“Are you wearing flowers in your hair?” he asked, leaning up on one elbow.
“Actually, I’m wearing very little at all.”
He felt the shock of that pass through him. “What on earth does that mean?”
He heard a splash, then a cry. “Delphine?” There was no reply. “Delphine?” he called out again, louder this time, and groped for her. She wasn’t there.
She’d fallen into the river. Even now she was likely drifting downstream, weighed down by petticoats and stays and layers of clothing. He pulled off his boots, cursing, and stumbled toward the water. The bank was slick under his feet, and the mud oozed between his toes. He walked in—skidded, really—and felt the icy chill of the water come up over his ankles, his calves. His balls shriveled against his body, but he kept going, and his heart pounded in his throat. He thrashed the water with his hands, trying to find her. He heard a splash to his left, and turned his head. “Delphine?” he called, terrified for her. What use could he be? He’d get them both drowned.
“Here,” she said.
“Thank God. Are you all right? Did you fall in? You can’t swim, can you? What woman can?” he babbled, wading deeper. “Keep talking if you can, and I will swim to you. Don’t panic.”
The water had reached his chest, and his feet lifted off the bottom, and he began to swim. The water bore his weight, and the chill turned to pure pleasure. “To your left,” she said, and he adjusted his direction slightly. He paused, treading water.
“Where are you?”
“Here,” she said, by his side. She hardly sounded like a woman drowning. She was breathless, but calm. He reached out, touched the cold sleekness of her arm, felt fabric floating around him, something light and filmy. “Doesn’t the water feel wonderful?” she asked.
“I was afraid you’d fallen in, were drowning,” he said, annoyed now that he knew she was safe.
“I can swim,” she said. “I used to swim at Neeland with Sebastian and Eleanor.”
“In your clothes?” he demanded.
She laughed. “My gown is on the bank, along with my shoes and stockings.”
He felt a hot flare of shock, or perhaps it was lust. He stopped treading water for an instant and swallowed a mouthful of water. She floated over and slapped him on the back. Her hair swirled around him like weeds. “I assure you I am not naked. I am very decently clad in my shift.”
“It will be quite transparent when it’s wet!” he said, and she laughed again, and he realized at once how foolish that sounded. He couldn’t see her. Still, the image of her naked—or nearly naked—clad only in a transparent slip of muslin hit his brain like a shot of warmed whisky, and even though the water was cold, he was instantly hard.
She swam past him playfully, brushing against him. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. There’s no one here to see,” she said. “If anyone comes, we’ll hide behind the waterfall until they go away.”
“But your clothes—and my boots—are spread on the bank,” he said, being practical, seeing the possibilities for disaster in the suggestive disarray of discarded clothing next to an empty picnic basket. No one who happened by would see anything innocent in this at all. “I must insist—” he began, but she laughed.
“You worry too much. Come, lay back and float,” she said. What could he do but acquiesce? He turned onto his back, his face to the sun, his limbs buoyant in the cool water. She clasped his hand, and they floated side by side, listening to the gurgle of the falls, the cry of the birds, and the hum of insects. Her fingers were cool, and he pictured a mermaid by his side, her hair spread wide around her in the water, decked with water lilies. Was this truly Delphine St. James, the flirtatious society miss, the haughty snob, the woman who sought power and gain with every bat of her lashes, every waft of her fan, who used and discarded men like bonbons, was infinitely choosy about the company she chose?
She’d chosen, he reminded himself. Lady Sydenham.
“Aren’t you getting cold?” he asked.
She sighed as if she hadn’t a single sensible thing on her mind, as if this, here and now, him, was all she wanted. “I suppose we should get out and dry off for a little while in the sun.”
She guided him back to the bank, her limbs brushing his—long, naked limbs, left exposed as her shift floated up and away. He tried not to think about it, but it was impossible. He suppressed a rush of lust, but she pressed close against his side, helped him climb the slippery bank, and they collapsed on the grass in the sun. He felt the solid ground beneath him, and wished himself back in the water. The sun felt good on his wet skin. She was wet too, in only her shift.
“What do you look like right now?” he asked as he stared into the sky.
“Quite dreadful, I’m afraid. My cheeks are probably red from the sun, and by evening, I’ll have freckles on my nose. My mother would be horrified.”
“That you don’t wear a bonnet when you swim?” he asked, grinning. “I imagine a wet bonnet would only make you look worse.” He leaned up on his side. “May I touch you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice breathy. She leaned up on her elbow and took his hand, placed it against her cheek. It was as cool and smooth as marble, but it warmed instantly under his touch, and he wondered if it was the heat of the day, or if she was blushing. He ran his fingertips over the bridge of her nose. “You would be quite fetching with freckles.”
“Do you think so?” she asked. “They’re extremely unfashionable.”
“Freckles speak of a woman who makes her own fashion, and lives life to the fullest, in the sun, or out of it.”
“Is that how you see me?” she asked, surprised.
“I see you as you were the night of the duchess’s ball,” he said. “Mostly.”
He didn’t say that he remembered her in the first moment they’d met as well, recalled the instant shock that had gone through his body at the sight of her, the touch of her hand. He didn’t tell her how much he’d despised her when she crossed the room, turned her attention on a top- lofty duke, became a coquette, a hard-edged flirt, a woman he could not respect.
He didn’t think of that Delphine. He thought of the one by his side, freckled, smiling, sweet, her eyes closed as he brushed the pad of his thumb gently over her lashes. This was the Delphine of that first moment, the one he’d imagined was different from any other woman he’d ever met.
Which one was the real Delphine?
He continued to explore the contours of her high cheekbones, the jut of her chin, the smooth plane of her brow. He brushed away the strands of wet hair, and on a whim, leaned in to kiss her forehead. She reached up to touch his face too, to rub her thumb over the stubble that covered his jaw. He kissed her nose, her cheeks, and finally found her mouth, and hovered for a moment before letting his lips touch hers with a slight sound of need.
He wanted Delphine St. James as he had never desired a woman before, in all her contradictions—kindness, acid wit, arrogance, and incredible sweetness. He drew the tips of his fingers down the length of her throat to the pulse beating rapidly at the base. He kissed her there too, and she arched against him, titling her head to give him better access. She was as aroused as he was. A jolt of masculine pride filled him, and made him harder still. He could not, would not take her. She didn’t belong to him, and it wasn’t his right. He pulled back slightly, but could not make his hands leave her entirely.
A lock of her hair lay against the swell of her collarbone, and it coiled around his fingertip. “My hair curls when it’s damp,” she said, her voice a nervous whisper.
He moved his hand over the roundness of her shoulder, dry now, and warm from the sun, and felt the sodden strap of her shift. He slipped it down, and kissed the spot. He let his fingers trail across the flat plane of her sternum, felt it give way to the soft slopes of her breasts. He could feel her heart under his hand, beating like a trapped bird. He should stop, move away, be a gentleman, but she was soft, and she smelled like fresh water and cherry ta
rts.
He wondered what she was thinking, if she was afraid, or if she was simply indulging a blind man. His was a normal man’s reaction to a desirable woman, and what he felt was certainly not the scientific curiosity of sightlessness. Did she know that?
“I should stop. I must,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“No,” she said, catching his hand as he drew it away. “Don’t. Tell me what you see when you touch me.”
He swallowed, and touched her cheek again. “Your face is sun kissed, glowing.”
He moved his hand along her throat to her collarbones, dipped his finger into the hollow there. “Your skin is dewed with water, as if you were covered in jewels . . .”
His hand faltered at the edge of her shift, tangling in the ribbon that tied it closed between her breasts, wet and lacy as seaweed. He waited, giving her a chance to push him away, but she stayed still. “Your shift is clinging to your body. Every curve is visible. It hides nothing. Your nipples—” He cupped her breast, ran his thumb over the pert peak, heard her gasp. Still she did not pull away. “—are peaked and pink, like rosebuds.” He lowered his head, dropped a kiss on the nipple under his hand, felt it swell against his mouth as she arched against him. He lingered a moment, suckling her through the wet linen, warming her icy flesh before he slid his hand over the lacy fabric that covered her belly. “Your stomach is flat and smooth—you have no need of stays. And your waist—I know your waist.” He cupped her there. “It fit my hand perfectly when we waltzed together.”
He found the swell of her hip. “You are sleek instead of generous, elegant and lithe.” He stroked her bottom, and the lush flesh filled his hand. Still, she did not move away. Did she like his hands on her? He could not see, gauged her reaction to his touch by her small movements—toward him, not away—and her sighs. Yes, she liked it.
“Your bottom is as sweet and firm as a summer plum, blush pink, a little goose-pimpled from the chill of the water.” She reached for him, but he stopped her. “Wait, I haven’t finished yet. Having seen so much, it would be a shame to end the tour now—unless you want me to stop. Tell me if you do. I will, I swear it.” He wondered if he was making that promise to himself, or her.
“No,” she said again, her voice smoky. “Don’t stop. What’s next?”
“Your legs.” He started at her hip, traced a finger over the bone that jutted softly through the wet linen. He continued on along her flank, down the softness of her thigh, where her shift rode high, exposing skin to the sun and his questing hands. And found the delicate indent behind her knee, the flare of her calf. He felt her shiver, and knew it was not from cold. His own desire rose, and he forced himself to concentrate. “Long, shapely, coltish legs. Your ankles are neat, your feet—” She giggled at the tickle when he touched them. “—are long and narrow, yet dainty, fashionable.”
“You are generous, my lord,” she said, as his hands made their way upward again. As he reached her shoulders, pulled her into his arms and laid her back against the grass, she cupped his face and drew him down for a kiss. He stopped a hair’s breadth above her lips.
“Generous? Sighted men can be generous. I must allow my sense of touch to tell me the truth. I’ve come to believe touch is more honest than sight.”
“Sight is certainly not as kind.” She gently touched the scar on his collarbone, and Stephen frowned.
“Will you tell me what I look like? I have no idea how I’ve changed. Am I much scarred, hideous?”
She kissed the mark, let her lips linger there. “Not hideous at all. There is a small white mark just here—” She kissed his chin. “And one here—” She put her lips against his hairline. Her fingers traced his collarbone. “This one twines over your shoulder like a vine, or a sailor’s tattoo. It isn’t ugly—it speaks of experience and valor.”
She began to undo the buttons of his shirt, and peeled back the wet wings of fabric. “There’s a scar here.” Her hand cupped his battered body gently, caressed the broken ribs that were almost fully healed. She shifted until she was behind him, and drew his shirt off his shoulders, and caressed the muscles of his back. “There are bullet holes—three of them—here, here, and here.” She touched the places he’d been shot, and he remembered the sting of being hit, the hard punch, the shock. “They look better now, have healed well.”
He turned to her in surprise. “You’ve seen them before?”
“Yes, in Brussels, after the battle. We had to cut your clothes away when you arrived. You were unconscious, bleeding. It was necessary.”
“You tended to me?” he asked.
“I helped,” she said softly. “Eleanor and the surgeon were there, of course.”
The lady, the earl’s overbearing daughter, the flighty, flirtatious Delphine. He knew what she’d seen—he’d seen it himself after countless battles, remembered the blood, filth, and pain, the desperation, the sheer horror. It should have driven her away, made her sick, but she’d borne it, healed him. She was still healing him. He shut his eyes. She had endured all that for him.
He wished he could see her face, read her expression. “You were not disgusted or embarrassed?”
She pressed his hand to her cheek. “No, I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you would die. But you didn’t.” Her hand tightened on his, as if she had willed the life back into his battered body, had made him live.
“No, I didn’t die,” he whispered. For the first time he was truly glad of that. He felt the sun, the breeze, the warmth of the day, the nearness of her body to his.
“Are you shocked that a lady would do such a thing?” she asked.
He considered for a moment. “I can’t be, can I?” He had wished himself dead when he woke in the living prison of darkness, helpless and alone, had wondered why he’d lived. Perhaps for her, and for this moment. “I am—grateful,” he managed around the lump in his throat.
Wrong. He, the diplomat who read people, who understood them better than they knew themselves—he had been wrong about Delphine. The realization rushed in on him, shocked him, and he felt even deeper regret for his blindness, blindness of his soul as well as his eyes. He wished he could see her now and know what she was thinking.
He owed her an apology, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he lay back, pulled her into his arms, pressed her half-clothed body to his naked chest, and kissed her. He wanted her, wanted to understand why he should be so fortunate as to have her regard when he had been so unkind.
She tangled her hands in his hair, pressed closer, spread her body over his, her mouth open for his kiss, her tongue hungrily seeking his. He reveled in the taste of her, the swell of her breasts against his chest. Her hands caressed his shoulders, found the scars, rolled with him so she could touch his back, her fingers gentle, as if she were trying to heal every wound with just a touch. He groaned softly. He wanted her—needed her, in all the ways it was possible for a man to need a woman. Her hips moved against his, restless, needy.
“Tell me what to do,” she said. “How to—”
She wanted this, him. “We don’t have to take this further,” he said, stroking her hair, her face. “Kissing you is enough.” The lie was thick and bitter on his tongue. It would never be enough. It was all he could do—the right thing, the honorable thing, and pull away, his body aching with need.
“Stay,” she whispered, her hands tightening on his shoulders. “Please. I want this.”
“Do you know what you’re asking?”
“Don’t turn away from me, not now,” she said, her voice catching on desperation, fear. “Please.” Her body shifted restively under his, her hips moving against his erection, and he was all but lost to the sensation.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured.
He peeled the wet linen away from her breasts, reveled in the cool shock of her nipples against the heat of his tongue. Her flesh warmed and tightened, and she made a soft sound of desire and arched against him, demanding more. She car
essed his neck, his chest, and then his own nipples. She squeezed gently, and he threw his head back at the sharp desire that shot straight to his groin. He clenched his teeth as the heat of her mouth followed her hands. She kissed his nipple as he had kissed hers—a caress of her lips, a tentative lick, then her hot mouth fastened, and her tongue swirled.
He had never made love to a woman in the dark before, never gone by the sound of her sighs, her raw physical response, to determine how to please her. Yet he knew Delphine was pleased. This was the most sensual experience he’d ever had—sound, touch, taste, and scent all heightened to replace sight. He listened to her sighs, and felt her body moving under his. Her hands fluttered on his shoulders, her fingernails gripping, releasing, telling him without words what she liked. She liked it all.
He pushed the shift down her body, stripping her, his hands following the curves as the fabric retreated. He caressed her belly, her hips, the incredible length of her legs, exposing every inch of her to his touch, if not his eyes. In his mind, her eyes were heavy lidded, her lush lips half open, her skin flushed. His own imagination, and the evidence of touch, drove his need for her higher, harder. It was sweet torment, but torment he wanted to last. He let his fingers play over her incredible body, trying to decide which part of her was his favorite. He couldn’t. She matched every touch with her own, copying him, until he knew what she liked by what she did to him. It made him mad with need.
Her hands found the hardness under the wet wool of his breeches, squeezed, and he stifled a groan and caught her hand in his, but she found the buttons of his flies, began to open them. He held his breath, waited for her fingers to free him, touch him. He gritted his teeth as her cool fingertips caressed the hot length of his erection, gentle, tentative.
“Am I—?” she began. “Tell me how . . .”
He was lost in what she was doing, had to pull himself back from the edge. She sounded uncertain, and he remembered in a rush that she was likely new to this, untried, a virgin, and as blind as he was in a way, needing someone to lead her.
What a Lady Most Desires Page 16