by Stacy Reid
“I know what I risk and why I am willing.” Her eyes probed his features and a worried frown flitted over her face. “Two months, not three,” she murmured.
He had been willing to accept four weeks—eight was more than he had hoped for, he thought with some measure of satisfaction. “Agreed.”
“No past between us?”
“Yes. Let me also be frank, wife…I’ll be kissing and touching you at every opportunity I get.” He paused meaningfully. “I will also cease my attentions the instant you object. I trust this is agreeable to you?”
The gaze that peered at him was disconcertingly perceptive. “It is,” she said softly.
“I trust that I may depend on you to uphold your end of the bargain? You will give me…us a fair chance.”
Sensual curiosity gleamed in her brilliant eyes. Instead of replying, she gripped the edges of the tub and stood without assistance. Every other thought ceased existing under the surge of raw desire that tore through him. He fought to keep his expression even. She was exquisite. Water droplets glistened along every curve and dip of her pinkened body. He swallowed as a trail ran from her neck, down on to her breast to bead on a very large and succulent nipple. Other droplets cascaded in rivulets to her flat stomach and down to her curls that hid the delights of her sex from his ravenous gaze. One foot stepped from the tub, the swishing sound of the water tugging his gaze to her face. There was a becoming flush along her entire body, but her eyes held a message, and he was challenged.
Something in their world had shifted.
This was punishment, he realized. For daring to ignore her for so long, for not claiming what she had offered that night years ago when she had waited with virginal shyness. Her revenge was diabolical, and it testified to the strength of the woman before him, for it was evident from the mortification in her eyes that her wicked brazenness was simply to torture him. For hurting her, and for now wishing to take what she needed to regain her sense of self.
“Your beauty is unmatched,” he murmured.
She shot him a quick, assessing look, a soft pink barely discernible flushing along her cheekbones, but Sylvester noticed, as he had been unable to remove his gaze from her. He wanted to ravish, to dominate, and to slake the need that had his cock throbbing with a brutal ache. And his countess knew it, and was unafraid of his ardor, for she held power. She walked past him, seemingly unconcerned with her nudity. As she strolled toward her bed, she lifted her damp, heavy locks and wrapped them in a loose chignon. He had never seen another female form so delicate yet voluptuous and firm. He studied the elegant line of her spine, the curves of her hips, which were sensually flared, and the rounded globes of her buttocks that made him want to lower his teeth and bite that firm flesh.
He groaned.
She collected her robe and held it out without turning around. How he wished he could see her expression. Was it one of need or chilling incivility? His feet moved as if they had a will of their own over to her. Sylvester took the robe and held it out so she could slip her arms through. He would gladly play her lady’s maid every day if he were treated to such carnal delights.
She faced him, the robe unbelted, the flaps of the silken material clinging to her still damp body, tempting him to betray his honor and her trust. This was her test, and he would possibly endure several, and she still might never allow him to her bed. Something inside him stirred, a bit dark and possessive, and he had to fight not to lift her into his arms, hold her thighs apart, and enslave her to the pleasures he could give her. “If you have need of me, you know where to find me.”
She looked both relieved and strangely disappointed. “I do. Please give my regards to your mother and sister.”
Her aloofness annoyed him even as he was forced to admit that he admired it. Sylvester bowed and spun on his heel, exiting her chamber, but not before seeing her lips part in astonishment. He smiled. How strange she must find it all, for even he felt uncertain, and he was never a man to suffer nerves or second-guess his decisions.
…
The very next day, Daphne ran to Kellits Hall, where she had retired for the first two years after they had married. She had been unable to deny the inexplicable need that had welled in her heart to escape after her husband had spent another night in her bed. She had never thought herself a coward and preferred to face issues with aplomb, but surely this qualified as extraordinary circumstances.
He hadn’t stayed with his family for the night and had thoroughly shocked her when she’d felt him entering her chamber sometime past midnight. He must have ridden through the night, but she had held the questions in. Daphne was intrigued and terrified in equal measure. She had assured her husband two months of amiable companionship, and he had vowed illicit kisses and touches.
He’d slid into her bed silently, but she had been excruciatingly aware of his heat, the lure of his scent, and she despaired how she would resist the kisses and touches he had promised. But he attempted none. Instead, knowing she was awake, he had drawn her into conversation, recalling the ridiculous look on Lord Belmont’s face when they had trounced him while playing cards at their ball of scandal a few nights past, and they spent some time laughing at other recollections of the night. Then, as they went to sleep, he had slipped his arms around her waist, and she had silently wept. Even now, just thinking about it, she found herself hugging her arms to her body.
She had only been at Kellits Hall for a few hours before the sound of horses alerted her to visitors. Daphne lowered the quill onto her writing papers and pushed aside the letter she had been penning to her brother, whom she meant to call upon tomorrow. She stood and strolled to the windows, tugging aside the curtains. Startled, she dropped the drapes, took a steady breath, and parted them once again. Her earl was directing his phaeton, which was drawn by perfectly matched bays, around the forecourt of Kellits Hall. It was deplorable, the way her pulse always quickened at the first sight of her husband.
He had come after her. The burst of pure pleasure took her by surprise. Had she wanted him to chase her? Stepping back, she rang the bell pull and was promptly attended to by the housekeeper, Mrs. Willoughby.
“You rang, my lady,” she said with a smile.
“Lord Carrington has returned. See that his chamber is readied and have tea and cakes sent in.” She took a deep breath. “I will not take a tray in my room as I’d said earlier, but I will be readied for dinner by seven.”
“Will the roast and lamb be fine, my lady?”
She nodded her approval, and Mrs. Willoughby bobbed and hurried away.
Daphne waited for him, and it was not long before the drawing room door opened, and her husband framed the doorway.
Sylvester watched her with an expression of amused interest. There was a curious pause before he strolled over to her. She detected no anger or frustration—he was a blank canvas waiting for emotions or something of the sort to be painted.
She drew a deep, fortifying breath. “I did not rescind our bargain,” she said as he stood in front of her. “I merely needed to gather my thoughts.”
A lazy grin swept his face, and awareness simmered in her blood. So grossly unfair she should have this visceral reaction from a mere smile.
“Of course. I had no other expectations,” replied her husband charmingly. “A private yacht has been reserved to ferry us across the English Channel.”
“A yacht?”
His enigmatic eyes told her very little. “Yes. There are times I have the need to be on the open seas, feel the wind on my face and the fine, salty water on my skin, hear the roar of the ocean. I thought it would be pleasant if you would accompany me.”
Daphne so badly wanted to say yes, which perplexed her to no end. Then it struck her. She was terribly afraid of falling in love with her husband, simply because nothing had ever indicated to her he was capable of such sentiments. Passion, yes… God, the way he had made her tremble in their library… He had an unsettling effect on her emotions. What if she should love him w
ith the depth of emotions she knew she was capable of and he retreated once more to the cold and frightening man she had nothing in common with?
It is only two months…
She steadied herself with a deep breath and tried to think of a reasonable excuse to avoid going with him but instead said, “Yes.”
He smiled, and she found herself responding in kind.
“Excellent.”
“When do we depart?”
“Tomorrow. All the arrangements were made, and we’ll leave from Dover.”
“And go where?”
“Nowhere…and anywhere.”
She laughed. “You are fanciful.” She was intrigued by this side of him. “I’ll inform Letty,” she said, thinking her lady’s maid would be quite taken with the notion of being on a yacht.
Daphne made to skirt around him, but he reached out his hand and snagged her around the waist to face him. She glanced up and realized with a shock that he intended to kiss her. He lowered his head slowly, giving her enough time to push him away or step from his arms. The only sensible thing to do was leave the drawing room.
She did neither, instead tipping on her toes slightly.
It was unbearably tempting to press her mouth to his. If she allowed the intimacy of a kiss, wasn’t that the doorway to her undoing? She was already so very aware of him. That echoing emptiness crept from the corners of her heart and darted through her. Daphne knew the press of his lips, the scent of him, the comfort of touch, the thrill of passion would suppress the chasm.
She should be doing everything in her heart to resist whatever this was, for if she allowed him close enough, he would soon be in her bed, and that way led to disaster, she knew it with a certainty that defied logic. Her lips paused a whisper below his, and the fingers on her hips tensed. A rush of fierce anticipation flowed through her veins, yet the dratted man did not press his advantage at her evident willingness. Instead, he waited, an odd sort of tension riding the air.
He kissed her. She made a soft sound and parted her lips. He tasted of mint, spice, and Sylvester himself. His tongue lightly skimmed along her lower lip, and she softened more against him. Then it was over.
Her lids fluttered open, and she stared at him in bemusement.
“Thank you,” he said.
She suddenly knew with a shattering certainty that their marriage as it had existed in that cold, indifferent state was over. What stood on the other side of the invitation, pain or happiness, she did not know, but she was willing for the next several weeks to discover it.
Chapter Eight
By noon the next day, Sylvester and his countess were aboard a private yacht, having embarked in Dover, and now bobbed atop the waters of the English Channel with too much vigor for a lady’s sensibilities. Except his countess seemed to be enthralled with every dip and churn as the luxurious vessel rolled with the waves, the sails flapping in the wind. Most of the crew were below deck, and only a handful were awake to guide their yacht safely in the darkened waters. Sylvester had known strapping men who had become violently ill, and even when they reached land could not seem to orient themselves. Not Daphne. Even now, she stood on the deck, holding onto the railings, her face lifted to the night sky, the vast, dark beauty of the sea splayed before them, with only a sliver of light from the moon to light their surroundings.
Daphne’s sensual figure was clad in boy’s breeches and a billowing shirt that did nothing to hide her mouthwatering curves. How delighted and shocked she had been when he had suggested she dress so scandalously. But he believed in being prepared for the unexpected, like a sunken ship. It would be easier to swim to safety without a dress hampering her. He moved as soundlessly as possible across the deck, but she sensed his presence. She turned, and her face lit up, a welcoming smile curving her mouth, then it faded. The laughter also vanished from her eyes, and as simply as that, everything felt meaningless.
“No,” he said. “Smile for me.”
It took him a second to recognize the anxiety that glittered in her brilliant eyes. “Sylvester, I—”
“Please.”
“I do not smile on command,” she said, her eyes suddenly dancing with humor.
It was not the same, but he would take it. He felt the strangest compulsion to make her happy. “I hate that your joy leeches whenever you see me. At first, there is a pleasure, which warms me, but it invariably fades as caution wins out.”
“You do not steal my happiness, my lord.” She turned away from him, toward the open water, and lifted her face to the night stars. “Isn’t it beautiful, Sylvester? I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.”
He felt invigorated by the soft bite of the wind, the soft whisper and sometimes powerful crash of the waves. “I do this sometimes. Sail for days when I want to escape the noise in my head. I have a smaller boat I take out myself from Dover.”
She slanted him an enigmatic glance. “What kind of noise crowds your thoughts?”
He hesitated briefly, and a shadow darkened her eyes.
“The ones that echo unrelentingly of duty and helping others. The frustration of having a motion turned down in Parliament by pigheaded lords, the desperate plight of the people, and the fascination that is my countess.”
“Fascinated by me, are you?”
He was bemused by the tone of slight wonder in her voice. “Quite so. Tell me, what do you enjoy, my countess?”
“You truly wish to know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I like long walks. When I am in the country, sometimes I stroll for hours admiring the beauty of the rolling countryside. Often I become quite lost in my thoughts and the possibilities of the future.”
“You were lonely,” he said gruffly, wishing he’d tried to see beyond his anger much earlier. When he’d just met her, Sylvester had been enchanted by her lively wit, and it gutted him to know that he hadn’t tried to remember that about her. How had he never seen that her smile was sweetly charming and not sophisticated and cynical? Several times he found himself wondering if he hadn’t had that brush with death, how long would the pain of the past have held him from seeking contentment with his wife. With me you’ll never be lonely again.
She lifted a shoulder in an inelegant shrug. “I’ve taken an interest in several charities, but the Havendale Orphanage is very special to me. I visit the children at least once a week, and I always take them presents. They are quite delightful, and several are musically and otherwise artistically inclined. I’ve recently added a music room and an art room and hired extra tutors for them.”
“That is quite commendable,” he said quietly, wondering how he could have thought her life had only been about balls and routs.
“The bills were frightfully expensive, and I’ve directed them all to you.”
Her eyes were laughing at him, and it struck him how beautiful they were. His wife had a quick wit and humor. He liked that.
He held up his hands in mock dismay. “I’m quite used to your frightfully expensive bills.” He had gotten them season after season, some so outlandish his lawyers had spluttered and waited for him to curtail her spending and her exorbitant allowance. Sylvester had done neither, and he had never quite understood why.
“What else do you enjoy?”
“I am dreadfully fond of horrid novels. Papa thought—” She glanced away.
He moved to stand beside her, close enough their elbows brushed where they rested atop the railing. “There is no past for the next several weeks, remember? Please, freely speak of your father.” It killed a part of him to even think of the man who had brought his sister to such depth of despair, but he had to start somewhere. He could not keep thinking of his wife and her family in the same breath.
“You anticipate it returning, do you?”
“The past?”
“Yes.”
“The sting will eventually fade altogether.”
Her mouth softened, and the urge to re
ach out and drag her into his arms and press his lips to hers was suddenly a fire in his veins.
“Papa never really approved. He thought reading such novels would give me unladylike notions. However, Mamma insisted I be allowed to read them, and he loved her quite desperately, so I was given the freedom to read what I wanted.”
The wistfulness in her voice tugged at something inside of him. “You miss them.”
“Every day. Especially Mamma.”
Silence lingered, and he lifted the carafe he had taken from his cabin. “Do you care for a drink?”
“Is your strategy to get me drunk, my lord?”
A shiver of pleasure went through him at her teasing question. “Would it work, I wonder?”
For the first time, a tiny hint of mischief flickered in his wife’s eyes. She gave a tiny shrug. “Perhaps not. I am made of frightfully stern stuff.” She chuckled, and the sweet, carefree sound pleased him in a way that left him discomfited.
She looked down, watching the water for several seconds before turning to him. “I can see the stars,” she murmured. “And they are quite splendid, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” he answered, unable to take his regard from the prettiness of her features.
“You are not looking at the sky.”
“You are a far more interesting study.” He wanted to know her. The need curled through him with shocking intensity.
His countess made no reply. Instead, she faced the open sea once more. The moonlight glinted off the surface of the water, and they fell into a few moments of companionable silence watching the water rush by.
“Would you like to lounge on the deck chairs?”
Daphne glanced toward the reclined chairs. “Yes, I would.”
She went over and sat, leaning back with a gusty sigh of bliss. He lowered himself onto the chair beside her and similarly relaxed his frame in the sturdy and comfortable chair. Sylvester took a healthy swig from the flask and swallowed the burn of fiery liquid. Then he handed her the bottle. His countess took it and tipped it, the elegant line of her throat working on a swallow.
