by Stacy Reid
Her eyes widened, and those brown orbs went soft with relief and confusion. “That’s rather indulgent of you.”
A painful, aching tightness lingered inside of him. He turned on his heel to retire to his chamber and hesitated. “I assure you, upon my honor, I’ll never take you by force, Daphne.” Then the devil in him added, “I’ll wait until you are willing and wet for my touch, until the need to be filled is a crippling ache that keeps you awake at night, until anticipation and hunger cloud your beautiful eyes.”
“You have a terribly long wait ahead of you…Sylvester.”
He smiled at the pique in her voice. Satisfaction filled him. He wasn’t an easy man. Over the years he had grown hard, and no matter how he tried to soften, it eluded him. He did not want a woman who would dissolve into hysterics at the first sign of danger, or raised voices, or his anger. This was how he wanted his countess—defiant and unafraid. The notion that she had feared him burned along his skin like acid. It bothered him greatly, and he couldn’t understand the reason behind the disquiet. He did not require her love or her trust, for he had no deep sentiments to give.
Only an heir and an agreeable marriage, and that could be achieved with seduction.
Chapter Six
Three days later, Sylvester found himself at his club, reading a freshly pressed newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee awaiting his attention. The muted sound of clinking glasses and masculine laughs and chatter lingered in the air. Word of his return to London had swept through the rooms of White’s when he’d entered an hour ago. Though he had returned a couple weeks past, he’d been abed in the last stages of recovery in Victor Drummond’s lodging in St. James’s.
When Sylvester had been in Jamaica, ravaged with fever, one single thought had kept him sane—he needed to see Daphne once more. Why, he hadn’t understood; his fevered brain had been illogical but persistent and desperate. Everyone had protested when he had ordered Victor to make arrangements for travel, and the local doctor had promised him he would die on the voyage.
Perish he did not, and he had spent some time assessing the desire that had pushed him to travel when he had been so ill. The delirious dreams had been of his countess, rounded with child, reposing on the grass with her head in his lap, and the emotions behind the picture they had presented as a family had been a visceral longing.
“Say, Redgrave, how capital of you to allow me the use of your box for the missus,” said Mr. Walton, an upcoming barrister who was busy making a credible name for himself.
Folding the paper and resting it on the table, Sylvester leaned back in his chair and assessed his quarry. Redgrave appeared assured and handsome in a dandified sort of way. He couldn’t imagine what his wife saw in the bounder to even entertain a life with this weasel after the mythical divorce she wanted. The viscount glanced in his direction, and Sylvester lifted his head in a silent command for the man to attend him. Wariness settled on the viscount’s face, but he made his way over.
“Sit down,” Sylvester said, motioning to the chair across from him.
The viscount complied, assuming a mien of lazy indifference. “Carrington, to what do I owe this honor?”
“You will never approach my countess again,” Sylvester said smoothly, driving straight to the heart of the reason for which he had visited his club. It had taken him a few hours to persuade himself not to slip into the man’s townhouse in the dead of night and have this conversation with the edge of a knife’s blade at the viscount’s throat. Sylvester was even pleased he was acting with such restraint when he wanted to gut the man before him for touching his wife…for kissing her…for wanting to debauch her when he had no bloody right.
Redgrave stiffened, then narrowed his gaze. “What do you think you know?”
“Enough.”
“Are you afraid she will choose me?” The man had the galling temerity to taunt.
Sylvester couldn’t help smiling. Perhaps providence would shine on him after all, and the viscount would act with stupidity. “Are you confirming you have acted with gross dishonor in trying to seduce my wife?”
Redgrave frowned, clearly sensing a trap. “And if I am?”
“Then we shall meet at dawn.”
The viscount froze. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. I quite look forward to teaching you just how serious I am about my countess.”
“Good God, man, do not act in haste. Dueling is illegal.”
Sylvester’s lips curved mockingly. He couldn’t say if the viscount saw the promise of ruination in his small smile, but the man blanched and tugged at his cravat.
“I never touched her, I swear on my honor.”
“Honor? The concept eludes you, Redgrave. It would be prudent to swear on something more tangible.”
“I swear on my life I never seduced her. I may have stolen a few kisses—”
The soft snarl that came from Sylvester shocked even him. “I promise you, it is your life you will lose if I prove your words wrong.”
Redgrave swallowed visibly. “I swear, my lord, she was never eager at participating, and I did not dare hope for more despite my admiration. I do not understand it, but she is steadfastly loyal to you.”
A peculiar kind of pain entered his body. Steadfastly loyal. And he had done nothing to earn it. His wife had honor.
“As it stands, the two recent investments you made to recoup the losses from your plantations in Barbados have been closed to you.” Sylvester took a piece of paper from his jacket and slid it across the table. “This is an offer for your plantations in Grenada and Barbados. You will accept, and I will not increase my offer. Charges will not be brought against you for going against His Majesty’s orders in purchasing slaves from ships recently docked in Jamaica and Haiti. The only reason I am lenient is that my countess has been seen in your presence this past year. The stain of your disgrace will taint her by association, and that is the only reason I am showing mercy to a dishonorable bounder as yourself.”
Redgrave paled alarmingly. He took the paper, unfolded it, and read the sum. “This is not even a quarter of what they are worth.”
“Reparations will be made to the people who have suffered under your cruel stewardship. It is fair they will be given a parcel of the land their liberty was stolen to toil.”
“You Goddamned bastard,” he said through bloodless lips.
“Are you impugning my mother’s honor?”
Rage burned harsh and bright in the viscount’s eyes.
“Give me a reason to put a bullet through your black heart, I’ll happily accede and bury you.”
The viscount made no reply, only snatching up the paper, stuffing it into his pocket, and lurching from the chair to stumble toward the billiards room. Sylvester was tolerably satisfied with the outcome of the confrontation. The urge to smash his fist into Redgrave’s front teeth was still present, but for now, he would have to settle for the real fear that had darkened the man’s eyes.
He finished the coffee that had grown tepid and stood. Invariably, his thoughts turned to his countess and his campaign of seduction. Collecting his coat and hat, Sylvester called for his carriage and a few minutes later departed for Lady Blanchette’s ball. Pinning down his wife at home seemed impossible. When he’d returned from his morning ride in Hyde Park, she was missing and only returned to ready for tonight’s ball. He hadn’t planned on attending until she had strolled down the winding staircase sheathed maddeningly and provocatively in a high-waisted scarlet satin gown with a stunning display of décolletage.
In one shocking breath, she had aroused his emotions and lust, his possessiveness and his jealousy.
Sylvester had almost ordered her to return and change into something more demure, more unlikely to beset his mind with images of seating her on his cock deep and hard and urging her to ride at leisure and then furious passion. But there had been a dare of defiance in her eyes, and he had been curiously captivated.
His carriage slowed, and he tapped the roof
and alighted several blocks down from Lady Blanchette’s townhouse. It made no sense for the carriage to join the long queue visible ahead. The night was alive with music and merriment, and he wondered if his countess anticipated his presence. What had that defiant smile been about? And how would he procure his heir when she seemed so disinclined to share the same space with him?
It flummoxed him that notions of the art of seduction were something beyond his purview. Before he’d married his countess, he’d had several lovers, and there had been rumors declaring him a rakehell. Mothers had warned their daughters from slipping away with him to dark corners even as they had plotted on how to trap him into marriage. He hadn’t lied to Daphne when he told her he’d been without a lover. The need for warmth and pleasure had haunted him several times, but to act with such dishonor had never occurred to him, and he had buried his loneliness and hunger in his work.
Everything about seducing his wife solely for an heir felt wrong. Seduction hinted at a tenderness, a need to please and be pleasured without reservation. It had nothing to do with securing his title. Except he wanted to be sweet and tender with her so badly. He could still taste her on his tongue, feel the ripple of her release. Her submission to his touch had been sublime.
He quite liked the notion of a forever kind of passion with her, not something that would burn away once an heir had been achieved. Now he knew exactly what he had been missing for so long. A peculiar feeling of regret wound its way through his heart. How he must have hurt and shamed her with his distance. She had been so young when he married her. He frowned. She would now be three and twenty, and he truly had no notion of the woman he had taken to be his countess.
And the question he now had to consider was: Could he only take her to bed for his blasted heir and spare, or did he want to know the heart of the woman that lingered behind those beautiful but saddened eyes?
…
The Marchioness of Blanchette’s ball was another crushing success, and for the first time in years, Daphne found herself idly standing on the sidelines, as if she were a wallflower or a matron. Eager to commence with her plan of ruination, she had dressed in her most scandalous gown, but perplexingly there was not one gentleman willing to take her to the dance floor, or even procure her a glass of punch. She found it all rather odd. Daphne had never been without a dance partner or some eager gentleman wanting to escort her to supper. She snapped her fan closed, scanning the room. Could it be they were all wary of her husband?
Daphne felt uncertain about everything. When he’d entered her chamber, and she had thought he would force her, the rage that had filled her had almost drowned her, and tears had burned behind her lids. Sylvester hadn’t demanded what was his by law and right, and he hadn’t put her in that position to resist him, which she had been determined to do at all costs. Why he had done it, Daphne did not know, would perhaps never know, and it only cemented her need to be free of him. Six years as his wife and countess, and she knew nothing about the mind behind the cold, distant, although arresting, stare.
A dart of awareness prickled along her skin, and as if she had summoned the devil himself, her husband appeared atop the landing. The hour was late enough where he would not be announced, but somehow everyone became aware of his presence. For a timeless moment there was a hush, then a ripple as whispers went around the room.
“Spends most of his time abroad…”
“Mixes with slaves.”
“He is terribly handsome…”
“He has blacks working in his household.”
“How mortifyingly scandalous…”
“There are rumors he fathered a mulatto.”
The gossip ebbed around her, and Daphne blatantly stared at him as he made his way toward her. Sylvester did not pause to greet anyone and moved through the crowd with prowling grace, quite unconcerned that he had ruffled their feathers. What was he doing there? The last time her earl had attended a ball had been a year ago, and she had not been the recipient of such shivering intensity.
He cut a direct swathe to her, his long strides undeniably confident and graceful, and she waited, not liking the anticipation that flowed through her veins. For this past week, Daphne had deliberately kept her social calendar full to avoid him and planned to keep connecting doors firmly closed. Not that he had attempted to exercise his husbandly duties. That had surprised her, and each night she had sat in the middle of her bed and waited and waited…and he had done nothing. The few times she espied him, there was a watchful amusement in his gaze, as if he were waiting for her to realize something, or to invite him to her bed.
Satisfaction filled her. He would wait forever, then, and that would be quite acceptable until she figured out the way to start the wickedest scandal yet and avoid falling into her earl’s bed. She was haunted by his kisses…especially the wicked one. How she ached for her husband’s caresses was not terribly reassuring.
He stopped in front of her. “Countess.”
“My lord,” she greeted him with a small smile that did not reach her heart. What was he doing?
“May I have your hand in the next dance?”
Daphne was obliged to smile politely as she peered up at him. The eyes of the ton were upon them, and she could give no indication of how her husband rattled her just now unless her scandalous and reprovable behavior was to start here. Her smile widened, and his eyes narrowed in surprised warning. A dreadful stillness blanketed her husband as he awaited her decision.
Her heart fluttering too fast, Daphne lifted her chin quite defiantly and turned away from her earl, unquestionably cutting him.
Several gasps sounded. There would be much to condemn in her conduct, but she would face those consequences in the morning. At this moment she’d acted on her desires, and it felt glorious.
Your move, my lord…
When it came, Daphne almost fainted. Firm hands gripped her waist, lifted her with effortless strength, and a few strides later deposited her in the middle of the dance floor. She felt certain she would expire from the shock. “Sylvester!”
And as if he had not just started a scandal for the season, Sylvester bowed, then held out his hand.
“May I have this dance, wife?”
His beautiful lips curved into a challenging smile, and her breath hitched. The orchestra hurriedly struck up a waltz, while it seemed as if the entire throng held its collective breath. Her senses struck dumb, she tried to pull her disjointed thoughts into some semblance of order. Daphne dipped into a curtsy and then walked into his arms.
An awfully intense sensation twisted low in her stomach when he rested a strong, powerful arm about her waist and swept her into a world of pure feeling. It felt like coming home. It was torture, and it was bliss. His arms were where she wanted to be, and where she desperately wished to leave. It’s just a waltz, she frantically tried to remind herself. But it felt like so much more, and there was an undefinable emotion in his green gaze. He was thinking it, too, she belatedly realized.
Our very first dance.
“I’ve been a damned fool,” he murmured. “Dancing with you is very pleasant, my lady.”
There was something mesmerizing about the moment, and she couldn’t take her eyes from his, trapped by his intensity. His dark hair gleamed in the light of the chandeliers, his cheekbones appeared sharper, and his eyes were carefully shuttered. Her husband wore the cloak of refined power and elegance as if it were a second skin.
“I wouldn’t dare contradict you, my lord. A damned fool indeed.”
He gave her an odd smile, drew her closer, and her heart tumbled in her chest quite alarmingly. She was intensely mindful of his hand, strong and warm, on her back.
“I’m sure you are aware the eyes of the ton are upon us,” she felt compelled to point out.
“I had been feeling an unusual prickle on my shoulder. I’m relieved it isn’t something dastardlier.”
She was so unsettled, so off balance, that she could do nothing but immerse herself in the elega
nt dance, shattered by the awareness that she had never felt this delight, this contentment dancing with another. They made a full circle of the ballroom in silence, and she dazedly recognized her husband was a most accomplished dancer. She tried to recreate the appropriate space between them as discreetly as possible, but his fingers tightened around her waist. And they danced. And she sighed. And she shot him reproving glares, and all through it, he watched her with a piercing intensity, as he if were trying to figure out a complex puzzle.
She was unequivocally flustered.
The waltz ended, and before she could retreat, Sylvester lightly brushed his mouth across her lips, ignoring the ripple of shock that went through the ballroom.
The wretched man was publicly staking his claim.
He lifted his head and smiled while Daphne spluttered quite inelegantly.
“That was to remind every man who is watching you with such unabashed lust that you are mine. I hope I haven’t distressed your sensibilities.”
“I did not think you a man to start a scandal.”
“That was hardly important.” His gaze lowered to her décolletage before climbing to her face.
“Everyone is positively atwitter. There is no doubt the scandal sheets will declare themselves scandalized in tomorrow’s publication.”
“Perhaps. Do you care?”
“I… No.”
He held out his arm and she blindly took it, allowing him to escort her from the dance floor. Many ladies were fluttering their fans and gazing at her with envy and admiration. She spied Viscount Redgrave, and he made an obvious effort to not glance in her direction.
None of the gentlemen that normally flocked her side in the hopes of persuading her to the dance floor, or to tempt her to a more illicit encounter, approached Daphne or her earl. In fact, they looked wary. No doubt they were relieved she had stingingly rebuffed their advances. Sylvester’s keen attention and his unusual display spoke volumes.
“Will you accompany me to the card rooms?”
