Miss Cameron's Fall from Grace

by Helen Dickson

  And to add insult to that already injurious crime, after spending the most passionate, erotic night of his life in her bed, he had left her without the common courtesy of a goodbye. Little wonder she was unwilling to want him in her bed. As every minute, every hour of every day they had been apart had passed, Delphine’s hurt and anger had hardened her heart against him.

  Just thinking of that time infuriated him for, by God, he wanted her. He wanted to go to her and pull her into his arms, to carry her to bed and lose himself in her. During his absence she had become a complete woman, content in her own life at Tamara, shaping their life and that of their child in a way that pleased him. All he prayed for was that one day she would look on him with softness and come to feel some affection for him.

  More than that he could not hope for at present, but he was not a man to give up. Not for a moment did he ever doubt that Delphine would yield to him either willingly or unwillingly. It was just a question of when. In the latter case, the balance of their coming together and combat would have to take place in his bed.

  * * *

  In an attempt to bolster his wife’s drooping spirits following their disagreement about their London accommodation, Stephen had proposed they went riding together.

  Delphine had been about to refuse, but the words died on her lips when she looked at the lazy, relaxed man with the slightly smiling mouth and eyes like deep-blue velvet. Suddenly a ride across the moor or wherever he chose to take her had seemed immensely appealing. It would be precisely what she needed to shake her wits into place.

  ‘Yes—I would like that.’

  ‘Excellent. We’ll lunch at the Saracen’s Head some few miles from Penryn. It provides the best food this side of the Tamar.’

  It was a mild morning, carrying the promise of a lovely summer’s day on the faint sea breeze. Faced with the tall roan she always favoured on her rides, Stephen came to lift her into the saddle. She placed her hands on his shoulders as he placed his own firmly about her waist. Wide-eyed, she met his gaze, and saw his brows lift, a quizzical expression in his eyes.

  ‘I’ve never seen you ride. Do you ride well?’

  ‘As well as most. You can judge for yourself.’

  They rode side by side across the rolling countryside. Fresh, cool breezes were fragranced with an invigorating scent of the sea. Casting a sidelong glance at her husband, Delphine admired the way his body flowed easily with the big gelding’s stride, both horse and master strong, a picture of combined, harnessed power.

  Stephen was no less admiring of her. Gracefully perched side-saddle, when she soared over a wide ditch, he grinned approvingly. Delphine was light and lovely on horseback, managing her horse with expert skill. She urged it into a gallop, her hair and skirts flying out behind her. She let the horse have its head as she charged full pelt laughingly along the rutted track. Soon the speed and the air revived Delphine’s flagging spirits, making her feel more alive than she had in days.

  * * *

  After riding for several miles, Stephen drew up on the cliff top overlooking the sea and dismounted, then walked over to lift Delphine down from her horse.

  ‘The ride has done you good,’ he said, noting the blooming colour in her cheeks and sparkling eyes.

  ‘I enjoy riding. I often ride along the coast—this way, in fact, and sometimes inland over the moor.’

  ‘It has been good for you to explore by yourself. It’s important you get to know your new home, to learn to see it through your own eyes. I am biased about the charms of Cornwall, but I’ve no doubt you shall fall in love with it, too.’

  ‘I think I’ve already done that,’ she told him, perching on a large rock and smiling up at him, and realising to her surprise that it was true. ‘I found no difficulty at all in falling in love with Tamara and the surrounding countryside. And I like the people. They’re hardworking and friendly and—when I ceased to be a local curiosity—they made me feel very welcome.’

  ‘And have you found any waifs and strays to look after?’

  She frowned, tilting her head to look up at him. ‘There are plenty of children in need wherever you go. Some of the families—especially those among the mining community—find living hard. I still find it difficult to take in that children actually work alongside women at the mines. I do what I can to make their lives easier.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you do. But whether you agree with it or not, having children working alongside their parents at the mines is a way of life. Only time will change that.’

  Turning from her as if distracted, Stephen went to the edge of the cliff and stood looking out to sea. A small frown touched Delphine’s brow. He was already lost to his thoughts. As easily as he had dismissed her from his life when he went away, so on his return could he dismiss her from his mind. He had honoured her wish that for the present there was to be no intimacy between them. The fact that being a virile, passionate male he had not tried to change the situation surprised her, leaving her relieved and dismayed at the same time—and more than a little hurt, which confused her.

  Without moving, she studied him. For a man of such imposing herculean stature, he had an elegant way of moving in his casual clothes. Wearing a tan coat, his long legs were encased in biscuit-coloured trousers and highly polished dark-brown riding boots. His hair was dishevelled from the ride, the black curls brushing the edge of his collar. The sun illuminated his bold, lean profile and that aquiline nose that gave him a look of such stark, brooding intensity. His mouth seemed hard and grim. She watched him lift his hand and, as he absently rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck, her treacherous mind suddenly recalled how skilfully those long fingers had caressed her own body and the exquisite pleasure he had made her feel.

  Her heart suddenly swelled—with what? Admiration? Affection? Love? No, not that. She could never love a man who was in love with another woman. Could she? Even if that man was her husband? However hard she tried, she couldn’t help but want him. But then, hadn’t Aunt Celia once told her that the heart wasn’t always wise when one’s body was driven by base desires?

  Recollecting herself, she shook away such thoughts angrily. She was being an utter fool romanticising Stephen, simply because he was a beautiful man, sleek and fierce as a bird of prey, with his raven-black hair threaded with white, and incredibly skilled in arousing her desire—and because she was a spineless idiot who was disgustingly and helplessly attracted to him.

  But there it was and there was no use denying it or fighting it. Nor could she regret it. How could she regret having known, for such a short time, the feel of his lips on hers, his naked body pressed close? Until then her heart and body had been dormant, waiting for the spark that would make it explode into life. And if Stephen had not ignited it, she would have spent her whole existence not knowing what it felt like to have a fire inside her soul, would never have known that such a wild, sweet passion could exist. Better by far to experience that passion for such a short time, than never to have known it at all, even if it brought such pain and heartache, or to die not knowing such joy was possible. But it was unfortunate that now she had had a taste of the intoxicating sweetness of his lovemaking, she realised it was completely separate from what she really yearned for—an intimacy of the heart.

  She took a few steps to stand by his side. Looking up at him, she wondered what he was thinking. There were times when he would become preoccupied, his thoughts far away—especially the times when correspondence arrived from Spain. At these times she would often catch him unawares. He never spoke of the war; in fact, he always seemed reluctant to do so. Was it because he was pining for the woman who had stolen his heart, or because of the terrible memories of war doing so would evoke?

  When he’d returned to Tamara and she had seen the ugly red scar on his chest, her heart had twisted with pain at the suffering he must have endured. Mr Oakley h
ad told her how he had been so badly wounded at Salamanca that the surgeon who had treated him had feared that he might die. He had been fortunate, but his mind clearly remained troubled.

  Every morning he would leave the warmth of his bed for the cold of the sea, as if some unnamed nightmare could be banished only with an early-morning dunking in the sea. Delphine tried not to dwell on what it was that he felt the need to wash away, what he needed to exorcise, but it did not seem to have worked because the dark, troubled shadow in his eyes since his return from Spain was still there. He always returned to the house before breakfast, but she feared that one morning he might not come back. What if he swam out too far, or was not as alert to the currents and the undertow? She tried not to think of how he could be dragged out to sea, or his body hurled against the rocks in a sudden storm.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked softly.

  As if he hadn’t heard her, Stephen continued to look straight ahead, seeing faces of men he had known—men who’d been blown to pieces by French cannon or mutilated beyond recognition, men he had known intimately, good friends, commanders and regular soldiers alike. When Delphine’s voice penetrated his thoughts, he looked down at her and then fixed his gaze on the distant horizon once more.

  Something hard flared in his eyes for a moment, but then he shrugged resignedly. ‘I was thinking of Spain.’

  ‘About—the war?’ Delphine asked tentatively—or about Angelet? she wondered, too afraid of his possible response, too unable to bear the rejection to ask.

  He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘What else could there be?’

  Delphine wanted to tell him, but instead she said, ‘Why do you never speak about what happened in Spain?’

  Stephen looked straight ahead. His eyes had grown distant as the horizon, as if he had withdrawn into himself, into his painful past. Delphine wanted to reach for him and bring him back, but she was almost afraid to.

  Stephen didn’t want to talk about Spain, of how he’d come to be wounded many times, some wounds more serious than others, of how he’d wanted to die of his wound at Salamanca, cursing the fate that had spared him when so many of his fellow soldiers had died. He had a tidy, well-ordered mind and his worries were all rational ones: whether or not his battle strategies would work out, how to deal with the times of inaction, defective equipment and lack of sleep, the discomforts of sleeping on wet ground and waking with an empty belly because rations were short.

  With all these everyday anxieties and discomforts of war, he had always been assured that the men he led, so valiant in the field, with military discipline instilled into them, would deal with whatever was thrown at them. But what he had witnessed at Badajoz—the mindless slaughter of innocents by these same men, this terrible lapse in human nature—had shocked and horrified him to the core of his being. But that was another life, another time—those last terrible last months in Spain were to be forgotten. But he could not imagine forgetting. What he had seen would continue to haunt him for evermore.

  ‘I will not speak of it,’ he said through clenched teeth, trying to keep his voice as free of emotion as possible. ‘You were not there. You would not understand.’

  ‘That’s nonsensical. Perhaps if you were to speak of it, the pain would ease. I am persuaded that you must talk about it. Why have you closed your mind to it?’

  ‘Out of necessity,’ he retorted.

  Something about the way he looked stirred Delphine’s sympathy. ‘I would like to think you could talk to me. I do wish to know what happened to you in Spain,’ she said quietly, suddenly needing to know more than she had ever needed to know anything else. Her eyes were full of concern. ‘How else can I understand?’

  Instantly she cursed herself and her confounded curiosity. Never had she seen those little indentations above his nose and at the corners of his mouth appear so defined, or the warning flash in his eyes, like lightning in a summer sky, swift and searing, a charge of angry power that suddenly made her feel afraid.

  ‘I do not ask for your understanding.’

  His eyebrows rose in frustration, then dipped swiftly and ferociously into a frown, a look that had become so familiar to Delphine that she felt her heart wrench agonisingly, but her face remained smooth and concerned as she said, ‘Forgive me. I should not be so inquisitive. I suppose if you must vent your spleen at someone, it ought to be me—your wife.’

  ‘I apologise, Delphine,’ he uttered, glancing at her. ‘I did not intend to cause you distress.’

  Offended and deeply hurt by his superior, condescending attitude, the weeks of tension and aggravation that had built beneath Delphine’s supposedly serene exterior began to surface. Convinced he had been thinking of the Spanish woman, she managed to make her voice sound light and cool, as though it was of no importance to her. Stepping away from him, her carefully held control beginning to slip a notch, she said with impatience, ‘I am not distressed in the slightest. It doesn’t matter—I only enquired out of concern. It was kindly meant. I shall not waste any more words on asking.’

  ‘I would appreciate that. As I said, I do not wish to discuss it.’

  ‘Then I shall not aggravate you further by doing so. But this I will say,’ she said, straightening her shoulders and meeting his gaze with a hard look. ‘Clearly your sufferings in Spain were great—as were the sufferings of others who went to fight—and I am deeply sorry. But do not forget that you went there by choice. No one forced you to take up a commission.’

  Apart from a hardening of his jaw, Stephen’s face remained expressionless. ‘I know that,’ he said icily.

  ‘You may be an officer in the British army and a lord, but you are not the sun around which the world revolves—quite the opposite, in fact,’ she continued haughtily.

  His eyes became penetrating and locked on to hers. ‘Clearly I am not the sun around which you revolve, Delphine. Had I not come back from Spain, how deeply would you have grieved for my demise? Would you have managed a tear or two, missed me, mourned for me and said prayers for my eternal soul—or would you have moved on to wed someone else?’

  That was so far from the truth that Delphine’s voice shook with quiet anger. ‘Stop it. I had no intention of doing anything of the sort, you arrogant hypocrite.’ She saw him flinch, but, undeterred, drawing a deep breath, she went on, ‘In fact, you are quite the most selfish man I have ever known. Inconsiderate, too, for you care nothing about the feelings of others and are conceited enough to believe your rank entitles you to behave that way.’

  Stephen was astonished by her outburst and felt more than a little put out. He was angry, too, not only because she had dared to speak to him in such a way, but also because it was the first display of real emotion she had shown since his return. As for being a hypocrite—what the devil had she meant by that? Frowning like thunder, he opened his mouth to dress her down for her unprovoked impudence and to insist that she explain herself, but she had turned on her heel and was striding indignantly to her horse before he had a chance to do so.

  ‘Delphine, wait,’ he commanded.

  ‘Why should I?’ she said, with an angry toss of her head, while telling herself she was being absurd. Why was she doing this? Why was she trying to provoke him? It was not what she meant, not what she intended, but she seemed unable to stop. ‘You are not required to tell me anything. After all, why should you? I am only your wife and your life is your own. You have my word that I will not speak of that wretched war again. In fact it would please me enormously if I never had to hear of Spain ever again. Come, the Saracen’s Head cannot be far from here. The ride has given me an appetite.’

  Chapter Seven

  Delphine was in the saddle before Stephen could assist her, spurring her horse forwards. She rode ahead of her husband, but she could feel his burning, angry gaze on her back all the way. Having vented all her pe
nt-up resentment and anger on him—without seeing a single gratifying scrap of reaction from him, but knowing that her words had hit their target—she felt exultant.

  * * *

  When they dismounted in front of the Saracen’s Head, Stephen had not recovered from his wife’s outburst and his face was as black as thunder, but before he had the chance to speak to her, an open carriage pulled up alongside them.

  A middle-aged man and woman, Christopher Fielding and his wife, Mary, climbed out. They were Stephen’s good friends from St Austell. Having met them on several occasions, Delphine always enjoyed their easy company. Mr Fielding was a jovial sort and he smiled at Delphine in the most engaging manner, complimenting her on how well she looked and that she was as pretty as ever.

  Shrugging off his heated altercation with his wife for the present, though it was in no way forgotten, Stephen laughed, slapping his friend good-humouredly on the back as they went inside the inn. ‘I see you’re as silken tongued as ever, Christopher. Save your compliments for your own wife and leave mine alone. We are here to partake of the Saracen’s hospitality. You and your lady wife will join us, I hope.’

  ‘Why, we’d be delighted. It’s such a splendid day Mary and I thought we’d take the carriage and journey to Helston to visit our daughter and her family. Not wishing to put them to any trouble, we thought we’d stop off at the Saracen’s Head for a spot of lunch.’

  The Saracen’s Head was a respectable establishment. It was a busy coaching inn, frequented by ship’s masters, owners and brokers of merchant vessels based in nearby Falmouth. Carriages were drawn up outside. Inside it was plain from the bustling clientele that business was good. The landlord was a genial sort. He had a round, sunburnt face and a grey beard, and looked more like a sea captain than an innkeeper. On recognising Lord Fitzwaring, honoured that one of the most important gentlemen in the district should visit his hostelry, he ushered the four of them to a quiet alcove that offered them a degree of privacy.