What a Lady Most Desires (21 page)

 

Chapter 47

Dearest Delphine,

Just a brief note, since I am so harried with planning the house party, which is short weeks away. I am pleased that Eleanor will soon be home from the Continent. Although she will come to Neeland to visit me and pay her respects to your father, she intends to travel home to Abbotswood Hall with her children, and will not stay for the house party. Fairlie, alas, remains in Paris with Lord Wellington, overseeing the peace. How prestigious for your father that his son-­in-­law holds such an esteemed role! Ainsley is hopeful that a connection to such a hero will yield support for him in political matters.

I am writing to tell you of the unmarried gentlemen who have eagerly accepted our invitation to the house party. I have no doubt that they are coming with a matrimonial connection in mind.

Viscount Dalmere will be attending (he has eight thousand a year, six thousand acres at his principal estate, and appears eager to offer your father his support when he takes his seat in the Lords at the next session). Or you might be interested in the Earl of Soames. He has only six thousand a year, but your father believes a family connection to Soames will sway that gentleman to vote as directed. You will do your best to charm him, won't you?

The Earl of Owling is a kindly gentleman, twice a widower, but wealthy, healthy, and quite charming for his age.

You have not written a word about your visit to Treholme. Did you find Viscount Sydenham agreeable? We eagerly await a letter from Halidon or Lord Sydenham himself, asking permission to call.

You shall be the belle of the house party, and Ainsley and I look forward to choosing from many offers for your hand by the end of that week, and to planning a wedding shortly thereafter—­in London, of course, where the event will have the greatest possible political impact.

Affectionately,

Maman

Delphine set the letter down. Viscount Dalmere was barely nineteen, and still pimply. Soames was middle-aged, dry, and grim. Owling was old enough to be Lord Ainsley's older brother, if not his father. She could see the desperation in her mother's letter, her hope that her almost-­spinster daughter would manage to catch a husband this year, before it was too late.

Meg was babbling as she tucked into an enormous breakfast. She was up early because Nicholas had left for London at dawn. Delphine already knew that, of course—­she had seen him, and more disastrously, Nicholas had seen her. She'd known by the black look on his face that he understood precisely where she'd been.

She felt a burning blush heat her cheeks even now.

“When will Nicholas be back?” she asked.

“Tonight, if he can. Tomorrow at the latest,” Meg said.

Tomorrow. She had a day to decide how she would explain her behavior to Nicholas. Would he tell her father? Her grip tightened on her teaspoon. What
would
she say? That she was in love, that she didn't care if she ever married, didn't give a fig for politics, that she knew now that it didn't matter how a man voted, or what his politics were? She'd been to war, seen the result. Blood was red no matter which side you were on. Men who died for a good cause were no less dead than their wrong-­headed opponents.

Eleanor was married to a war hero, a staunch Tory lord. Was that not enough? Would it matter, truly, if Delphine did not marry at all, or decided with her heart? There was still Sebastian.

She stared into her teacup, and saw Stephen's face—­the way he'd looked in Brussels, watching her across the ballroom, then after the battle, broken and in pain, and then by the river as he made love to her, and in the purple shadows as he danced with her in a barnyard, and finally in his bed this morning, his face soft and sleepy and content. She loved him, even if he did not, or could not, love her.

Soon summer would end, and she would leave Temberlay, and he would go on with his life without her. Her heart sat heavy in her chest.

“Are you going to read to Stephen this morning?” Meg asked.

“Possibly.” Delphine answered quickly, her heart climbing into her throat as she struggled to keep her expression flat. If she were alone with Stephen now, would she be able to resist touching him, kissing him? She studied her fingertips. No. Her mouth watered for his even now.

“He's doing much better, isn't he?” Meg asked brightly.

“I think so,” Delphine said carefully.

Delphine shook her head, and Meg took her hand. “I'm glad Stephen has a kind friend like you. Would you mind if I joined you this morning? I miss Nicholas.”

Delphine felt relief, and dismay. She would not be able to touch Stephen, to give in to desire in Meg's company. Perhaps it was for the best.

 

Chapter 48

J
onathan Greenfield leaned forward eagerly, keeping his voice low in the plush atmosphere of White's Club, his earnest eyes fixed on Nicholas.

“Everyone said it, Your Grace. It became easy to believe. I had no problems with Major Lord Ives myself. He did his duty, was a good officer. It wasn't until later, when the talk started about how he kept to himself and hardly spoke two words to anyone when he was off duty that I started to think there might have been something odd about him after all. Then when things started to disappear, and I heard Rothdale say he'd seen Ives in our quarters right before the battle after the rest of us had left, I thought there must be some truth in it.”

“Rothdale said this?” Nicholas asked.

Greenfield shrugged. “He was just repeating what he'd heard other men say, and there was a statement made by a sergeant, wasn't there? He said he saw Ives running away during the battle.” He shook his head. “Now how anyone could tell who was running where in all that chaos, I don't know, but the sergeant swore to it, and had an officer—­a surgeon—­write it down for him and sign it.”

“Do you know Sergeant Hallet?” Nicholas asked.

“Never met him.”

“Did you know the surgeon who wrote out his account?” Nicholas asked.

“No. Have I got it wrong, Your Grace? I was injured in the battle, took a saber slash to my arm, so I wasn't there. One of the other men who billeted with Ives and myself advised me later to check and see if I was missing anything. I was just glad I wasn't missing my arm, or a leg, or a head like some poor bastards.” He frowned. “I heard Ives got hit.”

“They took three bullets out of him, his arm and two of his ribs were broken. His horse was killed under him,” Nicholas said.

Greenfield winced and rubbed his arm. “This seems like such a little thing by comparison.” He reached into his pocket and took out a ring and a watch. “These were among the items stolen from my quarters, later found here in London. Ives—­or whoever did this—­also took a silver flask and a rather valuable book given to me by my sister. She died of consumption last year, and I would dearly love to have the book back again. I used to read to her from it.” He got to his feet. “If it
was
Ives, then I will pay him for the return of the book if he still has it. The other things don't matter.” He shook his head. “I still find it hard to believe that a man like Ives would do such a thing.”

Greenfield picked up his hat, and Nicholas watched him walk out. Did it prove anything, or help Stephen? He wasn't sure.

“Well, this is a surprise. I thought you never left the comforts and delights of your country love nest. What brings you to London?”

Nicholas looked up to find Sebastian St. James grinning at him as he slipped into the chair that Greenfield had just vacated. He waved for the waiter, and ordered two large whiskies. “Make them very large, my good fellow.”

“How's Dilly?” Sebastian asked.

“I—­I suppose she's fine,” Nicholas managed, wondering if he should say something. What could he say?
Your sister is sleeping with my houseguest—­please be so good as to remove her at once?
He found he could not betray Delphine, not even to Sebastian, until he spoke to her himself.

“You
suppose
she's fine? I'm sure she's bored half to death, rusticating in the country.”

The waiter put the two whiskies on the table, and Sebastian grinned at the tumblers, filled to the brim. “Excellent,” he said, and passed the man a coin. He drank deeply.

“Del seems to be enjoying herself well enough. She's good company for Meg. They're involved in village life, visiting the sick, and so on,” Nicholas said.

“Dilly? Lady Delphine St. James,
my
sister
?”

“Indeed,” Nicholas said.

“And I understand there's a love match,” Sebastian said, waggling his eyebrows.

Nicholas colored. “I wouldn't call it that—­she reads to him, walks with him . . .” His voice faded away.

“She reads to Sydenham?” Sebastian asked. “What do they read, political treatises?”

“Sydenham?” Nicholas almost choked on his whisky.

“My mother has high hopes of a match between Dilly and the Earl of Halidon's son—­that Sydenham.” His gaze sharpened. “Why? Is there someone else? Trust Dilly to find someone to flirt with, even in the depths of Derbyshire.”

“I meant Ives,” Nicholas murmured.

Sebastian set his glass down with a thump, splashing whisky on the inlaid table, drowning an intricate marquetry portrait of Poseidon. “Ives? As in Stephen Ives?” he spluttered. “
He's
at Temberlay?”

Nicholas raised his eyebrows. “He was wounded at Waterloo. He's recovering.”

“He's a coward!” Sebastian said, and Nicholas looked around to see if anyone was listening. The club was largely empty, and only a trio of gentlemen by the window glanced up.

“He's my friend,” Nicholas said. “And the accusations have not been proven.”

“Well, I do hope Delphine isn't forced to endure his company. Knitting baby clothes with Meg is one thing, but consorting with a coward?”

Nicholas shifted, thinking of just how Delphine had been consorting with Stephen.

“Not that I think Dilly would endure him near her,” Sebastian went on. “She was in Brussels with Eleanor. I hear she was pressed into ser­vice aiding the wounded afterward—­not that Eleanor would allow her to see anything truly ghastly, of course. What lady could endure the company of a coward after that?
Does
she spend time with him?”

“On occasion,” Nicholas managed, feeling heat rising under his cravat.

“Then she doesn't know? What he is, I mean?”

“I don't monitor their conversations,” Nicholas snapped. “Ives is a—­” He choked on the word
gentleman
. “An honorable man,” he said instead, and hoped he was.

“Send her home,” Sebastian insisted.

Nicholas raised his chin at the idea of dismissing her like a naughty child. “Delphine is welcome to stay at Temberlay as long as she wishes to. As I said, Meg is glad of her company. She's witty, smart, and compassionate,” he added, trying to convince himself she wasn't as daft as her brother.

“She hasn't answered my letters,” Sebastian complained.

“You write to her? Or anyone else for that matter?” Nicholas asked in surprise.

“Not often, but I'm hoping she'll come to Ainsley's house party. It's a veritable sexless orgy of the dull and respectable, endlessly prattling on about political reform, and lofty moral issues. Can you imagine anything more boring? They all expect me to join in, you see, to spout the same high-­and-­mighty claptrap as they do, and I can't bear any of it. But Delphine sweeps into the room, charms father's political cronies, flirts with the old goats, and has them all eating out of her hand. Some of them even manage to smile for a moment or two before their countenances crack under the strain. It's fascinating to watch her—­and once she has them in hand, I can slip out, ride hell-­for-­leather to the local village inn for a drink. I need her there!” He grinned at Nicholas. “You'll tell her, won't you, send her to my rescue?”

“I'll let her know I saw you,” Nicholas said.

Sebastian grinned. “Tell her I have a surprise for her.”

“What is it?” Nicholas asked, then wished he hadn't. “You don't have to tell me, of course.”

Sebastian chuckled. “You must know these annual parties are held in order to parade potential suitors before Dilly as much as for any other reason. She's proven remarkably hard to marry off. Why, I don't know—­she's pretty, rich, and well connected. I suspect she's discouraging her suitors, but I can't see how. She's always so damnably charming. Mother has a new batch of hopeful gentlemen for her this year. Horrors all, I daresay. Dilly will smile, flirt, discuss politics like an expert, charm them half out of their dancing pumps, and dismiss them.”

“Sounds tedious,” Nicholas ventured.

“Not this year. A friend of mine is interested in meeting Dilly—­
very
interested. He's just inherited his brother's title, and is now heir to an earldom. He's young, good-­looking, has all his own teeth, no political leanings at all, and enjoys parties and pretty ladies. His father is insisting he marry and set up his nursery at once, and since Delphine must do likewise, I do believe it is a match made in heaven.”

“Who is this paragon of husbandly perfection?” Nicholas asked.

“Viscount Peter Durling. In fact, he was at Waterloo as well. He's finding there are very few fillies of your Meg's quality on the market, and since Meg's sisters are still in the nursery, I thought my own sister might do.”

“Should I take that as a compliment, or a warning?” Nicholas said, thinking of his young sisters-­in-­law, both still children.

“Between you and I, Dilly can't afford to be so damned particular much longer. She's had two Seasons already. She's getting long in the tooth, and soon no one will want her.”

“Isn't that a trifle hypocritical?” Nicholas said.

“Why?” Sebastian asked, looking genuinely confused. Nicholas refrained from rolling his eyes.

“Because you're older than she is.”

“And it would be most embarrassing if I were to marry before her!” Sebastian said, straightening his cuffs. “I hope to have a dozen nieces and nephew to dandle on my knees before I'm forced to stick my own head into the parson's noose.”

Sebastian wasn't stupid, or cruel. He had simply learned to hide his wits, to behave the way his drinking and gambling friends did. Nicholas hoped Sebastian hadn't transformed himself permanently.

“This is me, Sebastian,” Nicholas reminded him. He watched his friend sober.

“I just want Dilly to be happy. She deserves it. She's the best of all of us. I can't imagine her spending her life alone.”

She was just what Stephen Ives needed, Nicholas thought—­if he could see, and he was free of the charges against him. Even if he was found innocent, the stain of the accusations would tarnish Stephen's reputation forever, end his career. “And you think Durling will make her happy?” Nicholas asked. He hadn't met the man to the best of his knowledge, but Sebastian
was
Delphine's brother. Surely he wouldn't recommend him unless the man was a paragon of virtue.

“There's no harm in trying, is there?” Sebastian said. “So will you help me? As a fat, happy country gentleman with a lovely wife, I'm sure you of all ­people see the merits of marriage.”

“I'm not fat,” Nicholas protested.

“But you are happy nonetheless. I must confess to a measure of dismay—­you were such a fine specimen, the prime picture of a debauched rake, now reformed by love and duty. You are a poor model for male independence, my friend.”

“You should try it yourself,” Nicholas said.

Nicholas thought he saw a trace of wistfulness in Sebastian's eyes. “Don't rush me. I will not be pressured. My parents are not concerned with my marital state as yet, with Delphine still to marry off. It may well earn me a few years' grace if I am the one to find the perfect match for her, don't you think? So will you recommend Viscount Durling to Dilly?”

Nicholas considered. Perhaps a new love would keep Del from breaking her heart over Stephen Ives.

“Yes,” he said. “I'll speak to her.”