by Stacy Reid
Sylvester faced him, propping his shoulder against the window. “It has been a while, Julian, it is good to see you.”
There was a pulse of silence.
“Are you ignoring my question, then?”
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “My countess wants me to petition for a divorce.”
“You jest in poor taste!”
“I do not.”
“On what grounds?”
My lack of trust and faith in her…my lack of sentiments. “Our marriage…” Sylvester cleared his throat, almost ashamed to confess how much he had blundered everything. “Our union has not been a happy one. Her father blackmailed me into marrying her, and for years I have ignored the delight of her because of it, Julian. I did not trust that she could have wanted me simply for the man I am. Now I know better, but I have still made a muck of it all. And my countess has left.”
“She is your wife, for God’s sake, she cannot just leave you.” The marquess lowered himself onto the sofa by the fireplace. “You never told me you had been blackmailed,” he said with a frown. “I wouldn’t have betrayed your confidence.”
“I was ashamed that I had not been able to protect my family better, and I was angry that another would trample on my choices so easily and without remorse. And while I resented her part in the sordid affair, I wanted no other to do so.”
The marquess appeared dazed. “I would never have thought it of her. I quite admire your countess.”
“And you have been right in your esteem, her heart is kind and lovely. She had no notion of her father’s schemes.”
“Thank Christ. Then why in God’s name has she left you?”
“Because she has lived long enough without love and trust.”
Julian remained unusually silent for a period. Finally, he said, “And you do not love or trust her?”
An unknown sensation assailed Sylvester, very much the same feelings as when his countess had asked the same question. And he felt similarly bereft. Do I love her? “I crave to always see that gleam of pleasure in her brown orbs. She has the finest eyes I have ever seen,” he said softly. “She laughs with her eyes first, and then her lips, and a smile from her makes my damn heart tumble in my chest.”
He loved that though they hadn’t consummated their marriage as yet, he knew with his entire soul nothing would equal the bliss of being with her so intimately. “I cannot say for sure the moment my countess irrevocably captured my heart. Perhaps it was when I fell into the lake and she laughed so unfettered. Or it could have been when we were kidnapped, and she had the courage to fight for our lives.”
“Good God, you were kidnapped?”
“Or it could have been the first time she smiled at me…or maybe it was that night on the yacht.”
He was irrefutable in love with his countess.
Julian looked at him as if it were the first time he was seeing the man before him. “Why in God’s name aren’t you chasing her?”
What would he say to her? That he hadn’t held her accountable for her father’s despicable actions but had been so invested in restoring honor to England, he had not made time for her. Truly, if death had not knocked at his doors so insistently, would he have ever pulled his head from his arse and seen the wife in front of him?
He hadn’t been any sort of husband to her, had he? He hadn’t worked to create an environment where they could disagree and then resolve their conflicts like people invested in their marriage. Regret burned though Sylvester. They would have more arguments. His countess was too decided with her opinions, too bold and adventurous to expect anything less. Would she always flee at the first sign of discontent between them? Could he trust that she wanted their marriage with the same desperation he had been feeling for the past few weeks?
Trust. He was a damn fool. How could he even think to demand trust from her when he had displayed a lack of faith in her honor. She’d had the letters and had not used them to try and blackmail him into granting her a divorce. She hadn’t read them, he had seen the pained honesty in her eyes. He hadn’t trusted her enough to confide the particulars of the blackmail.
A hollowness formed in his gut. Do I truly not trust my wife?
When he’d received the note from her brother, he had simply burned it, recognizing the viscount had no true knowledge of Hetty’s secret. For several moments Sylvester had wondered if Daphne knew of her brother’s demands. Though he had dismissed the notion, a disquiet lingered in his gut.
“I need a drink,” he murmured.
They made their way from the drawing room in silence, and Sylvester did not comment on the sidelong glances from his friend. They entered the library, and he went over to the mantle, grabbed the tumbler, and poured whiskey into two glasses. He handed one to Julian, and then Sylvester downed his drink in one swallow.
“I will have to cut our meeting short, my friend. I need to find my wife.” He needed to be honest with her about the hopes in his heart and the emotions she stirred there. How his declarations would be received, he had no notion, but he must say something.
A knock sounded, he bid entry, and the butler opened the door.
“A note for you, my lord,” he said, walking over.
Sylvester plucked it from the slaver, frowning at the unfamiliar seal. The butler departed, and, using an opener, Sylvester pried open the seal and unfolded the letter.
Carrington,
A few years ago, Blagrove approached me for your secrets. I gave them over, and after learning the harm that has befallen your sister since, I deeply regret it. I, too, possess three sisters whom I would do anything to protect, and it is unforgivable I took part in the pain dealt to yours.
As it were, I recently arranged a clandestine meeting, which if discovered will be the scandal of the season and the ruination of your marriage. I’ve discussed it with my wife, and she agrees with this note I’ve sent you. If you would travel to 87 Audley Street, you will find something very precious to you, I believe. Be gentle with her. When our hearts are wounded we tend to act rashly.
Rhys Tremayne
The man known as the broker was now Viscount Montrose. Years ago, Sylvester had hated him for his part in his sister’s heartache, then he had realized Lord Blagrove could perhaps have unearthed the information by other means if the broker had refused him. When Sylvester had gone to find Alexandria in Cornwall, it had been remarkably easy to uncover the steps his sister had taken to hide her indiscretion. Still, he had spent months trying to uncover the identity of the broker, to no avail. It had only been in recent years past that he had discovered who the broker was and had been shocked to learn he was someone Sylvester socialized with at the gaming hall Asylum. Tremayne had been a man he respected, even if he had not thought him a friend.
As a token of his regret, the man had offered him secrets on the vile earl who had ruined his sister. But Sylvester had declined. He’d had the means to break Danbridge years before but had found out the man had a wife and three children. To ruin the earl would have been to ruin his family, so Sylvester had settled the matter with a bout at Gentleman Jackson’s. He had beaten Danbridge with a precise callousness that had left many men in awe of Sylvester, and the earl, shamed, bloodied, and broken, had hidden his face from society for months. Many had understood that a lesson was being taught, that vengeance or perhaps justice was being exacted, but they hadn’t known the why of it. Only Lord Hartington, whom his sister had found the courage to confide in, had understood.
Now it seemed Tremayne was offering another token. Sylvester did not appreciate vague messages. Something precious. That precious something must refer to his wife. Frowning, he read the note again, carefully noting the section about a clandestine meeting. Sylvester’s heart froze in his chest as the implication sank in. A clandestine meeting…scandal and ruination of their marriage. For precious moments he could hardly breathe. Piercing emotions tore through him with the power of the fiercest storm, and at its center was a raw, terrible pain.
&n
bsp; It bit into his skin like a poison-tipped dagger.
It did not require any great degree of intuition for Sylvester to know his wife must be heartbreakingly unhappy to resort to such a drastic tactic. And he was undoubtedly the cause. Self-loathing ripped through Sylvester’s gut. He had driven her to this. Though the evidence was before his eyes, he still could not reconcile that his wife would act with such dishonor. Except…she wanted to be free. He slapped a hand to his chest, refusing to think tormenting thoughts of her in another’s arms, or Daphne trading her honor. The decision would haunt her forever, for the woman who had been revealed to him these past weeks was one of thoughtful manners, sensibilities, and honor.
But if this is what she truly needed, no matter how it killed all the hopes that had brewed in his soul for her, he would have to let her go. A separation and, despite the scandal of it, eventually a divorce. His honor had always been a guiding beacon in how he conducted himself, and if his wife wanted her freedom enough to take a lover, he should let her go, immediately.
The denial that roared through him was so fierce his hands trembled. Dropping the note on his desk, he stumbled over to the sideboard and poured himself a generous splash of brandy and downed it in one swallow. Then he poured another.
“I take it you’ve received unwelcome news?” Julian asked.
Sylvester scrubbed a hand over his face. She may forever hate him for it, but how could he let her go when he knew he had fallen so deep into his wife that a future without her smile, her kisses, was impossible to envision? He hadn’t hoped for love or intimacy and affection in his marriage, but he believed it now to be possible, and the fact that his countess did not, that meant he had failed her. He rubbed at the sudden ache in his chest.
The idea of never seeing or speaking to her again was too much to even contemplate loosely, nor did he appreciate the terrible feeling that filled him at the mere thought.
“What are you going to do?”
“I will grant her the freedom she seeks. I will petition the courts for a separation and then a divorce.”
Julian choked on his brandy as he absorbed the implication of Sylvester’s statement. There was a long pause while Julian evidently tried to assimilate everything. “The scandal—”
“I truly do not give a damn about the scandal. I need to give her what she needs in the least stressful way as possible. I was never content these past six years. I only had duty when I was empty and wandering. I will be devastatingly incomplete without her.”
It was difficult to confront the brutal truth because the thought of living without his wife for the rest of his life shook him to his core.
But if he loved her, he had to offer her what her heart yearned for.
The wounds in her eyes had been profound, and while it destroyed something inside of him to think it, if he loved her, respected her dreams and opinions, he had to let her go.
Chapter Fifteen
Daphne had made a very dreadful and infinitely stupid mistake. That was all she could think as she moved through the empty townhouse on Audley Street. There was no one in sight, but the place had evidently been prepared in anticipation of her arrival. She smelled the lemon wax on the air, the fresh scent of gardenias. The fireplace was lit in several rooms she had entered so far, even in the small drawing room, and a glass of wine with edibles was there.
The timepiece on the mantle shelf chimed the hour, and she glanced at it to see it was nine in the evening. Her nerves had quite deserted her as she prowled through the silent townhouse. There was a hollow ache in her heart, and tears of defeat trailed down her cheeks. She could not take a lover. The very idea of allowing another to touch her, when she had vowed before God to honor and love her earl, left a vile taste in her mouth. Sylvester roused her anger, could injure her so easily, and while she wanted to run away from the painful despair of the past, to be intimate with another now would be wounding her own heart and her honor.
She wept at the feeling of helplessness weaving through her. Taking a lover would guarantee her freedom, yet she could not bring herself to act on her plan. But if she would not take steps to create the scandal that would force his hands, what was she to do?
It is too late for us.
How passionate she had been in her fury and denial.
Nothing is ever too late.
What if he was right? What if there was a chance to forge a new path for them? And perhaps in time, they would have affection and respect, which was more than she had ever thought their marriage capable of having. He did seem so different, less cold and austere, less remorseless. What had really changed?
The killer’s blade sinking close to my heart reminded me most powerfully that I am without an heir.
Was that all? Though she did acknowledge a brush with death was a very powerful motivator in reassessing one’s life. Daphne’s breath hitched, and her fingers fluttered to her throat and then traveled down to rest against her womb. What do I want?
The full truth of it was she had never felt desire for any other save Sylvester. She was badly shaken by the unwelcome discovery of how she craved him. The knowledge was alarming, terrifying. These last weeks she had tried to deny its existence, to no avail. For so long she had been unable to bear the emptiness she felt at being trapped in a marriage that only offered a title. But the last few weeks had been more than she had even hoped for in her fevered dreams.
Could he come to love her over time? Why did she feel so hollow at that assessment? Because I want more… I want him to love me beyond duty and honor. I want him to forgive me for being so foolish.
She pressed a hand against her aching heart.
A discordant sound rode the air, and she glanced nervously out the window. The drapes were drawn, and she saw no one on the streets. Either way, it was time to leave. Daphne was irritated with herself. She had allowed Georgiana to provide a carriage that would collect her in a few hours. She had no way home and would have to walk down the street without a maid or footman, then hail a hackney. That option was dangerous, but to stay and face a stranger that was bent on seduction was even more ludicrous.
It could not be helped. Taking a steady breath, she made to leave the drawing room when the door opened and a dark figure framed the threshold.
Of all the thoroughly rotten luck. “Forgive me, I was leaving,” she said briskly.
“Were you?” the man said, his voice low and deep.
She blinked. Surely it was her imagination that his voice was filled with familiar menace.
“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “I made an error in judgment.”
Daphne patted the dark red wig she had donned and the facemask, ensuring they were in place. She had taken all necessary precautions to protect her identity, but she still felt vulnerable and silly. How could she have thought to place herself at the mercy of a stranger in an empty townhouse? Even though Georgiana had reassured her such encounters were normal and safe, Daphne was decidedly flustered. The breadth of his shoulders outlined in the shadows and his size were intimidating. “If you will excuse me.”
He did not move, and her stomach tightened. “I would hate to inform my husband that you, sir, waylaid me. He is most formidable and will not take lightly to anyone causing me distress.” If necessary, she would reveal Carrington was her husband and damn the possible scandal. Though she understood the gentlemen in these situations also desired anonymity, her husband’s name would surely put the fright into anyone bent on forced seduction.
A slight whisper of movement betrayed his surprise. “Your husband?”
“Most assuredly.”
There was an alarming pulse of silence, and then the man said, “Why are you here, Countess?”
Shock shuddered through her and Daphne almost fainted. “Sylvester?” she asked hoarsely. The man standing in the shadows was her husband. Suddenly his unique male scent filled her nostrils. A bewildering mix of relief and panic almost stole her senses. How had he found out? Dear God, would he believe that
she had changed her mind? Do I want him to believe it?
He moved farther into the room, strolling with such predatory grace toward the fire. Her gaze drank him in. Sylvester was dressed quite elegantly in stark black. The picture he presented one of extreme elegance and danger. The only color seemed to be his beautiful eyes, which burned with a warning she feared she understood.
“Yes, wife?”
“I will allow that on first reflection, my actions seem reckless and scandalous.”
His lips shifted upward so slightly. “I sense a but—”
“But I was quite out of sorts earlier, and I own I was not thinking through my emotions. You needn’t upset yourself about it.”
“Over what, Countess?”
She stepped toward him, then faltered when she caught a glimpse of his expression—his eyes were shards of ice, his austere cheekbones seemed more sharply drawn, his lips were curved with almost cruel intent. Oh dear.
Daphne ran. She hardly knew why, but she gathered her dress by the side and dashed through the door and down the hallway. She glanced back and gasped when she realized her husband ran behind her, but with considerably more grace and ease than what she was doing. Daphne veered left and bounded up the stairs, swearing under her breath at that foolish decision, except it was too late now. She should have made for the entrance and down the cobbled street. He would be less inclined to throttle her then.
She reached the landing, panting, and dashed down the hallway, pausing in front of the first door, and turned the knob. Her heart sank. It was locked. She rushed to the next door. It too refused to budge, but she found success on the third. She wrenched it open, almost stumbling into the room so great was her haste. It was a bedchamber, and right in the middle sat a large, canopied bed with green layers of heavy curtains around it. The fire that had been left burning cast the room in a warm glow. She attempted to slam the door, but her husband’s arm prevented its closing. She backed away, breathing heavily, thoroughly irritated he wasn’t even winded.
His expression was one of stupefied amazement.
