What a Lady Most Desires (27 page)

 

Chapter 62

S
tephen was halfway to Neeland Park when Nicholas caught up with him. The groom at Hartley House had advised him that Stephen had saddled one of His Grace's horses and ridden out.

Nicholas wouldn't have caught him at all if it hadn't been for Stephen's aching ribs and the arm weakened by weeks in a sling, which made him ride far slower than he wanted to.

He'd watched his friend—­his jailer—­stride into the inn where he'd stopped to change horses. “What the devil do you think you're doing?” He'd come alone, but his sword was belted to his side, and Stephen noticed the bulge of a pistol under Nicholas's coat. Stephen rose to meet him.

“Don't try to stop me. I'm going to warn Delphine. Peter Rothdale recently inherited his brother's title. He's Durling.” He'd tried to push past, but Nicholas shoved him back.

“Don't be a fool. I'm not going to let you ruin her life. Stay away from her.”

“He isn't what you think. He won't make her happy—­he'll destroy her,” Stephen protested. “Shoot me if you want, but I'm going to Neeland.”

Nicholas took out the pistol and cocked it. “You are a deserter at this moment, an escaped prisoner. Do you know how this looks?”

“Like I'm guilty?” Stephen said sarcastically, and Nicholas flushed.

“I can be your friend, or your worst nightmare, Ives. There's a detachment of soldiers outside, drinking. One word from me, and they'll tie you up and drag you to the nearest jail. You'll be tried in absentia, convicted, and left to rot. Or you can come back to London with me, and face this with honor and dignity.”

Stephen stared into the eyes of a stranger, once his closest friend. “Do your worst, Temberlay. I won't let Rothdale hurt her,” he snarled, doubling his fists. “Whatever it costs me, I will keep her from marrying Rothdale.” He shoved past, was halfway to the door when Nicholas grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

Nicholas's fist connected with his jaw. Then there was only darkness.

 

Chapter 63

T
he success of Lord Ainsley's house party might have been measured in the number of private notes sent during the event.

The Earl of Corydale sent his manservant with a brief missive that offered his support on a bill dear to the Ainsley's heart—­if his lordship would in turn support
his
cause with Lady Delphine.

Lord Barnsford wanted a government appointment for his son, and a private moment to discuss a “delicate matter of the heart” with Lord Ainsley.

But the bulk of the notes—­a veritable snowstorm of them—­arrived under Delphine's door, or were discreetly pressed into her hands during strolls on the grounds, or while she played cards, and even at dinner, slipped under the table, or delivered by one of the footmen.

“Your eyes are like two burning embers,” said one awkward compliment, signed only with the initials A. C., for Arthur Corydale. “You are the loveliest lady in all the land,” said another, from Lord Jasper Harrowgate. The rest offered equally frivolous compliments, comparing her beauty to birds, flowers, and clouds in the sky in hopes of winning her heart. One gentleman went on for two pages about her perfection as the Gloriana of Toryism. He hinted he would have a statue cast in her honor and placed in his garden if she looked upon him favorably.

“Doesn't Lord Rolland have big ears?” That note came from Sebastian, to remind her to smile.

Her favorite messages came from Durling. “May I turn the pages of your music tonight while you play?” he asked, and, “I have requested a place beside you tonight at dinner. What shall we talk about?” Even, “May I have the honor of escorting you to church on Sunday?”

His notes surprised her. They were attentive, sweet, and playful. There were no false compliments, no silly comparisons of her beauty to the moon. He signed them simply as “Peter,” as if they were already friends, and destined to be more.

She opened his latest missive at breakfast on the last morning of the house party. “Will you meet me in the garden at three o'clock?” Her heart leaped in her chest, and she set her toast down untouched. He was going to propose. She had not missed the hopeful smiles of her family whenever she was in Peter's company. Nor was she unaware of the baleful glares of the other gentlemen. What would she say? She glanced at the clock. It was ten o'clock. If she was at Temberlay, she would be hurrying along the hall to the library, anxious to see—­

She shut her eyes, and thought of Peter Durling instead.

At three o'clock the entire party decided to walk out, since the weather was warm and sunny, and the folly was an inviting place to take tea and admire the view.

As they walked through the knot garden, Peter stopped her on the pretense of asking about a particular rose, let the rest of the guests stroll on ahead. Delphine was very aware of his hand on her elbow, the lean length of his body close to hers.

“It is a rare rose from India, and a wedding gift to my mother from her uncle. It is lovely, is it not?” she said, gazing at the crimson blossom he indicated.

He turned her to face him. “Not as lovely as you are. I want to marry you, Delphine. Say the word and I will go inside this very minute and ask your father's permission.” He grinned. “I daresay he's expecting me. I know your mother has hopes that we'll marry, and so does Sebastian.”

Instead of elation, Delphine felt dismay. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she stared at him, as he waited expectantly for her to reply. He pulled her into his arms, and brought his lips down to hers. She shut her eyes and allowed the kiss.

She recalled a different garden, another kiss, and Stephen's face filled her mind. She pulled away from Peter, stepped out of reach and drew her shawl more tightly around her. She felt nothing at all in Peter's arms. Stephen's kisses had set her on fire. Would she ever forget that? Panic rose in her breast.

“Well? What do you say, sweetheart? We could announce our betrothal this evening.”

“I—­don't know,” she managed, and fell back on the speech she'd given so often in the past. “I am most honored—­” She paused. Peter was a good man, kind, charming, and attentive, but the word
yes
would not come. Surely it should be easier than this, and there should be excitement and joy and love. She felt nothing at all. “I need time to think, my lord. Will you allow me a few days to consider your proposal?”

Something dangerous flashed through his eyes, and she found herself looking at the man she remembered from the duchess's ball in Brussels. Her heart climbed into her throat, but then the look was gone and he was smiling at her, bowing over her hand, kissing her fingers.

“Of course—­you may have all the time in the world, darling girl. I won't say I am not impatient to marry you, but I can wait. I am going from here to my father's estate in Leicestershire. I had hoped to take you with me, but I will be back in London within the week. May I call on you there? Will that be enough time?”

How gallant he was. She wished she could love him. Perhaps in time she would. She smiled at him. “You will have my answer then.”

P
eter retired to his room as soon as he was able to do so, but only after spending another hour fawning and smiling and doing his very best to keep from planting his fist in the faces of the other men who were crowded around Delphine St. James like dogs mobbing a bitch in heat. She smiled and laughed, and barely spared him a glance, damn her.

She had to
think
about his proposal? Did she think she was too good for him? She'd flirted with him for five days, made him think she'd accept him without a moment's hesitation. How dare she insult him so?

In the privacy of his rooms, he remembered the way she'd looked at him the night of the duchess's ball, a mere second son, unworthy of an earl's daughter. She'd let Stephen Ives sweep her away without sparing him another glance. He poured a tumbler of brandy, swallowed it, and poured another. He remembered how Sebastian had grinned and slapped him on the shoulder when he'd come in from the garden, sure it had gone as planned, that Delphine had thrown herself into Peter's arms and said yes.

Sebastian had looked speculative when Peter told him that his sister's answer was pending—­his friend had regarded him as if there must be something he'd done wrong, thinking perhaps Peter was not worthy to join the exalted St. James family circle after all. Damn him, and damn Delphine. If he didn't need her money, he'd go and find a softer, less bold, more biddable female.

He rubbed his crotch. She'd been teasing him all week long, and now she wanted him to wait? If she'd accepted him, he would have found his way to her bedchamber this very night, and sealed the deal.

He stared into the dregs of the brandy. Now there was an idea—­he could force the issue with a midnight visit—­once seduced, the insolent baggage would have no choice but to marry him. A little more liquid courage, and he'd go and discreetly ask a footman or a maid where Delphine's rooms were. But the decanter was empty, and he tightened his grip on the cut crystal, tempted to throw it across the room, watch it smash in the fireplace. Slowly, he let go, and crossed to ring the bell.

D
elphine paced the floor of her room late into the night, considering Peter's proposal, trying not to think of Stephen, when someone knocked. She opened the door a scant inch.

“What the devil are you thinking, Dilly?” Sebastian asked. She stepped aside to let him in.

“About what?” she said, though she knew why he was here.

“About Peter! Why won't you marry him? This time I think you've lost your wits entirely. I understood when you said no to Viscount Snow, and even why you refused the Marquess of Bellford, but why refuse Durling?”

“I haven't actually refused him. I just need time to think.”

He dropped into the armchair by the fire, too big, too male for such a delicate, ruffled seat. “Why the hesitation? Explain it to me.”

She resumed pacing. “Have you been in love yet?”

He made a face. “Of course not. Why?”

“Because I don't think I can marry without love.”

He stared at her. “That's preposterous! If that's what you're waiting for, you might never marry at all. Peter's a good chap. Couldn't you marry him now and fall in love with him later?”

“What if I never do fall in love with him?”

“He's young, handsome, and the heir to an earldom. I fail to see how you could
not
fall in love with him,” Sebastian replied.

“I haven't said no,” she said, irritated. “I just need time.”

He got to his feet. “Don't think too long. I want you to be happy. Trust me, Peter's a good choice.”

She let him go without replying. A good choice, perhaps, but not the man she still foolishly, heartbreakingly, idiotically still loved.

She climbed into bed and pulled the pillow over her head. Would she ever forget Stephen Ives?

“P
eter!” Sebastian nearly ran into the man in the hallway outside Delphine's room. His eyes were glazed with drink, and he was only half dressed, his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat absent. “What brings you to this part of the house?” he asked, though he suspected he knew.

Peter Durling frowned for an instant before his ready smile appeared. “Lost my way, old chap. Just looking for the library,” he slurred.

“It's downstairs,” Sebastian said, and pointed back the way his friend had come. “That way.” He didn't miss the hollow-­eyed look Peter sent toward Delphine's door. An uneasy feeling crept up his spine, but he dismissed it. It was easy enough to lose one's way in a strange house, especially one the size of Neeland Park.

He clapped a friendly hand around Durling's shoulder and turned him toward the stairs. “Come on—­my father has some excellent Madeira in the cellar. Let's go and sample it.”

 

Chapter 64

S
tephen woke in the dark. Terror washed over him. He was blind again. He sat up, felt the ache in his jaw and rubbed it gingerly, wincing at the sting, and remembered. Nicholas must have walloped him with all his strength—­for Delphine's sake, and Stephen's own pigheadedness.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but it stayed black. He reached out the way he had when he first lost his sight. He felt the softness of linen under him, a plump pillow, and a woolen blanket. Not prison, then.

He shifted to the edge of the bed and rose, took a few steps forward, and noticed a chink of light. He hurried toward it, found curtains and tore them open, stared into the eye of a street lamp presiding over the dark London night. He was back at Hartley House, and he wasn't blind. He drew a shaking breath, leaned his forehead on the cold windowpane for an instant.

Delphine.

The thought of her struck him like a bullet to the chest. She was still at Neeland, in Rothdale's company. Had he proposed, kissed her, done more than that? He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. Had Nicholas dragged him back to London tied to a horse like a thief?

He went to the door of his room and lifted the latch. It didn't budge. He was locked in.

P
eter Durling's valet opened the drapes and let the rude morning sun burst into the room. The light skewered Peter's eyeballs and made his stomach roll.

The valet ignored his curses and nudged the chamber pot out from under the bed. “Lord St. James asked me to tell you he'll be ready to leave within the hour. I'm afraid you'll have to get up at once, my lord.”

Peter rolled over. “Did Lady Delphine send any message?” He watched the servant begin to deftly fold his clothes.

“Not that I know of, sir. Do you wish to send one to her?”

“Yes,” he said, rubbing his face. His head pounded. “No. I'll see her before I leave.” It was obviously too late to seduce her. Would charm be enough? Should he leave the betrothal ring, ask her to keep it until she decided? The sight of the magnificent ruby might sway her decision. Or it might not, and he would want the ring back again if he had to sell it.

He needed a gift—­something small and sentimental and so bloody romantic she wouldn't be able to say anything but yes. He considered, though his brain was still sloshing with brandy—­or was it Madeira?

He looked desperately around the room, and his eyes fell on the army trunk. He staggered over and opened it. Perhaps a bit of trim from his uniform, or—­his hand fell on the perfect thing, a small book of French poetry, embossed in gold. He'd forgotten it was there. He'd liked the glitter of the gold when he took it from—­his brow furrowed. Who had the original owner been? Which of the fools he'd been billeted with had been sentimental enough to carry a book of poems to war? He couldn't recall. He'd tossed the book into the trunk in Brussels, and forgotten it. He took it out now, and let the gold glint in the sun.

It was perfect—­just the kind of gift a gentleman gave to his ladylove, expensive, yet intimate. She would read the syrupy sentiments written by some opium-­addled poet and think of the man who had given her such a rare and precious present. He grinned, though it hurt like the devil.

An hour later, dressed to depart, he pressed the little book into her hands, adding a subtle but passionate squeeze as their hands met. Then he stepped back with a sigh, humble, hopeful—­a man in love.

“I will be in London in a few days. I shall call upon you the moment I arrive,” he whispered earnestly.

“Thank you,” she said a trifle stiffly, and he put a hand to his heart as he turned away, and knew she was enjoying the view of his wide shoulders, the lean length of his legs, his taut buttocks and the elegance of his profile as he got into the carriage. He didn't look back.

He didn't have to. He grinned. She was probably sticky with desire for him already, and in a week's time, she'd be ready to fall into his arms like a sweet, ripe plum.