What a Lady Most Desires (22 page)

 

Chapter 49

D
elphine waited until the clock chimed one. She rose and put on her robe, and found her slippers in the darkness. The castle was silent around her as she hurried along the hall. A draft pushed her gown back, ruffled her hair. Was Temberlay haunted? There was a dangerous quality to the darkness tonight, as if someone were watching her running to her lover. Did Stephen feel such things in the prison of his own darkness? She would be safe when she reached him and felt his arms around her. She was almost there.

She turned the corner into the long gallery and stopped. A scream caught in her throat, and she put her hand over her mouth to stifle it.

Nicholas was sitting in the middle of the floor in one of the ornate side chairs. One booted foot rested on his knee, and he held a glass in his hand, and the golden liquid sparkled in the dim light coming through the windows. The decanter sat by the leg of the chair.

“Good evening, Del,” he said, his tone even. It echoed off the portraits.

“You're back,” she managed.

“As of about an hour ago. I didn't want to disturb Meg.” She wrapped her robe more firmly around the thin nightgown underneath, and tied the sash tightly.

“I saw Seb while I was in Town,” he said, and she felt her skin heat.

She raised her chin. “Oh?”

He dropped his foot to the floor, shifted, and she jumped back nervously.

“He misses you. He hopes to see you at Neeland for the house party.”

“I see,” she said around the frog in her throat.

“Will you go?”

Shock spiraled through her chest. There was no denying that Nicholas knew—­she raised her chin. “Are you asking me to leave?”

He got to his feet. “No. I intended to. I thought this conversation would be easier. I
could
simply ship you off to Neeland, I suppose. But I'm not sure you want to go. Do you?”

She shook her head.

“I was considering the matter on the way home—­you and Stephen, that is, and you and Sydenham, even. According to Seb, there will be a whole houseful of men like Sydenham waiting for you at Neeland. It would be like throwing you into a pit of lions. I can't imagine Meg would be happy to see you leave. And Ives—­he's made a remarkable recovery.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I was shortsighted enough to attribute it to healthy country air, and the company of friends—­at least until I saw you here yesterday morning.”

“Nicholas—­”

He held up a hand. “You are welcome here for as long as you want to stay. I'd just prefer not to have to pick up the pieces if this goes badly, and I fear it will.”

“I'm a big girl, Nicholas,” she said.

“Not big enough for this. You're still an innocent, Del, for all you imagine yourself worldly and clever. What do you think will come of this? Marriage? You know he cannot offer you that.”

She wrapped her arms around her chest. “I haven't asked him to marry me.”

“And I doubt he's been foolish enough to ask you, despite what's occurred. Damn it—­in all the years I've known Stephen Ives, fought beside him, called him my friend, I've never known him to behave so recklessly. I could kill him for this.”

She felt his anger like a wall. “It's not his fault—­”

“Then how is any of this possible? Is it some sense of kindness on your part gone awry, or some kind of adventure? I remember you as a child, Del. You rescued a kitten from a farmer about to drown it because it was sickly, rejected by its mother. It couldn't live, but you tried. Oh, how you tried—­and you cried for weeks when it died anyway.”

“Stephen won't die,” she whispered.

“Then why? Because you thought it would make him feel better if he had a woman?” he said, and she flinched at the bluntness of that. Her own anger rose.

“Perhaps I wanted a man,” she said to shock him as he'd shocked her. “Perhaps
I
seduced him.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I can almost imagine that to be true. You do have a way of charming ­people, especially men, binding them in some kind of spell, making them do your bidding. Yet you've never let any man get close to your heart before now, have you? Do you love Ives?”

Her tongue knotted itself around her tonsils, and she was unable to answer.

He made a sound in his throat. “This is wrong, Del. You deserve a man who can appreciate you, who'll watch you strut and preen and drive him mad from across a ballroom. Stephen can't do that. He may never be able to do that. Even if the charges against him are dismissed, the taint will stay with him forever. He'll never be able to resume his career, never be accepted in society again. Your father—­”

Fear ran up her back, and she caught Nicholas's sleeve. “What have you heard? What happened in London?”

He shook his head, laid his hand on top of hers. “Nothing. But it doesn't matter, don't you understand that?”

She tasted bile, swallowed. “Have you spoken to Stephen?”

“About you, or what happened in London?” he asked. “No, not yet.”

“Then don't, Nicholas. What would you say?”

“I'd tell him to damn well leave you alone before he breaks your heart!” he snapped.

“Do I look so fragile?” she whispered. She felt tears sting her eyes. “He needs me.”

“I know,” he said sadly.

“Then what do I do?”

He shut his eyes. “Wait until after the court-­martial. Will you do that at least? Go to your father's party, flirt outrageously, fall in love with someone else if you can.”

She looked up at him. “Then I can stay for now?”

“Yes. Just promise me all this running around in the night will stop.”

She cast her eyes along the gallery, toward Stephen's room. She wanted to tell Nicholas that it was far too late to save her from falling in love with Stephen, but she kept silent. She'd cry if she spoke now.

“You know, he has a heart too—­a very vulnerable heart,” Nicholas reminded her.

She felt the first tear fall. “I would never cause him pain,” she said.

“But he would feel it nonetheless, especially now. Go carefully, sweetheart.”

She nodded, and he held out his arm. “I'm ready for sleep. Can I escort you back upstairs?”

There was nothing to be done but to let him lead her away from temptation.

 

Chapter 50

S
tephen fell asleep waiting for her to come to him. It was for the best that she didn't, of course—­smarter, safer. Meg had sat in the library with them today as Delphine read to him, and he could not touch her, or speak of what had passed between them in the night. What could he have said?

He felt like throwing the pillow against a wall, but how would he find it again? His chest tightened with panic yet again at his blindness. He bunched the pillow under his head instead.

He would have sent her away if she had come—­he told himself that too, even knowing it was a lie. He wouldn't have had the strength to dismiss her. He'd tried that already. He lay in the dark, his cock rock hard just thinking of her.

The clock ticked away the hours. He half rose once, determined to seek out her room, to go to her if she wasn't coming to him. He pictured himself lost in one of Temberlay Castle's hundreds of corridors, or accidentally staggering over the edge of an ancient parapet and breaking his neck. He sat on the edge of the bed and listened, his ears pricking at every sound, but she did not come.

He slept at last, and woke when the birds called dawn. Disappointment made him ache. What now? He would rise, bathe, dress, and eat, as he did every day, with Browning's assistance. Then he would wait until it was time to meet Delphine in the library, and he'd listen to her read. He'd come to love the sound of her voice. Perhaps they would stroll in the garden, sit under the arbor and listen to the bees buzz among the flowers. He would not steal a kiss or touch her if she did not wish it.

If it rained, he might ask her to play the piano for him in the music room. He didn't care, so long as he spent as much of the day as possible in her company.

He made his way to the window, the short distance familiar to him now, even blind. Had he ever been afraid of the dark as a child? He couldn't remember. He did recall the terror of waiting in silent formation on pitch-­dark battlefields, dread grinding in his belly, knowing that with the first light of dawn, the battle would start. At war, the dark always held potential peril.

He pushed aside the heavy damask drapery and stared out at nothing.

The sun was rising, and he felt the light on his face.

His gut tightened. He didn't feel the light—­he saw it. It was the same way it looked in Spain as he stared across the heat-­seared plains, and everything dissolved into a wavering orange mirage. It was a pale imitation of that sun, but shock raced through him, made his knees weak with hope, and the fear that it wasn't real.

Stephen touched his eyes—­carefully this time. They didn't feel any different. He waved his hand in front of his face, saw a faint shadow pass across the sun's glow. He did it again and again, smiling, laughing out loud like a loon. He could see. Well, almost.

He spent the next hour staring out the window, watching the sun, waiting for it to brighten and grow sharper, hoping his vision would suddenly clear, but it remained dim and indistinct. Still it was miraculous. Would it last?

He said nothing to Browning when he arrived, not wanting to jinx his miracle, or in case it was only a temporary reprieve.

He watched Browning's shadowy figure move around the room as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

When he was dressed, he walked the length of the long gallery, in and out of the squares of sun and shadow portioned out across the carpet. He not only felt the sun on his face, he saw it too.

The library was dark when he arrived, still shuttered. “Open the windows if you would, Browning.” He watched the room fill with light.

He listened to the tick of the clock, and turned his head toward it. Could he read the time if he stood closer? He crossed the room, using his cane out of habit, counting the steps so he could return to his chair. He didn't need to. He grinned.

He pressed his face close to the clock's. “Hello, old fellow. Care to tell me the time?”

The timepiece replied with a snooty tick. Stephen could make out dark hands on a pale face, but which was the second hand and which marked the hour was more difficult—­or it would have been if he hadn't already known it was close to ten o'clock in the morning. He waited for the clock to chime, counted to ten, and laughed. He patted the clock's mahogany cheek and returned to his chair.

He closed his eyes when he heard her footsteps in the hall, and waited for her to reach the door. The rustle of her gown was like a whisper of anticipation. The brisk click of her heels fell silent as she stepped onto the carpet.

“Good morning,” she said, and Stephen opened his eyes. His heart leaped into his throat. She was wearing blue.
He could see blue
. He stayed silent, unable to speak.

She paused in front of him. “You're smiling. Grinning, actually.”

“Am I?” He tried to smooth his features to sober calm. “I understand it is a lovely day, quite sunny.”

She looked toward the window. “Yes, it is. Temberlay's steward says it's been an uncommonly long stretch of hot weather, excellent for the crops.”

“Perhaps we might take a short walk in the garden this morning, before it gets too hot?” he asked, aware of the eagerness in his tone.

Her gown swirled—­
peacock
blue, it was—­as she turned back to face him. “Yes, of course.”

He got to his feet and held out an arm to her, and she took it. Her hand was white against the dark wool of his sleeve, and he grinned again.

He listened to her warnings and directions, scarcely needing them. He stared around him at the fuzzy shapes, saw the misty outlines of the edge of the lawn, and the vast brightness of the sky.

He shut his eyes and listened to her voice, heard the drone of the bees, the sigh of wind in the trees, all in the dark. This is all there would be if his vision deserted him again. He dug his nails into the weathered wood of the bench.

He should tell her, but as with Browning, the words stuck in his throat. What if it didn't last? She hadn't come to him last night, and she was distant and proper today. Had she tired of him, thinking he was recovered enough that he no longer needed her?

He needed her more than ever, wanted her. Now he could not imagine life without Delphine. It would be as bad as being blind again.

A shadow fell, leeching the color and light out of everything, and Stephen felt his throat close in dread. Was his sight failing again?

“A cloud has moved across the sun,” she murmured, rising. “Shall we go inside?”

He felt relief. Was that all it was, just a cloud? He let her lead him inside, noted the way she held tightly to him, guided him, held his hand. He would have stopped her then, turned her to face him, kissed her, but she gasped as a shadow moved toward them, and let him go, stepped away.

“I was looking for Stephen,” Nicholas said, his tone grim. He didn't bother with hello.

“Good morning, Nick,” Stephen said. “What an uncommonly long stretch of hot weather we're enjoying,” he parroted Delphine. His friend was as tall as he recalled, as broad, and he had his hands clasped behind his back. Stephen grinned at him.

“I—­we—­were in the garden,” Delphine said, and Stephen heard a note of anxiety in her voice. “Just walking,” she finished lamely. She sounded—­guilty. Ah, so that was it. Nicholas knew. Stephen wondered how that conversation had gone, what he'd said to her. He moved closer to Delphine, a protective, possessive gesture. Nicholas should have spoken to him first. But what would he have said?

“I see you're back from London,” Stephen said, striving to sound casual. “Or rather, it's
obvious
you're back from London. Was it a good trip?”

“Yes. We should talk about it. Let's go into my study,” Nicholas said and turned to dismiss Delphine. “I trust we'll see you at luncheon?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I have some letters to write.” She was backing away, but Stephen stepped toward her and held out his hand. She laid her fingers in his. They were cool despite the heat of the day, and they trembled slightly. “Thank you for your company,” he said, and brought her hand to his lips, and he heard her soft intake of breath. Her nails curled against his palm, and even that simple touch sent shock waves of desire coursing through his body.

“It was a pleasure,” she said, her voice a tad too husky to hide her own reaction to his touch. He let her go. Nicholas stood silently behind him, his eyes as sharp as a bayonet between Stephen's shoulders, and Delphine fled.

They made their way to the study, and settled into the leather chairs that flanked the fireplace. Red leather, Stephen noted.

“You met with Greenfield, I trust?” Stephen asked.

“Yes, at White's.”

“Were you able to convince him I'm not a thief?”

Nicholas sat forward. “He's looking for a book, a volume of poetry, old and valuable. He thought perhaps you might—­” He paused. “Would you care for a drink? It's early, but I had a long ride home last night.”

Stephen felt his skin prickle. “What happened? You almost sound convinced I have the book.”

Nicholas ignored the comment. “Greenfield didn't see you on the battlefield, and therefore won't comment on the charges of cowardice. I'll write to Charles Stewart in Vienna. He was there when you were, and he took over as ambassador when Wellington left for Belgium when Napoleon returned. I thought he might be able to offer a reference on your good character.”

Stephen's stomach dropped to his boots. “That's the last thing Stewart will do. He's more likely to volunteer to command the firing squad at my execution.” Nicholas was silent. “It doesn't look good, does it?”

“I'll continue to do what I can,” was all Nicholas said.

“Thank you,” Stephen said.

Nicholas pressed a tumbler of whisky into Stephen's hand. He felt the points of the cut crystal, saw shards of light glinting off the whisky. “I saw Delphine's brother in London as well.”

“The incorrigible Lord Sebastian St. James,” Stephen murmured.

“He's quite concerned about Del, and thinks she should heed her parents and find herself a suitable husband.”

Stephen took a long sip of the whisky, let it burn a path down his throat. “Oh? Have they someone in mind?” He sounded almost normal.

“A friend of Seb's, Viscount Durling. Sebastian said he was at Waterloo. Did you know him?” Nicholas asked, his tone careful. Stephen felt his friend's gaze on him, gauging his reaction. He kept his expression flat.

“No. Has he accused me of nefarious deeds as well?”

“He's looking for a wife, and Sebastian likes him. He thinks Del should seriously consider his suit.”

“I see,” Stephen said.

“Do you?”

“I won't stand in her way, if that's what you think,” Stephen said through tight lips.

“She deserves to be happy.”

“And she wouldn't be with me?”

“You know that well enough yourself.” Nicholas's voice dripped ice. “Let her go.”

“Does she want Durling?” he asked, feeling the ragged fangs of jealousy gnawing him.

“She might. He'll be at her father's house party. Sebastian says he's charming, good-­looking, and eager to meet Del. Not like the bores her mother throws at her.”

He sounded perfect. He remembered Delphine with the duke at her mother's ball, charming, flirtatious, delightful. What man could resist? He tried not to picture her in Durling's arms, or in his bed, her hair falling over
his
chest. He clenched his fist against the fury in his breast.

He tried to remember if he had met the man in Brussels. He was sure he hadn't. Had he seen Delphine there and admired her? Perhaps at the duchess's ball, while she was waltzing with him.

He shut his eyes, let darkness return again. He was going to lose Delphine to a better man than himself, a whole, healthy man she could fall in love with, a man unmarked by accusations of cowardice, the heir to an earldom, the kind of man she was raised to marry. He could not stand in her way. He had no right to.

So that was why she'd been so distant with him today, why she had not come to him last night. He felt the loss of her keenly, like another bullet tearing into his flesh. Worse. He felt his stomach churn, and he concentrated on keeping his expression flat and calm, knowing Nicholas was watching him. He clutched the glass in his hand tighter, felt the crystal cut into his flesh. If she knew his sight was returning, would that make her decision to leave him easier, speed her departure?

He turned toward the window, stared into the unfocused shimmer of light. It was like looking at a candle flame through a veil of black lace.

“Do you know him?” he asked Nicholas. “Was he in London?”

“No to both questions.”

He couldn't let her go, didn't want to. How soon would she leave? Tomorrow, or the day after that, perhaps? Pain gripped him hard.

The viscount would have the rest of his life to love Delphine. Would it be so terrible to claim a few more days for himself? If he did not tell her that he could see, if she thought he still needed her, would she stay longer? He did need her. He wanted her, but he couldn't tell her that either.

She would go, of that he was certain, but he would not make it easier for her to walk away, her duty done, her brilliant future awaiting her.

Nicholas was watching him, waiting for him to say something.

Stephen forced a smile. “Shall we toast to her happiness?” he asked lightly, though it sounded bitter, sarcastic to his ears. He swallowed the rest of his whisky in a single gulp.

“It's for the best,” Nicholas said. “She deserves to be happy.”

Stephen felt numb. He almost wished he were still blind. Whatever decision Delphine made concerning her viscount, whatever fate had in store for him, he didn't want to see it coming.