What a Lady Most Desires

by Lecia Cornwall

  “I imagine I am the last person you wish to see this evening,” he said.

  “Not at all,” she managed. “It is a very pleasant evening to be out, is it not?” she fell into uncertain silence again.

  “Then what shall we talk about?” he asked. “We cannot sit here without speaking at all. We’ve covered the state of our health. Perhaps we could discuss the weather, or the abundance of the hay crop. I know none of the current news of the world, I’m afraid, or any local gossip.” She felt her skin flush at his mild rebuke. She had not read to him today. “Shall I begin by saying the weather is excellent? At least I assume it is, since it is quite warm and we are out of doors. I feel no rain. Is it cloudy?”

  She wished she had a fan to ply, something to do with her hands, but this was a country dance, not a ton ball. He sat in profile to her, his sightless eyes turned up to the sky. The sun had set, and the first stars had appeared along the horizon.

  “The evening is very clear, and there are stars coming out,” she said.

  “I see, and what is the phase of the moon?” he asked. She felt as brittle as the tone of his voice, ready to snap in half.

  “Three-quarters full, I believe.”

  “And shining merrily upon this happy gathering. What of the décor, and the ladies’ dresses?”

  “There are wildflowers everywhere—pots of them on every table—garlands, sheaves of grain, torches, lanterns, and candles,” she said, scanning the scene before them. “The women are wearing their Sunday dresses.”

  “Are there flowers in their hair?” he asked.

  “Yes. They look very pretty indeed.”

  “Do you have flowers in your hair?”

  She resisted the urge to raise her hand and touch them. “I do. Yellow gillyflowers and cornflowers.”

  “Blue,” he murmured. He’d turned toward her now. “And are you wearing your Sunday best?”

  “Blue muslin.” The torchlight touched the bones of his face, she noted, glittered in his eyes, made his hair gleam. “And a yellow shawl.”

  “Cashmere?” he asked. His hands were inches from the trailing edge of it. She hoped he would not ask to touch her now. She could not bear it.

  “Wool. Tonight I am a simple country lass.”

  He tilted his head. “I am trying to imagine that.”

  She swallowed. He found her hand, touched the back of it tentatively, and she twined her fingers in his, squeezed them, and felt him squeeze back. Were they at least friends, then?

  “Delphine, I hope—” he began.

  “Would you take some ale, my lady and my lord?” A farm wife held out two tankards of foaming ale, and Delphine snatched her hand away from his.

  “To your health,” Delphine murmured, taking them, and the woman smiled and left them. She pressed one into Stephen’s hands.

  “Do ladies drink ale?” he asked.

  “On occasion,” she replied.

  “Then let us toast to occasions such as this,” Stephen said, and held up his mug. She noted the pleasure on his face as he drank. She took a careful sip, tasted the bitterness of the brew, cool on her hot throat, as refreshing as a cold swim. She shut her eyes, tried not to think of that. He was simply being polite, as he would to any other lady he found himself sitting beside. It was the proper thing—the diplomatic thing—to do. It would ever be thus, if they met again in the future—bland, polite conversation that carefully avoided any mention of what had happened between them, once, on a summer day. Her heart was a lead weight in her chest.

  “I smell something roasting,” he said.

  “Chickens,” she said. “On a spit over a fire. They’re nearly ready by the looks of it, though I’m no cook. There’s fresh bread as well.”

  “Lammas loaves?” he asked.

  “Mr. Brill is blessing each and every one.”

  “I would have liked to own a farm,” he said. “Once my long and brilliant career as an army officer and a diplomat was over, of course.”

  She glanced at him in surprise, and saw he was in earnest. “You? A farmer?”

  His brows flew into his hairline. “Yes, me. Why not? Can’t you picture it?”

  “I would have imagined you might wish to enter politics, become a foreign minister, even prime minister, someday.”

  “Me? No. Not that it matters now.” He raised the tankard to his lips again.

  Her chest constricted. “What will you do if things go badly?”

  “At my court-martial, you mean?” He kept his tone as careful as if they were still speaking of the weather.

  “Yes.”

  “I shall take a cottage in some remote corner of the country, far from everyone. Except Browning of course, if he’ll come, and a cook who can roast a chicken to golden perfection, make ale, and scones, and cherry tarts.”

  “You’ll need someone to read to you,” she reminded him wistfully. Not her—he’d made that clear.

  “Yes,” he said a trifle sadly.

  “What you need is a wife,” Nicholas said, and Delphine turned to find him standing beside her. “A bonny country lass who will be content with a quiet life, and who won’t mind when you prattle on about your glory days, fighting in Spain and France.”

  “And where would I find such a paragon?” Stephen asked.

  Delphine met Nicholas’s eyes, and even in the shadows she read the warning in his gaze. He was right of course, if too late. “There are plenty of country lasses here tonight to dance with. And I hope you’re up for dancing too, Del. Save one for me? I don’t think we’ve ever danced together, not in all the years I’ve known you.”

  “You left to take up your commission the day before my come-out ball. I was heartbroken,” she said.

  “If it’s any consolation, we had no time to dance with anyone in Spain, did we, Nick?” Stephen sipped his ale again. “Though we did drink.”

  Meg arrived to slip her hand through her husband’s arm. “Come to the table. The meal can’t begin until we’ve taken our places, Nicholas. Stephen, will you escort Delphine?”

  “I fear she must escort me,” Stephen said, but he rose to his feet and presented his arm, and Delphine slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, dizzy at even that polite touch.

  Chapter 45

  The lively dance in the barn made even that vast space hot and sticky. Stephen could hear the laughter and feel the thunder of dancing feet through the floor beneath his boots as folk grand and low celebrated the harvest together. A trio of villagers played lively country tunes on fiddle, flute, and drum, and he could feel the excitement in the air, a kind of buzz that made his blood pump faster, even blind. The smell of ale, sweet hay, and sweat filled the barn, and beneath that, the scent of the evening breeze came in through the open doors, as cool and fresh as water on a hot day. He turned his face toward it, felt it cool his skin.

  “I wish I had my fan,” Delphine said. “And a cold glass of ratafia, or even some of that horrid orange squash they serve at Almack’s.” She had not left his side, remained his guardian, despite everything.

  “Or an ice from Gunter’s,” Stephen said. Or a cold swim, he thought, and shifted uncomfortably, his body remembering the last swim. “Would you care to go outside? If it’s proper, I mean.”

  “Proper?” she asked, surprised, and he knew she was also thinking of what had occurred by the river . . . the cold water, the sweet wetness of her flesh, the taste of her mouth . . . He got to his feet. What exactly was proper between them now that line had been crossed?

  “We won’t go far, just out where it’s cooler,” he promised. “If this were a London ball, we’d stroll along the hostess’s terrace and sip iced champagne.”

  She took his arm, maneuvered a way through the dancers. The cool evening air was sweet relief, and he stood still for a moment in the relative quiet of the barnyard. “Is it too dark here?” he asked.

  “We needn’t be so stiff with each other. I promise I have no designs—further designs—on your virtue, my lord.” />
  How disappointing, he thought. “I owe you an apology,” he said instead. “I had not intended to be so unkind this morning.”

  “I see,” she said. “Two apologies in one day. Thank you.” She stood by his side in silence.

  “Perhaps we could begin again,” he suggested.

  “From what point?” she asked. “From before our conversation this morning, or—”

  “From Tuesday morning, perhaps, before the, um—picnic.”

  “The picnic,” she said, and he heard the bitter smile in her voice. “Yes, I suppose we must call it that, if we should find it necessary to call it anything at all.”

  Stephen swallowed regret. “I fear I am keeping you from dancing. I am fine on my own if you wish to go back inside. Nicholas still hasn’t claimed his dance.”

  “He hasn’t asked, and I can see him from here. He’s quite busy dancing with every single one of the village lasses. They’re flushed with pleasure to be dancing with a duke. Even Browning is dancing—and looking happy indeed.”

  “And you should be dancing as well.”

  “Are ye askin’ me, m’lord?” she mimicked a country accent.

  “Would that I could,” he said more seriously than he intended. “I still recall the last time I danced with you. In that, I have the advantage over Nicholas.”

  “Pshaw! I have danced with dukes before,” she said, laughing, trying to force a light tone that didn’t quite break through the awkwardness between them.

  “And you will again, no doubt,” he said.

  “I will never forget that waltz in Brussels with you,” she said, growing serious.

  “It was a memorable evening,” he replied. “But my dancing days are over.”

  “They needn’t be. There’s not a soul here, the ground is relatively flat, and we can hear the music,” she said.

  “Are you askin’ me, milady?” he parroted with a faint smile, wishing it were indeed possible.

  “I am,” she said boldly. “If you’ll recall, our dance in Brussels was rudely interrupted by battle. I would like to finish it. If we are to begin again, perhaps we should start from there.”

  “Delphine—”

  “I am quite in earnest.” She picked up his hand and set it on her waist, and placed her other hand on his shoulder. He could feel the heat of her body near to his, smell her perfume—or was it the wildflowers in her hair?

  “What if I step on your feet?”

  “I have had gentlemen tread on my toes before—dukes even.”

  “And no doubt you will again,” he repeated. “I shall do my best.”

  “Then we shall begin,” she said.

  “Yes.” He held his breath and took a step, letting her lead. They spun, and he felt the swirl of her skirts against his boots. The steps came naturally, easily. He soon forgot the potential hazards, the hedges and fences and plows that must be lying about, and felt like there was nothing and no one else in the world but them, Delphine and Stephen. The music ended all too soon, and he reluctantly came to a stop. His breath was rapid, his heart pounding, and she laughed, a silken sound, like water. He did not want to release his hold on her.

  “Are we standing in the middle of a crowd of people?” he asked.

  “No. We are quite alone, in the shadow of the barn,” she said, a little breathless from the dance—or perhaps, he hoped—it was him? “Why?”

  “Because I want to kiss you. It will break the rules, but, well, we did end that night with a kiss.” It was lame, ridiculous. “Perhaps we should not—”

  The press of her mouth against his stopped his words. She tasted of ale and wildflowers, and he shut his eyes, kissed her gently, merely sipping at her, when he wanted to slake his thirst. He resisted the desire to pull her into his arms and deepen the kiss.

  “We should go inside,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” she said against his lips.

  “Nicholas will be looking for us.”

  “Browning too. And Meg.”

  She laid her forehead on his shoulder, and he slipped his arms around her, held her close for a moment, drank in the softness of her in his arms. It only made the longing worse. He stepped back with a sigh. “Come, then. We’d best go.”

  She put her arm through his and led him back. The music and the chatter got louder, and they stepped into the barn, and once again he felt the heat, the vibration of a hundred dancers. It felt like a cavalry charge. She let go of his arm, swept away by someone he couldn’t see, and he found a bench and sat.

  Would their dances together always end with a kiss? He pictured her in the torchlit courtyard in Brussels, staring earnestly at him after another dance, another kiss. “You will live,” she’d said.

  And so he had. He would face court-martial, potential disgrace, and a very different life than he’d ever imagined.

  Only now he could not imagine any life at all without Delphine.

  Chapter 46

  Delphine ran along the dark gallery, through pools of moonlight that gilded the floor. She had resisted as long as she could, but she’d finally risen, unable to still the yearning any longer. She pulled on her robe and left her room. The floor was icy under her bare feet, but she didn’t care.

  She was breathless by the time she reached the door of the small salon where his bedroom was. She lifted the latch, let herself in, and shut the door silently behind her. His bed lay in a shaft of moonlight, and he propped himself on one elbow as she entered, and the sheet fell away from his naked chest. He was awake too, and her breath caught in her throat, wondering if he was thinking of her, unable to sleep, tormented by desire.

  He did not ask who was there. He knew.

  “We should not do this. Nothing can come of it,” he said, even as he threw back the blankets and opened his arms, and she tumbled into them and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her against the naked length of his body.

  “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is now,” she whispered. “I don’t want anything, Stephen. All I want is this moment.”

  He groaned softly. “God help me. I swore I wouldn’t do this.” He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks. “Why can’t I stay away from you?” he asked, finding her mouth.

  “I came to you,” she pointed out, moving against him, a sinuous swirl of her hips that made him groan. She ran her hand over the moonlit planes of his chest as he fumbled with the silk ties of her robe, and the buttons on the nightgown under it, and slid them both off her shoulders.

  “I wish I could see you,” he muttered.

  “It’s dark. I can’t see you either,” she said. “We are both blind, dependent on touch . . .” She ran her fingertips over his jaw. “And taste . . .” She licked the seam of his mouth, and let her tongue tangle with his. Her hands roamed over him, down beneath the sheets, finding his erection, and he groaned again. “And sound,” she purred. She climbed astride him.

  “And scent. You still smell like gillyflowers,” he said. He grasped the hem of her nightgown, pulled it over her head and tossed it away, leaving her as naked as he was. His hand brushed her braided hair. “Take your hair down. I want to feel it on my skin.”

  She lifted her arms to unplait the braid, and he caressed her up-tilted breasts, teased the nipples into bloom. His erection jutted beneath her, and she moved against it, wanting it. She leaned forward, let the silk of her hair fall over him, and the scent of flowers intensified. He sighed as the sweet waves cascaded over his face and chest.

  She moved against him, and he lifted her, positioned her, and brought her down on his erection. He groaned as she circled her hips, reveling in the feeling of him inside her. She knew she was driving him wild. She began to move, leading now as she had as they danced, and he reached between their bodies, stroked her, and she felt her inner muscles tighten around him. The sensation rose as he filled her, withdrew, and filled her again even as his fingers worked magic. She felt her climax pour over her, and as her body pulsated, he found his own release.


  Much later, she lay across his chest and closed her eyes, sated and content, and he held her close. She marveled at how their bodies fit together. It was perfect. For now.

  Stephen woke when the earliest birds began to chirp, warning that dawn was close. The servants would soon be up, and Browning would arrive—he slept in the servant’s quarters now that Stephen could manage simple tasks.

  Delphine was asleep beside him, her breathing soft, her body warm against his. He brushed her hair aside and kissed her forehead, wishing he could wake like this every single day for the rest of his life.

  But that was impossible. She still did not belong to him, could never belong to him. If Nicholas didn’t kill him for this, her father might, or her brother—if the Crown did not hang him for cowardice first, of course. He imagined being led to the dueling grounds at Hyde Park, feeling someone press a gun into his hand, and shooting into the darkness with the faint hope of hitting his opponent.

  “It’s almost dawn,” he whispered, stroking her arm, and she snorted gently, and he smiled at the small indelicate sound of her waking. She stretched her limbs against his, and he felt his cock rise hopefully. His hand tightened on her shoulder for a moment, but he forced himself to let go. There wasn’t time. He felt bitter disappointment fill him. She sat up, and his flesh was instantly chilled where she’d touched him. The weight of her body left the bed, and he stretched out a hand to touch the warm place where she’d been.

  “I shouldn’t have slept,” she said, and he heard her gathering her clothes. “I didn’t intend to. I wonder what time it is.”

  “It’s just before dawn,” he said.

  She stopped. “How do you know that?”

  “The birds,” he said, touching his ear.

  “Oh.” She came back to the bed and leaned over to kiss him. She let her mouth linger, moved closer, but he held her away.

  “We can’t do this again.”

  “I know,” she murmured.

  “Truly, Delphine. We must stop. It’s not fair to either of us.”

  “I understand completely,” she said, but she kissed him again, all the while drawing soft circles on his chest with the tip of her fingernail. He gritted his teeth against the instant rise of rampant desire.