What a Lady Most Desires (10 page)

 

Chapter 20

D
elphine had two letters waiting for her attention, both from her mother, but she knew what they'd contain—­lists of names for her consideration. She could not bring herself to break the seal and read them. She sat in the library alone, pretending to read a book, bored.

Meg and Nicholas were busy refurbishing the nursery, unused since Nicholas was a baby. They were so much in love, so wrapped up in each other that it was hard to be in the same room with them at times. They took up all the air, made her feel breathless and lonely.

She heard a soft knock, and turned to find Sergeant Browning waiting to be acknowledged. She jumped to her feet. “Is something wrong?” she asked at once. “Is he . . . ?”

The sergeant held up a staying hand and shook his head. Stephen was well enough, then. “But he wishes to see me?” she asked. He looked sheepish, and pointed at himself, stabbing a finger into his chest. “
You
wish to see me?”

He nodded slowly. He pointed to the book she'd been reading, and the letters, which had fallen from her lap and lay on the floor. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small stub of a pencil and a pad of paper. Slowly, with great care, he wrote the letters of his name. Then he handed her the pencil and pointed to the paper.

“My name?” she asked.

He nodded.

She printed her name in capital letters, and he studied them. “What's this about, Sergeant?”

He picked up the book and held it out to her. “Thank you,” she said. He took it back again, a look of frustration on his face. He pointed to the book, and then to himself, and shook his head.

Realization dawned. “You cannot read?” He pointed to the paper with their names on it, and shook his head. “Or write?” He nodded again, and pointed to her, then tapped his head.

“You would like me to teach you?” He looked relieved and nodded.

“And in return you'll help me with Lord Stephen?” She held her breath. Could it be that simple? He held her gaze. “I only want him to be whole again, and he can't do that in a dark room, alone.”

His shoulders fell, and he nodded, and held out the book and the pencil, the deal struck between them. Delphine took the pencil from his hand. “Come and sit down. Let's begin with this first. This is the letter A, as in Alan . . .”

 

Chapter 21

B
rowning had shaved Stephen after breakfast, helped him dress as best as possible given the bandages that still swathed his ribs, and the sling on his arm, and carried him here—­though Stephen had no idea where “here” was. He set him gently in a chair with a rug on his knees and pillows behind his back. He was near a window, and the sergeant opened it. Stephen heard birdsong, caught the scent of roses and new-­mown grass. He felt the heat of the sun on his hands and face, the faint stir of the breeze, and wistfully remembered the pleasures of an English summer day.

He heard footsteps crossing the floor, silent when they reached carpet, a quick staccato on the oak floors, and recognized them at once. Delphine. His heart lifted unexpectedly.

“Good morning, my lord. May I say you are looking much better than the last time I saw you?”

“I shall have to take your word for that. Tell me, has it become customary for a lady to enter a gentleman's chamber uninvited? This is not a hospital, after all.”

She laughed, a woman's carefree trill, another sound he associated with a sunny day, and Delphine. He remembered green eyes, a bright smile.

“You sound like my grandfather, old and crotchety. I assure you are quite decently dressed, my lord, and seated in the library, which is hardly a private space.”

He should have known. He could smell leather and the unmistakable dry, dusty fragrance of books. “Browning!” he summoned his servant, intent on asking him to remove him to his own rooms at once.

“He's gone down to the kitchens. Is there anything I can do? I can plump the pillows, or fetch a glass of water if you want one.”

“No,” he said shortly, and scowled into the darkness.

“Then I shall sit quietly and read the newspaper.”

He listened to the rustle as she turned the pages, to the soft sound of her breath, and the creak of her chair. He could feel her presence in the room, smell the faint hint of scented soap. Every nerve in his body was aware of her. He had the distinct desire to move closer, to breathe her in, touch her. She sighed, a faint sound of surprise, perhaps, or dismay?

“What is it?” he asked, his tone sharp. “Is there a crisis in Mayfair? Has a Bond Street modiste run short of pink ribbon in the most fashionable shade?”

“Oh, no such calamity would ever be allowed. It would be tantamount to running out of scarlet wool for military tunics, or leather for boots,” she quipped. “No, I'm reading about Napoleon's capture.”

Stephen felt his chest tighten, wished he could be part of the peace as he'd been part of the war. If Napoleon was in hand, then the wars were truly over. “At last. I assume they won't allow him to escape this time,” he said.

“No indeed. He surrendered himself to the captain of the HMS
Bellerophon
. Apparently the ship is now anchored off Portsmouth.”

“Surely they won't allow him to be received in England! It would be an insult to every Englishman who had to fight him,” Stephen said vehemently.

“He has been denied permission to disembark on our shores, but he's become quite an attraction. Boats can be hired on the beach, and holidaymakers are rowed out to the ship in hopes they may catch a glimpse of Napoleon. The sailors chalk messages on boards to tell everyone what he's doing at each moment . . . dining in his cabin, dictating letters, resting.”

“What do they plan to do with him?” Stephen asked. “If it were up to me, I'd find a distant island and strand him there. Not in the Mediterranean where he can escape. A place where ships do not call, and there is nothing to rule over but rats and gulls.”

“I believe they are looking for just such a place,” Delphine replied. She fell silent.

“What other news is there?” he asked.

“The casualty lists from Waterloo continue.”

“How many lost?” he asked, his throat tight.

“Are you sure you wish to know? Does it matter?”

“Because I am one of the casualties, you mean? Do you imagine after years of war in Portugal, Spain, France, and Belgium that I have not seen my share of death? Every one of those men deserves to be counted and remembered.” He could see their faces in his mind, men dying in agony or already dead, staring up at the clear blue sky as if they could see heaven itself. He rubbed his hand over his own eyes once more, but the only sights left to him were the ones in his mind.

“There are almost fifteen thousand British dead,” she said solemnly. “Twenty-­five thousand French, and seven thousand Prussians.”

Quite a butcher's bill
, he thought. Surely a pampered creature like Delphine St. James could not understand such things. He recalled how close she'd been to the battlefield. Hers had been the first voice he'd heard when he woke, the first soft touch to tell him the battle had ended, and he had lived—­if this could be called living. He felt rage tighten his ribs, make them hurt. What good was the scent of summer roses, the sound of birds, the tantalizing whiff of a pretty woman's perfume if he couldn't see? Of course she did not understand what the casualty numbers truly meant. How could anyone who hadn't been to war know what it meant to lose a friend, a brother, or your own bloody eyes?

“I understand,” she whispered, as if he'd spoken out loud.

He felt her hand on his, her fingers soft and cool, tentative, and for an instant he wanted to throw her off, but he held on, trying to stem anger, fear, and sorrow.

He found the strength to push her away. “How can you possibly?” She let him go, but he could feel her beside him. Pity was the last thing he wanted from her.

“Browning!” he bellowed. “Where are you?” He tried to get to his feet, and his boots tangled in the damned rug as it slid off his lap.

He would have fallen if she hadn't caught him. He felt the fragile frame of her body propped under his until he found his balance. God, she was so delicate—­he'd crush her if he landed on her. She was feminine and warm too, and she slipped her arm around his waist, and held him safe, and he knew that she would not let him fall. There was determination in every inch of her. “This way,” she said, her voice breathy with effort. “Take the next step.”

He could smell the fragrance of her hair, remembered the dark gloss of it adorned with daisies. If he buried his face in it now, would it still smell of flowers? He walked forward, taking a shuffling step each time she did. His ribs hurt with every indrawn breath, his arm ached, and he felt weak and afraid. Her hip was pressed to his, and she waited for him to set the pace. “A few more steps,” she whispered.

“Where am I going?” he asked.

“Your bedchamber is in the salon off the library. Turn a little to your right.”

“My bedchamber, my lady?” he strove for a light tone, charm, but there was sweat trickling into his eyes from the effort of walking even such a short distance.

At last she clasped his hand, stretched it out, and he gripped instinctively, felt the soft wool of a blanket, the edge of the mattress. He turned, and carefully sat down. She let him go and stepped back. He felt cold where her body had touched his.

“There,” she said, breathless. “Rest now. I'll go and find Browning. The London newspapers come every day with the post. Shall I read to you again tomorrow?”

He swallowed, and nodded. He didn't want her to leave him. He wanted to draw her into his arms and hold her, feel the breath in her body, know he was still alive. Instead he stayed where he was, unmoving, and stared into the darkness.

“Then I shall see you in the library at ten o'clock, after breakfast.” She did not press him back against the pillow, or tuck him under the blankets.

“I'll be ready,” he said. He listened to her retreat across the wooden floor, her steps light and swift, and imagined a deer or a colt. The door shut, and he felt as if another level of darkness had been added to the first with her departure.

D
elphine hurried upstairs to the sanctuary of her own room, and collapsed on the bed. Her hands shook.

He had walked across the room. He'd been afraid, pale and sweating, weakened from weeks in bed, but he had done it all the same.

At first, he'd stiffened at her touch, pulled away, but she'd held him up. She felt the strength in him as well as the fear, the lean muscles under his skin, the feel of his male body next to hers, familiar because she'd held him through his nightmares in Brussels. He hadn't known she was there then, but he'd known this time. She knew it had taken a great deal of courage for him to allow her to assist him, to admit he needed her.

She'd watched him come alive as she read the news from London. He had come out of the darkness and back to the world, was the keen, brilliant diplomat once again. She saw his anger at the casualties. He had thrown off her hand when she tried to comfort him, not understanding that she sought comfort as well.

He didn't know that some of those men had died in her arms, or cried like babies, or that she had seen horrific wounds and heard tales she'd never forget.

He had no idea that when she left him after the duchess's ball, she'd rolled up her sleeves and worked hard to offer comfort, seeing him in the face of every injured man. She stared down at her hands now, saw the carefully manicured nails, the fine skin, and the pale violet veins beneath the flesh. They were the hands of a lady, more used to writing letters and waving fans coquettishly, but these same hands could also stitch a wound, bandage it, offer comfort. His quip about pink ribbon had struck at her. Pink ribbon indeed—­she remembered the endless rolls of bandages when he spoke, pristine white, then red with blood, then pink.

They had indeed run out, as Eleanor feared. Her sister had been quite right—­there were never, ever enough.

She had wanted to tell Stephen what she'd seen, to ask how he'd fallen in battle, what he'd felt at that moment. His anger today had spoken volumes, and it had driven him upward, gave him the will to walk across the room. Hope surged in her breast, and she sighed. It was a start. Tomorrow she would try again.

 

Chapter 22

“A
m I decent, Browning, properly dressed?” Stephen asked the next morning. He ran his hand over his hair, checked his cravat. The clock had barely chimed nine, and she would not come until ten, but he wanted to be ready.

Browning tapped Stephen's arm twice, indicating that yes, he was indeed ready.

He had spent the hours thinking about the news after she left him. Did Napoleon's capture mean that Louis XVIII was back on the French throne once more? What was Wellington doing now? If Stephen had not been wounded—­or branded a thief and a coward, he might have been by the commander's side now, assisting again with peace talks, or preparing to take another diplomatic posting. Would the loss of all that be any easier to bear if he could see? He clenched his fists. He was dependent on others to fix this for him, to take care of him, and that was a place he'd never been before.

He heard the clock chime nine thirty. A half hour to wait. What was she doing now? Breakfasting, perhaps? Or was she in her bath, washing with the perfumed soap he could smell in her hair and on her skin? He felt a hard knot of desire clutch low in his belly.

Perhaps he would live after all, if he could still feel desire for a woman, and more unexpectedly, a woman who was not Julia. He hadn't thought of Julia in days. He tried to picture her face, her smile, remember her perfume, but it was like looking through a veil, seeing the past in shadow. Yet when he thought of Delphine, he saw her clearly, standing in a room illuminated by a thousand candles, with daisies in her hair, her gown golden, her eyes green. He could remember precisely how she felt in his arms as they swept around the dance floor, knew the intimate press of her mouth on his.

He licked his lips and got to his feet. Browning was instantly by his side, his hand under Stephen's elbow. “I'm all right,” Stephen murmured. He stood still for a long moment, willing himself to take just one single step. He put out his foot, felt the floor firm beneath it, and shifted his weight. He held out a hand and felt only air before him, and took another step, then another. He moved slowly forward until he bumped into something. His hand roved over a piece of furniture, identified the back of a settee. He moved along the length of it, expecting to find a table at the end, and grinning when he did. It was a small triumph. He could feel Browning close behind him, but he didn't interfere. Stephen took another step, and found a chair, and he traced the shape of the back and arms. He stepped past that, felt a rug under his feet, the change in texture making him unsteady for a moment. He came to the mantel of a fireplace, felt candlesticks, a small clock, the frame of a painting.

He rested, his legs shaking, his heart pounding. He had always been strong and active, yet now, walking across a room made him quiver like an old man. He straightened his shoulders.

“It must be time for my appointment with Lady Delphine by now, Browning,” he said. Browning tapped twice on his sleeve in the affirmative. “I think I'll walk to the library—­with your assistance, of course. Is it far?”

A single tap on his sleeve said no. He let his manservant take his arm. “Then let's not keep the lady waiting.”