What a Lady Most Desires (17 page)

“Do you think so?” she asked. “They're extremely unfashionable.”

“Freckles speak of a woman who makes her own fashion, and lives life to the fullest, in the sun, or out of it.”

“Is that how you see me?” she asked, surprised.

“I see you as you were the night of the duchess's ball,” he said. “Mostly.”

He didn't say that he remembered her in the first moment they'd met as well, recalled the instant shock that had gone through his body at the sight of her, the touch of her hand. He didn't tell her how much he'd despised her when she crossed the room, turned her attention on a top-­ lofty duke, became a coquette, a hard-­edged flirt, a woman he could not respect.

He didn't think of that Delphine. He thought of the one by his side, freckled, smiling, sweet, her eyes closed as he brushed the pad of his thumb gently over her lashes. This was the Delphine of that first moment, the one he'd imagined was different from any other woman he'd ever met.

Which one was the real Delphine?

He continued to explore the contours of her high cheekbones, the jut of her chin, the smooth plane of her brow. He brushed away the strands of wet hair, and on a whim, leaned in to kiss her forehead. She reached up to touch his face too, to rub her thumb over the stubble that covered his jaw. He kissed her nose, her cheeks, and finally found her mouth, and hovered for a moment before letting his lips touch hers with a slight sound of need.

He wanted Delphine St. James as he had never desired a woman before, in all her contradictions—­kindness, acid wit, arrogance, and incredible sweetness. He drew the tips of his fingers down the length of her throat to the pulse beating rapidly at the base. He kissed her there too, and she arched against him, titling her head to give him better access. She was as aroused as he was. A jolt of masculine pride filled him, and made him harder still. He could not, would not take her. She didn't belong to him, and it wasn't his right. He pulled back slightly, but could not make his hands leave her entirely.

A lock of her hair lay against the swell of her collarbone, and it coiled around his fingertip. “My hair curls when it's damp,” she said, her voice a nervous whisper.

He moved his hand over the roundness of her shoulder, dry now, and warm from the sun, and felt the sodden strap of her shift. He slipped it down, and kissed the spot. He let his fingers trail across the flat plane of her sternum, felt it give way to the soft slopes of her breasts. He could feel her heart under his hand, beating like a trapped bird. He should stop, move away, be a gentleman, but she was soft, and she smelled like fresh water and cherry tarts.

He wondered what she was thinking, if she was afraid, or if she was simply indulging a blind man. His was a normal man's reaction to a desirable woman, and what he felt was certainly not the scientific curiosity of sightlessness. Did she know that?

“I should stop. I must,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“No,” she said, catching his hand as he drew it away. “Don't. Tell me what you see when you touch me.”

He swallowed, and touched her cheek again. “Your face is sun kissed, glowing.”

He moved his hand along her throat to her collarbones, dipped his finger into the hollow there. “Your skin is dewed with water, as if you were covered in jewels . . .”

His hand faltered at the edge of her shift, tangling in the ribbon that tied it closed between her breasts, wet and lacy as seaweed. He waited, giving her a chance to push him away, but she stayed still. “Your shift is clinging to your body. Every curve is visible. It hides nothing. Your nipples—­” He cupped her breast, ran his thumb over the pert peak, heard her gasp. Still she did not pull away. “—­are peaked and pink, like rosebuds.” He lowered his head, dropped a kiss on the nipple under his hand, felt it swell against his mouth as she arched against him. He lingered a moment, suckling her through the wet linen, warming her icy flesh before he slid his hand over the lacy fabric that covered her belly. “Your stomach is flat and smooth—­you have no need of stays. And your waist—­I know your waist.” He cupped her there. “It fit my hand perfectly when we waltzed together.”

He found the swell of her hip. “You are sleek instead of generous, elegant and lithe.” He stroked her bottom, and the lush flesh filled his hand. Still, she did not move away. Did she like his hands on her? He could not see, gauged her reaction to his touch by her small movements—­toward him, not away—­and her sighs. Yes, she liked it.

“Your bottom is as sweet and firm as a summer plum, blush pink, a little goose-­pimpled from the chill of the water.” She reached for him, but he stopped her. “Wait, I haven't finished yet. Having seen so much, it would be a shame to end the tour now—­unless you want me to stop. Tell me if you do. I will, I swear it.” He wondered if he was making that promise to himself, or her.

“No,” she said again, her voice smoky. “Don't stop. What's next?”

“Your legs.” He started at her hip, traced a finger over the bone that jutted softly through the wet linen. He continued on along her flank, down the softness of her thigh, where her shift rode high, exposing skin to the sun and his questing hands. And found the delicate indent behind her knee, the flare of her calf. He felt her shiver, and knew it was not from cold. His own desire rose, and he forced himself to concentrate. “Long, shapely, coltish legs. Your ankles are neat, your feet—­” She giggled at the tickle when he touched them. “—­are long and narrow, yet dainty, fashionable.”

“You are generous, my lord,” she said, as his hands made their way upward again. As he reached her shoulders, pulled her into his arms and laid her back against the grass, she cupped his face and drew him down for a kiss. He stopped a hair's breadth above her lips.

“Generous? Sighted men can be generous. I must allow my sense of touch to tell me the truth. I've come to believe touch is more honest than sight.”

“Sight is certainly not as kind.” She gently touched the scar on his collarbone, and Stephen frowned.

“Will you tell me what I look like? I have no idea how I've changed. Am I much scarred, hideous?”

She kissed the mark, let her lips linger there. “Not hideous at all. There is a small white mark just here—­” She kissed his chin. “And one here—­” She put her lips against his hairline. Her fingers traced his collarbone. “This one twines over your shoulder like a vine, or a sailor's tattoo. It isn't ugly—­it speaks of experience and valor.”

She began to undo the buttons of his shirt, and peeled back the wet wings of fabric. “There's a scar here.” Her hand cupped his battered body gently, caressed the broken ribs that were almost fully healed. She shifted until she was behind him, and drew his shirt off his shoulders, and caressed the muscles of his back. “There are bullet holes—­three of them—­here, here, and here.” She touched the places he'd been shot, and he remembered the sting of being hit, the hard punch, the shock. “They look better now, have healed well.”

He turned to her in surprise. “You've seen them before?”

“Yes, in Brussels, after the battle. We had to cut your clothes away when you arrived. You were unconscious, bleeding. It was necessary.”

“
You
tended to me?” he asked.

“I helped,” she said softly. “Eleanor and the surgeon were there, of course.”

The lady, the earl's overbearing daughter, the flighty, flirtatious Delphine. He knew what she'd seen—­he'd seen it himself after countless battles, remembered the blood, filth, and pain, the desperation, the sheer horror. It should have driven her away, made her sick, but she'd borne it, healed him. She was still healing him. He shut his eyes. She had endured all that for him.

He wished he could see her face, read her expression. “You were not disgusted or embarrassed?”

She pressed his hand to her cheek. “No, I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That you would die. But you didn't.” Her hand tightened on his, as if she had willed the life back into his battered body, had
made
him live.

“No, I didn't die,” he whispered. For the first time he was truly glad of that. He felt the sun, the breeze, the warmth of the day, the nearness of her body to his.

“Are you shocked that a lady would do such a thing?” she asked.

He considered for a moment. “I can't be, can I?” He had wished himself dead when he woke in the living prison of darkness, helpless and alone, had wondered why he'd lived. Perhaps for her, and for this moment. “I am—­grateful,” he managed around the lump in his throat.

Wrong.
He, the diplomat who read ­people, who understood them better than they knew themselves—­he had been wrong about Delphine. The realization rushed in on him, shocked him, and he felt even deeper regret for his blindness, blindness of his soul as well as his eyes. He wished he could see her now and know what she was thinking.

He owed her an apology, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he lay back, pulled her into his arms, pressed her half-­clothed body to his naked chest, and kissed her. He wanted her, wanted to understand why he should be so fortunate as to have her regard when he had been so unkind.

She tangled her hands in his hair, pressed closer, spread her body over his, her mouth open for his kiss, her tongue hungrily seeking his. He reveled in the taste of her, the swell of her breasts against his chest. Her hands caressed his shoulders, found the scars, rolled with him so she could touch his back, her fingers gentle, as if she were trying to heal every wound with just a touch. He groaned softly. He wanted her—­
needed
her, in all the ways it was possible for a man to need a woman. Her hips moved against his, restless, needy.

“Tell me what to do,” she said. “How to—­”

She wanted this, him. “We don't have to take this further,” he said, stroking her hair, her face. “Kissing you is enough.” The lie was thick and bitter on his tongue. It would never be enough. It was all he could do—­the right thing, the honorable thing, and pull away, his body aching with need.

“Stay,” she whispered, her hands tightening on his shoulders. “Please. I want this.”

“Do you know what you're asking?”

“Don't turn away from me, not now,” she said, her voice catching on desperation, fear. “Please.” Her body shifted restively under his, her hips moving against his erection, and he was all but lost to the sensation.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he murmured.

He peeled the wet linen away from her breasts, reveled in the cool shock of her nipples against the heat of his tongue. Her flesh warmed and tightened, and she made a soft sound of desire and arched against him, demanding more. She caressed his neck, his chest, and then his own nipples. She squeezed gently, and he threw his head back at the sharp desire that shot straight to his groin. He clenched his teeth as the heat of her mouth followed her hands. She kissed his nipple as he had kissed hers—­a caress of her lips, a tentative lick, then her hot mouth fastened, and her tongue swirled.

He had never made love to a woman in the dark before, never gone by the sound of her sighs, her raw physical response, to determine how to please her. Yet he knew Delphine was pleased. This was the most sensual experience he'd ever had—­sound, touch, taste, and scent all heightened to replace sight. He listened to her sighs, and felt her body moving under his. Her hands fluttered on his shoulders, her fingernails gripping, releasing, telling him without words what she liked. She liked it all.

He pushed the shift down her body, stripping her, his hands following the curves as the fabric retreated. He caressed her belly, her hips, the incredible length of her legs, exposing every inch of her to his touch, if not his eyes. In his mind, her eyes were heavy lidded, her lush lips half open, her skin flushed. His own imagination, and the evidence of touch, drove his need for her higher, harder. It was sweet torment, but torment he wanted to last. He let his fingers play over her incredible body, trying to decide which part of her was his favorite. He couldn't. She matched every touch with her own, copying him, until he knew what she liked by what she did to him. It made him mad with need.

Her hands found the hardness under the wet wool of his breeches, squeezed, and he stifled a groan and caught her hand in his, but she found the buttons of his flies, began to open them. He held his breath, waited for her fingers to free him, touch him. He gritted his teeth as her cool fingertips caressed the hot length of his erection, gentle, tentative.

“Am I—­?” she began. “Tell me how . . .”

He was lost in what she was doing, had to pull himself back from the edge. She sounded uncertain, and he remembered in a rush that she was likely new to this, untried, a virgin, and as blind as he was in a way, needing someone to lead her.

“You're perfect,” he muttered, kissing her again, shifting away from her questing hand, slowing the pace. He swept his hand over the silken flesh of her belly, dipping into the delicate curls between her thighs. She was wet and ready, and she shuddered as his fingers explored. Her hand fluttered against his wrist, uncertain, suddenly shy. He wished he could see her reaction, read heat or fear in her eyes.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh,” as if she'd discovered something new, something that changed everything. Her hand fell away, and he stroked her, listened to her breath hitch, catching on desire as he pleasured her. He felt her need rising, felt the tension in her body, taut as a bowstring, and knew in a moment—­she arched against his hand, cried out, and he heard the answering call of birds in the trees, startled into flight, wings whirring as they took to the sky. He held her as she sobbed in the throes of her climax, pressed his fingers into her, driving her on.

She shifted, pressed closer, reached for him, but he shook his head, tried to retreat, knowing it would indeed change everything if he took this—­took her—­to the logical conclusion. She was not a soldier's doxy. She was an earl's daughter, a lady, newly betrothed to a gentleman who fully expected it would be his right to claim her virginity and introduce her to passion.