He rifled through the stack of paper until he found Hallet’s letter. It was addressed to Colonel Fairlie, and written by a surgeon who signed it as both scribe and witness. Sergeant Hallet had also added his own signature in an indignant scrawl. His anger was justified, of course. If the bullet in Hallet’s arm had gone an inch to the left, he might have lost his arm, or even his life. Such cowardice should not go unpunished, the letter concluded. Stephen agreed, but he was not the officer the sergeant was so certain that he had seen.
The battle had been chaos. Stephen had been focused on the charge. He didn’t even remember who was riding by his side, though he’d probably known most of those men since Spain. He recalled the belch of fire from the guns ahead of him, the power of the horse beneath him, the sting of the first bullet, and then nothing.
What if he had ridden off the field, his mind affected somehow? But he wasn’t new to battle. He’d been in a dozen or more fights before Waterloo, and nothing of that kind had ever happened before.
He was damned sure he had not stolen from his fellow officers, especially when he looked at the list of purloined goods—lockets and purses and keepsakes, for the most part. It was petty, pointless, and childish, and he could only think of one man who would behave that way.
“Rothdale,” he growled through clenched teeth. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that somehow the captain was part of all this.
But Stephen was under arrest, a prisoner. There was nothing he could do. Or was there? He had to see Rothdale, face to face, eye to eye, and read the truth for himself.
Chapter 59
Being home at Neeland Park was not the respite Delphine had hoped for. Within two days of her arrival, every unmarried male within ten miles had arrived to pay his hopeful respects.
After four days, the bachelors who lived within twenty miles came flocking in like ducks, and quacking as loudly. By the time the week was out, suitors from more distant estates had called to pitch their woo, claiming they were simply “in the neighborhood.”
Delphine served them tea, listened politely while they compared her beauty to that of a summer day, the moon, a storm-tossed sea, and even, rather remarkably, to a fine fat hind leaping through the woods. She sent them all on their way without hope, much to her mother’s chagrin. Still, Countess Ainsley refused to be disappointed—not when a handpicked viscount would shortly arrive for the house party.
“Such a lot of attention! It proves that it’s not too late for you after all,” the countess said as they waved farewell to a baron and his unmarried son. “You are still much sought after. I think we stand an excellent chance of winning you the perfect husband before the end of the year.”
“They’re courting my dowry,” Delphine said dryly.
“Not at all! Well, perhaps at first—but once they meet you, they will be enthralled,” the countess said, following Delphine back indoors. Delphine strode down the hall to the music room, and her mother followed anxiously. “You mustn’t give up hope, dear girl. I have sent to London for my modiste, telling her to come at once. She will lower your bodices before the party—just a little—to impress them that there is far more to you than just a dowry.”
Delphine felt her skin heat. “What if they were blind, and could not see me at all? Would they find my conversation charming, my jokes witty? Would they adore the sound of my voice, or live for the scent of my perfume?” She sat down at the piano.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Her mother asked. “No man cares for a woman’s conversation. The best you can hope for is that they will pretend to appreciate your opinions. Your father consults me on only one thing, and that’s your possible suitors. You’ll notice he has remained in his study while our visitors have come and gone. He does not wish to give them false hope. But once I give the signal, he will come out and meet the lucky gentleman for himself.”
Delphine closed her eyes and began to play. The dark and dramatic strains of Beethoven filled the room.
“Must you play that?” the countess asked. “Should you play that? I hope you will confine yourself to country dances and folk songs while we have houseguests. They won’t understand such—potent, stimulating—music.” She snatched the music from the top of the piano and fanned herself with it.
Delphine rose. “Any other rules? Low bodices, no conversation, and no Beethoven. What else?”
The countess cast a glance over her daughter’s slim figure. “You’ve scarcely smiled since you came home, and you’re too thin. There won’t be any point in lowering your bodices if you haven’t the flesh to put in them. We’ll need padding.”
Stephen had thought her breasts perfect. She remembered his hands caressing her, his mouth on her nipples. Hot blood filled her cheeks, and desire made her fingers curl in her lap.
Her mother mistook her discomfiture and squeezed her hand. “Not to worry— You’ll do just fine. I only want what’s best for you, dearest girl. I should never have allowed you to go to Brussels. It has quite altered you. You will try to be gracious at the party, for your father’s sake, won’t you?”
“Yes of course,” Delphine said, though she knew it would take every ounce of patience she possessed. She rubbed her temples. “I think I’ll go upstairs for a little while. I have a headache.”
“It’s all that reading you’ve been doing,” her mother admonished. “What you can find to interest you in The Times, and the London Gazette, of all things, I don’t know. I read the wedding announcements in the Morning Post, but that is all. You’d be wise to do the same, and cut down on straining your eyes so. You do want your eyes to look pretty for the house party, don’t you? I shall see if we have any belladonna.”
Delphine hurried up the stairs before her mother could offer further advice, or any more suitors rolled up at the door seeking to marry her dowry, her father’s connections, and herself, in that order.
She shut the door of her room and leaned on it. She missed Stephen. It had been ten days since she left Temberlay, and still she woke every morning with the same yearning to race downstairs to be with him. Her mind told her it was over, that he had lied to her, betrayed her trust, broken her heart. He’d stood at the gallery window and watched her leave, his expression unreadable. Had he been happy to see her go, relieved to be rid of her?
According to Meg’s latest letter, he had gone to London to await his court-martial. Nicholas had told his wife that it was going badly, and Eleanor—and Fairlie—held no hope at all that Stephen would win.
Despite everything, Delphine could not believe he was guilty. Was there anyone else left who believed that? She crossed to the desk and took out a sheet of stationery. She wrote a brief note, a request, her lip caught between her teeth as she phrased it carefully. She sealed it and rang for a footman.
Sebastian arrived at her door instead, his arms held open to her, a grin on his face. She let him envelop her.
“You’re a day early!” she cried, and kissed his cheek. “If you’ve come for the house party, that is.”
“Of course I have. I just couldn’t wait to see you!” he said, and she realized how much she’d missed him. No one could make her laugh like Sebastian could, or forget everything serious. She felt tears sting her eyes, and realized how much she was counting on him to do just that.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Eleanor and the children left yesterday, and I’ve been Maman’s sole project since.”
He rolled his eyes. “I can just imagine what you’ve been going through—the lists, the dresses, the instructions . . . I’m sure it’s been grueling indeed. You look dreadfully thin and pale.” He threw himself on her bed, and crossed his booted feet on the counterpane. She pushed them off and brushed at the smudge.
“I’ve brought a distraction,” he said.
“Now what could distract the Countess of Ainsley from her duties as matchmaker and hostess?” Delphine asked, setting her hands on her hips.
“A handsome face,” he said. He pointed at
her gown. “Do you have something prettier than that to wear?” he asked.
The blue gown she was wearing had been one of Stephen’s favorites—at least by touch. She felt her cheeks heat. “What’s wrong with this one?”
“Oh it may be fine for rusticating at Temberlay Castle, but it’s a trifle dull if you’re about to meet your future husband, don’t you think?”
“My what?” She felt her stomach sink. “Oh Seb, not now!” Sebastian rolled off the bed and crossed to her wardrobe. He opened it and began to look at her gowns with a critical eye.
“Not to worry. You’ll like him, but Durling is used to smart London ladies. Here, this might do.”
He pulled out a rose silk tea dress trimmed with a moss green ribbon. She took it from him and tossed it on the bed. “When did you become such an expert on ladies’ fashions?” She remembered asking Stephen the same question.
“I have a mother and two sisters who dress in the first stare of fashion—give me credit for having learned something after all these years.”
“Well, when Durling arrives, I’ll be sure to wear it—unless I decide on something else.”
He crossed to pull the bell. “Summon your maid—I brought him with me. He’s downstairs, taking tea with Maman, and counting the moments until you appear. I’ve told him all about you, and he’s still most eager to see you,” he teased.
Delphine’s mouth dried. “He’s here? Downstairs? Did Mother not tell you I’m resting, that I have a headache?”
Sebastian snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never had a headache in your life.” He went to the door. “I’ll tell Durling you’ll be down in a quarter of an hour. Better hurry.”
Delphine stared at the door as it closed behind him. Her first inclination was to get into her bed, hide under the covers, and stay there until the house party was over and the suitors—including Durling—were gone.
But Sebastian was right. She was in the bloom of health. He’d just come and drag her out of bed himself, if her mother didn’t do it first. There was no escape. She sat in front of her mirror and stared at her pale reflection. As much as she still longed for him, Stephen was very far away. She shut her eyes. No, he wasn’t just far away. He was part of the past. She had the future to face. Perhaps Durling would prove to be just as kind, handsome, and charming—everything she wanted.
She rose when her maid came in. “I need to change my gown. I hear we have a guest for tea.”
Chapter 60
Stephen crossed Mayfair on foot with his collar turned up. No one recognized him, or tried to stop him. Nicholas was out, and unaware that Stephen had left Hartley House. He most certainly would have stopped his prisoner if he’d known. Stephen kept walking, and didn’t stop until he reached the Earl of Lowe’s town house. He climbed the steps and lifted the brass knocker.
“Is Captain Lord Rothdale at home?” he asked the butler who opened the door. The man’s lips tightened as he swept Stephen with a look of disdain.
“If he owes you money, I can only suggest you apply to the earl for payment.” He began to shut the door. Stephen stopped him.
“You’ve mistaken me, my good man. I’m a fellow officer in the Royal Dragoons, an old—” His tongue balked at the word friend.
The butler’s gaze lightened at once. “Oh, I see. Forgive me, sir. I meant no offense, it’s just that—” He stopped himself. “Lord Durling isn’t in London at the moment.”
Stephen’s stomach shrank against his spine. He shook his head. “I’m looking for Lord Peter Rothdale,” he said, suddenly knowing—and dreading—what he was about to hear.
“Lord Peter is Viscount Durling now.” The butler pointed to the black band on his sleeve. “His older brother, Lord Arthur, died several months ago.”
Stephen swayed on his feet.
“Sir, are you ill? The announcement was in the London papers, I’m sorry if it comes as a shock. Will you step inside?” The servant stepped back to admit him, but Stephen was already halfway down the steps.
He had to see her, find out if she knew. Did it matter whether she did or not? He knew what Rothdale was. If he had to, he’d throw Delphine over his saddle and carry her away, after he shot Rothdale—Durling—of course.
Chapter 61
Exactly twenty minutes after Sebastian left her, Delphine arrived in the drawing room.
She took a deep breath as Sebastian and another gentleman shot to their feet. Delphine stopped where she was and stared.
“Captain Lord Rothdale!”
She recognized him at once, despite the fact he wasn’t in uniform. She recalled the slack drunken smile, his rudeness at the duchess’s ball, the way Stephen had rescued her from the captain’s unwanted attentions. Her chest tensed now as it had that night, but he came forward with a smile.
“I see you remember me—fondly, I hope.” He bowed low over her hand and kissed it. This time he let go at once and stepped back. “I am no longer Captain Lord Rothdale, though. I have inherited my brother’s title.” His smile faded slightly as he scanned her frozen face. “Is there something wrong? Have I shocked you? I did not intend to remind you of an unpleasant memory. The countess was just telling me that you left Brussels before the battle was even decided.”
Her mother made a careful gesture behind Durling’s back, begging Delphine to hold her tongue. She couldn’t have said a word if she wanted to.
She studied him. He was different, this Peter Rothdale—or Durling, as he was now. He was sober, charming and very much at home in her mother’s drawing room. When he offered his arm, she took it, let him lead her to the settee beside her mother before he took his place across from her. Sebastian waggled his eyebrows at her. Did she like him, Seb’s merry look asked, was he not the perfect suitor? Delphine felt her skin heat.
She warned him with a glance, still wary, and took the tea her mother poured, hiding her confusion behind her cup for a moment.
“Isn’t it wonderful that Lord Durling and Sebastian were able to come earlier than expected?” the countess asked, gazing at the viscount rapturously, as if he were her suitor instead of Delphine’s.
“Yes, of course,” Delphine murmured.
“How long have you been here, Dilly?” Sebastian asked, and she blushed at his use of her nickname before company, and recalled Rothdale’s mocking use of it in Brussels.
“Ten days.”
“Eleanor was here when she arrived. They spent hours walking the grounds with Ellie’s children. Matthew is so tall you’d scarcely know him,” the countess chirped, and turned to her guest. “My elder daughter is Lady Fairlie. Do you know Colonel Lord Fairlie, Lord Durling?”
Durling’s smile dimmed ever so slightly. “Yes, of course. I had heard he was still in Paris with Lord Wellington.”
“Yes, but Eleanor reports he will be home in a few weeks to oversee some regimental business at Horse Guards,” the Countess said.
Delphine felt her heart lurch. The court-martial. She raised her eyes to find Durling watching her, his gaze speculative, as if he were trying to read her thoughts. Then he sent her a grin full of mischief and admiration. She looked away, out the window at the gardens. Every acre was perfectly manicured, without a blade of grass out of place, or a single withered leaf or drooping blossom. Beyond the garden lay the lake, and on the hill was the folly. If Stephen had been here, she would have walked there with him, and let him kiss her under the domed roof. She imagined his fingers on her skin, her mouth on his. The teacup rattled in her hand.
“What a magnificent view this room offers,” Durling said, following her gaze. “I should like to be able to paint it.”
“Do you paint, my lord?” the countess asked.
“No, ma’am, unfortunately not, but if I could, I would paint that scene first,” he quipped, and Delphine suppressed a smile.
“I myself painted as a girl, and was considered to be quite talented.” The countess preened. “But I did not continue with it after I married Ainsley.”
&nbs
p; “A pity for art’s sake, my lady, but a great triumph for Lord Ainsley.”
The countess giggled like a green girl, and Sebastian rolled his eyes and made a subtle face at Delphine. Durling, however, regarded their mother as if she were the most fascinating creature imaginable. It made the countess feel admired and special, and Delphine felt a kernel of approval in her breast. He was kind and attentive—both points in his favor.
“Why don’t you go for a walk on the terrace?” the countess suggested when tea was done, her eyes still on Durling. “I’ll have your maid fetch your bonnet and a parasol, Delphine.”
“I have some letters to write,” Delphine replied. “Perhaps Sebastian could—”
“Oh come on, Dilly, don’t be a stick!” her brother said. “You said you had a headache. Surely fresh air will do you good. I could use some.”
Durling tilted his head and looked hopeful, as if having her company would give him the greatest pleasure in the world.
“Yes, all right.” She took Durling’s arm and followed Sebastian outside.
“Well that was a fine start to the house party, wouldn’t you say, Dilly? Maman is at her finest, a piece of theater all on her own, the lovely Countess of Ainsley playing all the roles—coquette, hostess, and matchmaker.”
Delphine wondered what her brother was about, saying such things in front of a guest.
“I found your mother quite charming. I have rarely felt so welcomed. I almost feel as if I am a member of the family.” Durling rebuked Sebastian for her, then gave her a sheepish smile, boyish and disarming. “I hope you will not feel that I am being presumptuous in that assessment, my lady.”
Delphine found herself smiling back.
“Well, I am imagining the perils of dinner,” Sebastian said. “Your politics will have to stand up to intense grilling, old boy. But in the meanwhile, my father keeps an excellent stable. Shall we ride out? I can show you the estate, and there’s an inn at the village, with an ale wife who brews pure ambrosia.” Sebastian was as restless as he always was when he came home.
What a Lady Most Desires Page 25
