Sebastian set the page down. “Why don’t you come to my father’s house party? Delphine will be there, along with a number of my father’s political associates, and my mother’s society friends. They always invite a number of eligible ladies for my sake as well. Since I’m not interested, perhaps you might avail yourself of the opportunity to meet a potential bride.”
Peter sat up. “Delphine will be there?” he asked.
“Of course. Actually, she was in Brussels with Eleanor for a while. Did you see her there, by chance?”
Peter recalled the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, his encounter with the lovely Delphine, and Stephen Ives’s unwelcome intervention. He remembered Ives’s threats to ruin him too. Where was Ives now? Peter hadn’t seen him since he’d found him half dead on the battlefield. He’d made sure that Ives would not cause anyone any trouble—if he lived. He hadn’t heard if he had or not. He shrank from checking casualty lists. A good many men who were far better than he was had died, while he, wastrel that he was, had survived. He did feel at least a small measure of guilt.
“Delphine,” he tried her name on his lips. “No. I met her only the once with you here in London. I would have gladly renewed our acquaintance in Brussels, but our paths did not cross.”
“Pity. She’s staying with friends in the country at the moment—Nicholas Temberlay and his new duchess. Do you know them?”
“I know of the man’s towering reputation, of course. Isn’t he known as Devil?”
“Indeed he is,” Sebastian chuckled. “Though married life has tamed him somewhat.”
“How dull,” Peter drew on his cigar until the end glowed scarlet. “Still, if Delphine will be at your father’s party, I might consider attending.”
“I’ll arrange an invitation,” Sebastian said. “Shall we retire to White’s for the evening?”
Peter considered. “Better Brooks’s, I think.”
There were too many men at White’s he owed money to.
Chapter 26
Dearest Dilly,
I hope this letter finds you recovered in body and spirit from your ordeal. I am pleased to report that no one I encountered in London before my departure for Neeland Park had a word to say about your sojourn in Brussels. I cannot help but see this as a good sign. Your father believes it would be most advantageous for you to come home for the house party. Please write and say when we might expect you—do come at least a fortnight before the party, if you please, so we can go over the list of eligible gentlemen invited, and make plans. Your father feels the party should be in the nature of a celebration of the glorious victory at Waterloo. There may be military gentlemen present, and I fear I will be uneasy if the conversation turns to the specifics of battle. I shall have my maid standing by with my vinaigrette, and I trust you will be well able to deflect such inappropriate talk, not by encouraging it, but by changing the subject with charm and grace. I shall await news of your arrival date by return.
Maman
Delphine set her mother’s letter aside and sighed. If she was going home to Neeland, she had only a few short weeks left here at Temberlay. There would be soldiers at her father’s party. What if they did wish to speak of Waterloo? Worse, what if they pretended it had all happened in bloodless, painless glory? She could not bear that. She imagined her mother’s horror if she added her voice to the conversation, not to mention the horror of the gentlemen present. It would not do. Her parents would expect her to do what she did every year at Papa’s house party—to charm, flirt, and suppress her opinions entirely. She wasn’t sure that she could do that either.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Browning entered at her call. She rose at once with a smile, and glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was time to meet with Stephen. These hours had become the highlight of her day. She pushed the letter back into the envelope and put it with the rest, forgotten.
Chapter 27
Every night before he went to sleep on the cot tucked behind a screen near the major’s bed, Alan Browning practiced his letters. There was no fear of the candle keeping the major awake. While the rest of his wounds were healing nicely, there was no sign of his vision returning.
Alan used the Bible, the only book he knew by heart, searching for the words he needed, and copying them into a notebook. It was frustratingly slow, but there was no other way. If the lance had struck but an inch to the left, if it hadn’t been for the major . . . his hand cramped around the pencil, and he let go, flexed his fingers, and picked it up again. Time was running out.
Alan wished he could ask what punishment an officer might face if he were found guilty of cowardice. Would he be stripped of his rank, disgraced, or did they hang officers the way they’d hang a common soldier for such an offense? It couldn’t be allowed, not when Browning knew Major Ives was innocent.
Alan had been a soldier since he was fifteen. A local lass had rebuffed his attentions, and imagining that the world had come to an end, he’d run away to take the King’s shilling.
He’d fought in Portugal, Spain, France, and Belgium, grown up in the army, found other lasses, other things to fret about. He’d been a little relieved when Napoleon’s escape from Elba had drawn him back to war—it was all he knew. He didn’t want to think about what he would do now it was truly over—and him without even a voice.
Lady Delphine was patient with his slow progress with his letters, and praised each small step forward. How she adored the major—she fairly glowed after time spent in his company, even more than she had before.
Alan wasn’t sure that was entirely a good thing—a bright lady like her tied to a blind man. She deserved a man who could appreciate her beauty, compliment her, see the love in her eyes.
And yet, in her company, the major was different too—braver, stronger. He was still in pain, still fearful of the darkness, but she made him forget that, and even if he couldn’t see her, Major Ives could hear her voice, and feel the gentle touch of her hand.
He put the pencil down and rubbed his own eyes. They were all waiting for something—Major Ives waited for the court-martial that would determine his fate, and for his sight to return. Lady Delphine waited for the major to understand how much she loved him, and Alan was waiting for whatever the future held beyond helping the major.
He counted the words as he said them in his head, from memory, until he found the ones he wanted. Let there be light. He copied them carefully into the notebook.
Chapter 28
“I tell you, I have never known such hard work,” Nicholas said with a satisfied sigh.
Stephen smiled. “You must be as tanned and brawny as a farmhand, Your Grace.”
“I have blisters on my palms from swinging a scythe to help bring in the hay,” Nicholas said happily.
“I daresay you are the only duke in England who mows his own hay,” Stephen said, wishing he could be outside with his friend. Instead, he sat here in Nicholas’s study, the air thick with the scent of ink, whisky, and wood polish, his own palms soft and useless. He closed his fist in his lap.
Although he still tired easily, he made himself walk along the gallery several times a day, hoping he’d regain at least some of his former strength. There were now ropes along the walls that he could use as guides, with knots tied every six feet so he could measure his progress, but he was not up to swinging a scythe in the summer sun yet.
Stephen brought his glass to his lips and sipped carefully without spilling it—another skill he’d learned. The whisky burned along his throat pleasantly.
“I sheared a sheep last week,” Nicholas enthused. “Took me twice as long as any of the lads, but I did it.”
“One of the white-faced border Leicesters, no doubt,” Stephen said.
“How in hell did you know that?”
“A hardy breed. Good milkers with excellent wool. Delphine told me.”
“Delphine St. James?”
“Is there more than one Delphine?” Stephen asked with a smile. “Her grandfather tried to t
each her brother about husbandry on the family estates. Delphine was the one who listened.”
Nicholas barked a laugh. “I doubt Sebastian knows the back of a sheep from the front. They may be siblings, but Del and Sebastian are complete opposites. Sebastian is silly, and Del is far more serious. If only she were Ainsley’s heir.”
This time Stephen wasn’t surprised. He’d been wrong, thinking her haughty and foolish. In the past days—weeks—he’d discovered that she was intelligent and witty. “Tell me something about the crops here, or the land use, or the price of corn even, so I can impress her. She is insisting I must attend the haying supper. I can’t ask her to dance, so I should at least have something interesting to talk about.”
Nicholas was quiet for a moment. “Why do you want to impress Delphine?” he asked at last. “Just what are your intentions toward her?”
Surprise leaped along Stephen’s veins. “Intentions? I have no intentions. How could I? She reads to me, talks to me, and acts as my eyes, and that’s all,” Stephen said. A diplomat was always ready, stayed well-versed in local protocol and conversation for every type of event—even when the event was a haying supper, he told himself, straightening in his chair.
“Does Delphine know that?” Nicholas asked.
Did she? He enjoyed her company, and that was all. Or was it? He recalled his arousal, brought on by nothing more than the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice. “You sound like her brother,” he muttered.
“I love her like a brother. I’ve known her since she was a girl with pigtails and freckles, following Sebastian and me around like a puppy.”
Stephen shut his eyes, felt his own worthlessness in his friend’s comment. Had he gone too far? He forced himself to laugh. “Look at me—I’m in no condition to make an offer—or an advance.”
Nicholas didn’t issue any further warnings. Stephen gritted his teeth, mortified.
“Do you want me to—discourage—her?” Had he encouraged her?
“I think that would be for the best, don’t you?” Nicholas’s suggestion was more akin to a command.
Stephen took another sip of whisky. Without her, the long days of darkness yawned like a pit. “She will eventually tire of playing nursemaid to a blind coward,” he said aloud. “In just a few weeks the autumn round of parties and balls will begin. She’ll wish to attend those, be with men who can see how lovely she is, flirt with her, compliment her.”
“You don’t know Delphine at all if you think that,” Nicholas said.
Stephen felt a surge of anger. He didn’t want to know more, didn’t want to fall in love with a woman he could never have—not again. It wasn’t love, anyway—merely gratitude. She was a companion, a distraction, a friend. Though he didn’t usually feel an almost overwhelming desire to kiss his friends.
“I am not holding her here, or behaving in any way that would give her hope—or dread—of any deeper feelings than simple acquaintanceship,” he said stiffly. “I will always be grateful to her for bearing me company during these trying days.” It sounded like something carved into a peace treaty in finest copper plate—no emotion or passion, just words. “But that is all.” Another ending, another loss, with more still to come. He felt a bead of sweat crawl down his spine.
“And when this is over—” Nicholas began, but Stephen interrupted angrily.
“Over? What is the punishment for cowardice and theft? Is it greater depending on the importance of the battle? Will I face disgrace, death, or just imprisonment? I am in prison already.”
“There’s still hope,” Nicholas said, but Stephen heard the dark note in his tone.
He reached out to find the edge of the table, and set his glass down carefully. He got to his feet, felt Nicholas’s hand under his arm, and shrugged him off, then realized he could not even leave the room without his friend’s help, his pity, his charity. He was forced to let Nicholas lead him back to Browning’s care.
“Nick?” He swallowed the bile in his throat.
“Yes?”
“You will tell me if you find anything that might help prove my case, won’t you? Or even if there’s negative evidence?”
“Of course,” Nicholas said stiffly, and Stephen listened to his footsteps receding.
Chapter 29
Darling Dilly,
I have been entreated by Maman to harry you as to when you will be arriving at Neeland for the house party. I’m still in London, but I’ve had a flurry of notes from her begging me to write to you. I am not one for writing letters, as you know, but I can now say that I have fulfilled my filial duty.
In truth, I am also writing because if I must be at Neeland for the party, making nice with father’s Tory cronies and their long-toothed and marriageable daughters, then I insist you come and keep me company. A friend of mine will be travelling from London with me, and he should prove to be amusing company, or possibly more. In fact, Durling is eager to renew his acquaintance with you, and I have promised that you will be a bright spot of cheerful company amid the sober and serious sticks at Neeland. We could detour to Temberlay and collect you if you so wish, though Maman will have apoplexy at the very idea of your travelling such a distance over rough roads in my curricle, though I know you would enjoy every minute. Write back and tell me if you would like Durling and myself to fetch you, and we will be there with bells on.
Give my regards to Nicholas and his duchess. I fear she does not approve of me, but I’m sure you would say that I can’t blame her for that when I live as I do. At length—great length I hope—I shall find a bride as well bred and stern as Nicholas’s, and when that dreadful state of affairs occurs, I will remain— for the most part—as sober as a judge for the rest of my days.
Seb
It was a rare thing indeed to get a letter from Sebastian. Delphine smiled at her brother’s message, but she could not recall meeting anyone by the name of Durling.
She looked across the surface of the little desk, through the open window of the music room to the woods beyond the garden. The silver thread of the river glittered among the trees, and she longed to walk beside it, where there might be a cool breeze to make the hot weather more bearable.
She turned as Browning escorted Stephen into the room, tucking Seb’s letter into the pocket of her gown. “Good morning,” she said, smiling at him, her heart kicking into a rapid tattoo.
He stopped in his tracks and frowned. “I did not know this room was occupied. I thought you’d be in the library. I won’t interrupt.” He stepped backward, but Delphine hurried to take his hand. His fingers didn’t curl around hers—they stayed stiff and cold. Her heart climbed into her throat.
“I’m not occupied. The post just arrived, and there was a letter from—someone. The Times is here. Shall we see what the news of the day is?”
He plucked his hand free, curled it over the top of his cane. “No. I won’t keep you. I’m sure there are things you would rather do.”
My, but he was starchy this morning. “Nonsense. I look forward to hearing your opinions on the news. Or we could talk—I have been to the village with Meg this morning already to collect some lace for a shawl she’s making for the baby. She’s napping at present, and I am rattling around the place, left to my own dull devices. I would welcome your company.”
“Do you not sew?” he asked. He said it like it was the most dreadful shortcoming imaginable in a woman. Her smile faltered.
“Not well. I once made a bonnet for Eleanor’s son, but it was so large and shapeless it would have served him better as a satchel. I have not been invited to do any important needlework since.”
He smiled as if he could not help it, though he obviously tried. His grin faded as quickly as it had appeared.
“It is a lovely day, and I am always so restless indoors when the weather is fine. I was thinking that there must surely be a cool breeze by the river.”
“Too far,” he said shortly.
“Perhaps we could go by cart?”
He did n
ot reply, just stared into space and scowled ferociously. “Are you in pain?” she asked.
“Of course I’m in pain, my lady,” he said sarcastically.
Delphine. Her name was Delphine. He’d used it yesterday. Her stomach knotted. “Then would you like some willow bark, perhaps?” she asked, looking at him, trying to see if there was any swelling, or if he looked pale or feverish. He did not look as if he’d welcome her touch.
“No,” he said querulously.
Where was her charming companion, the one who made light of his injuries, who amused her as much as she did him? She put a hand to her mouth. Was it his court-martial? Had more damning evidence come to light? His expression warned her not to ask.
She did as she often did when she needed to think. She crossed to the piano and began to play, let her anxious fingers fly over the keys as the music flowed into her body, filled her mind. He stood still, his expression unchanged, staring into the light that poured through the window, though she knew he could not see it. She shut her own eyes, and kept playing, feeling the music in her chest, holding tears at bay. She was almost glad he was blind, could not see how he’d hurt her. She did not open them again until she heard applause.
To her surprise, Stephen was gone, and Meg was standing in the doorway with an elegant gentleman she did not know. He was the one applauding.
“Delphine, may I present Viscount Sydenham? Lord Sydenham, this is Lady Delphine St. James. His lordship’s father is the Earl of Halidon, our neighbor to the north.”
The gentleman bowed crisply, and Delphine dipped a curtsy. With the formalities seen to, he beamed at her. “My father is a great friend of your own pater, my lady. He received a letter from Lord Ainsley to advise us you were here visiting Temberlay. Unfortunately, Halidon is ill and not able to travel even this far from home at present, but he insisted that I come and present our regards to you.”
Delphine smiled. He was tall and handsome, with dark curly hair and sideburns that swept forward on his cheeks. He looked at her with bright interest, assessing her from top to toe and back again. She was used to such bold appraisal, and she offered him a smile in return—for her father’s sake, of course. “How kind of you to come, my lord. My father has spoken of Lord Halidon often, and with great admiration.”
What a Lady Most Desires Page 12