What a Lady Most Desires

by Lecia Cornwall

  “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.

  Delphine 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

  “Am 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.”

  Chapter 23

  He was seated in a chair when she arrived in the library. He was freshly shaven, dressed in a waistcoat, cravat, breeches, and boots, his arm still in a sling. He took her breath away. She smiled at him, and smoothed a hand over the sprigged muslin of her dress before recalling that he couldn’t see her. The thrill of delight in her breast dimmed only slightly. He waited quietly, his eyes fixed.

  His lack of sight permitted her to stare in a way she wouldn’t have dared if he could see. His eyes were still clear and gray and intelligent, his countenance as handsome. The cuts and bruises left by the battle had healed, leaving a few small scars, which would fade. She curled her fingers against a desire to touch the little marks. Did they still hurt? Her belly tightened, remembering how he’d arrived at the villa, so close to death.

  “Lady Delphine? Are you there?” he asked, turning his head, his brow furrowing. She stepped forward.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said, and sat down at a mahogany table near him.

  “What has the world been up to lately?” he asked. “I trust Napoleon is still safely in British custody.”

  “Indeed he is. Apparently, the Duke of Randwick had himself and a party of friends rowed out to the Bellerophon. He demanded to be taken aboard to have tea with Napoleon. He was most put out when Captain Maitland refused to allow it.”

  “Quite correct,” Stephen said. “He is a prisoner, not an honored guest.”

  “There is a caricature that shows His Grace in a rowboat pointing a pistol at the captain. The captain in his turn is pointing a cannon at the duke.” She was rewarded with Stephen’s smile, noted the dimple in his cheek.

  “What news is there from Paris?” he asked.

  “King Louis has made Lord Talleyrand both his foreign minister and his prime minister. The king has insisted that he will not have his relatives on his council of state, not even his heir.”

  She watched the emotions cross his face as he listened and considered—interest, disapproval, frustration. She could imagine him there, in Paris or Vienna, an envoy and a witness to these great moments of history. He would be there, if he had not been injured.

  “Did you know the French foreign minister well?” she asked, seizing on his reaction to Talleyrand’s name. “I’ve heard it said he’s a wily adversary, and from what I have read, I think he gained far more than he deserved at the peace talks in Vienna—” She stopped speaking, remembering that Stephen had been present at those talks, probably found her opinions dull and uninformed, but his face showed su
rprise, not disdain.

  “Yes, he was wily—and very charming, which is likely why he succeeded as he did. I daresay Wellington will find him less agreeable. His Grace is a soldier first, and a diplomat second.”

  “But surely he will find it necessary to be both for the moment,” she said.

  “Yes, of course. He is an excellent general, used to anticipating his enemy, to outmaneuvering him. He reads a battlefield like a newspaper, uses his wit and intellect as well as his gut to make decisions,” he said passionately. “Wellington’s strategy is swift and decisive. Talleyrand will not find it as easy to switch tactics and change the rules now.”

  “How do other diplomats manage such great events?” she asked.

  “We listen, gather information, and move with care.”

  She leaned on her hand and gazed at him. Was he even more handsome now? His eyes were keen, his face alive. He sat forward, leaning toward her, his uninjured hand moving in explanation. She put her hand on the table, an inch from his, their fingers almost touching, but not quite.

  “You sigh, my lady. Am I boring you?” he asked. She pulled her hand back. “Tell me, how would you handle such events, people like Talleyrand, if you were a diplomat?”

  She considered. “Well, I suppose I would start by watching them, learning about them. I imagine it is not just a matter of demanding what you want, and expecting your opponent to agree. You must put yourselves in their shoes, so to speak. There is a great deal of misunderstanding in any social interaction, is there not? The nuances of a glance can be easily mistaken for something unintended, a sigh or a sniff, or a frown, for instance—”

  She looked at him, wondering if she was boring him, or amusing him, or just sounded like a ninny. He’d turned away, all those months ago. She held her breath and waited for him to turn away now.

  “Go on,” he said. “What then?”

  What then indeed? If she were handling a thorny duke, cajoling him to her father’s point of view, or rebuffing an ardent suitor, what would she do? “Charm him,” she murmured. “You make them think you are giving them exactly what they want, let them believe they’ve won. You cannot allow them to see that you are as clever as they are—cleverer, in fact. Then, when they think they’ve got you, offer a compromise. No, dinner would be quite impossible, but the last dance in the third set, perhaps. A stroll in the park would be preferable to ride in a closed carriage . . .” She was babbling. She put a hand to her forehead, waited for him to give her a wan smile of utter boredom and plead tiredness.

  He leaned toward her instead, and smiled. It stole her breath, made her set her hand over her heart. “Exactly right. You let them expose every facet of themselves, while you keep the truest parts of yourself hidden away,” Stephen said.

  Is that how he did it? “Yes,” she said. “Exactly as it is when navigating the ton. They’re also best handled with diplomacy.”

  “Not politics? Power versus tact?”

  Was he mocking her? She raised her chin.

  “My father is a prominent member of parliament. They say he may be Prime Minister one day. I was raised to become the kind of wife who would support her husband’s political opinions—which would, of course, match my father’s.” A slight untruth, that—she had plenty of opinions, and they did not always agree with Ainsley’s.

  “And yet you haven’t married. Are Tories thin on the ground at present?”

  She felt her heart constrict. Did he truly not understand? You showed me what I could be, who I am. You left me ruined for the kind of man my parents want me to marry . . . “Yes, that’s it,” she murmured.

  “Truly?” he said, his brows rising.

  “The truth is—” She swallowed. “The truth is that I have not found a man I wish to marry.”

  “What kind of man do you want?”

  You, she thought, shutting her eyes. But he did not want her, and such a comment would only embarrass them both. She could not think what to say.

  “Are you still there?” he asked. “Is it such a difficult thing to know?”

  “Perhaps I am the thing that is most difficult, or stubborn. What of you? Why aren’t you married?”

  He smiled again, another a flash of white teeth. “Oh, you would make an excellent diplomat—turn the tables on your opponent, make them talk while you reveal nothing. Very good! The truth is that I watched my sister lose her husband and her child to fever. It nearly destroyed her too. As a soldier, I stand a greater chance of being killed in battle. I do not wish to cause another woman such terrible grief, the loss of the man she loves. I had once thought—” He shook his head, and she wondered if he was thinking of Julia, married elsewhere. His hand curled to a fist beside hers, knuckles white.

  “Surely we must risk unhappiness to find happiness,” she said, resisting the urge to lay her hand on his.

  “Yes,” he said, his brow furrowing. “But if you lose—” he swallowed. “Perhaps it’s time for a lighter subject.”

  She saw the pain in his expression, watched his face close. “Then what would you like to talk about? I am well informed on a number of subjects. We could discuss the corn laws if you wish, or we could return to the Duke of Randwick and gossip about how he recently arrived at the Countess of Lenmore’s ball quite foxed, and it took four footmen to carry him out to his coach. Or we could talk about the latest fashions, or French art—in French if you like, since I am quite fluent.” It was her usual range of topics—politics, gossip, fripperies, and nonsense.

  Now he turned away. A soft breeze stirred the curtains at the open window, ruffled his hair, and he turned toward it. “Is the sun shining today?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s a lovely day.” She got up and went to the window. “The roses are coming into bloom. Would you like to go out?”

  His nostrils flared, and his hand gripped the arm of his chair. “I think not. If you wish to go out, I will wait here.”

  “I would prefer an escort.”

  “Are you taunting me, my lady?” he asked. “I am hardly fit to escort you.”

  “Not at all, my lord. I have a desire to walk in the garden. As a gentleman, you are obliged to accompany me, are you not?”

  “Under ordinary circumstances I would most certainly do so,” he said, stiffening.

  “Well, it is a Tuesday morning, the weather is fair, and the roses are in bloom. I can think of nothing more ordinary than that.”

  “Perhaps Browning will assist me to the terrace, and I will be within hailing distance if something should befall you. I can send him to your rescue at once.” She heard regret in his tone.

  She rose. “Browning is not here. I sent him to the village on an errand. It would take him some time to come to my aid. I must count on you, and you on me. I see no reason why you cannot offer your arm and allow me to be your eyes.” She went to the fireplace, and picked up the poker. She took it to him, boldly picked up his hand and wrapped it around the wrought iron handle. His fingers closed on it. “Use this as your cane if you do not trust me.”

  “It is myself that I do not trust,” he muttered.

  She gave an exaggerated gasp. “My lord! I am flattered by the sentiment, but I shall not allow you any liberties—you can trust that, if nothing else.”

  His brow furrowed for a moment, then he laughed. “My lady, I do believe you are quite used to getting your way. Yes, you would have made a skillful diplomat indeed.” She flushed at the compliment, preened, but he could not see it. He held out a hand to her and got to his feet. “Lead on, then, and I shall do my best to keep up.”

  She took a breath and put her hand on his sleeve, felt a thrill of delight, and took the first step toward the open French doors.

  Stephen felt the sun on his skin. He shuffled across the flagstones of the terrace, slow and hesitant. Then there were two terrifying steps down to the lawn, and he poked at them with his makeshift cane before setting his feet down. He concentrated on that, trying to ignore the woman next to him, though he was holding on to he
r arm for grim death. She was steady, careful, and patient. For a moment, he’d seen the woman he’d met at her mother’s ball, the interesting, charming, clever Delphine, the lady he’d admired wholeheartedly the instant Nicholas introduced them—until the moment she left his side for better company. He’d watched her fawn over a duke, flirting outrageously and laughing too loudly. He had decided that the shallow coquette must be the real Delphine. He wondered now, as he had in Brussels, if he’d been wrong.

  “There’s a step ahead,” she said now, and he gripped her arm tighter still. He could feel the softness of her muslin sleeve, the strength of her arm beneath. He felt the slight brush of her breast against his shoulder. He was surely crushing her, and he was improperly close. He wanted to stop moving, step away and stand still, wait until Browning came to rescue him. His chest was tight, his heart lodged in his throat, but she was by his side, as calm as if he really was a proper escort, and he kept moving forward, took another step and survived it. Her skirt swished against his leg, her step matching his. He could do this, then—walk in the garden, a simple thing he’d once taken for granted—but only because she had insisted. He wasn’t sure if he was the weakest man on earth, or the most fortunate.

  He felt the grass, soft and thick beneath his feet. The scent of roses grew stronger, the buzz of bees louder.

  “There are sheep out beyond the wall,” she said. “They look like clouds on the lawn.”

  “The black faced ones?” he asked.

  “No, they’re white-faced Border Leicesters—fat and fluffy with long ears and hooked noses like Lord Wellington’s.”

  He smiled. “You sound as expert as a Leicestershire shepherd.”

  “My maternal grandfather—the Duke of Aubrey—took a great interest in the sheep on his estate. When we visited, he would insist that Sebastian memorize the various breeds and their qualities, since he would one day control agricultural estates of his own.”

  “I can hardly imagine Lord Sebastian St. James as an expert on sheep,” Stephen said.