by Stacy Reid
She spluttered and coughed, then gamely took another swig. “What is it?”
“Rum. It was introduced to me by the locals of Jamaica.”
“Most men would not allow their wives to drink this.”
“I am not most men,” he said mildly, “and I’ve already deduced you know your mind and know when you will allow yourself to indulge.”
She sighed happily and beamed at him approvingly. Sylvester blinked at the radiance of that smile. His countess took another healthy swallow before returning the flask.
Clouds moved slowly over the night sky, dimming the moonlight and increasing the darkness. She sidled closer to him, and his lips twitched.
“Why did you travel to Jamaica?”
He took a sip of rum. “These stories are not fit for your sensibilities.”
“I’ll not faint,” she said.
“My father had several plantations, and we knew it, but somehow it hadn’t mattered. It was the way of the new world. Upon coming into my estate, the plantations on the islands were brought to my attention. After the debacle of our wedding, I traveled to Jamaica on one of our ships and docked in Port Royal. I then traveled in a cart pulled by donkeys to Montego Bay, where our largest plantation was located.”
“A donkey?”
He chuckled. “They were introduced to the island by Spaniards.”
“There were no horses…carriages?”
“There were, but I was content with my transport. Jamaica is a beauty, and though the journey to Montego Bay felt like it took forever, I enjoyed the slow crawl. When I arrived at the Wentworth planation something fundamental in me changed. Our fields stretched for miles, with dozens of workers—pardon me, slaves—laboring under the brutal sun with an overseer on a horse above them with a whip.”
Daphne flinched.
“I’d thought after the Zong massacre that I understood in full the cruelty human beings are capable of against each other.”
“The Zong massacre?”
He hesitated.
She touched his arm lightly. “Please, Sylvester.”
“One hundred and thirty-three men and women were thrown overboard on a ship traveling to Black River, Jamaica, because the captain decided it was more profitable to secure insurance payout than to sell possibly sick slaves. You see, there was more profit in their deaths. They were not seen as people who loved and laughed as we do, but as cargo, disposable goods.”
She recoiled. “I… Dear God.”
“Lord Mansfield did not rule in their favor, but men and women had been senselessly murdered, and there had been no justice. Though I knew of such cases, and have read the passionate arguments presented by Granville Sharpe, I never truly understood how disgustingly odious and barbaric the practice was. On Jamaica, on my plantations, I saw men, women, children reduced to mindless property. It is all well to denounce the practice from the safety of our shores with little understanding of how these people are treated. For years, I, too, abhorred the notion of slavery but not the men who were the instrument of this cruelty. My father was such a man and by default, by inheritance, so was I.”
His wife shifted in her chair, facing him with somber and dark, compassionate eyes.
“I had several ledgers detailing the inventories of the plantations, along with their worth. And there they were listed. Their history, their emotions, all their love, fears, hopes, and dreams reduced to a line in a ledger. The first name I saw was John Wentworth, three months old and still suckling at his mother’s breast, listed as property valued at a shilling.”
“Tell me, what did you do?”
“I fired the overseer, and I was determined to free all two hundred and forty-nine souls on the Wentworth plantation. I almost started a revolution, and the other plantation owners hated me fiercely, but I was determined. Thousands of British families have grown rich on slavery, and the very idea of losing their wealth is intolerable. They will do anything to see it preserved.”
There was admiration in the eyes that beheld him, and something warm moved through his chest.
“I remember when the rumors started in the polite world that you had joined Wilberforce’s crusade. Many did not understand it or even want to. I confess, I did not comprehend it myself, but to imagine my liberty being taken, my child in chains and whipped without mercy, it is a horror I truly cannot picture. Your dedication is to be admired, I only wish your life was not in danger for it.”
“As a widow, the freedom you desire would—”
She leaned over and slapped her palm over his mouth. “What a ghastly thing to insinuate,” she gasped.
“Miss me, would you?”
She snatched back her hand, but he recaptured it and pressed a kiss to her knuckles before releasing them.
“I’ve heard rumors that you’ve brought many of the workers from the island and helped them settle here. The distance between us had always prevented me from asking questions about your work. I could only follow through what the newspapers reported, and I have read your articles that have provoked much debate amongst those of our set.”
She had read his work and followed his arguments. He felt inexplicably unnerved at the knowledge. The fight to end slavery was a long and arduous process that he and many lords were determined to see through since Lord Mansfield’s judgment liberated the first slave in England almost fifty years ago. Not only were they fighting for the freedom of men enslaved across British territories, but they were fighting against men like Viscount Redgrave, who, despite the Slave Travel Felony Act and the Royal Navy patrolling the coasts, still found a way to purchase men, women, and children and chain them for profits.
“Lord Mansfield ruled that English law did not allow slavery, and only a new Act of Parliament could bring it into legality. Hence a slave becomes free the moment he sets foot on England’s soil.”
She bestowed on him a warm, approving, and tender smile that did the oddest things to his insides. “And you have been freeing as many as you can.”
The yacht pitched and rolled, sometimes swaying gently on the water and other times rocking with turbulence from a current beneath the waves’ surface. A few of the captain’s men tested the sails and disappeared without intruding on their privacy. A stiff wind blew across the deck, and she shivered.
“Come here.”
She arched a brow.
“Please, my countess.”
She stood, and he shrugged from his jacket. Instead of handing it to her, he reached up, grabbed her by the waist, and tugged her onto his lap. She landed without grace and an oomph.
“Whatever are you doing?”
“Are you ready to retire below?”
She hesitated slightly, a wealth of meaning behind that small pause. “No.”
“I thought we could watch the stars together and finish this rum.” He waved the bottle before her face.
“And pray inform me of the reason I cannot do this in my own chair,” she said pertly.
“We could both be warm with this jacket?”
Her eyes lit with a warm glow of delight. “Perhaps.” She settled against him with a slight smile, the top of her head butting his chin. He threw the jacket over her, so it covered her shoulders up to her chin. She was a pleasant weight against his chest, her head on his shoulder, her hair spreading out across his chest. Her sigh of contentment filled him with pleasure. His countess seemed to be in remarkably good spirits. He pondered that. He was filled with an inexplicable longing to see her contented.
For the first time, he acknowledged this wasn’t just about getting an heir—their marriage could be agreeable. But…she did not want it anymore, and he truly could not blame her. He had dedicated himself solely to his estates, his duty in the House of Lords, and the Wilberforce crusade, hardly thinking of her and her father. He hated to think of the hurt and mortification she’d endured at his desertion.
“Are you happy, Daphne?”
Strange, how unusual her name was on his tongue, and she had been in his life
for so long. He had certainly kept her at a distance, calling her “wife” and “countess.”
Wide, astonished eyes met his. “How does one measure happiness, I wonder. I find it such an arbitrary state.”
That answer brought him no satisfaction.
“I daresay one should be able to tell when they feel a measure of contentment.”
“Are you contented, then?”
He stilled momentarily. The blackmail had come at a time when he had begun to dream up different dreams. He’d wanted to travel, to explore the world—India, Africa, Italy, Venice, and even the Caribbean. He’d traveled some, but not how he had envisioned it for years. Most days he felt driven, confident in his purpose and duty, satisfied with the profits of his estates and holdings…but befuddled about her, and the place she should really occupy in his life. “I believe so.” Was this a question people asked themselves?
“I daresay even you are uncertain as to the state of happiness and what it really is. One ought to know when they feel completed or when something is missing.”
“And what do you lack?”
“There are things I need that you are not able to give me, I am quite certain.”
That cool smile tempted him, challenged him.
This intrigued him. “I am the Earl of Carrington.”
Her expression turned exasperated. “Therefore?”
“There is nothing I cannot procure for you.”
She laughed, and it warmed somewhere deep inside him he hadn’t realized was chilled.
“You are arrogant.”
That response was not sufficient for him. “A coveted estate?”
She frowned. “What?”
“What is it you need—an estate, rare jewels, a new carriage? I am very curious.”
There was an odd flicker in her eyes, then she considered him with unnerving calm. “None of those things, my lord. I have thousands of pounds, so I can readily purchase these things.”
If her yearnings were not in the materialistic vein, what were they? “Love?” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Is that what you hunger for?”
She flinched, very subtly, and if he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he would have missed it. His heart trembled in his chest, and he frowned at the odd arrow of sensation that darted through him, only to quickly disappear.
“Is that want you want?” His voice sounded rough, foreign to his ears.
The gentle sea wind ruffled their hair.
“Do you have it to give?”
She seemed braced for his response, and he recalled their wedding night when she had asked if he had affection for her. His “no” had been clipped and angry. The look of pain and rejection in her eyes had been unbearable to see, and he had walked away, shutting off his emotions and the guilt and rage that came with the entire sordid affair. Strange how he hadn’t realized how hollow his feelings had been for years. It was as if he did nothing with his emotions, only followed a sense of honor and duty.
Love was never a part of the deal or even an expectation for Sylvester. Even if he had not caved in to blackmail and had waited to take a wife of his own choice, he would have married because of his duty and obligations to his title. Certainly, he desired respect and a modicum of affection. But love? How did he even define and quantify the emotion?
Her eyes were more curious than anything else as they gazed at him, and he searched them intently, at a loss as to what he was seeking in her golden depths. Knowing what he fought against, a distraction hovered on his lips. Instead, he found himself responding with honesty. “I find the notion of romantic love vague and farfetched. What do you suppose it is?”
She made a choking sound. “You do not know what love is?”
“I have the deepest affection for my sister and mother. I want to care for them, protect them, and know they are contented with their lot in life. The few people I’ve heard sing rhapsodies about their paramours were almost violent in their declarations. I must say the emotions differ at a fundamental level at best.”
“I daresay familial love and romantic love hold the same ingredients. The latter may, perhaps, have a bit more spice and sweetness.”
“Do you speak from experience?” he asked, recalling her wish to be with Redgrave. The sting of jealousy bit along his skin, and he pushed back the emotion.
His wife was peering up at him as if she found him fascinating. “I thought I did once.”
“With the viscount?”
Her eyes widened. “Of course not.” She licked her lips, a seemingly nervous gesture, and Sylvester found himself staring at her ripe, tempting mouth.
He shifted, suddenly uncomfortably with the direction of his desires. Though he had promised to kiss and tempt her at each opportunity, he did not want her to believe that was all their weeks together would be about. He frowned. What was it all about? The only desire that had pushed him to even think about his countess was an heir. But now…
He glanced down at her to see that she hadn’t moved her regard.
“What do you truly want from life?” He couldn’t credit that it would be scandal and ruin and divorce. There had been a time when she wanted something else, something from their marriage.
“I want to feel.”
Her soft response felt like a punch in his gut. How many days had he, too, wondered if life was only about duty and going through the motions? Weariness stole over him. Strange, he hadn’t truly accepted that he was lonely or that he needed something more from life. Not when he was so committed with other honorable men to making England better. He leaned back in the chair and grunted as pain lanced through his shoulders.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
Her gaze narrowed. “It is the wound on your shoulder. It has not healed.”
She pushed from him, her knees digging perilously close to his cock. At her encouragement, he sat up and removed his waistcoat and shirt.
Daphne inhaled sharply. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“My valet and I do a good job.”
“Not good enough,” she muttered. “It is red and swollen. I need bandages or clean linens, and needle and thread.”
A few minutes later, her maid delivered the required material, and she probed at his shoulder. Pain darted under his skin, and he tensed. He grinned as he swore he heard her mutter that he deserved it.
“I do not believe it to be infected.”
He grunted softly, thinking he would happily endure several more wounds to have her hands on his body forever. Stoically bearing the pain, he made no comment when she imperiously asked for the rum and poured it liberally across his injury. A hiss escaped him at the raw sting. His wife soaked the thread in the rum and made what felt like the finest of stiches into his skin.
He wondered if she realized she paused at intervals to rub soothing circles on his shoulder while muttering soft, crooning words. Sylvester couldn’t help smiling. She fascinated him. Undoubtedly fierce, evident in the way she declared what she desired, yet so achingly sweet and soft. Her tender touches left him painfully hard. His feelings for his countess were much more complex than he’d realized.
“There, all done.”
Reaching up, he gently caught her wrist in his fingers and guided her until she stood before his splayed legs. “Thank you.”
Her lips curved into a sweetly sensual smile, and dark lashes shielded the expression in her eyes. “I couldn’t very well let you die on me, now could I?”
The blast of pleasure at her teasing rocked him. And he had the visceral awareness he wanted his wife more than he’d wanted any woman or anything else in his life.
Chapter Nine
It was, of course, impossible to sleep, or even pretend it.
Daphne was curled onto her side on the small bed in the otherwise spacious cabin with her husband lying motionless behind her. She was maddeningly conscious of his body next to hers. They had spent another hour or so on the deck, and she would allow she’d never had a more wonderful
time. Sometimes they were silent and simply watched the stars, other times they talked, about anything and everything. It had seemed frighteningly normal. That this is what their marriage could be like had been a resounding thought. The laughter, the friendship as they drank and shared the things they cared about. And the sweet tension that had filled her with every heated stare from her husband, every brush of his breath against her nape, and the gradual hardness that had formed beneath her buttocks, which they had elected to ignore.
She’d had no idea what their days together would be like. So far nothing had gone as she’d expected. Somehow, when they’d retired she had thought they would occupy separate cabins. The vessel had certainly seemed large enough. As it was, Daphne dismissed Letty to another cabin when her husband had entered hers dressed in only black trousers and bare feet. The earl’s state of undress had disconcerted Daphne. Her lady’s maid had squeaked her mortification and hurried from the cabin, her eyes downcast. The wretched man had chuckled, amusement dancing in his green eyes.
With toiletries completed, she had slipped between the sheets on the small bed. He had joined her, and Daphne was certain an hour had passed, and she was still unable to sleep. She was simply too aware of the man behind her. Unwilling to examine her feelings closely, Daphne found herself oddly restless. She shifted, and he swore under his breath. Her eyes widened.
She wriggled again, and he said some choice words, ones that were decidedly unfit for a lady to hear. She fought a smile and lost. It bemused her that she was grinning widely.
If only she could tempt and torment him for six years.
“Merciful Christ,” he muttered, sounding thoroughly aggrieved. “Please, be still, my wife.”
My wife. She tried, truly she did, but a full minute passed before she kicked the cotton sheets from her leg, feeling unbearably warm. Her body felt incredibly alive, every sense somehow keener. “Are you sleeping?”
He grunted. She sighed. There was an awful frustration tugging at her insides without an ounce of mercy.
“Take what you need,” he said softly.
