Once Upon a Highland Summer (36 page)

“Within hours, I hear. The French crossed the Belgian frontier this morning,” he replied.

She stumbled slightly, and he caught her against his chest for a moment, and guided her expertly into the next step. Her breath stopped again as her breasts momentarily pressed against the hard muscles of his chest. The moment was thrilling, like flying.

He set her down, utterly unaffected, and changed the subject. “How is it you are here in Brussels, my lady, especially now with the London Season in full bloom at home?” She did not miss the slight edge of disdain in his tone. He was making it clear that he thought her the same vain and silly creature he’d known in London, a woman who lived for pleasure and flattery, all sharp wit and flirtation, and no substance. She felt her cheeks heat.

“I came to Brussels with my sister, Eleanor. She’s married to Colonel Lord Fairlie, as you may recall. Meg Temberlay is with us as well. We are lodging at a small estate on the outskirts of the city. It is to be a hospital, if it is necessary. We knew of course that the battle was coming. There are hundreds of men camped in our orchard, and even in the rose garden, but within
hours?”

His eyes lit with interest at last. “Meg? Is Nicholas here?” he said, referring to Meg’s husband, a mutual friend, Major Lord Nicholas Temberlay. She felt hope fizzle as he scanned the crowds, looking for them, forgetting her, even though he didn’t miss a step.

“Nicholas is not in the city, my lord, and we’ve had no real news of him, only that he is on reconnaissance. What does that mean, my lord? Meg is beside herself with worry.”

He swung his gaze back to her. Did he expect her to prattle about the heat of the evening, or the number of guests present, or any of a dozen other banalities? His look of surprise told her that was exactly what he expected from her. He let his gaze brush over her gown, her face, the flowers in her hair before meeting her eyes and looking at her—
really
looking at her, gauging the depths of interest, her intelligence.

“I don’t know. It could mean many things.”

“That’s what we’re afraid of.
Is
there reason to worry? Surely Wellington will crush the French . . .” She stopped when his eyes darkened, her breath catching for an entirely different reason now.

“I do hope so, my lady. But the outcome of a battle is never certain,” he said.

She felt a shiver run up her spine. She tightened her grip on his hand for a brief instant. “Will you—will you fight?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Then you are not here in a diplomatic role?”

“I will ride with my regiment when the order comes.”

She understood a little better the terrible worry her friend Meg and her sister Eleanor felt, having men they loved in battle, waiting and worrying. Bitterness filled her mouth. She swallowed her own fear, and lowered her gaze to his chest.

“The Royal Dragoons,” she murmured, staring at his tunic.

“Yes.” he replied.

Delphine bit her lip. What should a lady say to a man riding off to war? She was suddenly aware this moment might be the last chance she had to speak with him, to tell him—what? That she adored him, admired him, wished he would sweep her out into the June night and kiss her? She’d allow it. She’d kiss him back. She looked up at him hopefully, but he was scanning the room again.

“Lord Ives, I—” she began, but a soldier entered and crossed the room to Lord Wellington, his spurs and boot heels ringing a warning, louder than the music or the laughter of gay ladies, or the tinkle of champagne glasses. Conversation stopped, dancers faltered, and all eyes watched as the soldier bowed and handed the duke a note. Wellington kept his expression carefully blank, but he rose to his feet at once, and nodded to his adjutants. The Duke of Richmond led his esteemed guest to a private room and shut the door behind them. She felt Stephen tense as a buzz of speculation rose, hovered over the gaiety like a black cloud.

“Is it bad?” she whispered.

“Possibly,” he said through stiff lips. “May I return you to your sister, Lady Delphine?”

She felt tears sting her eyes, and panic welled in her breast at the thought of losing him, now or tomorrow, in battle.

She forced a teasing smile. “But the music has not ended.”

He colored slightly. “No, but—”

The door of the Duke of Richmond’s study opened again, and a grim faced cavalry officer emerged and held up his hand for silence. “Gentlemen, finish your dances, take leave of your partners and return to your units at once.”

Dismayed cries rose from the ladies. The music faltered and stopped. Stephen looked around, taking note of the officers in his own regiment. She felt the tension in his body, saw the eager light in his eyes, knew he was already on duty, and she was all but forgotten. Still he kept his hand under her elbow as he caught the arm of a passing adjutant. “What news?”

The young soldier glanced at her and bowed before replying. “Napoleon crossed the frontier at Charleroi. Lord Wellington plans to march out and engage him south of here.”

Delphine put a hand to her throat. It was suddenly real, and frightening. All the past weeks of gathering troops, preparing 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, their brave boasts of the daring adventures they’d have when Napoleon appeared at last. Now he was here, just south of the city, close by. She looked around the room at the keen faces of the men, the tears in the ladies’ eyes. Despair made her sway. Stephen took her arm more firmly, tucking it under his own.

“Come, I’ll escort you back to Lady Fairlie,” he said gently, giving her a brave smile.

She felt the hard muscles under his tunic, warm and alive. For once in her life—and when it mattered most—her tongue knotted. 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 put gripped her hand for a moment, offering her courage. He smiled gently, yet in the depths of his grey eyes, she read something else, a shadow of something indefinable, as if the battle for him might already be lost, as if some great sorrow had brought him here, and he did not care if he lived or died, once his duty was done. That scared her most of all.

“My lord, what—” she began, but they 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 squeezed back. “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 at once 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 Lord Fairlie among them,” he said gently. “We can hope for the best outcome with such odds, I think.”

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

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, would be the one get her sister to safety, instead of the other way around. “Come ladies, I’ll see you to your carriage. The streets will be crowded 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. Delphine watched as Stephen gave an order to one of the Duchess’s footmen, and stayed close to them, protecting them from the mayhem, keeping them safe as they waited for Colonel Fairlie’s coach to arrive.

And who would keep him safe, Delphine wondered. He was still wearing dancing pumps, and surely he’d need to find his boots before battle began. He could not fight in dancing pumps, surely. She felt hysterical laughter bubble up in her throat. A dozen other officers nearby also wore their formal footwear. They could not fight, so they must stay, then, surely. Fear formed a hard knot in her throat, and she tried to swallow it, but it would not go. She scanned the crowds in the torch lit courtyard. She saw a grinning officer mount his horse, stilling the beast’s panic as it capered anxiously. He reached down and hauled a lady up to perch on his stirrup, holding her close, the satin of her gown shimmering. Her arms went around his neck, and their lips met in a long, passionate kiss. Delphine should have been shocked—such behavior would have been unacceptable at any other ball, on any other night than this one, but it was right in this moment, with battle looming. She wondered how many of the men here tonight would die. She looked at Stephen, so alive, strong and vital. She memorized the way the torchlight gleamed on his fair hair, lit his eyes, flamed over the width of his shoulders, made his scarlet tunic glow. He turned and looked at her as if he expected her to speak. Her lips parted, and she stepped closer, but the coach pulled up, and Stephen helped Eleanor into it before taking Delphine’s hand. “Goodnight, my lady, and thank you for the dance,” he said politely. “Remember, if things go awry tomorrow—”

She didn’t want to think about that. She threw herself into his arms to stop the words, the fear, and kissed him. He caught her, and for moment he was stiff, his posture indignant, but she stood on tip toe to hold his face in her hands and kissed his cheeks, his jaw, and his lips, praying that every kiss might keep him safe, bring him back. Then his arms wrapped around her and he caught her mouth with his and kissed her back. His arms tightened around her, and she felt the sudden desperation in him, the need. He pulled her closer, and deepened the kiss, and she opened to his urging, let his tongue sweep in. He tasted of champagne, and wool, and leather—like a soldier, a warrior on his way to battle. She tangled her hands in his hair, pressed closer still, and he held her there, 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 pulled back at once, and met her eyes, his gaze was hot, surprised. He stepped away, and bowed stiffly, the proper and correct diplomat once more, the officer, the gentleman. “Goodbye, 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 be safe,” she whispered, making it a command.

“Of course,” he said. Did he sound sure? She couldn’t tell.

His eyes swept over her. “English daisies,” he murmured looking at the flowers in her hair. “How very . . . English. 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 from me, for luck.”

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

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

She fought with the latch, lowered the window and leaned out so she could watch him walk away. One last gleam of torchlight lit his scarlet tunic, before the shadows swallowed him.

“I will see you again,” she whispered. “You will come back.”

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

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T
HE
S
ECRET
L
IFE
OF
L
ADY
J
ULIA

C
HAPTER
O
NE

London, October 1813

W
hen she looked back on the events of her betrothal ball, Lady Julia Leighton blamed it on the champagne.

Or perhaps it was the heady scent of the roses.

Or it was the fact that Thomas Merritt was not her fiancé, and he was handsome, and he’d been kind, and called her beautiful as he waltzed her out through the French doors and sealed her fate.

Most of all she blamed herself. It had been the perfect night to begin with, every detail flawlessly executed, every eventuality planned for.

Except one.

She had waited twelve years for her betrothal ball to take place, and it certainly turned out to be an evening she would never, ever forget.

She had been engaged to marry David Hartley, the Duke of Temberlay, since she was eight and he was sixteen, and as she smoothed the blue silk gown over her grown-up curves, she had hoped that David would, at long last, see her as a woman, his bride-to-be, and not just the child who lived next door.

She
was
grown up, and pretty too—a chance flirtation in Hyde Park had proven that, and she’d barely been able to think of anything or anyone else since. She wondered now what Thomas Merritt might think of this dress, as she preened before the mirror. Mr. Merritt treated her like a woman, while everyone else—David, her father, her brother—all saw her as little Julia, even if her pigtails were long since gone.