Once Upon a Highland Autumn (37 page)
Read Once Upon a Highland Autumn Online
Authors: Lecia Cornwall
His hand tensed momentarily on hers. “Unfortunately not, or we would not be here awaiting yet another battle with Napoleon.”
“Will it come soon?”
He met her eyes at last, as if assessing the seriousness of her question. There were many in Brussels who doubted the battle would come at all, but she was the sister-in-law of a colonel and knew better. She kept her eyes on his.
“Within hours, I hear. The French crossed the Belgian frontier this morning,” he said at last.
She stumbled slightly, and he caught her against his body and guided her expertly into the next step. Her breath stopped again as her breasts momentarily pressed against the hard muscles of his chest. It was thrilling, like flying.
He set her down, utterly unaffected, and changed the subject. “How is it you are here in Brussels, my lady, especially now with the London Season in full bloom at home?” She did not miss the slight edge of disdain in his tone. He was making it clear that he thought her the same vain and silly creature he’d known in London, a woman who lived for pleasure and flattery, all sharp wit and flirtation, and no substance. She felt her cheeks heat.
“I came to Brussels with my sister, Eleanor, and her husband, Colonel Lord Fairlie. Meg Temberlay is with us as well. We are lodging at a villa on the outskirts of the city. It is to be a hospital, if necessary. We know that the battle is coming, of course—there are hundreds of men camped in our orchard, and even in the rose garden—but within
hours?
”
His eyes lit with interest at last. “Meg? Is Nicholas here?” he said, referring to Meg’s husband, a mutual friend, Major Lord Nicholas Temberlay. Delphine felt a flare of annoyance as he scanned the crowds, looking for them, forgetting her, even though he didn’t miss a step.
“Nicholas is not in the city, my lord, and we’ve had no real news of him, only that he is on reconnaissance. What exactly does that mean? Meg is beside herself with worry.”
He swung his gaze back to her. Had he expected her to prattle about the heat of the evening, or the number of guests present, or some other banality? His look of surprise told her that was exactly what he expected from her. He brushed a glance over her gown, her face, the flowers in her hair before meeting her eyes and looking at her—
really
looking at her, gauging the depths of her interest, her intelligence. It was the way he’d looked at her before, that night long ago, before—
“It could mean many things,” he said in reply to her question.
“Is
there reason to worry? Surely Wellington will crush the French . . .” She stopped when his eyes darkened, her breath hitching for an entirely different reason now. She felt a shiver run up her spine. She tightened her grip on his hand for a brief instant.
“I do hope so, but the outcome of a battle is never certain,” he said.
“Will you—will you fight?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Then you are not here in a diplomatic role?”
He scanned the ballroom again, his expression flat, whatever emotions he might be feeling closed to her. “I will ride with my regiment when the order comes.”
Delphine understood a little better the terrible worry her friend Meg and her sister Eleanor felt, having men they loved in battle. Bitterness filled her mouth, and lowered her gaze to his chest.
“The Royal Dragoons,” she murmured, staring at his tunic. She bit her lip. What should a lady say to a man riding off to war? This moment might be the last chance she had to speak with him, to tell him—what? That she adored him, admired him, wished he would sweep her out into the June night and kiss her? She’d allow it. She’d kiss him back. Would she know then what she’d done wrong, all those months ago?
She looked up at him hopefully. “Major Lord Ives, I—” she began, but a soldier entered and crossed the room to Lord Wellington, his spurs and boot heels ringing above the music and the laughter of gay ladies, and the tinkle of champagne glasses. Conversation stopped, dancers faltered, and everyone watched as the soldier bowed and handed the duke a note. Wellington rose to his feet at once, his expression carefully blank, and nodded to his adjutants. The Duke of Richmond led his esteemed guest to a private room and shut the door behind them. She felt Stephen tense as a buzz of speculation rose to hover over the ballroom like a black cloud.
“Is it bad?” she whispered.
“Possibly,” he said through stiff lips. “May I return you to your sister, Lady Delphine?”
She felt panic well in her breast at the thought of losing him now, or tomorrow, in battle.
She forced a teasing smile. “But the music has not ended.”
He colored slightly. “No, but—”
The door of the study opened again, and a grim faced cavalry officer held up his hand for silence. The music faltered and died. “Gentlemen, finish your dances, take leave of your partners and return to your units at once.” Dismayed cries rose from the ladies, and Stephen looked around, taking note of the officers in his own regiment. She saw the eager light in his eyes, knew he was already on duty, and she was all but forgotten. Still he kept his hand under her elbow protectively as he caught the arm of a passing adjutant. “What news?”
The young soldier glanced at her and bowed before replying. “Napoleon crossed the frontier at Charleroi. Wellington plans to engage him south of here.”
Delphine put a hand to her throat. It was suddenly real and frightening—all the weeks of watching troops gather in preparation for a battle that seemed like it would never come, or at worst, would happen somewhere else, somewhere far away. Weeks of rolling bandages they were sure would never be needed, of flirting and dancing and picnicking with handsome officers, laughing at their bravado and the brave boasts of the daring adventures they’d have when Napoleon appeared at last. Now he was here, just south of the city. Delphine looked around her at the keen faces of the men, the tears in the ladies’ eyes. Despair made her sway. Stephen took her arm more firmly, and tucked it under his own.
“Come, I’ll escort you back to Lady Fairlie,” he said gently.
She felt the hard muscles under his tunic, warm and alive. She wondered again just what to say when she may never see him again, and he might—she closed her eyes, leaned against him for a moment.
He squeezed her hand, and smiled faintly, offering courage. Yet the depths of his gray eyes remained cool, and there was a shadow of something else there, resignation, perhaps, or sorrow. That scared her most of all.
“My lord, what—” she began, but they had reached Eleanor’s side, and he turned his attention to her. Her sister was white faced, her lips drawn into a thin line. It did nothing to soothe Delphine to see an experienced officer’s wife like Eleanor, a woman who had been through many battles before, looking so grim.
“Ellie.” She took her sister’s hand. It was ice cold inside her glove.
Eleanor’s grip was like iron. “Fairlie has gone to muster his men. He says we must go at once. We’re to return to the villa, keep the horses harnessed, and go north to Antwerp and home to England if it goes badly.” She looked at Stephen. Though her eyes were dry, they were huge, filled with worry.
“Will
it go badly do you think, my lord?”
“We have an excellent commander, Lady Fairlie, and excellent officers under him, Colonel Fairlie among them,” he said gently. “We can hope for the best outcome, I think.”
“And yet, Napoleon’s officers are every bit as fine as ours. I’ve heard Fairlie say so,” Eleanor said.
Stephen didn’t reply to that. “If I may, I think Colonel Fairlie’s advice was sound. You must leave at once if things go badly.” He turned to Delphine and met her eyes, as if he expected
she
would be the brave one, would be the one get her sister to safety, instead of the other way around. “Come ladies, I’ll see you to your carriage. The streets will be filled with troops moving up, and it may take you some time to reach home, so it’s best to leave now.” He took Eleanor’s arm, and Delphine walked next to her sister as Stephen pressed through the crowds, seeing them safely through the crush.
Outside, the yard was in chaos. Torches lit the faces of panicked horses, their eyes rolling white as yelling coachmen tried to force their way to the door to pick up their passengers. Stephen stayed close to them, protecting them from the mayhem as they waited for Colonel Fairlie’s coach to arrive.
And who would keep him safe, Delphine wondered? He was still wearing dancing pumps. He could not fight in dancing pumps. He’d need to find his boots. She felt hysterical laughter bubble up in her throat. The other officers nearby also wore their formal footwear. No, they could not fight like that, so they must stay. But they were leaving, going to war. Fear formed a hard knot in her throat, and she tried to swallow, couldn’t. She watched a grinning officer mount his horse, stilling the beast’s panic as it capered anxiously in the crush. He reached down and hauled a lady up to perch on his stirrup, held her close, the satin of her gown shimmering. Her arms went around his neck, and their lips met in a long, passionate kiss.
Such behavior would have been unacceptable at any other ball, on any other night, but it was right in this moment, with battle looming. Delphine wondered how many of the men here would die tomorrow. She looked at Stephen, so alive, strong and vital. The torchlight shone on his fair hair, lit his eyes, flared over his shoulders, made his scarlet tunic glow. He looked back at her as if he expected her to speak. Her lips parted, and she stepped closer, but the coach pulled up, and he turned to help Eleanor into it before taking Delphine’s hand. “Goodnight, my lady, and thank you for the dance,” he said with cool politeness. “Remember, if things go awry tomorrow—”
She didn’t want to think about that. She threw herself into his arms to stop the words, and kissed him. He caught her, and for moment he was stiff, his posture indignant, but she stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his, praying he would come back alive.
Then his arms wrapped around her and he kissed her back.
She felt the sudden desperation in him, the need. He deepened the kiss, and she opened to his urging, let his tongue sweep in. He tasted of champagne, smelled of fine wool and leather—like a soldier on his way to battle. She pressed closer still, and he kissed her with all the passion she had dreamed of.
“Delphine St. James!” her sister cried. “What are you doing? Get into this coach immediately!”
Stephen released her at once, his gaze hot and surprised for an instant. He bowed stiffly, the proper diplomat once more, the officer, the gentleman. “Good-bye, my lady,” he said, and took her hand in his, and squeezed it, a thank you, perhaps—or forgiveness for her forward behavior. Her heart throbbed in her chest, and she was on the verge of tears.
“You will come back,” she whispered, making it a command.
His eyes swept over her. “English daisies,” he murmured, looking at the flowers in her hair. “I used to pick them when I was a boy, carry them to my mother, my sister, even the cook.”
She plucked one loose and held it out to him. “Take this one for luck.”
He stared at the small pink blossom for a moment before he closed his hand over it. “Thank you.”
He helped her into the coach before she could say another word, his eyes on hers as the vehicle lurched forward.
She fought with the latch, lowered the window, and leaned out so she could watch him walk away. “I will see you again,” she said softly. “You will be safe.” The shadows swallowed him.
Suddenly it hardly mattered now if he admired her or not. She only wanted him to live.
Lecia Cornwall lives and writes in Calgary, Canada, in the beautiful foothills of the Canadian Rockies, with five cats, two teenagers, a crazy chocolate Lab, and one very patient husband. She’s hard at work on her next book.
Visit her online at www.leciacornwall.com.
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All the Pleasures of the Season
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Z
ach Anderson was in New York City again, and he wasn't happy about it. He wasn't big on crowds as a rule, except for the ones that spent Sunday afternoons six months a year cheering for him while he flattened yet another offensive lineman on his way to the guy's quarterback. He also wasn't big on having four Âpeople fussing over his hair, spraying him down with whatever it was that simulated sweat, and trying to convince him that nobody would ever know he was wearing bronzer in the resulting photos.
Then again, he was making eight figures for a national Under Armour campaign with two days' work; maybe he shouldn't bitch. The worst injury he might sustain here would be some kind of muscle pull while running away from the multiple women hanging out at the photo shoot who had already made it clear they'd be interested in spending more time with him.
He was all dolled up in UA's latest. Of course, he typically didn't wear workout clothes that were tailored and/or ironed before he pulled them on. The photo shoot was now in its second hour, and he was wondering how many damn pictures of him they actually needed. But there were worse things than being a pro football player who looked like the cover model on a workout magazine, was followed around by large numbers of hot young women, and got paid for it all.
“Gorgeous,” the photographer shouted to him. “Okay, Zach. I need pensive. Thoughtful. Sensitive.”
Zach shook his head briefly. “You're shitting me.”
Zach's agent, Jason, shoved himself off the back wall of the room and moved into Zach's line of vision. Jason had been with him since Zach signed his first NFL contract. He was also a few years older than Zach, which came in handy. He took the long view in his professional and personal life, and encouraged Zach to do so as well.
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Sports Illustrated
's discontinuing the swimsuit issue could make a grown man cry.” Even the photographer snorted at that last one. “You can do it.”
Eighteen games a season would piss Zach off more than anything else, but he gazed in the direction the photographer's assistant indicated, thought about how long it would take him to get across town to his appointment when this was over, and listened to the camera's rapid clicking once more.
“Are you sure you want to keep playing football?” the photographer called out. “The camera loves you.”
“Thanks,” Zach muttered. Shit. How embarrassing. If any of his four younger sisters were here right now, they'd be in hysterics.
C
ameron smiled into the camera for the last time today. “Thanks for watching. I'm Cameron Ondine, and I'll see you next week on
NFL Confidential
.” She waited until the floor director gave her the signal that the camera was off and stood up to stretch. Today's guest had been a twenty-Âfive-Âyear-Âold quarterback who'd just signed a five-Âyear contract with Baltimore's team for seventy-Âfive million dollars. Fifty million of it was guaranteed. His agent hovered just off-Âcamera, but not close enough to prevent the guy in question from asking Cameron to accompany him to his hotel suite and “hook up.”
Cameron wished she were surprised about such invitations, but they happened with depressing frequency. The network wanted her to play up what she had to offerâÂfresh-Âfaced, wholesome beauty, a body she worked ninety minutes a day to maintain, and a personality that proved she wasn't just another dumb blonde. She loved her job, but she didn't love the fact that some of these guys thought sleeping with her was part of the deal her employers offered when she interviewed them.
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“S
hall we shake hands to seal our bargain?”
Not wanting to appear as if she lacked confidence, Emma thrust out her hand and straightened her shoulders.
Rathburn chuckled, the sound low enough and near enough that she could feel it vibrating in her ears more than she could hear it. His amused gaze teased her before it traveled down her neck, over the curve of her shoulder and down the length of her arm. He took her gloveless hand. His flesh was warm and callused in places that made it impossible to ignore the unapologetic maleness of him.
She should have known this couldn't be a simple handshake, not with him. He wasn't like anyone else. So, why should this be any different?
He looked down at their joined hands, turning hers this way and that, seeing the contrast no doubt. His was large and tanned, his nails clean but short, leaving the very tips of his fingers exposed. Hers was small and slender, her skin creamy, her nails delicately rounded as was proper. Yet, when she looked at her hand covered by his, she felt anything but proper.
She tried to pull away, but he kept it and moved a step closer.
“I know a better way,” he murmured and before she knew his intention, he tilted up her chin and bent his head.
His mouth brushed hers in a very brief kiss. So brief, in fact, she almost didn't get a sense that it had occurred at all.
Almost.
However, she did get an impression of his lips. They were warm and softer than they appeared, but that was not to say they were soft. No, they were the perfect combination of softness while remaining firm. In addition, the flavor he left behind was intriguing. Not sweet like liquor or salty like toothpowder, but something in between, something . . .  spicy. Pleasantly herbaceous, like a combination of pepper and rosemary with a mysterious flavor underneath that reminded her . . .
of the first sip of steaming chocolate on a chilly morning.
The flavor of it warmed her through. She licked her lips to be certain, but made the mistake of looking up at him.
He was staring at her lips, his brow furrowed.
The fireflies vanished from his eyes as his dark pupils expanded. The fingers that were curled beneath her chin spread out and stole around to the base of her neck. He lowered his head again, but this time he did not simply brush his lips over hers. Instead, he tasted her, flicking his tongue over the same path hers had taken.
A small, foreign sound purred in her throat. This wasn't supposed to be happening. Kissing Rathburn was wrong on so many levels. They weren't truly engaged. In fact, they were acquaintances only through her brother. They could barely stand each other. The door to the study was closedâÂ
highly improper.
Her parents or one of the servants could walk in any minute. She should be pushing him away, not encouraging him by parting her lips and allowing his tongue entrance. She should not curl her hands over his shoulders, or discover that there was no padding in his coat. And she most definitely should not be on the verge of leaning into himâÂ
There was a knock at the door. They split apart with a sudden jump, but the sound had come from the hall. Someone was at the front of the house.
She looked at Rathburn, watching the buttons of his waistcoat move up and down as he caught his breath. When he looked away from the door and back to her, she could see the dampness of their kiss on his lips.
Her kiss.
He grinned and waggled his brows as if they were two criminals who'd made a lucky escape. “Not quite as buttoned-Âup as I thought.” He licked his lips, ignoring her look of disapproval. “Mmm . . . jasmine tea. And sweet, too. I would have thought you'd prefer a more sedate China black with lemon. Then again, I never would have thought such a proper miss would have such a lush, tempting mouth either.”
She pressed her lips together to blot away the remains of their kiss. “Have you no shame? It's bad enough that it happened. Must you speak of it?”
He chuckled and stroked the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip as his gaze dipped, again, to her mouth. “You're right, of course. This will have to be our secret. After all, what would happen if my grandmother discovered that beneath a façade of modesty and decorum lived a warm-Âblooded temptress with the taste of sweet jasmine on her lips?”
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Miss Bianca Mansfield is ready for her debut. If only her older sister didn't insist on marrying first. She's doomed to wait to find love. Until she meets . . . him.
For Lucian Dorlingsley, Viscount Asquith, recently returned from an extended tour abroad, it is love at first sight. He's determined to meet Bianca, even if it means masquerading as a tutor to her young half-Âbrother.
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A
man's life can change in an instant. Lucian Dorlingsley, Viscount Asquith, heir to the Earl of Finleigh, had heard this aphorism many times, but until that particular August morning, he had never experienced such a profound moment. Not once in his sheltered childhood at his familial estate. Or during the more arduous years at Harrow and Cambridge. Not even during the long continental tour from which he had just returned.
Yet here, in the sleepy town of Watersham, where he was stopping briefly with the Colburns on his way home, his life had been rocked down to its very essence.
“I'm in love, Reggie!” He paced the length of the veranda where they were enjoying an al fresco luncheon. The sky beyond was a cerulean blue and the weather, for once, that rare balance of very English sunshine (and he had now seen enough of the world to know that sunshine had different qualities in different places) tempered by a delicate breeze. In other words, the perfect day to fall in love.
His friend, the younger brother of the Duke of Orland, looked at him doubtfully, a cautious smirk on his lips.
“Who is she, then? A Parisian dancer from the Opera? An Italian nymph? What paragon did you meet on your travels who has you so bound up in a paroxysm of amorous emotion?”
Reggie saw the world as one large jest, and on most occasions that was one of his charms. In fact, his boisterous manner was what made him so easy to be around; often Luc could simply follow him about and be amused without having to put himself forward in any way. It was also, at this moment, the one thing Luc did not need. Not about a matter so serious.
“No, nothing so cliché as all that. I saw her here, in the village this morning. I stopped by the apothecary, and there she was.”
“And did you pledge your undying love to her?”
Luc shook his head, ignoring Reggie's exaggerations and persistent humor in the face of confessional honesty. An honesty that he had with few others, including his sisters. But Reggie had been the foremost companion of his youth, his roommate at Harrow and later at Cambridge. At least for the one year that Reggie had attended before he decided the pretense at study was a waste of his time. He'd been gallivanting about London ever since. “I could hardly approach her.”
“I shall never understand how such a giant as yourself can be one of the most painfully shy men that I know. One would think a Grand Tour would cure you of that.”
Europe had cured him, in many ways. Out of the shadow of his gregarious father, away from the judgments of his usual society, he had been able to be more himself. But now he was back in England, and . . . this was not just any woman.
“Miss Mansfield, they called her,” said Luc. “Do you know her? Can she be mine?” Not that he had ever thought twice about marriage before this point. He was still young and most of his friends unattached. Yet the idea of such beauty being his . . . His own Botticelli. He looked expectantly at Reggie, but his friend's usually round, smiling face looked aghast.
“What? Is she promised to someone already? Are you in love with her, Reggie? Or is Peter? Have I lost my heart to some untouchable?”
“Untouchable, perhaps,” Reggie choked out, taking a moment to twirl the long hair that fell over his forehead in sandy curls. “I didn't realize Kate was back from Brighton. But listen, Luc, this oneâ Forget about her. She may have been a success in London these last two seasons, but everyone in these parts knows her for the brat that she is.”
Brat? Luc couldn't reconcile that word with the image that still lingered in his mind. Honey blonde hair framing a rosy-Âcheeked countenance. Eyes as blue as today's perfect sky. A paragon of quiet English beauty, in fact.