric? Where is the . . . the most polite place to do so?”

She set his hand on her waist, and sat on the edge of the settee beside him. “Here. You touched me there before, in Brussels.”

“The waltz,” he murmured. His last dance. He touched her face, ran his fingertips over her cheeks, her finely arched brows. Her lashes tickled like spiders. She sighed, but kept still, let his hands roam, and he swallowed hard. He should stop, move away, but he found the fringe of her hair, brushed it away from her forehead, moved again, gently caught a dangling pearl earring between his fingers.

“Are you trembling?” he asked.

“A little,” she whispered.

“Why?” he asked.

The pad of his thumb found her lips, half parted, warm and soft. She didn't answer. Instead she leaned toward him, and he was ready for the gentle meeting of their mouths. Her satin-­clad hands came up to cup his face, and she opened her mouth to him. He wanted to pull her closer, wrap her in his arms, draw her down on the settee, but he'd wrinkle her gown, ruin her careful coiffure. The hell with it—­he slanted his mouth over hers, and she made a soft sound as he deepened the kiss, touched his tongue to hers. Was it objection? Desire? How could he know if he could not read it in her eyes? She tasted sweet, and he closed his eyes, pretended it was only darkness, not blindness, that all he had to do was open them again to see her. He concentrated on the softness of her skin, the heat of her body under the silk gown, and the maddening, delicious taste of her mouth. His hand moved upward from her waist, bumped the bottom of her breast, shifted to cup the soft weight. She did not pull away.

A small sound caught his attention before it caught hers—­a throat being cleared, a footstep on the polished wood of the floor. He dropped his hand. Delphine jumped back with a gasp.

“Nick! I was just—­” She stopped.

“We'll be well beyond fashionably late if we don't leave now,” Nicholas said, and Stephen heard the disapproval in his tone, knew he was probably glaring holes in Stephen. He didn't care. He heard Delphine arranging her shawl, listened to the sound of her rapid breathing. How far would it have gone if Nicholas hadn't arrived? He licked his lips, tasted her.

“I was just—­” She began again. No doubt she was under one of Nicholas's blackest stares, ducal and disapproving. If it was possible to hear a lady blush, Stephen was certain he had.

She walked quickly across the floor, the heels of her slippers—­rose satin with silver bows—­beating the rapid cadence of retreat.

“My lady?” Stephen called, and she stopped, turned toward him, the movement of her gown like the rush of water.

“Yes?”

“You'll do,” he said softly.

“What does that mean?” Nicholas asked.

“She looks beautiful,” Stephen said, quirking a smile. “The pink compliments her. Don't you agree, Nick?”

Nicholas hesitated. “Yes of course. She looks very well indeed. Are you ready, Del?”

“I am,” she said. “Good night, Stephen.”

He listened to their departing footsteps, and pictured her in his mind, not in pink, but gold, her hair adorned with daisies, not pearls, with the torchlight in the duchess's courtyard reflecting in her green eyes as she kissed him farewell.