What a Lady Most Desires

by Lecia Cornwall

  She set his hand on her waist, and sat on the edge of the settee beside him. “Here. You touched me there before, in Brussels.”

  “The waltz,” he murmured. His last dance. He touched her face, ran his fingertips over her cheeks, her finely arched brows. Her lashes tickled like spiders. She sighed, but kept still, let his hands roam, and he swallowed hard. He should stop, move away, but he found the fringe of her hair, brushed it away from her forehead, moved again, gently caught a dangling pearl earring between his fingers.

  “Are you trembling?” he asked.

  “A little,” she whispered.

  “Why?” he asked.

  The pad of his thumb found her lips, half parted, warm and soft. She didn’t answer. Instead she leaned toward him, and he was ready for the gentle meeting of their mouths. Her satin-clad hands came up to cup his face, and she opened her mouth to him. He wanted to pull her closer, wrap her in his arms, draw her down on the settee, but he’d wrinkle her gown, ruin her careful coiffure. The hell with it—he slanted his mouth over hers, and she made a soft sound as he deepened the kiss, touched his tongue to hers. Was it objection? Desire? How could he know if he could not read it in her eyes? She tasted sweet, and he closed his eyes, pretended it was only darkness, not blindness, that all he had to do was open them again to see her. He concentrated on the softness of her skin, the heat of her body under the silk gown, and the maddening, delicious taste of her mouth. His hand moved upward from her waist, bumped the bottom of her breast, shifted to cup the soft weight. She did not pull away.

  A small sound caught his attention before it caught hers—a throat being cleared, a footstep on the polished wood of the floor. He dropped his hand. Delphine jumped back with a gasp.

  “Nick! I was just—” She stopped.

  “We’ll be well beyond fashionably late if we don’t leave now,” Nicholas said, and Stephen heard the disapproval in his tone, knew he was probably glaring holes in Stephen. He didn’t care. He heard Delphine arranging her shawl, listened to the sound of her rapid breathing. How far would it have gone if Nicholas hadn’t arrived? He licked his lips, tasted her.

  “I was just—” She began again. No doubt she was under one of Nicholas’s blackest stares, ducal and disapproving. If it was possible to hear a lady blush, Stephen was certain he had.

  She walked quickly across the floor, the heels of her slippers—rose satin with silver bows—beating the rapid cadence of retreat.

  “My lady?” Stephen called, and she stopped, turned toward him, the movement of her gown like the rush of water.

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll do,” he said softly.

  “What does that mean?” Nicholas asked.

  “She looks beautiful,” Stephen said, quirking a smile. “The pink compliments her. Don’t you agree, Nick?”

  Nicholas hesitated. “Yes of course. She looks very well indeed. Are you ready, Del?”

  “I am,” she said. “Good night, Stephen.”

  He listened to their departing footsteps, and pictured her in his mind, not in pink, but gold, her hair adorned with daisies, not pearls, with the torchlight in the duchess’s courtyard reflecting in her green eyes as she kissed him farewell.

  Chapter 33

  Treholme was a sturdy manor of sober gray stone, seated firmly on a manicured lawn. It lacked any softness or picturesque qualities, which reflected the Earl of Halidon’s uncompromising politics.

  “How—grim,” Meg said, looking up at Treholme’s façade from the Temberlay coach. “I daresay it needs a woman’s touch. I understand Lord Halidon has been a widower for nearly twenty years.”

  But Delphine wasn’t seeing the house. She was thinking about Stephen, her body still buzzing from his kiss. She resisted the urge to touch her lips, sure they were swollen and pink. Nicholas was seated across from her, his expression unreadable. He’d scowled at her half the way here. She raised her chin. The kiss had been improper, perhaps, but it wasn’t as if she’d never been kissed before—and she’d kissed Stephen before too, on the eve of battle. Try as she might, she couldn’t recall any kisses before that one—not the faces or the names or the emotions. She had thrown herself into Stephen’s arms in Brussels, surprised him. He’d kissed her back, though. Most thoroughly.

  This time, his kiss had been as gentle and careful as his hand on the fabric of her gown. Different emotions, certainly, not farewell this time—it felt more like a beginning than an ending. If Nicholas had not interrupted, where would that kiss have taken them? Her breast tingled, her body burned. She slid her eyes to Nicholas, found him watching her with a slight frown. Hot blood filled her cheeks, and she looked out the window again.

  Lord Sydenham rushed down the steps as soon as the coach rolled to a stop. He insisted upon handing Delphine down himself, his handsome face wreathed in a beatific grin.

  “Welcome to Treholme, Lady Delphine, and to Your Graces. My father and my sister are awaiting us in the grand salon. Treholme boasts two salons and a very fine music room, which will be revealed to your wondering gazes after our meal.”

  Delphine pasted on a smile as footmen swung double doors wide to admit them to a rather dark entry hall. A bust of the Duke of Wellington sat on a grand marble pillar in the center of the space, with a branch of laurels draped around the neck.

  “I thought you’d appreciate that, Temberlay,” Sydenham said. “My father purchased it after the battle of Vimiero. Quite a good likeness, I understand, though I have not had the honor of meeting him in person. What do you say, Your Grace?”

  Nicholas appraised the marble face. “I have indeed seen Lord Wellington with exactly that look of determination on his face.”

  Lord Sydenham grinned, but his eyes were on Delphine. “Excellent!” Could he tell she’d just been kissed?

  In the salon, an elderly gentleman rose to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, and Delphine hurried over to him and dipped a curtsy. “You must not get up, Lord Halidon. I understand you’ve been ill. Please sit down.”

  His indignant gaze slid over her. “You are the daughter of an esteemed colleague, my lady, and a guest in my home, and I am in the company of a duke and duchess. I am not so far into my dotage that I am incapable of manners.” He thumped his cane on the floor. “Too many folk these days have forgotten the social graces,” he admonished.

  Before Delphine could reply to that, Lord Sydenham brought his sister forward. “May I present Lady Alice Ardmore, wife to Sir Richard Ardmore of Garthdean? Alice, this is His Grace the Duke of Temberlay, Her Grace the Duchess, and the very lovely Lady Delphine St. James.”

  Lady Alice looked at her appraisingly, her lips pursed. Alice was as narrow and meager of frame as her brother was tall and broad.

  “I understand you are visiting for just a few days more, Lady Alice. I am glad to have the opportunity to meet you,” Delphine said, making her curtsy.

  “Indeed,” Alice said without any change of expression. “Sir Richard is away in London, and we are having remodeling done at Garthdean. There was nothing for it but to come away until the work is finished.”

  Sydenham chuckled. “Don’t be so modest, Alice. She has recently purchased a brand-new Pleyel piano, the very best, now it is possible once again to get such a wonder shipped from Paris. Garthdean’s music room is being completely overhauled for its arrival.”

  “It is quite as exciting as awaiting a new child, Your Grace,” Alice said to Meg.

  “Such talk,” Lord Halidon muttered. “In my day, we did not mention a lady’s expectations, piano or infant.”

  “I understand you play Beethoven,” Alice said to Delphine, disapproval clear in her tone. It was hardly surprising—her own mother disapproved of music as passionately stirring as Beethoven, and believed it would stimulate emotions better left unstimulated, especially in susceptible ladies.

  “I enjoy his piano pieces,” Delphine said carefully.

  “You won’t find any such thing here. Father is quite against Beethoven,” Alic
e said.

  “Dreadful,” Halidon growled. “ ‘Tom Bowling’, now there’s a piece of music. It stirs the proper emotions without overtaxing them. It is always pleasure to listen to a good English song, well played and well sung.”

  “I sing it very well indeed,” Sydenham interjected. “Alice accompanies me on the piano. Treholme’s instrument is not a Pleyel, but it is quality nonetheless.”

  “My brother has a remarkable voice, clear as the summer air, pure of tone—and he has never had a lesson,” Alice said proudly.

  Sydenham blushed. “I must admit if I had not been born father’s heir, I may have taken to the stage.”

  “Over my dead body,” Halidon snapped. “Ring for Chalmers, Alice. Is dinner not ready yet?”

  Chalmers turned out to be as grim and gray as the house itself. Lord Halidon took Delphine’s arm and escorted her to the dining room, while Nicholas accompanied Alice and Lord Sydenham assisted Meg.

  The footmen served the soup and retreated.

  “How is your father, my lady?” Halidon asked Delphine. “No doubt he is at Neeland Park for the summer. Fine estate. I received an invitation to his house party, but of course I must decline, given my current state of ill health.” He thumped his fist on the table, making the glassware rattle. “But you may tell Ainsley that I will be fit to fight in the House of Lords come the autumn session.”

  “I am considering attending Ainsley’s party in father’s place,” Lord Sydenham said, beaming at Delphine. His eyes were fixed on the low bodice of her gown.

  “Indeed?” Delphine said, and Sydenham looked up and batted his lashes at her. Her heart dropped to her shoes. The man was smitten. She’d seen that look before. It was time to gently discourage him, prevent an offer of marriage that would embarrass them both.

  She turned back to Lord Halidon. “I am pleased to say that my father was in excellent health when I arrived home, my lord.”

  “Arrived home?” Sydenham asked. “Were you visiting relatives or friends?”

  “I was in Brussels with my sister and her husband, and Meg.”

  Silence fell like a sodden blanket. Even chewing ceased.

  “In Brussels?” Alice warbled. “Recently?”

  “Before the battle, and after,” Delphine said.

  Alice turned to Meg, her eyes wide. “You as well? With—” She glanced at Meg’s belly.

  “My husband was there,” Meg said tartly.

  “What regiment did you belong to, Your Grace?” Halidon asked.

  “The Royal Dragoons,” Nicholas said.

  Halidon nodded. “Well done. Commanded the finest, did you?”

  “I served as an observing officer, my lord,” Nicholas said.

  Halidon choked on his wine. “A spy? You, a duke?”

  Nicholas held the old man’s burning gaze but didn’t bother to reply.

  “Perhaps it was all very innocent. What did you do in Brussels, my lady?” Sydenham asked Delphine, his ready smile gone.

  He looked so hopeful that she almost regretted the blow before she delivered it. She did so with a smile.

  “I was there with my sister. She is married to Colonel Lord Fairlie of the Dragoons. Well, it’s not important. Eleanor often travels with Fairlie. She assists with the wounded and I—”

  “The wounded?” Sydenham and Alice cried out as one, and in perfect harmony from what Delphine could tell.

  “Not soldiers—men?” Alice asked, turning pale. She set her fork down.

  “Like the gentleman recovering at Temberlay?” Sydenham whispered.

  “Indeed,” Meg said coolly.

  Halidon tossed his napkin onto the table. “It is one thing to send fine men into battle, bring them back as heroes, but it is quite another thing to send ladies of rank—especially the ones who are unmarried or breeding—to war.” He fixed Nicholas with a glare. “And in my day, honorable gentlemen—especially peers—did not spy on each other!”

  Delphine set her spoon down. “And yet Lord Wellington is a peer, and without doubt a gentleman, is he not? And may I say, if he were ever harmed in battle—and I am most thankful that he has not been injured, for there was more than enough blood shed at Waterloo—I daresay His Grace would bleed Tory blue.”

  Alice put her hand to her lips. “Do not speak of blood. I cannot bear it.”

  Halidon kept his eyes on Delphine, a spark of interest there at last. “Ah, but this is the Duke of Wellington’s blood, Alice. Noble Tory blood, indeed. Buck up.” He took his glass and rose to his feet. “To the duke!” he set his empty glass down with a thump. “If you will forgive me, I shall retire and leave you to finish your meal. Pray give your father my regards when next you see him, Lady Delphine. Might I suggest you spend more time in his esteemed company until such time you find a proper husband—elsewhere—who will sensibly keep you at home?” Halidon said as he shot his heir a warning look as he left.

  Sydenham sat in mortified silence as the next course was served. He only had eyes for the salmon on his plate now. Delphine hid a smile of relief. “The weather has been exceptionally pleasant this summer, has it not?” she asked Alice, changing the subject, striving to put the evening back on track.

  “Indeed it has,” Alice said carefully, looking as if she expected another shocking confession, bracing for it.

  “The fishing has been quite exceptional. This salmon is from the river, caught this morning,” Sydenham said stiffly.

  “Did you catch it, my lord?” Delphine asked. “My brother likes to fish when he has time.”

  “Nicholas also enjoys fishing,” Meg said.

  Sydenham didn’t quite meet either lady’s gaze. “Er, no. That is what father employs gamekeepers for.”

  “Next you’ll be asking if I cooked it myself,” Alice chortled.

  Meg raised her chin. “When my father died, my mother, myself, and my three sisters were left nearly penniless. We learned to cook, and took turns in the kitchen. I bake excellent scones.”

  Sydenham forced a laugh. “I daresay His Grace does not expect or allow you to do such a thing now, though.”

  “I do not have the time. I am refurbishing the nursery.”

  Alice whimpered. “Not with your own hands!”

  “Of course not,” Nicholas said, and waited for the look of relief to appear on Alice’s face. “But I daresay she would be perfectly capable of it if she wished to do so.”

  Alice drooped once more. Delphine hid a smile.

  “So you are planning to attend Father’s house party,” Delphine said brightly, addressing Sydenham.

  His lips puckered. “I have recalled a previous engagement for those dates, I’m afraid.”

  The battle had been won. Delphine feigned disappointment.

  Sydenham squirmed. “I promised Alice that I would come to Garthdean and assess the new piano. It is expected that very week. Isn’t that so, Alice?”

  Alice nodded vigorously. “Quite so.”

  They managed to finish the meal in awkward conversation about mostly nothing—garden flowers and local vistas and the weather. After dinner, Meg pleaded her condition, and they took their leave of Treholme without a single mention of meeting again. Ever.

  Chapter 34

  Stephen woke the next morning waiting for two things. First, he fully expected a rebuke from Nicholas for kissing Delphine. He’d lain awake last night considering what he might say to explain it. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, even if he was blind. Would Nicholas understand that?

  The second thing he was anticipating would make any explanation at all unnecessary. If—or when—Delphine arrived with news of her betrothal to Lord Sydenham.

  He’d been dreading that since her footsteps and Nicholas’s had faded down the corridor last evening. He’d wanted to go after her, tell her—what? That he was a better choice? He was not. That he wished the kiss had lasted longer? Yes, but it could not happen again. He’d lain awake, tortured himself, imagining that she had accepted Sydenham, was kissing
him as the pair of them celebrated long into the wee hours, heads together, hands clasped, making plans.

  He’d gotten out of bed, paced the long gallery, holding the ropes, counting the knots. If he could see, he would have read a book, or ventured outside for a stroll in the garden. He’d put his palm against the cool glass of the window and wondered if there was a moon in the sky, and if Delphine was looking up at it with Sydenham. She’d be lovely in moonlight.

  He finally made his way back along the gallery and pulled the pillow over his head to shut out the endless ticking of the clock as he waited out the night. Now, having breakfasted and dressed, he was seated in the library, waiting for Delphine, his throat tight.

  “Would you accept a visitor, my lord?” he heard Temberlay’s butler ask him. “He had hoped to see Her Grace, but she is not available, and he is eager to visit you as well.”

  “Who is it, Gardiner?” Stephen asked. He rather hoped it was Hallet at last, come to confess to making a mistake.

  “It is the reverend Mr. Brill, my lord. He has recently taken over the living at Temberlay Village, and is making his rounds.”

  Stephen considered turning the clergyman away, but what was the harm? He might gossip in the village, but the servants had probably already spread news of his presence here. He could practice his diplomatic skills, which had fallen into disuse. “You may send him in.”

  “Very good, sir. I shall bring tea.”

  He rose when he heard quick, neat footsteps approaching, and turned toward them, hoping he was looking at the door. They stopped a short distance from him.

  “Good morning, my lord. I am Reverend Brill,” he said as he picked up Stephen’s hand gingerly, the way one would shake hands with an invalid. Stephen gripped the good reverend’s hand and gave it a proper shake.

  “Please sit down,” he said, and took his own seat.

  “You must forgive my intrusion. I came to see Her Grace about a wedding, but she is unavailable. I make a point of calling on shut-ins and the sick as well, of course, so I thought I might take the opportunity to visit with you instead.”