What a Lady Most Desires

by Lecia Cornwall

  She waited until his breathing became deep and regular. She kissed his brow, and gently edged out from under him. He sighed but did not wake. He would not even remember she was here in the morning, just that he’d felt comfort.

  And no one should be denied comfort, no matter what he’d done.

  Chapter 9

  “Did you find Hallet?” Stephen asked eagerly when Nicholas arrived again a few days later.

  “No. There’s no sign of him. He may have been sent home to England.” Stephen heard the edge of defeat in his friend’s voice. “I haven’t found anyone who recalls seeing you during the battle, either.” His friend’s voice was tight, careful.

  “But I was there,” Stephen protested. “Damn it Nick, what aren’t you telling me? What else has happened?”

  “The tale has spread, I’m afraid. There are people talking about this, about you. At first I thought it would be a good thing, would bring out men who know you, who would speak up for you.”

  “And?” Stephen prompted.

  “The men who remember you from Spain say you’ve been different here in Brussels—secretive, silent, and unsociable.”

  It was true enough. He’d had his bloody heart broken in Vienna, and he hadn’t been inclined to join in with his fellows here, preferring to spend his time alone to brood over the loss of Julia. Still, he’d done his duty as carefully as he ever did—he just spent his off hours alone. “What of it?” he snapped.

  “I’m simply the messenger, old friend. Look, perhaps it would be better if you were to leave Brussels and go home.”

  “Home?” Stephen asked, the word thick on his tongue. “I was a diplomat. I was posted to Vienna, then to Brussels. I fully expected another foreign posting would follow this. I haven’t got a home in England anymore.”

  “Actually, I was thinking you might come to Temberlay Castle.”

  There was nowhere else. Well, there was Dorothea, of course, but he dismissed the idea even as it came to him. His sister was newly remarried, expecting a baby. She was at her husband’s family estate in Kent, and he could hardly impose on her new relations-by-marriage, especially now, injured and disgraced. Doe was a delicate creature, and he could not bear to go to her this way.

  He was the one who had cared for her when their mother had died, and again while she mourned her dead husband and child. He’d held her, sat with her, rocked her while she cried, spoon-fed her when no one else could coax her to eat. He could not bear to make her return the favor—not now, when he faced shame and darkness that could destroy her along with himself.

  No, he’d rather Doe didn’t know, that she assumed he was well and posted abroad.

  Where else could he go? Vienna was the last place he’d been happy. He’d fancied himself in love, had planned a lifetime of happiness with a woman who did not love him back. He’d left Vienna to return to war, the very opposite of love. He felt panic tighten his throat, make breathing difficult. He was blind and alone.

  He realized he was clutching the bedclothes in his fists, and slowly let go. “Is it so urgent that I leave Brussels immediately?”

  “Fairlie has insisted you must be moved to other quarters at the very least,” Nicholas said.

  “Because he believes I’m guilty?”

  Nicholas shifted in his chair. “He has gone to Wellington on your behalf, asked that your court-martial be postponed until you have had time to recover, had a chance to gather proof. He’s trying to be fair, but as your commander, he’ll have to oversee the court-martial. He can’t be seen to be assisting you.”

  “Just in case I truly am a coward, a thief, and a liar,” Stephen said, staring into the darkness. “And how am I to prove anything this way?”

  “Come to Temberlay Castle,” Nicholas said again.

  “Much as I’d love to see the place, stroll the grounds, admire the art—”

  “If I’m going to help you gather evidence, then it would be better if we were quartered together, don’t you think? You need time to heal, and Temberlay is quiet, and away from gossip.”

  Hope stirred in Stephen’s breast, a restless mouse, coming out of hiding after days of fear. “You’re willing to help me?”

  “I was an intelligence officer, a spy, Ives. I was good at it too. I always found what I was looking for—not that I’m bragging,” Nicholas said. “I found that men do not change their character. Not without a damned good reason, and men who value their honor never change.”

  Stephen felt relief, a lump in his throat. “Shouldn’t you ask Meg before you go issuing invitations? Aren’t you about to become a father?” he asked. “Delphine told me.”

  “I am.” He heard the grin in Nicholas’s voice. “Meg’s mother will want to come to Temberlay, and I will need someone reliable by my side in case of ambush, someone to share a drink with, to complain to about the caprices of expectant women and overbearing mothers-in-law, and—” He broke off.

  “And what? To play cards and billiards the way we used to? To ride out with you over all those green Derbyshire acres?” Stephen asked bitterly.

  “Come to recover, Stephen. Just that.”

  “It’s kind of you, but I’ll need help. It wouldn’t do to be a burden.” He was not a man who felt at ease asking for help. He took care of himself, and always had.

  “Of course. I’ll find a manservant for you, and Meg and I will be there.”

  “No, not that. Not Meg. I don’t want her to see me this way,” Stephen said.

  “She was here yesterday to see Delphine. Meg knows about the charges, Stephen. It’s all over town.”

  Stephen clenched his teeth. “And Delphine knows as well, I suppose. She’s Fairlie’s sister-in-law, how could she not?” He felt his skin heat. How mortifying. She wouldn’t kiss him now, and if he could look into her flirtatious green eyes, he’d probably find them hard with disdain. Or laughter.

  “Fairlie didn’t want her told,” Nicholas replied. “Her family is very protective of her, but being Delphine, she asked Meg.”

  Then he would not likely see Delphine again. She would shun him now—a traitor, coward, and thief. He felt an instant of disappointment. He’d miss her. He squashed it at once. He’d simply grown used to the sound of her footsteps, to hearing her voice, to feeling her hand on his brow, inhaling the scent of her perfume as she bent over him. He shifted his head on the fine linen pillow, linen that she’d smoothed under him a dozen times a day, ensuring he was comfortable. But that had been before the accusations. She wouldn’t come again now. His jaw tightened. Well, he’d be better off without her scorn. He would be spared the need to say good-bye, or to offer thanks for her care—and since he was blind, he wouldn’t have to see the pity, the mockery, and the disdain in her eyes.

  Nicholas rose. “I’ll make the arrangements once the surgeon says you’re fit to travel. It will be a hard journey.”

  “I’ll manage,” Stephen muttered. “Just get me out of here.”

  Chapter 10

  “Cowardice?” Delphine’s teacup rocked in its saucer. “Oh Meg . . .”

  The Duchess of Temberlay frowned. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t believe it, of course, nor does Nicholas.”

  Delphine looked into the depths of her tea for a moment. “Meg, who’s Julia?”

  “Julia? Do you mean Julia Leighton? She was betrothed to Nicholas’s brother before his death, and more recently she was Dorothea Hallam’s companion in Vienna.”

  “Does Stephen—” Delphine swallowed, felt her cheeks grow warm. “Does he love her?”

  Meg set her cup down. “I don’t know. She wrote to Nicholas a few months ago. She’s married now, and gone to America. Why do you ask?”

  “Stephen calls her name in his sleep—and Dorothea’s too, of course.”

  “I see. Has he written to them?” Meg said.

  “No. In fact, he’s refused my offer to write to anyone at all on his behalf.”

  Meg frowned. “He’s a proud man, and he’s been through a lot.
Perhaps when he gets to Temberlay Castle—”

  Delphine felt electricity course through her body. “Temberlay?”

  “Yes. Fairlie would have been forced to have Stephen incarcerated, given the severity of the accusations against him, but Nicholas has agreed to take charge of him until the court-martial.”

  Delphine felt indignation rise. “Stephen’s seriously wounded, and blind. He’s hardly likely to tie his sheets together and escape out the window.”

  Meg shrugged. “Still, Fairlie cannot be seen to take sides one way or the other. Stephen must be available to face the charges. How would it look if he did not appear at the court-martial?”

  “I see.” Delphine felt panic rise in her breast. “When will you leave?”

  “Within the week. The surgeon says Stephen is nearly well enough to travel.”

  “A week!” One week, and he would be gone. She felt the loss of him already, her belly hollow, her heart clenching in her chest.

  “You said yourself he is improving every day,” Meg reminded her, sipping her tea.

  “Yes, but not enough to travel, surely.” Delphine set her teacup down. “This explains why Eleanor is insisting I return home to England at once.”

  “Really?” Meg’s eyes lit up. “Then why not travel with us? Nicholas wants to leave for home as soon as possible, because of the baby. I would be delighted to have your company. My poor husband is always fussing over me, putting pillows under my feet, and bringing me goat’s milk to drink, which I detest, because he’s heard it’s best for both mother and child. I can speak to Eleanor, but I’m sure she’ll agree. How could she not? You’ll be safe with Nicholas and me.”

  Delphine held her breath. “Truly?”

  “Indeed.”

  Delphine considered. And what would happen when she arrived in England? Her mother would insist she resume her old life—husband hunting and political visits on behalf of the causes her father supported in government. She couldn’t bear that, not now. And Stephen needed her, didn’t he? She knew how to bandage his wounds, how to soothe away his nightmares. Yes, he needed her.

  She took a chance. “Meg, do you think I might come and stay with you at Temberlay for a little while? My mother will expect me to spend the summer in the country with her, and she will summon me to her rooms daily to consider endless lists of potential husbands. In between, I shall be expected to change my gown three times a day, read improving books and charm Papa’s friends. I can’t face going back to that yet. I think I’ll go mad.”

  Meg’s eyes lit. “I would be so happy if you came to Temberlay. There won’t be a lot to do, but we’ll have time to talk, stroll in the gardens, and enjoy the summer. I daresay we could both use a little peace after being here in Brussels.” She looked at her friend carefully. “Stephen will travel with us as well, of course. Will you mind that? Nicholas needs to find a servant for him, someone who can assist him.”

  “No I won’t mind,” Delphine said quickly, and considered. “There’s a soldier in the hospital now. He was struck in the face with a lance or a bayonet, perhaps. He’s been helping us with the heavy lifting, even assisting the surgeon when necessary. He’s more than able to handle Stephen—in fact, he’s hardly left his side in the past days. He’s as big as a bull, but gentle too.”

  Meg nodded. “Does he know about the charges against Stephen?”

  Delphine frowned. “I suppose he might. If he does, it hasn’t affected the way he treats Stephen.” She recalled the compassion in the soldier’s eyes.

  “Will he gossip?” Meg asked. “Nicholas—and I’m sure Stephen as well—will insist on absolute discretion.”

  “That won’t be a problem. His wounds have left him unable to speak. Despite that, he got up from his cot and began to help almost as soon as his wounds were stitched and bandaged. I found him sitting next to Stephen one afternoon, watching over him.”

  “I’ll tell Nicholas about him,” Meg said.

  “Tell me what?” The Duke of Temberlay asked as he came through the door. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

  Delphine watched him lift her feet onto the settee and put a pillow under them, and plump another to go behind her shoulders. She marveled at the besotted look in Nicholas’s eyes. She had known him as a rake, a warrior, a rough and rowdy friend of her brother’s. He’d gone to war and had come back a different man—harder, colder, more dangerous. Marrying Meg had changed that. Meg smiled sweetly at her husband, love evident in her gaze as well. Delphine felt her heart constrict with longing.

  “I think I should be going,” Delphine said, and rose to her feet. Neither of them noticed as she slipped out.

  Chapter 11

  “He’s well enough to make the trip, I suppose,” the doctor grunted, as if it didn’t matter one whit to him whether Stephen was well enough or not, not now he was suspected of cowardice and theft. “He may not survive the voyage, of course, but—” Stephen felt his skin heat, and indignation warred with fear in his belly. Didn’t anyone believe he was innocent? Surely it was a mistake, or a nightmare—the blindness, the accusations, all of it. He’d wake up, and everything would be fine.

  “He’ll survive,” Stephen heard Delphine say as the good doctor made his way to the door. There was a fierce certainty in her tone. His champion. He clutched the sheets against the bandages that swathed his chest, the pain biting deep into his bones.

  He was in constant pain, and the charges against him were looking like a battle he couldn’t win. It might be a blessing if he were to succumb to an infection, or trip over his own feet going up the gangplank onto the ship, and tumble into the sea. He wouldn’t fight it.

  He frowned. It would be a terrible disappointment to Delphine. She was trying so hard, was so determined he’d live. Anger rose. Who was she to decide that?

  “Is there anything I can get for you?” Delphine asked, her hand gentle on his forehead, checking again for fever. He’d grown used to her touch. She was here every time he woke.

  The washcloth swept over his brow, and he grabbed it from her hand and threw it. “Leave it,” he snapped. “Get out.” He was never rude to ladies. He’d been brought up to revere them, treat them kindly in every situation. His conscience stung, but she was driving him mad. He did not want her here, fussing, making him some kind of charity project. Not when tomorrow he’d leave, and he wouldn’t ever feel her touch on his brow again. “Please,” he added gruffly.

  She didn’t move. He would have heard the rustle of her gown, or retreating footsteps. He waited for the sound of tears, or an angry rebuke, but it didn’t come.

  “Shall I read to you?” she asked instead, her voice calm. She had never once given in to panic, or fits of anger or tears, despite his mood or his wounds. Did that mean he was worse off than he thought, or better? He’d know if he could see her, could read the emotions in her eyes. He remembered the last time he looked into those eyes—sparkling in the candlelight as they waltzed, full of mischief and promise and wit. A flirt, he’d thought, a snob. But if that was true, why was she here?

  “My father used to read to me when I was sick,” she said. “He’d come and sit by my bed, and I’d close my eyes and listen to the sound of his voice. It was better than any medicine.”

  “And what did he read? No doubt an improving tome, or a treatise on the divine rights of the upper classes.”

  “He chose poetry, mostly. Shakespeare sonnets, Chaucer’s tales.”

  “The Earl of Ainsley?” he asked, surprised.

  “He was just ‘Papa’ to me.” She said it simply, without pride, a dutiful, loving daughter.

  “When will—” He stopped.

  “When will you leave here?” she asked, and tucked the coverlet around him. He pushed it away again. She left it alone, and he felt triumph, as if he’d won at least that small victory.

  “Nicholas is seeing to a few last-minute things, but he’s anxious to get Meg home to Temberlay. He fusses over her like she’s the first person ever to have a baby.”r />
  “I know the feeling,” he said sarcastically.

  Instead of pouting at the setdown, she laughed, and the sound was like cool water on a hot day. It most certainly was a hot day. He could hear the crickets through the open windows, complaining bitterly about the heat. In the humidity her perfume mixed with the feminine scent of her skin. He was sweating, the bandages itchy and uncomfortable, but her hands were cool, pleasant. He wanted them back on his brow, touching him, but he tried instead to think of something to say that would send her away. He didn’t want to grow used to her, to need her.

  “We—Nicholas—has found a manservant for you, someone to assist you during the trip, and after, at Temberlay. His name is Alan Browning. He was injured—here—” She brushed her fingertip over his cheek, and he felt a shiver go through him. “—and has lost his ability to speak. He’s been most helpful around the villa, assisting the wounded where, um—well, where a woman cannot.”

  “I was beginning to think there wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do,” he said unkindly, seeing a way to drive her away. She was silent, again accepting his rebuke without retaliating. Yet the razor-sharp edge of Delphine St. James’s tongue was legendary—she had verbally cut many a rival to ribbons, and left them bleeding. Her patience with him was infinite, it seemed. He wished she would fight with him, or argue. He was not used to being handled with such care, as if he might shatter at a harsh word. Her gentleness made him afraid.

  “Sergeant Browning is a good man who needs employment,” she said. “He’s strong and gentle, and I daresay he needs you as much as you need him just now. I shall bring him to you later.”

  “Why wait? Have him come now. I need to—” He had intended to say piss, but he could not. He was still a gentleman in the company of a lady, even if she was a very irritating lady.

  “Oh, of course,” she said, understanding anyway. “You needn’t worry, my lord. I have a very outspoken brother. You can’t shock me so easily.”