What a Lady Most Desires

by Lecia Cornwall

  Delphine turned the pages slowly and came to a place where the pages of the old book were stuck together. She gently worked them loose.

  A piece of paper dropped into her lap like an autumn leaf, along with a withered pink flower, pressed flat. Both were stained with brown splotches. An ancient billet doux, perhaps?

  Delphine picked up the note and unfolded it.

  Chapter 66

  “Good morning, Melrose,” Delphine said when Nicholas’s London butler opened the door to her urgent knock. “Is His Grace at home?”

  If the servant was surprised to see her at such an early hour, or shocked that she arrived without a chaperone in tow, he didn’t let it show. He simply stepped back and admitted her. “If you’ll wait in the sitting room, my lady, I will see if the duke is at home.”

  Delphine paced the Turkey carpet. She’d been awake all night, waiting for morning. She had dressed as soon as it was light and ordered the carriage out, interrupting the coachman’s breakfast. She had to see Nicholas. Her heart thumped against her ribs, and she clutched her reticule tighter, felt the weight of the book inside.

  “Del,” Nicholas came in straightening his cravat. His hair was still damp from a hasty bath. She didn’t waste time with greetings.

  “I found something, Nick—”

  She fumbled with the clasp on her reticule, but he took her elbow, led her to the settee. “That can wait. Sit down. I’ll order tea—or would you prefer coffee, or breakfast?” It was a subtle hint that it was very early indeed. She glanced at the clock. It was barely eight. “I assume you’ve come with good news,” he said. “Did Durling propose?”

  She swallowed. “Why, yes, but I—”

  “Did you accept?”

  She looked at her gloved hands. “No, but almost,” she whispered, realizing yet again how close she’d come to doing just that.

  “Why didn’t you?” Nicholas asked, taking a chair across from her.

  She looked up at him. “He lied to me. Just like—” She stopped. “I’m beginning to think every man alive lies to get what he wants—honorable men, scoundrels, charmers, politicians, diplomats, soldiers—they all lie. Peter has proven to be the worst liar of all.” She felt tears sting her eyes. “Worse than a liar, I suspect. That’s why I’ve come.”

  “Del—”

  She took out the book and laid it on the table between them, scarcely able to touch it. “Peter—Viscount Durling—gave me this book as a token of his affection. I found this inside, tucked between the pages.” She handed him the folded note.

  Nicholas frowned at the bloodstains and unfolded it. She watched his face as he read it, saw him flush. He looked up at her in amazement. “It’s a vowel—the vowel. The one Ives said he was carrying in his pocket during the battle. How on earth—?”

  He got to his feet and went to the door. “Melrose, give this to Lord Ives and ask him to join us,” he said, handing the vowel to the butler.

  Delphine’s stomach knotted itself. “I didn’t realize Stephen was here. I suppose I should have known of course. I’m not sure I’m ready to see him again, Nicholas. What will I say?”

  “I think you must see him. I can’t take credit for this.” He picked up the book, ran his hand over the embossed cover, opened it, looked at the name inscribed inside. “This book was listed among the items stolen in Brussels. The owner was afraid that Stephen had sold it. He will be very glad to see it again.”

  “There’s something else,” she said. She showed him the bloodstained daisy. “I gave this to Stephen the night before the battle, for luck. I saw him put it into his pocket. That’s why there’s so much blood. It’s Stephen’s blood, isn’t it? He must have carried it into battle.” She felt her skin heat, and the ball of anger that had been forming in her chest threatened to choke her. “Peter was so charming at Neeland. He wasn’t the ruffian who accosted me at the duchess’s ball. When he proposed, I almost said—” She could not say the word even now. She blinked away tears, met Nicholas’s gaze. “How could he have gotten this? He must have—” She shuddered.

  Nicholas’s expression was grim. “Stephen told me about the vowel. He tried to convince me that Rothdale had somehow taken it from his pocket, told me a fantastic tale that the captain managed to falsely accuse him, spread rumors. It seemed so far-fetched. I didn’t believe him. I thought he was doing it to keep you from marrying Durling. I almost gave up on him, thought—”

  She knew what he’d thought. She’d thought it too. “Will this help his case?”

  “The book, the vowel, even the daisy—yes, this will help,” he said.

  Hope made the tears come faster.

  “Even now, after everything, you’re willing to help him?” Nicholas asked, pressing his handkerchief into her hands.

  “Yes, but it isn’t what you think,” she said.

  “Isn’t it?” he asked.

  “It’s over, Nicholas.” She twisted his handkerchief in her hands, wished it was. She’d had enough pain, enough heartache, enough tears.

  The door opened and Delphine’s breath caught in her throat the way it always did when Stephen entered a room. He was grinning triumphantly, his eyes on Nicholas. “Where the devil did you get this?” he asked, holding up the vowel.

  He stopped dead in his tracks as she rose, and he turned and saw her there.

  His shirt was open at the neck, revealing the muscles of his throat, and the edge of the scar. He looked whole again, healthy, handsome, save for a bruise on his jaw. She curled her fingers in the folds of her skirt to keep from touching the purple mark, and forced herself to breathe.

  “Hello,” she said, and couldn’t manage a single word beyond that. She could only stare.

  He turned to Nicholas. “Where did this come from?” he asked, holding up the vowel.

  “I think Delphine should tell the tale, don’t you Del?” Nicholas said. He smiled at her. “I’ll let you do that.” He left the room.

  Delphine could hear the clock ticking.

  Stephen came toward her, scanned her face. “It’s good to see you,” he said softly. “More than good—” She shut her eyes, resisting the urge to throw herself into his arms. She turned away.

  “Peter Durling proposed,” she said.

  She turned when he did not reply. He stood still, his expression carefully blank. “Did you say yes?” he asked, and glanced down at her left hand, looking for a ring, perhaps.

  She shook her head. “No. Almost.” She clenched her fist, went on. “He gave me a gift, a book of poetry, you see. I found the vowel stuck between the pages, with this—” She held out the daisy to him. His brows rose when he saw it. He took it, and even that slight brush of his fingers against her palm sent sparks racing through her veins. He looked at it for a long moment.

  “You kept it,” she said softly.

  “Yes. It was in my pocket, along with the vowel.”

  “But it wasn’t there when we checked. I was with Eleanor—it wasn’t there. There’s blood on it. Does that mean that Peter . . .” She couldn’t finish. Nausea rose.

  His jaw tensed. “I suppose he must have found me on the field after I fell. I don’t remember. I only know the vowel wasn’t there. I checked myself when I found my tunic at Temberlay. I’m surprised Eleanor saved it, given the condition it was in.”

  “She wanted to burn it, but I wouldn’t let her.” She looked at him through tears.

  His eyes softened. “You never stopped believing in me, did you, even after—”

  She did not want to hear it, couldn’t bear to, not another apology, not now. Her emotions were too raw, her heart still broken. She shot to her feet. “I really should be going.”

  How long would it take for the pain in her chest, the longing for him, to give up and die? It was nearly unbearable, and she had to get away.

  He reached the door before she could open it, and his hand covered hers on the latch. “Can we talk sometime soon? After the court-martial, perhaps—it still might not go the way I hope,
but I want to—”

  She shut her eyes. “I won’t have time, I’m afraid,” she said with brittle brightness.

  “I see.” He scanned her face, and she felt hot blood fill her cheeks under his scrutiny. Would she ever get used to knowing he could see her, read her emotions? “Will you at least wish me luck?” he asked. He was close enough to touch, to kiss. Her mouth watered, but she looked away.

  “I’m not sure I’m very lucky. I gave you the daisy for luck, and look what it brought you.”

  He brushed her cheek with his knuckles, and she shut her eyes as shivers cascaded through her body. “Of course it brought me luck. I would not have survived if it weren’t for you, Delphine. And now it has brought you back to me.”

  She pulled away and fumbled to open the door. “Good-bye, Major Lord Ives. I doubt we’ll meet again.”

  Chapter 67

  “Where on earth have you been so early in the morning?” Countess Ainsley asked when Delphine came in. “Your maid said you’d gone out.”

  “I went to Temberlay House to see Nicholas. I—I wanted to inquire how Meg is doing.”

  The countess set aside her embroidery. “Meg! You should be busy having babies of your own, Delphine. Have you made a decision yet?”

  Delphine repressed a shudder. “I am still considering.” Until Nicholas decided how to handle the matter of Durling, she could say nothing, lest she give the game away.

  The countess let out a long sigh, and looked mournful, and Delphine changed the subject.

  “Sebastian isn’t married, and he’s Father’s heir,” she suggested, with just a twinge of guilt that she was placing her brother so firmly under their matchmaking mother’s sights.

  The countess would not be so easily drawn. “He’s a man. They improve with age. Women do not. When Sebastian chooses a wife, she’ll be a fresh young debutante, not a lady his own age.”

  Delphine pursed her lips, trying to picture Sebastian giving up his wild ways to marry anyone. She pitied his bride already.

  “But we are not speaking of Sebastian,” the countess reminded Delphine. “We are speaking of you, and—”

  A footman glided into the room with a tray bearing a stack of envelopes. “The post, my lady,” he said, bowing.

  “Anything for me, Richard?” Delphine asked.

  “I believe most of them are for you, my lady,” he said with a smile.

  “That will be all,” the countess said, taking the mail and waving her hand to dismiss the servant.

  “Look at these invitations. I’ll wager they are all from gentlemen. How is it you can charm every man of any age or class with just a glance, and yet you cannot settle on one to marry?” the countess asked.

  Her heart had already decided, Delphine thought. She had wanted Stephen. Seeing him again had only made her realize that despite the lies, the cruelty of his deception, she was still not immune to him.

  How disappointed her mother would be. If she could not marry for love, she would not marry at all. It would be unfair to pledge herself to a husband, to lie with him, bear his children, and stand by his side, all while pining for the one man she could never forget. She could not be so cruel, or so dishonest. She could not endure such betrayal.

  “Oh look, here’s a letter from Lord Durling,” her mother said, waving it like a magic charm.

  Delphine took it, revulsion rising anew. “I think I’ll read it upstairs.”

  At least Durling did not profess to love her. Esteem, admire, yes—he included all those sentiments in his brief letter. In that he was honest, if false in every other way. He had written to let her know he was counting the days until her answer would make him the happiest man in the world. She crumpled his note in her fist. She was about to disappoint him more completely than he could imagine.

  Chapter 68

  Stephen stared at the vowel. He remembered the night Rothdale had scrawled the words, handed it to him with ill grace, and walked away. There were a number of other officers who held the captain’s notes.

  Captain Fox’s vowel had been the first to disappear. Two other officers who held Rothdale’s vowels likewise discovered themselves unable to find them. And there were other, more personal valuables missing. Not one of them, Stephen included, thought to accuse Rothdale of theft. Investigations began, but nothing was ever found or proven. It became smarter to ensure valuables were locked away, and to keep vowels on one’s person.

  He hadn’t seen Rothdale again until the duchess’s ball, when he’d accosted Delphine.

  Stephen shut his eyes. If it hadn’t been for Rothdale, he would not have asked Delphine to dance. He would have made an excuse, slipped out, and never given her another thought.

  Fate had done him a favor. He wasn’t the man he’d been in Spain or Vienna, or on the night Rothdale had given him the vowel. She’d changed him, made him humbler, less sure of himself. And yet, he knew exactly what he wanted.

  He’d known the moment he met her at her mother’s ball, a year before Waterloo. He’d just been too stupid to see it. He had thought Delphine was a Pandora’s box, filled with trouble, when she was in fact a treasure chest. What mattered most lay deep inside her, unseen, even by someone trained to observe.

  He’d hidden behind his uniform, and protocol and etiquette, made those things armor against his fears of death and rejection and heartache. She had taught him that equality, pleasure, trust, and mutual respect mattered far more. Before Delphine, he’d spent far too long hanging back, observing, without being fully part of life. It had taken months of blindness to see that. It had taken Delphine, her sweetness, her goodness, her determination, her willingness to risk all for love. In those things, he’d been a coward indeed.

  He looked at the daisy, sitting on top of the vowel. Luck had indeed been on his side that night. When this was over, if he found himself exonerated, he would do everything he could to win her back. If not—he would face a lifetime of regret.

  He opened the file again, and took out the sworn statements, and scanned Sergeant Hallet’s letter yet again.

  “I saw Major Lord Ives turn his horse and flee from the enemy on the field of battle . . .”

  Stephen rubbed his eyes. It looked hopeless.

  Chapter 69

  “Sergeant Browning!” Delphine was surprised to see the soldier waiting for her outside Ainsley Place when she returned from shopping. He wore a high collar that covered most of his wounded neck, and carried a bundle under his arm. The footman who helped her alight from the coach stared at him balefully, and started toward him.

  “It’s all right— I know this man.” She wondered if he had bad news, if Stephen was ill. He looked grim as he held her eyes boldly. “Please come inside, Sergeant.”

  He hesitated, glancing up at the formidable façade of Ainsley Place, but she took his arm.

  “How are your lessons progressing? Reverend Brill seemed quite certain you were a brilliant Bible scholar, and possibly even a prophet,” she babbled as she led him up the steps and into the house, ignoring the curious looks of the staff.

  She took him into the library, and asked the butler to bring tea.

  Her heart was thumping in her breast. “Is there a reason why you came to see me? Is Lord Stephen well?” Would she get up and go to him if he was not? She knew she would. “Did he send you here?”

  Browning shook his head. He pointed at her, then to his own chest, and made a scribbling motion with his right hand on his left palm.

  “Paper and pencil.” Delphine crossed to the drawer to fetch them. She set them on the table, and he wrote slowly and carefully.

  “ ‘He saveth me,’ ” Delphine read aloud. She glanced at the Bible he’d brought with him. “Is this a—pastoral—visit?”

  He looked frustrated and shook his head. I was afraid, he wrote. It is good that a man should not be alone. I will make him a helpmeet. He crossed out the word man and wrote Alan.

  Delphine frowned and tried to make sense of his meaning. He took another sheet
of paper. A flaming sword. Blood crieth unto me from the ground. The earth is filled with violence.

  “It sounds like war. Is this what you saw, at Waterloo?” Delphine asked, wondering why he was telling her. He nodded vigorously, his gaze intense.

  My brother’s keeper. The breath of life. God blessed Noah. He crossed out Noah and wrote his own name in again. Restoreth my brother. Blessed be. Thy mercy shewed unto me in saving my life.

  “Your life?” Delphine asked. “Someone saved your life?”

  Relief filled his eyes and he nodded. She looked at the words. “Someone saved your life during the battle . . .” She followed his words with her finger. “Your brother . . .”

  He shook his head, and took out his sergeant’s stripes, carefully wrapped in a handkerchief in his pocket.

  “A brother in arms, perhaps?” Delphine guessed. He nodded. A shiver passed through her. He set the bundle on the table, opened it, revealing the battle-scarred remains of Stephen’s tunic. She looked up at him in surprise, realization dawning.

  “Stephen. Stephen saved your life during the battle. You saw him.” Her limbs turned to water. She touched the blood-stiffened collar of the tunic. “It means he was there, he didn’t ride away. He was there.”

  He gave her a lopsided smile and nodded. Delphine felt tears well, and saw tears in the sergeant’s eyes too. He picked up the pencil again. Keep the way of the Lord, to do justice and judgment.

  She nodded, understanding. “The court-martial. You wish to attend, give evidence?”

  “ ‘Yes,’ ” she read the word, and smiled. “I will tell Temberlay.”

  He pointed to the scrawled verses on the paper, and shrugged. Was it enough, would it help? She caught his hand and kissed it. “We’ll make it enough, Sergeant Browning.”