“Unfair to you or to me?”
“To your future husband, Delphine.”
She laughed aloud, and he turned to her, his frown deepening. “What of your future wife?” she asked pertly.
“It’s different, and you know it.”
“Is it? What if I never marry? Who is it unfair to then? Should I not have the right to decide, to know what it feels like to—” He held up his hand to stop her words, an imperious gesture.
“You say the damnedest things. Of course you’ll marry.” His face softened slightly. He reached out a hand to touch her, then changed his mind, and tucked it into his pocket. “It would be a great pity if you did not wed. You will meet a man who will love you, appreciate you, adore you . . .” soft words, but he sounded like a diplomat on a mission, delivering a memorandum.
She folded her arms across her chest. “But not you?”
Fear flickered across his face. “I never intended what happened between us to be a declaration of intent.”
She felt her face heat. “Nor did I.” Her whole body began to tremble.
He frowned. “You must see that I cannot marry you. What kind of a life would that be? Playing nursemaid to a broken, useless invalid for the rest of your life?” he said.
“You are not broken or useless—” She pictured how he had loved her yesterday, his touch sure, expert, delightful.
“Do you know of the charges against me?” he asked bitterly, his expression as sharp and dangerous as a bayonet.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Does your father know? What would he say if I were to offer for you, tell him that I—?” His mouth worked, but could not even say it.
“That you made love to me on a riverbank?” She filled it in for him, even as shame heated her cheeks.
“Don’t be crass, Delphine.” He sounded more like her mother now, full of pompous propriety and rules, but no compassion. She wished she was blind too, couldn’t see the coldness in his face, not now, not after . . . She drew a breath, clutched a hand to her chest.
“It was not crass, or wrong, yesterday, and I do not regret it,” she said firmly. “As for the charges, you will be proven innocent. Perhaps my father could help—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your father would drag me out and shoot me if he knew what I’ve done, and he would have every right to do so.”
She searched his face. His eyes remained fixed on some distant spot, his expression tight and hard. How different he was from the man who’d loved her only yesterday. This man was a stranger. Had it meant so little to him? It had meant the world to her. He’d turned away again . . .
Anger took over. “I have lived my whole life pleasing the expectations of others. I have been compelled by breeding, by my sex, by the expectations of others to behave a certain way, to feel certain things, to hold the opinions and ideals of my class and my family. I am a disappointment, I fear, because I cannot live that way. Do you honestly think I would be so cruel as to impose such strictures on you, to hold you to the rules that chain me, use them to torment and trick a blind man, someone injured and hurt beyond what any man should have to endure, just to lure him into a marriage he did not want? Do you truly think I am so wicked, so wanton, so devious?”
“Are you?” he asked.
It was like being cut with a knife. She raised her hand to slap him, but held back, afraid of harming him. Tears prickled behind her eyes. She let her hand drop, clutched it around her waist.
“Why me, Delphine? Why a broken man, an accused coward, a traitor? Why not a duke or an earl? Answer me this time, tell me the truth.”
Misery made her ache. “Because I thought I saw something in—someone’s—eyes once, only once, long ago, but that moment changed me. It made it impossible for me to accept a duke or an earl or anyone else, not without his regard, or respect. I saw what I wanted, basked in it. It ignited me, and it burns there still, even without fuel or air, or encouragement. I cannot live without that. But that man turned away from me, didn’t want to—” She dashed away tears, raised her chin. “I have honor and pride too. I don’t see a coward when I look at you. I see a man who is gentle and kind to everyone—almost everyone—and who values his honor, his country, and those he loves above all else.”
“What if you’re wrong about that?” he demanded, his voice raw.
She shook her head, though he could not see the gesture, unable to speak through the thick tears that clogged her throat. She would never believe him guilty.
She could not bear it, standing here in the frigid blast of his disdain, his regret, his suspicion. She turned and fled along the gallery. She fumbled with the latch on the French doors, went out through the garden, and ran across the park. Tears blinded her, and she stumbled on, not caring. She did not stop until she reached the spot beside the waterfall, saw the trampled grass where they had lain together, making love. She collapsed there and let herself cry.
Chapter 40
Stephen listened to her footsteps fade, and sagged against the wall. She’d said he was the most honorable man she’d ever met, but was it honorable to make love to a woman, to take her virginity, her kindness, her friendship, and leave her with nothing? Was that not cowardice and theft? He felt shame heat his face.
Honor, pride? No, he was a bastard.
He ran his hand through his hair. He’d spent the long hours of the night lying awake, burning with desire, wanting her. Having her once hadn’t made it better—it made it worse.
If he wasn’t blind he would have found his way to her room, made love to her all over again.
But that was the problem—he was blind. Making love to a woman in a sylvan setting did not make him any more worthy of her. Delphine was meant for a better man. Even sighted, even if he’d been a hero instead of an accused traitor, he would not be good enough for Delphine. He hadn’t the pedigree, or the fortune, or the damned political connections. Nicholas understood that, had tried to warn Stephen. He’d known it for himself, but somehow he’d forgotten the rules. She made him forget, and to want and feel. He’d tucked all that away after Julia, or so he thought. He was a fool, pining over yet another woman he couldn’t have.
He’d waited for dawn, unable to stop thinking of the intense, white-hot passion she’d aroused. He tried to convince himself it was simple lust, and nothing more. He’d almost succeeded, until he’d heard her footsteps in the gallery, coming toward him—eager, hopeful—and he wanted her all over again. Her sweetness, her spirit, pushed back the darkness. But he would only ruin her life, drag her into the blackness with him if things continued as they had begun by the river.
There was also the fact that he’d promised Nicholas that he had no intention of—well, doing what he did. He should have stopped, been sensible. He was always sensible and cautious. He analyzed every situation before carefully deciding what the best action would be. But Delphine was a creature of passion, caprice. She turned his mind to mush, and worse, he liked it—he liked her—or had his feelings already gone beyond that? He was on dangerous ground. He’d been certain before, with Julia, that it was love. He’d been wrong. If losing Julia had broken his heart, what he felt for Delphine would destroy him utterly when she married someone else, and she would. If not Sydenham, another man would come along.
It was self-preservation. He had to crush all misconceptions that he could offer her anything more than a brief affair that would dishonor them both. It had been necessary to be firm, to ensure she didn’t have hopes for more.
But he’d been cruel, not firm. She’d fled, crying. He swore and crammed his fist into the wall—another rash action he once imagined himself incapable of. He did not fall pray to lust, or rage, or stupidly impulsive behavior. But the pain of his split knuckles said otherwise. He felt the blood dripping, but it was no distraction at all from the ache in his chest.
He stalked along the gallery, not counting his steps, not using his cane or the ropes, not caring if he crashed into a wall.
He crashe
d into Nicholas instead.
“Where the devil are you going in such a hurry? Where’s Browning? Or Del, for that matter?” he demanded. “There’s blood on your shirt.”
“I bumped into a wall,” Stephen muttered.
“I thought you were in the library with Delphine,” Nicholas continued. “Where is she?”
“Why would I know where she is?” Stephen snapped. “I couldn’t see her if she was standing five feet in front of me!” Yes he could. He’d know she was there, feel her there, in every part of his body, even if she made no sound at all.
“Are you sure you suffered no ill effects from the rain yesterday? I could send for the doctor. I only ask because Del seemed a trifle flighty this morning at breakfast. Hardly ate a thing.”
Stephen gritted his teeth. He did not want to discuss Delphine with Nicholas. Not now. “Were you looking for me, or for Delphine?”
“For you,” Nicholas said. “There’s a letter from Horse Guards.”
Chapter 41
“I don’t think I’ll attend the haying supper,” Delphine told Meg as they cut roses in the garden. Meg had come across her friend returning from a morning walk, though Delphine looked more like she had taken a tumble down a hill. Meg could have sworn that Delphine was planning to spend the morning reading to Stephen, yet here she was, without a bonnet or a cloak, looking flushed and rather out of sorts.
Meg’s garden clippers stalled in mid snip. “Not attend? Why ever not? Are you ill?”
Delphine studied her fingertips. “Perhaps I did catch a chill in the rain. I’m just not in the mood for a party.” Meg watched the rose petals drop over Delphine’s skirt, red as blood against the ice green muslin, and her heart went out to her friend—she had looked so happy at breakfast. And now, she insisted she had no intention of attending tonight’s party. Meg resisted the urge to lay a hand on Delphine’s forehead to check for fever, since Del lived for parties, be they simple picnic suppers like this one, or grand ton balls.
“But you must come. I’ll be so busy with Nicholas.” She patted her belly. “I think he wants to show off his new heir. He’s remarkably happy. So am I.” So happy she wanted everyone to feel the same.
Delphine smiled. “I can see that. You’re glowing, and so is Nicholas.”
“Stephen will need company tonight.” Meg noted a blush that rivaled the reddest roses in Delphine’s cheeks.
“Surely Browning, or even Mr. Brill, can spend time with him.”
“Mr. Brill will be busy blessing loaves, saying grace, and offering prayers, good wishes, and encouragement to his new flock,” Meg said.
“He’s quite devoted to his work here, isn’t he?”
“I believe he’s already ordered a new frock to wear on the day he christens Temberlay’s heir,” Meg laughed. “Mr. Brill is quite impressed with Sergeant Browning. He believes he’s found a serious Bible scholar, and wonders if the sergeant had some sort of epiphany during the battle.”
Delphine frowned. “An epiphany? I think the sergeant is a man of infinite kindness and hidden depths at the very least.”
“I think we should line up a dozen of the prettiest lasses in the village and let the sergeant dance the night away,” Meg said. “Which means Stephen will need someone’s company. He doesn’t know a single soul other than you, me, Nicholas, and Browning.”
Delphine buried her face in a rose. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I am,” Meg said with a smile, and took the blossom from her friend’s hand and placed it in the basket.
Chapter 42
“Apparently a letter has been received, addressed to Colonel Fairlie, from Lieutenant Jonathan Greenfield,” Nicholas said, once they’d reached his study.
“I know Greenfield, but isn’t he one of the officers who accused me of theft?” Stephen asked.
“Yes. He wrote to Fairlie. He found a ring that he’d reported stolen from his quarters in Brussels here in London, at a pawnshop.”
“In London? Does he now believe I’m innocent?” Stephen asked hopefully.
“No. Apparently, there was a rather valuable antique book stolen along with the ring, and Greenfield was wondering if it could be ascertained if you still have it, or could offer some information on what might have happened to it.”
Stephen felt his skin heat. “I have no idea—I was only in London for a few hours, too injured—”
“Exactly,” Nicholas said, and Stephen could hear the smile in his voice, the triumph. “Do you see what this means? Someone else stole Greenfield’s ring and pawned it.”
Stephen felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Then I am in the clear? Just like that?”
He heard Nicholas fold the letter. “No, but this is a good start. I’ll go to London tomorrow, after the haying party, and speak to the pawnbroker myself, see what he knows. I’ll be back as soon as I can to let you know what I find out.”
Chapter 43
“You seem quite well, today, Stephen. I notice you are no longer wearing the sling on your arm,” Meg said to her other houseguest later that morning. He was seated in the library, frowning, brooding, as she arranged the roses in a vase.
“I’m feeling very well, thank you. And yourself?” he asked.
“Delphine pronounced me glowing. I am fit and ready to dance at the haying supper. You are planning to attend, aren’t you, since you’re so well?”
She watched a flush rise over his face, though his expression remained carefully contained. “I think not.”
She noted the scabs on his knuckles—fresh ones, the kind a man gets from punching walls in frustration. Otherwise, his appearance was impeccable. Now the sling was no longer necessary, he dressed as any gentleman would, in buff breeches and boots, a crisp linen shirt and cravat, and a dark coat that set off his blond good looks. No wonder Delphine adored him—and she most certainly did adore him—of that Meg was certain.
“Oh, but you must come. I’ll be so busy visiting with the villagers. There have been four new babies born in just the last month, and I want to talk with their mothers, and Delphine will need company for the evening.”
“You could ask Mr. Brill to accompany her, perhaps—or is Sydenham attending?”
“Viscount Sydenham? Goodness no. Such a dull fellow.”
“I had the idea he had—hopes—for Delphine.”
Meg laughed. “Yes, he probably did, but he and Delphine would not have suited. But I’m gossiping. And you?”
“Me? I abhor gossip.”
She rolled her eyes. “No, you and Delphine. She’s blossomed since she’s been here, and I doubt it’s my company that’s done that, Stephen.”
“You too, Meg? You should know that Nicholas has already warned me off.”
“Has he?” she said lightly, but she felt a frisson of annoyance with her husband. Nicholas was a brilliant spy, a war hero, and an excellent duke, but he didn’t know true love when it was right in front of him. He’d issued Stephen with a warning, had he? Well, true love ignored warnings, and the potential for pain, and always found a way to succeed—with just a little help, of course. Meg’s heart swelled. “Well, keeping a lady company at a haying supper with a hundred people in attendance hardly qualifies as an improper advance. Even Nicholas couldn’t think so.”
Stephen didn’t reply.
“I just want Delphine to enjoy herself, and not be sitting in a corner all alone while the villagers are too shy to even speak to a lady and—”
“I’ll come,” he sighed. “But I won’t force my company on her if she prefers to be elsewhere. Will that do?”
“Thank you. I’m most grateful.” She pressed a rose into his hand. “Aren’t the roses lovely? Delphine picked them just this morning,” she said gaily, and watched as Stephen ran his fingertips over the blossom as carefully as if it were Delphine’s cheek.
Chapter 44
The haying party was being held in the largest barn on the estate, an ancient timbered structure that had stood
for centuries, and had seen many such celebrations. The meadow outside had been mown and set with tables and benches for supper, larks cascaded through the last of the daylight, and torches flamed orange against the purple twilight sky. Children raced everywhere, excited and happy.
Delphine recalled parties like this one on her grandfather’s estate. She had climbed into the hayloft to look for kittens in the hay, and to chew the sweet ends of the grass as she watched the dancing on the barn floor below. She wished she could tuck up her skirts now, climb into the loft and hide. She was not in the mood for a party.
“Look, there’s Nicholas and Stephen,” Meg said, and steered her toward them. The two men were deep in conversation. Meg smiled at her husband and caught his hand. “Delphine has arrived. Isn’t that wonderful?” she gushed, and Delphine felt her skin heat as Stephen turned his face toward her. He still took her breath away, even now.
“Good evening,” Delphine said, bobbed a curtsy out of habit, and felt silly, since Stephen couldn’t see it.
He rose and bowed over her hand as politely as if they were strangers, meeting for the first time. She felt a tingle race up her arm at his touch. Only yesterday the same hand had been caressing her, pleasuring her—her heart flipped in her chest, and she snatched her fingers away. Stephen’s brows rose slightly, but he said nothing. The tension in the air between them thrummed like a wire.
“You are well, I trust?” he asked stiffly.
“Yes, and yourself?” Delphine replied.
“Quite well.”
“There’s the steward and his wife, Nicholas. Shall we go and say hello?” Meg said, and Delphine found herself alone with Stephen.
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.” She sat on the bench, and he sat beside her. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. She was aware of his body, a respectable distance from her own, yet only a hand’s breadth away. She clenched her hands in her lap.
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