What a Lady Most Desires (18 page)

“Don't stop,” she said, her voice husky. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. “Please, I want this. I want you.”

And he wanted her. He positioned himself between her thighs, and felt her stiffen in anticipation. He would hurt her. It was unavoidable. He was determined to go slow. He entered a scant inch, stopped himself there. It was like holding back a cavalry charge, forcing stamping, snorting horses to wait for a signal too long in coming. His arms trembled, bearing his weight above her, waiting for her to grow used to his invasion, to relax.

He heard the quick intake of her breath as she shifted her hips, arched up to meet him, drawing him in with a soft sound of need. He couldn't hold back. He plunged into her, filled her. She gasped, felt pain, he knew, her body suddenly tight and tense around him. “Oh,” she said again. He moved slowly, aching with the need to rush onward, to move fast and hard, to let go.

He held back. He had never had a virgin before. He was a soldier, used to knowledgeable women—­widows and whores used to a man's rough touch, sex, not love. They divorced themselves from what was occurring, but Delphine's arms wound around his neck, drawing him nearer, matching him now, stroke for stoke, as if she could not have him close enough, or deep enough. Her heels pressed into his back, urging him on, and he rained kisses on her throat, her chin, and then her mouth met his, her tongue as eager as his own. He tried to slow her, to go gently and carefully, but she wouldn't allow it. He plunged into her once more, twice, and felt his release roar over him. He cried out, let his seed pour into her, felt her body pulse around him as she found her own release. It went on forever, driven hard and hot by the sweet sounds of pleasures she made, the way she held him wrapped in her arms, her legs, pressing him closer, deeper.

He held her, felt her breath against his neck, her fingernails curling against his shoulders, her heart pounding like a drum against his. He kissed her, then moved off of her to lie beside her. She rolled against him, curled around him still, her head on his shoulder, her palm resting on his chest, over his heart. He held her close, stroked her shoulder.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

He felt her shake her head, though she didn't speak. She drew small circles on his skin with her fingernail. He wished they could stay here like this forever, that she was his, and not . . .

He had to ask. “Will Sydenham mind?” he asked, hating the man who would wake up beside her like this every day, have the right to love her whenever he pleased, to give her children, to laugh with her, and look into her eyes as she—­

She shifted, and he sensed she was looking down into his face. He kept his expression flat.

“Sydenham?” He heard confusion in her voice.

“Will you tell him?” he insisted.

“Of course. I shall write to him as soon as we return to the castle. I'll also send a notice to
The Times
, and give a ball in honor of this moment. Is there anyone else you think I should inform?”

Stephen frowned at her flippancy. “He's bound to ask questions on your wedding night,” Stephen said, feeling his skin heat.

“Why? D'you suppose I should invite him to that too?” she demanded.

He moved away from her, felt cold where her skin had touched his. “You're betrothed to him, are you not?”

“
Betrothed? To Lord Sydenham?
” she cried, and laughed out loud. The birds startled again, chattering in the trees, and Stephen had the oddest feeling they were sharing the joke. “I am not betrothed to anyone—­especially not to Lord Sydenham.”

“But there's to be a wedding—­” he began, then stopped. “I assumed he'd propose to you. He sounded most—­captivated.” He reached out to touch her, but she had moved away from him, to sit up.

“He did not offer, nor would I have accepted if he had.” He heard indignation in her tone.

“He might still—­” Stephen began.

She made a strangled sound of annoyance. “We did not suit, Stephen. He did not want a woman who had—­well, let's just say that everyone at Treholme was quite horrified by us—­myself, Meg, and Nicholas. Apparently a battlefield is not a suitable place for ladies.”

“Nick isn't a lady,” Stephen said.

“No, but he is—­was—­an observing officer. Lord Halidon was mortified to be dining with a spy, even if he was a duke. No, Sydenham will not be asking for my bloodstained hand in marriage.”

He reached out, touched her back, warm now from the sun, traced the bones of her spine. “Are you very disappointed?”

“Disappointed?” she cried, as if he were daft to think it.

“That he doesn't want to marry you,” Stephen said quickly.

Delphine laughed. “Good heavens, no. I am relieved. I didn't want to marry him.”

“But surely your parents would want—­”

She got to her feet. “Why does no one ever ask what I want?” she demanded.

He leaned on his elbow, stared in the direction of her voice.

“Then what do you want?”

She didn't reply for a moment, and he felt her eyes on his face, even if he could not see her. “Why haven't you married?” he asked her. “I'd thought you'd be married before your first Season was out.”

“I have had offers, you know,” she said tartly. “Quite a few, in fact.”

“And?” he insisted.

She gave a grunt of irritation. “And if you were to ask my mother, she would tell you I'm being stubborn, and overly particular. Still, if a lady cannot be particular about her choice of husband, then what's left to be picky about? If you must know, I have not found anyone who appealed to me.”

“You have high standards,” he said. He'd seen her bewitch a duke with his own eyes, charm him, mesmerize him. If a duke wasn't good enough, then what did she want?

“Do I? It's quite simple, really. I will not be married for my fortune, or my father's title, or for political influence. I want someone who wants me for me. As I am. That man has not come forward with a proposal.” The last words were almost whisked away by the breeze. The wind had picked up, and the heat of the sun had disappeared.

She pressed his shirt into his hands. “We'd best be getting back. I think it might rain after all.”

He listened to the rustle of her clothing as she dressed, and fumbled with his own garments. He managed his breeches and boots, but as he stood trying to figure which end of his shirt was up, she came to help. Her hands were gentle, tickled slightly as she buttoned it. It was erotic. He caught her hands, kissed them.

“I hate needing help with so many simple things,” he muttered.

“You'll find ways to manage. You already have.”

She did not speak of his blindness being temporary, he realized. No one did anymore. It had been almost two months. Was there a time limit? She pressed his cane into his hand, and took his arm, and he heard thunder in the distance.

They were in the open meadow when the sky opened, instantly drenched by the icy downpour.

“It's colder than the river!” she cried, laughing.

“Do you wish to run ahead?” he asked. “You'll be soaked to the skin at the pace I'm forced to move.”

She put her arm through his, pressed close to his side. “Of course not. I want to enjoy every minute of this day,” she said.

He stopped walking, turned her to face him. “You don't regret what happened?”

She put her hands around his waist, laid her head on his chest. “Never.”

He put his hand under her chin, raised her face to his and kissed her. He tasted the rain on her lips, and the icy flesh warmed at his touch.

He wished he could stand in the rain and kiss her forever.

 

Chapter 38

D
elphine descended the stairs in a rush the next morning, late for breakfast. It had taken her far too long to get out of bed. She hadn't wanted to leave the quiet cocoon of her blankets, wished she could lie in bed all day and marvel that every inch of her body ached, and she had never felt better, happier, or more feminine.

Fortunately, everyone had instantly decided Stephen and Delphine's state of disarray yesterday was due to being caught out in the rain. Browning had whisked Stephen away to check his wounds, and to help him change into dry clothing, but she knew he'd be fine. He was a strong, healthy man. She blushed at the memory of his body on hers, and her toes curled. She couldn't wait to see him this morning.

When she reached the foot of the stairs, the clock told her it was only nine-­thirty. She had half an hour to wait until the time she usually met with Stephen in the library. Her heart leaped in her breast. “To read,” she whispered to the stately timepiece. “Just to read.”

She glanced into the mirror in the hall, wondering if everyone would be able to tell, to see that she was different. Her maid hadn't said a word, but Delphine had seen the changes in the mirror. There was a new glow in her cheeks (the sun perhaps?), a gleam in her eyes (the glint of the river?), and her lips were pink and plump (they might blame that on bees, perhaps, or a sensitivity to strawberries). Surely she moved differently, more gracefully, as if she'd learned the steps to a new dance she'd never done before. She giggled, and it echoed through the cavernous hallway. She was happy. Very happy.

She smoothed a hand over her hair and opened the door to the breakfast room.

Meg was laughing at something Nicholas was saying, her face every bit as flushed and glowing as Delphine's own, lost in the light of Nicholas's eyes.

“Good morning,” Delphine said, and slipped into her chair.

“Good morning. I trust you are none the worse for your adventure yesterday?” Nicholas asked.

Delphine's stomach clenched. “My adventure?”

“I hear you were caught in the thunderstorm.”

Oh. Delphine looked down at the plate the footman set before her—­eggs, ham, sausage, and toast. “No, none the worse.” She couldn't resist a bright smile. “Actually, I quite like the rain,” she said to explain the grin, and crammed a forkful of food into her mouth.

“You certainly
look
well this morning,” Meg said, studying her, and Delphine felt her cheeks heat under her friend's scrutiny.

“I must look a sight,” she said. “I lost my bonnet, and I have freckles on my nose.”

“I remember when you always had freckles on your nose, Del. Though you were only ten or so at the time,” Nicholas said.

“And you were tall, skinny, and awkward, if I recall,” she teased him back.

“You followed Sebastian and me everywhere—­up trees, over fences, into rivers,” Nicholas mused.

Rivers
? Her stomach leaped, and she set her fork down.

She cast a glance at Meg, who was regarding her with a thoughtful smile. “We all miss the innocent days of childhood, I daresay.”

Delphine glanced at the clock on the sideboard. Still fifteen minutes.

The door opened, and she jumped in surprise, but sank back down at the sight of Gardiner, bearing the mail on a tray, followed by a footman with the freshly pressed London newspapers.

Nicholas looked through the stack of envelopes. “There's one on your mother's stationery Del,” he said, handing it to her. She stuffed it into her pocket unread.

“And there are several from your mother, Meg,” he said, handing over three envelopes. “And two from your sister.”

Meg made a face. “No doubt there is a family feud in progress, and neither side wants me to miss a single moment of it.”

“What is it this week?” Nicholas asked, catching his wife's hand, kissing it, just the way Stephen had kissed hers. Delphine's heart flipped again. Had she smiled at Stephen the way Meg was smiling now, soft and knowing? She let out a startled cry as the clock chimed the hour. Nicholas frowned at her.

“Are you sure you're all right? I could send for the doctor—­” he began, but Delphine reached for the newspaper.

“I'm fine, really. It's time to go and read to Stephen.”

She hurried out before anyone could say another word to her.

“What on earth was that about? I have a good mind to send for the doctor anyway,” Nicholas said, scowling at the door as it shut behind Delphine. “She's never been flighty before. She's not the flighty type.”

Meg caught her husband's hand. She had a feeling she knew exactly what might be wrong with Delphine. She knew a woman in love when she saw one. She only had to look in the mirror each morning. She knew the rapid pulse, the blushes, the dreadful slowness of the passage of time as she waited for the next moment they could be together. She smiled at Nicholas's confused frown. “I'm sure she's just excited about the haying supper. Everyone is.”

“Are you sure you're up to all the excitement?” Nicholas asked.

She took his hand and put it on her belly, held it there as the baby kicked. “Do you feel that? He's going to be a prizefighter as well as a duke.”

Nicholas's face filled with wonder, and he stared at her, wide-­eyed.

“What else was in the post?” she asked, and he sighed and sat back, checking the last few letters on the tray. He frowned.

“There's one from Horse Guards,” he said.

“About Stephen?” Meg asked.

He got to his feet. “I don't know. I think I'll read it in my study. You'd better read those urgent missives from your family.” He kissed her forehead and left her to her letters.

 

Chapter 39

I
t was Alan Browning who awaited her in the library. “Is something wrong?” she asked, “Is the major ill?”

He shook his head, indicated with a hand gesture that she should follow him.

“Did he come to harm yesterday, in the rain, I mean?” she asked breathlessly, hurrying after him.

Again, no. Browning tried to give her a smile, though it came out as a gruesome twist of his injured mouth. Delphine felt a blush climb her cheeks. Did the Sergeant know? They reached the archway that opened into the gallery, and he pointed.

Stephen was standing by the windows, his face turned up toward the sunlight streaming through the glass. Her breath caught in her throat. The sun shone on his blond hair, made the whiteness of his shirt gleam under the fine brocade of his waistcoat. His hair curled against his collar, slightly damp, as if he'd only just finished bathing—­shaving too, since his cheeks were smooth. He was leaning on his cane, his long fingers wrapped over the top of the stick—­fingers that had touched her intimately, everywhere, made her cry out with pleasure. Her breakfast played hopscotch in her belly.

A cascade of conflicting emotions traveled through her—­relief, joy, shyness, delight, longing, hope, and fear. She hesitated, simply gazing at him.

Her lover.

She began to walk the length of the room toward him, and he turned at the sound of her footsteps. He didn't smile, or open his arms in welcome. He stood very still, his back ramrod straight, a frown creasing his brow, and waited for her to reach him. She felt a lump in her throat, uncertain of her welcome.

“Hello,” she managed. “I went to the library—­
The Times
is here. Or we could read a book instead, or go into the garden—­” Her throat closed as memory washed over her, of sunlight on bare skin, and rain, his mouth on hers. She reached out to touch his arm, but he didn't respond.

He turned toward the window, and the morning sun lit the tight edges of his mouth. “We need to talk,” he said, his tone flat. She let her hand drop to her side. He hesitated, and she watched his throat bob as he swallowed, considering his words. “You are well?” he asked. “After yesterday?”

“Yes,” she whispered back. “And you?”

“What kind of question is that for a lady to ask?”

“A logical one. Only weeks ago you were—­”

“I remember,” he interrupted crisply, raising his chin. He was still staring straight ahead, away from her, as if he could see the view.

He looked the way he always did when he had looked at her before yesterday—­cool, polite, and distant. Her throat closed in dread.

“I wished to apologize. I should not have taken advantage of you as I did,” he said.

She stared at him. “Apologize?” It came out as a whisper. An apology suggested it had been a mistake.

“It should not have happened. I did not intend it to.”

She shut her eyes, mortified. He was so stiff, so crisp. No one had spoken to her in that tone since her father had last rebuked her for some childhood misdeed. She'd stood on the carpet in his study, and he had looked out the window there, the same expression on his face, as if he could not bear to look at her. She didn't remember now what she'd done to deserve the scolding. She felt the same bafflement now. “Surely there is no need for an apology,” she murmured.

He turned to her. “Of course there is. It was—­unfair.”

“Unfair to you or to me?”

“To your future husband, Delphine.”

She laughed aloud, and he turned to her, his frown deepening. “What of your future wife?” she asked pertly.

“It's different, and you know it.”

“Is it? What if I never marry? Who is it unfair to then? Should I not have the right to decide, to know what it feels like to—­” He held up his hand to stop her words, an imperious gesture.

“You say the damnedest things. Of course you'll marry.” His face softened slightly. He reached out a hand to touch her, then changed his mind, and tucked it into his pocket. “It would be a great pity if you did not wed. You will meet a man who will love you, appreciate you, adore you . . .” soft words, but he sounded like a diplomat on a mission, delivering a memorandum.

She folded her arms across her chest. “But not you?”

Fear flickered across his face. “I never intended what happened between us to be a declaration of intent.”

She felt her face heat. “Nor did I.” Her whole body began to tremble.

He frowned. “You must see that I cannot marry you. What kind of a life would that be? Playing nursemaid to a broken, useless invalid for the rest of your life?” he said.

“You are not broken or useless—­” She pictured how he had loved her yesterday, his touch sure, expert, delightful.

“Do you know of the charges against me?” he asked bitterly, his expression as sharp and dangerous as a bayonet.

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“Does your father know? What would he say if I were to offer for you, tell him that I—­?” His mouth worked, but could not even say it.

“That you made love to me on a riverbank?” She filled it in for him, even as shame heated her cheeks.

“Don't be crass, Delphine.” He sounded more like her mother now, full of pompous propriety and rules, but no compassion. She wished she was blind too, couldn't see the coldness in his face, not now, not after . . . She drew a breath, clutched a hand to her chest.

“It was not crass, or wrong, yesterday, and I do not regret it,” she said firmly. “As for the charges, you will be proven innocent. Perhaps my father could help—­”

“Don't be ridiculous. Your father would drag me out and shoot me if he knew what I've done, and he would have every right to do so.”

She searched his face. His eyes remained fixed on some distant spot, his expression tight and hard. How different he was from the man who'd loved her only yesterday. This man was a stranger. Had it meant so little to him? It had meant the world to her.
He'd turned away again
. . .

Anger took over. “I have lived my whole life pleasing the expectations of others. I have been compelled by breeding, by my sex, by the expectations of others to behave a certain way, to feel certain things, to hold the opinions and ideals of my class and my family. I am a disappointment, I fear, because I cannot live that way. Do you honestly think I would be so cruel as to impose such strictures on you, to hold you to the rules that chain me, use them to torment and trick a blind man, someone injured and hurt beyond what any man should have to endure, just to lure him into a marriage he did not want? Do you truly think I am so wicked, so wanton, so devious?”

“Are you?” he asked.

It was like being cut with a knife. She raised her hand to slap him, but held back, afraid of harming him. Tears prickled behind her eyes. She let her hand drop, clutched it around her waist.

“Why me, Delphine? Why a broken man, an accused coward, a traitor? Why not a duke or an earl? Answer me this time, tell me the truth.”

Misery made her ache. “Because I thought I saw something in—­someone's—­eyes once, only once, long ago, but that moment changed me. It made it impossible for me to accept a duke or an earl or anyone else, not without his regard, or respect. I saw what I wanted, basked in it. It ignited me, and it burns there still, even without fuel or air, or encouragement. I cannot live without that. But that man turned away from me, didn't want to—­” She dashed away tears, raised her chin. “I have honor and pride too. I don't see a coward when I look at you. I see a man who is gentle and kind to everyone—­almost everyone—­and who values his honor, his country, and those he loves above all else.”

“What if you're wrong about that?” he demanded, his voice raw.

She shook her head, though he could not see the gesture, unable to speak through the thick tears that clogged her throat. She would never believe him guilty.

She could not bear it, standing here in the frigid blast of his disdain, his regret, his suspicion. She turned and fled along the gallery. She fumbled with the latch on the French doors, went out through the garden, and ran across the park. Tears blinded her, and she stumbled on, not caring. She did not stop until she reached the spot beside the waterfall, saw the trampled grass where they had lain together, making love. She collapsed there and let herself cry.