What a Lady Most Desires (9 page)

 

Chapter 16

I
f he had to guess—­which he did—­Stephen would say the luxurious guest suite at Hartley House in fashionable Grosvenor Square was furnished in tasteful shades of blue or green. The walls were clad in damask silk and the windows were draped with satin. The furniture was dark oak, and a landscape painting by a notable artist hung over the fireplace, while a small portrait of a Temberlay ancestor hung above the desk. Fresh flowers stood on the table under the window, which overlooked the garden. But Stephen could only imagine these details, save for the fragrance of the flowers.

He was appreciative, however. He might well have been arrested and consigned to a dungeon to await his court-­martial. Instead, he was quartered in comfort, as Nicholas's guest, with Browning to see to his every need, and in the care of one of London's most esteemed physicians. He grunted as the man poked his sore ribs.

“Still tender, eh? Well, it's understandable. You obviously took quite a beating. I'd hate to see the chaps on Napoleon's side if all the heroes are as battered as you are. Well done, sir! All in all, you're healing well. There's no infection.”

Obviously news of the accusations against him had not reached London yet. He listened to the familiar sound of the doctor washing his hands. “What about my eyes? Will I see again?”

The doctor put his instruments back in his bag, the metal clinking softly. “I can't see any problem. Both eyes are clear, and mounted correctly in their sockets. There's no scarring or redness. I'm sure you're hoping for more than that, but I can only say that if your sight does return, it will do so in its own time. You must wait, my lord, and hope.” He paused and cleared his throat. “You must not hope too much, however. You must forge on with the rest of your recovery, and live life to the fullest, whatever happens.”

“And how am I to do that?” Stephen asked, struggling to speak over the lump of panic in his throat. “I was a diplomat, a soldier.”

“Were you indeed?” The doctor said. “Well, in my opinion, you must get up and exercise, keep yourself fighting fit, or your muscles will weaken. You do not wish to live as an invalid for the rest of your life, do you? Unlike myself, you're a young man.”

Stephen coiled his fists in the fine wool of the blankets. “How? I cannot see to walk across the room. I cannot ride or even walk out.”

“A cane will help. Your manservant can guide you,” the doctor said, his tone almost jaunty, as if he were coddling an elderly dowager with a slight case of melancholy. “Make sure your servants keep your furniture exactly where you're familiar with it and you'll soon find your way around.”

“Is there no medication? A tonic, or eye drops?”

The doctor chuckled. “No. Even the best doctor in the world will tell you that sometimes we must leave healing in God's hands, my lord.”

God? God had left him here, in the dark, alone.

There was a knock at the door. “Come,” the doctor called. “Ah, Your Grace. Just at the right moment. We're all finished here.” It was Nicholas, not Meg. There was no scent of perfume, no swish of skirts. He smelled whisky instead, and shaving soap.

“Is the patient healing well?” Nicholas asked.

“Remarkably so. I can see no reason why he cannot journey on to Temberlay Castle. The country air should do him good.”

Stephen tightened his jaw and stared into the blackness. Would ­people forever persist in speaking around him, as if he were no longer present, but had disappeared entirely into the shadows? Nicholas thanked the doctor and shut the door behind him as he left.

“Any news from Horse Guards?” Stephen asked, not bothering with pleasantries. What difference did it make to a blind man what the weather was like? He knew it wasn't raining—­he'd be able to hear it rattling on the windowpanes.

Nicholas pulled up a chair. “Hallet seems to have disappeared entirely, and no one has answered Colonel Fairlie's request for witnesses who saw you during the battle.”

Stephen swallowed. “I see. And the court-­martial?”

“Set for early in October. We still have plenty of time.” The chair creaked as Nicholas leaned forward. “Can you think of anything else, Stephen?”

Stephen shook his head, rubbed his hand over his eyes again, trying to force them back to life, but the darkness remained. He swallowed panic, as familiar now as the constant pain. “You don't by chance have any whisky about, do you?” Stephen asked, forcing a calm, unconcerned tone.

But to his ears, he still sounded desperate, weak, and afraid.

 

Chapter 17

A
lan Browning looked in the mirror and opened his mouth wide, examining the damage caused by the lance that had pierced his cheek and tongue on the battlefield. He counted himself among the fortunate, since he'd been able to walk off the battlefield.

He'd been a sergeant, a man used to yelling orders, and now he was mute as a swan. He'd been a good leader despite the fact that he couldn't read or write anything beyond his own name. A private in his platoon—­now dead—­had taught him that much, and he was grateful. He wished he could still speak, or write more, if only to tell the lad's mother that her son had been kind, and had died a hero.

He was also grateful to Lady Delphine. She might have turned him away from her door since he wasn't an officer, but she insisted they make room for him, had cared for him as if he was one of her own class. He saw how gentle she was with Major Lord Ives—­and she a lady, with no training for that kind of thing. She was endlessly patient, despite the fact that the major was often surly and difficult. He saw the love in her eyes when she looked at Ives, love the major couldn't see. The doctors said he might regain his sight in time, and if he did, Browning hoped the first eyes Major Ives saw looking back at him were Lady Delphine's.

He owed another debt as well, to the officer on the battlefield who'd saved his life, risking his own to see Alan to safety when he was unhorsed during the charge. If the man had left him, he would have been trampled to death. No one else had spared him a glance. Alan had been surprised to find his savior at the villa, blind, injured, and accused of terrible crimes. Now how could the same man who saved a fellow soldier on the field of battle be a coward as well? It didn't make sense. Browning didn't know how, but as soon as he was able, he would find out the truth, tell what he knew of things, and do whatever was in his power to repay the debt.

He owed Major Lord Ives his life.

 

Chapter 18

S
tephen was quartered in a salon on the first floor of Temberlay Castle near the library and the music room, just off from the long gallery and the French doors that led to the terrace. It was set up with a bed for Stephen, and a cot for Browning. Stephen went inside the afternoon they arrived, and did not emerge again. He refused to see anyone, and especially Delphine.

“The doctor said he needs exercise,” she said to Meg over breakfast, worried. “Even if he did not wish to venture out of doors, the long gallery is a perfect place to walk.”

“At least he has Sergeant Browning,” Meg said, tucking into a hearty breakfast for two, her plate filled with ham, eggs, and sausage.

Delphine set her toast down, scarcely touched. “But Sergeant Browning is unable to speak. I can't imagine their conversations are very stimulating.” She added a spoonful of sugar to her tea and stirred it. “Has Nicholas had any news?”

Meg shook her head. “No, but there are weeks yet until the court-­martial. He's been so busy with estate business. Did you know there are at least a dozen local men who fought at Waterloo? They all spend hours comparing their experiences with Nicholas. And when he's not with his steward or the gamekeeper, or trying to find a way to help Stephen, he spends the time he has left worrying about me.” She smoothed a hand over her belly.

Delphine smiled. “We're intruding on a honeymoon, I fear.”

“Not at all. It helps establish a pattern to our lives to have you here. Otherwise we'd just stay in be—­” Meg stopped herself and blushed.

Delphine set her spoon down. “That's exactly what we need—­a routine, a list of activities and pastimes to draw Stephen out of his room, don't you agree?”

“I could ask the servants to set a bench on the terrace for him. Browning could carry him out—­” Meg began, but Delphine shook her head.

“He needs more than that. He should
walk
to the terrace, and walk
on
it as well, and in the garden. He could go boating on the lake, or walk by the river . . .”

“Wouldn't that be rather dangerous?”

“We won't send him out alone,” Delphine said. “Still, perhaps you're right—­but he might be encouraged to join us for meals, or at least for tea.”

“And in the evenings we could have musicales,” Meg added. “You and I both play the piano, and we sing—­”

“I'd best leave the singing to you,” Delphine said and rose to her feet. “Still, I think I'll have a word with Sergeant Browning.”

S
ergeant Browning met her at the door, opening it before she could knock, carrying a breakfast tray out, the contents untouched. As he did every morning when she arrived, he nodded, indicating Lord Ives was well, then shook his head no, the major would not see her.

“He has to come out sometime,” she said, following him down the hall. He looked apologetic, but kept walking. Stephen had made Browning his guardian against the whole world, and the sergeant could not even tell her how Stephen was feeling—­if he was in pain, or dying of despair. It appeared he wasn't eating. She frowned, worried.

Delphine caught Browning's sleeve, drew him to a stop. “Is there anything
you
need, Sergeant? Can I send a letter to your family, get you anything?” He paused to look at her for a moment, surprised, perhaps, by her offer. “Is there someone waiting for you at home? Your wife, perhaps, or a sweetheart?”

She thought a look of pain flashed through his eyes before he resumed walking. She hurried after him.

“He cannot hide forever, and neither can you. Your family, your friends—­they need to know you're alive. Do you think they won't want you back if you're unable to speak? I assure you, they will be very glad to see you again. It won't matter, as long as you're alive—­”

He glanced at her again, and pointed back along the hallway, then at her, a question in his eyes. She blushed. Was it so obvious how she felt about Stephen Ives? She felt her cheeks heat. “I would like to write to his sister, but he will not allow it. Imagine the torments she must be facing, wondering where he is, why he has not written. Your own kin must be feeling the same, don't you think? I can find paper and ink for you, see that your letter is delivered—­”

He turned away abruptly, his scarred jaw tight, his expression unreadable. He reached the door that led to the kitchen and nodded to her before going through, leaving Delphine alone in the hall.

She could have cried. Were men always so stubborn? Did they not understand that the women who loved them—­if they truly loved them—­would bear anything for their sake? There came a time when even soldiers needed to let someone care for them, at least until they were whole again. Stephen would be well again. His sight
would
return. It must.

And if it did not?

She was beginning to fear he would remain hidden behind closed doors forever, and that would be a terrible waste of such a man as Stephen Ives.

 

Chapter 19

“P
oor Delphine. She's so determined to help Stephen. Isn't there anything she can do?” Meg asked her husband early the next morning. She lay across his naked chest in their bed, drawing circles on his skin as he stroked her hair.

“
Why
is she so determined to help him? The Delphine I know wouldn't even have been in Brussels. She would have been here, in England, attending parties and balls and breaking hearts,” Nicholas said. “She should be married and settled by now.”

“You sound as old as your grandmother,” Meg said. “Her brother isn't married yet, and no one comments on that, yet Delphine is ‘on the shelf'. It isn't fair.”

Nicholas gently moved her aside and got up, and she watched him cross the room, stark naked and glorious. The sight of him, clothed or unclothed, never failed to stir her. She wrapped the sheet around her body and watched him splash water on his face. “There's a difference. Sebastian is a man. He has more freedom,” he said.

Meg bristled. “What of Delphine's freedom?”

Nicholas raised his brows. “Surely she's had her adventure. She tended the wounded in Brussels, spent weeks in the company of rough soldiers.”

“Doesn't that make her more heroic, more worthy?” Meg demanded.

“To some.” He shrugged, his eyes on her now. He moved toward her, took her in his arms and kissed her neck. She tipped her head back, reveling in the tickle of his unshaven cheek against her skin.

Meg sighed. “We're talking about Delphine. Try to pay attention. And what about Stephen?”

He kept his arms around her as he met her eyes. “What about him?”

“Don't you think he and Delphine might suit?”

He frowned. “Lord, no. Her family would never approve.”

“Why? Because he's been accused of things he did not do? You'll prove him innocent, Nicholas.” He lowered his gaze, and she squeezed him. “You will, won't you?”

There was doubt in his gaze as he met her eyes. “Don't encourage Delphine in this infatuation of hers, Meg. It will only cause heartache. She used to rescue lame creatures as a girl—­puppies, kittens, wild things. She could never save them, and she cried when they died. There was no comforting her.”

“Stephen is not a lame creature or a puppy. He's a man, and Delphine is a grown woman now.”

He kissed her neck. “That's what worries me.”