What a Lady Most Desires

by Lecia Cornwall

  Chapter 53

  Delphine decided she would write to her mother that very afternoon and tell her that she would not be attending the house party. She could not go and flirt and make witty comments the way her father would expect. She could not charm the suitors her mother had beguiled into coming, men who hoped to win the generous dowry and fair hand of Lady Delphine St. James, if only so they might hitch their political fortunes to Ainsley’s. Her father, it was rumored, would one day become prime minister.

  Most important, no matter how perfect, charming, and handsome Viscount Durling might be, she did not wish to meet him or marry him. Her heart was already taken.

  She wanted Stephen.

  Her parents would be shocked at her decision, disappointed in her sudden show of stubborn independence. They would be horrified that she loved a blind man accused of terrible crimes.

  She had decided it would be better to start small, by refusing to attend the house party. Once the surprise of that died away, she would build up to admitting she was in love, then gather the courage to utter Stephen’s name in her father’s presence. She would convince her mother to accept that she’d made her choice, and would not be dissuaded.

  There were a number of flaws in her plan. No amount of pleading or coaxing would make Ainsley accept Stephen if he was declared a coward—better a Whig than a coward. Stephen would never be acceptable to a lord who had hopes of high political office. Such a son-in-law could break him. He would, as a loving father, wish to protect her from what he saw as a bad match, doomed to unhappiness. She would stand her ground, find a way to prove that she could never be happy with anyone else but Stephen. She would live in a humble hut for the rest of her life, as long as she could be with Stephen.

  Of course, Stephen had not proposed—yet. She knew in her heart that it was because he had too much honor to offer for her, knowing he might be disgraced. He would rather face his fate alone. That was noble, not the act of a coward. It only made her love him more. He would never deceive her, or give her hope while there wasn’t any. She picked up the quill.

  Dear Maman,

  She flicked the end of her pen across her lips and considered what to say next, how to phrase the letter that would surely break her mother’s heart. She, Lady Delphine St. James, known for her ready tongue, her ability to make the perfect remark in any situation, could not think of a thing to say.

  I love Stephen Ives with all my heart—

  That was truthful, at least. But how could she phrase it gently, diplomatically?

  Stephen would know, being a diplomat himself. She looked out the window. The view was changing as the summer moved into its last long, sweet days.

  There was a knock at the door, and a maid entered. “Lord Stephen sent me to inquire if you wished to walk in the garden, my lady. Shall I tell him you’re busy writing a letter?”

  Delphine dropped the pen, her heart rising. “No, I’ll go down.” She glanced into the mirror, pinched her cheeks, and smoothed a hand over her gown, wondering if she should change her dress. It hardly mattered—he couldn’t see her. She could wear a sack, and he would not notice. She looked for a shawl that was soft to the touch, enticing to the hand, and dabbed extra perfume behind her ears. Her letter to her mother was forgotten as she hurried down the stairs.

  Chapter 54

  Delphine took Stephen’s arm as they walked outside, her heart alive with the joy of his company. Nicholas would not approve of what she was about to do, but she didn’t care what he thought, or what anyone else wanted. She loved Stephen, and she was going to tell him so. Her breath caught in her throat, made her dizzy.

  He walked by her side, his eyes on the garden he could not see, his expression pensive. He seemed distant, even though he was here by her side. What was he thinking?

  She loved him. She opened her mouth to say the words.

  “It’s a lovely day,” she said instead.

  “Yes.” His tone was cool, and she swallowed.

  “Autumn is coming. There are poppies amid the corn, which is golden and ready for cutting. The trees in the orchards are heavy with apples, and the farm workers have propped up the branches to keep the boughs from breaking under the weight, and the plums are ripe, all dusky and purple,” she said, aware she was prattling on like a ninny.

  She put a hand up to shade her eyes. “There are some rather grumpy clouds moving in. I fear we’ll have rain before the afternoon is out.”

  He shut his eyes. “Yes, I can smell it.”

  “What does rain smell like?” she asked, her eyes on his face, memorizing the way the sun fell on his brow, burnished the gold of his hair. He tilted his head slightly, the way he always did when he was thinking. She wanted to trace the furrow between his brows, kiss him, but she kept her hand by her side.

  “The air smells dry and thick, like paper. There’s a sweetness to it too, and a heaviness.”

  She shut her eyes and drew a deep breath. “Yes, I can smell it. I can feel it too, like a weight on my skin.”

  “Are you mocking me?” he asked, a sharp edge to his tone.

  “Not at all. I’ve learned to use all my senses since—” She swallowed.

  He stopped and turned toward her, and brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “Since?” he prompted.

  “Since I came here, with you.”

  “What do you feel when I touch you?” he asked, touching her cheek.

  “Shivers,” she said shutting her eyes.

  He cupped his hand under her chin, and brushed his lips across hers. “And when I kiss you?”

  “Oh,” she sighed. Were there even words for that?

  They had stopped in the shade of the rose arbor, and the heavy blooms hung above them. No one could see. She stood on her toes and put her arms around his neck, and drew him down for a proper kiss.

  “You taste like honey,” he murmured against her mouth. “And you smell like wildflowers.”

  She was lost. She closed her eyes and pressed her body to his, reveling in the way they fit together. She opened her mouth, and let his tongue stroke hers. She tangled her fingers in the silk of his hair, ran her thumb over the slight stubble on his cheeks, the softness of his eyelashes until she was unable, unwilling to stop. It had been two weeks, a fortnight since she had been with him, too long, far, far too long. She felt his arousal against her hip, rubbed against it and heard his breath catch. His groan of desire vibrated through her. She knew him in the dark, with her eyes closed, in the light, through every sense and emotion. She was in love, and on fire. She caressed his erection, and he caught her hand, stopped her.

  “Tonight?” she asked eagerly.

  He moved away, frowning. “Is that a good idea? You’re leaving for Neeland soon, aren’t you? Is this your way of saying good-bye?”

  “I—” It hovered on her tongue to tell him she wasn’t going to Neeland, that she intended to stay here, with him, but he interrupted.

  “Tell me, do you intend to marry Durling?” he demanded. “He sounds like a paragon.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “I wouldn’t know, since I have never met him. Why are you—” She stepped toward him, but the hardness in his expression stopped her.

  “But you will consider his suit more seriously than you have with others, won’t you? He’s perfect, is he not? Your parents and your brother seem to think so.”

  “He’s just one more suitor,” she said, striving for a light tone, reaching to touch his cheek. “I’ve had dozens. More than that, probably.”

  He caught her fingers, held them. “Why did you refuse them? Why didn’t you marry before your first Season out, or your second?” She tried to withdraw her hand, he held her. “Why? I want a straight answer this time.” His face was tight, angry.

  “I—couldn’t. Not after—” She felt her breath catch in her throat.

  “After what?” he demanded. She felt tears fill her eyes. She pulled out of his grip, stepped back.

  “After you, Stephen, after the nigh
t we met. Why did you turn away from me?” She asked the question aloud for the first time. “Do you remember the night we met, at my mother’s ball? Nicholas introduced us. You made me feel—” She swallowed again, gasped for air, her chest so tight she could scarcely breathe. “But you turned away. Why Stephen? Why did you go, refuse to even speak to me again?”

  He shut his eyes. “I thought you were someone else.” He ran a hand through his hair, looked away. “You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever met, everything I wanted.”

  “But I wasn’t?” She felt stricken.

  He shook his head. “You’re meant for a man with a title, a fortune—not me, not a soldier, a mere grandson of an earl. I watched you with other men that night, saw you charm a duke, thought you wanted him. You were raised to marry a duke, Delphine—or a viscount like Durling.”

  She searched his face. “Are you pushing me away again?” Her heart drew tight to her ribs, hurting, making it impossible to breathe. She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes.

  “Pushing you? You’ve already decided to go.”

  She had decided to stay, but she looked in his eyes, saw the same coldness she’d seen before. He did not want her. Her limbs shook.

  “Will you marry him?” he asked again. “Will you kiss him the way you kiss me, make love to him?”

  The tears began to fall, and she stood before him, stunned. “No,” she murmured.

  “But it’s what your family wants. Viscountess Durling.”

  Anger flared. “How can that matter if it’s not what I want? I felt alive in Brussels for the first time. Even surrounded by so much death, I felt alive. I made a difference there, I mattered. I could save a life, offer comfort, not just sway a vote by batting my lashes or holding a duke’s hand. I was useful, not as Ainsley’s daughter, but as myself.”

  He swore softly. “I thought I could do this, hold you here, but I can’t.”

  “What?”

  “You took care of me. I was—am—grateful. I would have died if you had not.”

  “You don’t—” She swallowed. “You don’t want me?”

  He did not reply. She searched his face, bereft.

  “Then what am I to do? What have you left me fit for? From the first moment I met you, looked into your eyes, I knew you measured my worth on a different scale, a personal one. Even when you turned away, full of scorn, I still could not settle for less, be less, than what I saw reflected in your eyes. I wanted—” She could not go on, could not declare her love, not now.

  “You are so very good at playing the game, bringing men to their knees. I thought it was all just sport for you, that you were heartless, playing men off against each other, looking for the highest title,” he said, his tone flat.

  “How shallow you make me sound.” The wind began to blow, whipping tendrils of her hair loose.

  “You can charm anyone—dukes and princes, diplomats and soldiers. And now there’s Durling—the match your mother has been hoping for, and your brother can’t say enough good things about him. Are they coming to collect you in the curricle after all?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “How can you know that? I haven’t told anyone—” she stared at him, watched his face redden, his jaw tense. “You read my letters? Took them? But how is that possible?”

  The first raindrop hit her like a shard of ice, a smack that took her breath away. She gasped as other drops followed in rapid pursuit, a deluge that soaked them both to the skin in seconds. She watched his hair darken with water, sluice away from his brow. His shirt molded itself to his skin, and she looked at the muscles of his arms, followed the flow of the water down the planes of his face and neck into his open collar. He just stood there, looking at her. A shock ran through her. He was looking at her.

  It was not the blank stare of a blind man. She saw her face reflected in the depths of his gaze, watched his eyes roam over her face, seeing her.

  “You can see,” she managed.

  He nodded.

  “How long?” she asked, anger rising. “It wasn’t just now, was it?”

  “Almost two weeks,” he murmured. “Delphine, I—”

  She stepped back, staring at him. “Two weeks? Did you not think to say something?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Why did you not?” she asked. Tears stung her eyes, hot where the rain had been cold. “I’ve longed for this, hoped for it, and you did not even think to tell me. Can you see the cruelty of that?” Another realization hit her. “And when you could see, you took my letters, stole them. That’s how you know about Durling, isn’t it?”

  He stood in the rain, silently regarding her, the rain dripping off his lashes, off the ends of his hair, his expression sober and unreadable.

  “Are you so eager to be rid of me?” she asked, her heart breaking inside her chest. She pressed her fist there, the pain awful.

  She remembered the harsh things he’d said to her in the gallery, how he’d tried to drive her away then. She should have gone. She meant nothing to him, not then, or now, not ever. She had wanted him in all the ways it was possible to want a man, loved him—and he had betrayed her as no one else ever had. She’d been his eyes, a candle in the darkness. She’d held him through his nightmares, fought his fear, his pain, felt it as her own. But now he could see, and he didn’t need her any longer. He’d stolen her letters, made fun of her, wanted her to marry Durling so he could be rid of her. She’d been a fool, thinking she could make him fall in love with her. He’d turned away, and never looked back.

  It was her turn. She spun on her heel, her tears blinding her. He caught her arm but she pushed him away hard enough to make him stumble. There was no need to be careful now—he could see, didn’t need her care, or her love.

  At the doorway, she cast a single glance back. He was seated on the bench, his hands on his knees, his eyes shut, as the rain poured over him.

  She stopped inside, leaned against a chair, doubled over in agony. Hot tears warred with icy cold rain. She couldn’t breathe or move or think, there was just pain.

  She felt hands on her arms, and she pulled away. “No!” she cried, “Don’t touch me!” She spun and saw Nicholas behind her, not Stephen, his expression grim. He took off his coat and draped it around her shoulders, and opened his arms. He held her and let her cry on his shirtfront.

  “Should I ask what happened?”

  She looked up at him. “He can see. Did you know?”

  His brows quirked in surprise. “No.”

  “Two weeks,” she whispered.

  “Shall I call him out, now he can see to shoot back?” he asked her, and she looked up at him in horror, read the mock seriousness in his gaze. He kept his arm around her shoulders as he guided her toward his study. He poured a tumbler of whisky, and pressed it into her hand. “Drink it.”

  Delphine wrinkled her nose. “I don’t need—”

  “Drink it,” he commanded again. “You’re shivering.”

  She sipped, and felt the liquor burn like fire all the way to her belly.

  He rang the bell. “Send a hot bath up to Lady Delphine’s room,” he ordered when the summons was answered. “What do you wish to do?” he asked her when the door shut again.

  She huddled into his coat, now almost as wet as her own clothing. “I can’t stay here. Not now,” she said.

  “I can have a carriage ready to take you to Neeland Park first thing in the morning,” he said, and crossed to the bell again.

  “No,” she stopped him. “I want to go now, today. As soon as possible.”

  “I’ll arrange it. But if you change your mind—”

  She raised her chin. “I won’t.”

  “Running away never solved anything, Del.”

  “Is retreat not an acceptable tactic in war?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Has this become a war?”

  She considered her answer. He looked grim, formidable, and she wondered what he would do to Stephen when she was gone.


  “A skirmish perhaps, a blunder into enemy territory. No real harm was done.” She forced a smile, and felt more tears threaten. She refused to let them fall. “You won’t—hurt him, will you, Nicholas? Not on my account.”

  His brow furrowed. “I want to plant my fist in his face.”

  “Don’t! His eyes— He still needs your help to prove his innocence.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if he is innocent,” Nicholas muttered.

  “He is an honorable man,” she whispered. She could not bear it if it was not true. Honor was the essence of the man she had fallen in love with. But he’d stolen her letters, made love to her, betrayed her . . .

  Nicholas kissed her forehead. “Only you would still see honor in a man who broke your heart.”

  She didn’t say anything further, couldn’t. Her teeth chattered.

  “Go upstairs before you catch your death of cold,” Nicholas said gently.

  She moved slowly, Nicholas’s coat clutched tightly over her wet gown. Her days at Temberlay, the glorious summer, her first love affair—her last too—they were all over. She paused on the bottom step.

  She loved him still—that remained, and it would be there to torment her forever.

  Chapter 55

  Stephen looked up when Nicholas threw open the door without knocking and strode into his bedchamber, every inch the Devil Stephen remembered from battle, feared by his enemies and a good many friends as well. He braced himself, certain Nicholas was going to haul him up by the collar and slam his fist into his jaw. He waited for the first blow. He wouldn’t fight back.