The Earl in My Bed (Rebellious Desires)

by Reid, Stacy

  Oh yes, he had brought her to fulfillment twice before she had drifted off to sleep. “Oh dear.”

  His brow arched. “Not quite the response I was anticipating.”

  Daphne was suddenly very aware of his proximity. Instead of retreating, that dark wanton heart of hers stretched and purred at his evocative scent, making no effort to discipline the lascivious path she wanted to traverse. “Ah…were you by chance hoping to hear how much I enjoyed your wicked caresses? How last night I ached for you and how tempted I was to be a wanton and touch myself? Or perhaps you wanted my confession of how when you held me, I had to stuff the sheet between my teeth to resist the need to allow you to ride between my thighs?”

  Her earl cursed beneath his breath and dropped his finger as if he had been burned with the hottest of fires. Daphne enjoyed the manner in which she was upending his expectations of her. She faltered briefly at the fact that she yearned for him to know the true heart of her—the woman who loved ribald jokes, music in all its wonderful forms, and fishing—for she had quite admired the kind and honorable heart of the man she had discovered aboard the yacht, and every night since, as they had danced at balls and read together in the quiet of their library.

  His eyes held a gleam of amusement. “I am grudgingly impressed by your ability to deny yourself, my wife.”

  “I’m quite impressed with myself as well,” she teased.

  The admiration on his face caused a dangerous thrill to burst inside her heart. She quite liked her earl looking at her as if she were an unexpected delight. With a light laugh, she tugged him onward. He drew her closer as they circled a tree in their path. He never missed an opportunity to touch her. A short while later they burst through the dense woodland to the banks of a wide, expansive lake. The children surged to their feet when they spied her, the smiles of welcome dimming at the intruder. Their baskets showed that they had been fishing for some time with evident success. At her wave, they relaxed and ran to meet her.

  They stopped, and the young girls dipped into elegant curtsies. Pride burst inside her chest that they were taking so keenly to their social grace lessons.

  “Girls, may I present my husband, Lord Carrington.”

  Sylvester bowed. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintances, ladies.”

  Their little chests puffed with evident pride, since none were above twelve years of age.

  “My lord will be joining us for a spot of fishing today. And no frogs,” she warned sternly, at which Penny giggled, for she had been the hellion who had caught several frogs the week before and then released them during Latin lessons.

  Daphne released Sylvester’s arm and allowed the girls to tug her toward the bank. She glanced back at him and pointed at the punt bobbing on the placid surface of the lake. “We normally hop aboard and do our spot of fishing from there. The pond is filled with trout, and I have been teaching the children the art of fly-fishing. Then after we have contributed to supper, we retreat to the eastern lawn to play a rousing game of blind man’s bluff.”

  A few moments later, they were aboard the punt, the girls eager to show off their fishing skills to an earl.

  “Ah, my dear Lizzie, there is an art to fly-fishing. Allow me, my lady, to demonstrate.”

  Lizzie beamed at Sylvester, and Daphne’s breath hitched as she watched him flick his line up above him and out across the lake where the ripples indicated that fish had been surfacing to demonstrate to the girls. His voice hummed as he spoke with patience, teaching them the difference between fly-fishing and angling. The girls listened, enraptured, and a lump of emotion suddenly clogged Daphne’s throat. Then they began to discuss what flies they were using and which would be more suitable as the season progressed. He was clearly impressed by the homemade flies the girls had produced to use on the lake. Lizzie visibly brightened at being able to talk with a gentleman about her favorite pastimes. Her blond head bobbed with excitement and her eyes glowed with delight as she stared at Sylvester.

  The man so obviously wanted a family, children, and during this brief interlude in time, Daphne saw a slice of the type of father he would be—kind and caring, and simply wonderful. The girls bombarded him with questions on the species of fishes in the lake and how to differentiate them, and he didn’t seem to mind at all. He was patient…and he seemed to be enjoying himself, especially when the girls shrieked after he explained how they could also use grasshoppers and beetles as live bait.

  For some unfathomable reason, Penny started to pantomime how Daphne had taught them fishing, and Sylvester chuckled. Daphne’s lips parted in surprise when he ruffled Penny’s short dark hair that decorated her head like a mop cap.

  The sensations filling Daphne were more than physical. Could she truly deny him a chance at children and an agreeable marriage with her? She bit into her bottom lip until it stung. The very image of Sylvester attaining such happiness with another made her want to push him from the small boat. The ache for something more with this man had always been soul deep…but did he have more to ever give than an agreeable marriage?

  “My lady, let me show you what I have learned,” Sarah cried with uncommon eagerness. She was normally the most reticent of the three, but now her hazel eyes glowed. The other girls jumped in, competing to demonstrate how well they had absorbed the earl’s lesson.

  “Girls, you will have to go one at a time. Sarah, you may go first. But only angling—”

  Before Daphne could say “no fly-fishing technique,” Sarah’s line flew toward her head in too wide an arc. She frantically ducked out of the way, causing the boat to dip violently. With a muffled curse not fit for present company, Sylvester pitched over his end of the boat in a most undignified manner. Her earl broke through the surface spluttering, while Penny searched the waters frantically, laughing, then, with all their unladylike hearts, the girls jumped into the lake waters.

  “Oh, heaven grant me patience!” Daphne cried, laughing. She hurried to the banking just as Sylvester hauled himself from the water.

  His lips curved into a rueful smile. “Found that humorous, did you?”

  “I cannot help it, my earl, it was all too absurd.”

  “Lady Daphne, join us,” Penny cried, splashing water onto her, Sarah, and Lizzie.

  “Absolutely not, and you will remove—” She broke off on a gasp of outrage as her husband swung her into his arms and walked with purpose toward the waters. “Sylvester, you would not dare! I will—”

  The sound of his laughter made her absurdly breathless.

  “I won’t,” he murmured. “I simply wanted to feel you in my arms. I am beginning to know what happiness feels like.”

  An almost unbearable sweet ache arrowed through her heart.

  He glanced at her, and in his eyes there was a question. Perhaps he was wondering at her motionlessness, but Daphne could only stare at the man whose myriad facets of character were only being made known to her now. She very much admired what she saw.

  …

  Three weeks later, Sylvester strolled with his countess along the grassy knoll on the lawns of Vauxhall. The last several days had rushed by with alarming ease and good-natured fun. They’d gone on picnics alone and with a few of their sets, they’d visited the opera where his wife had wryly brought him up to speed with all the latest on-dit, they’d attended a few balls, he’d taken her rowing, and they’d visited Astley’s Amphitheater. His wife was clever and amusing, a lady of thoughtful manners, but she was also adventurous and bordered on scandalous with her wit and bold vivacity.

  Tonight, his countess had worn an emerald-green gown that flattered her curves in all the right places, and black pearls encircled her throat and shone at her ears. She personified grace, mystery, and beauty. He was incapable of diverting his attention from her. The only moments they were not in each other’s company were when his secretary and man of affairs brought daily reports on matters concerning the House of Lords and research on the best way forward to enact a bill to end slavery in all the Empire
.

  In fact, he felt he was in dereliction of duty, for his intensity had shifted and he had missed several meetings with Wilberforce and a couple with Sir Charles Abbot, the Lord Chief Justice. His inattentiveness to his work bothered him, since Sylvester wanted to ensure that he had solid arguments and support on his side when they next argued on the floor of the House. His report had to be prepared on the inhumane cruelty he had witnessed and worked hard to stop on the islands.

  At times, his countess had questioned his restlessness, especially when they were at balls or some society event. When he had expressed a need to be elsewhere, finding the frivolity of it all unimportant to what he could be doing, hurt had shadowed her eyes.

  Sylvester punished, more like tortured himself, every night by sleeping with his countess, craving her until he thought he would go mad from it. Since their visit to the orphanage she had been watching him with an aching wariness that had him proceeding with caution.

  It had startled him to acknowledge he wanted her uncompromising trust and friendship, and he knew he had to earn it. To convince her to give their marriage a chance was not easy. It meant giving up the dreams in her heart, the ones that had kept her warm and contented when he had been missing. He’d had to look inside and realize that he had let his hatred of her father distort how he viewed his countess. She was too sweet, too warm, too kind-hearted, too sensual to be lumped with that blackguard and his deplorable actions. In truth, Sylvester was still somewhat stunned by the realization that she was his wife.

  “I’ve always thought the gardens scandalous, and did not visit despite a few invitations from friends.”

  “And your opinion now?”

  “Oh, definitely scandalous, but also delightful. I like that the distinction of rank is not overtly observed here. There are just people being awed by the same sights and entertainments,” she said with a light laugh, tucking a wisp of hair that had escape its elegant chignon behind her ear.

  The place was an awful crush despite the vast size, and to Sylvester, it seemed everyone chose tonight to visit the pleasure gardens. She licked an ice, her lids fluttering in pleasure. The summer night was balmy, and the air was redolent with flowers, food, and the unpleasant smell of the Thames River. His countess was delighted with it all, and he, in turn, felt a quick dart of pleasure whenever she smiled or gasped, or gaped in appalled disbelief at some witnessed debauchery, of which they had seen quite a bit.

  A child ran laughing near the pathway on which they walked, stumbled, and fell to the ground. He grabbed his knee and wailed. Daphne rushed forward and stooped down to gather the boy into her arms. His countess crooned nonsense, uncaring that the child was dirty or that grass stains had ruined her dress. The little boy’s tears halted, and he peered up at her with wide eyes. She spoke, and he nodded, his lower lip trembling. Sylvester glanced about, searching for the child’s parents. The little boy could be no older than five years, far too young to be left unchaperoned in this crush.

  He returned his attention to his wife as she tenderly brushed a fingertip across the boy’s cheek. He nodded happily at whatever she said, slipping his grubby fingers through hers. Daphne stood and, instead of letting the boy walk, lifted him into her arms, anchoring him at her hip, uncaring that he dirtied her dress.

  She looked at him and pointed. The boy’s face scrunched into a frown, his lips moved, and his countess laughed, a rich, throaty sound that landed in Sylvester’s gut like a hot, pleasurable slide of whisky. How he wished he were close enough to hear what had elicited such a reaction. She presented a very appealing picture with the child in her arms, and there was a glow in her eyes he had never seen before. He considered the boy, his stomach twisting in an odd, tight knot. The notion of an heir had always been so intangible. He hadn’t taken the time to envision a child, one with his stubborn chin and her beautiful eyes. The idea of an heir had simply been impressed upon him since he was a child as a most critical part of his duty.

  With a certainty he could not shake, he knew Daphne would be a delightful mother. It was she who would soothe their aches and discomforts, wipe the blood from skinned knees, romp with them on the lake and lawns, and read to them. She wouldn’t relegate their children’s care to nursemaids and governesses. She would be a fierce protector of their children, a lioness, and she would also teach them kindness and love.

  He could imagine children, not one or two but perhaps three or four, running on the lawns, streams of ribbons behind them while Daphne gave chase. Then he saw himself cradling her rounded stomach, feeling the kick of their child beneath their palms. He’d never before wanted children simply as a desire, it had always been about duty and expectations, heirs and the blasted title. A different sort of yearning erupted through his heart. The sensations were unknown. He couldn’t define them, but they were entirely pleasant and appealing.

  A harried-looking lady burst forth from the crowd, screaming, “Oliver!”

  The child’s head twisted, searching for the caller. “Mamma!”

  Daphne set him down. The lady saw him, and the profound relief in her expression brought a lump to Sylvester’s throat. She ran to the boy and lifted him into her arms.

  The lady bobbed in a curtsy to Daphne, smiling her thanks, before turning away with her son. His countess strolled over to him, a secret smile playing on her lips, her elegant brow arched in question.

  No doubt he appeared as poleaxed as he felt. The shattering awareness that he was possibly falling in love with his wife rocked him on his heels. There could be no other explanation of the lust and tenderness, the urgent need to just hold her. Sylvester saw the possibility of a future he suddenly ached, quite desperately, to bring into existence, and only with her. A sliver of uncertainty burrowed under his skin and lodged itself. He had to consider that she would possibly hate him forever if he denied her the freedom she wished for. Perhaps she would need more than two months, perhaps she would need years to experience the life she longed for.

  Sylvester had not been honest when they struck his bargain, and the realization soured in his gut. There had been no plan to ever let her go, only to show her that they could indeed have an amiable marriage, one that he could see now only benefited him. He feared his countess was waiting for their bargain to expire so she could claim her freedom. That was evident from the single-minded way she resisted his advances. Oftentimes he caught her with a faraway look in her eyes, and he had wondered what she dreamed of—freedom or passion in his arms.

  His gut warned him it was freedom. And that he could not even contemplate. He would have to be more ruthless in his seduction efforts.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sylvester and his countess made their way through the crowd toward the queue of carriages. An amiable silence lingered, one he had no desire to shatter, and his countess seemed like-minded. They entered the carriage and settled back. Their carriage would take at least half an hour to cross the bridge and make its way to Piccadilly.

  She flashed him a slow, enchanting smile. “Tonight has been marvelous.”

  “Delightful,” he agreed.

  His gaze settled on her ripe, tempting mouth. There was a compelling need to kiss her, not because of the wonderful sensuality she glowed with, but because he needed to taste her. Perhaps then he would find a centering against the raw, unknown emotions twisting through him.

  Her eyes flared wide when he reached for her and tugged her onto his lap.

  “Sylvester, what—”

  He kissed her. He simply had to. The feel of her lips against his was warm, intimate, almost sweet. His wife made an incoherent sound of delight before she parted her lips for a deeper embrace, and he shamelessly pressed his advantage. He wanted her hot and wet and wanton for him…and he used her untapped passion against her, kissing her over and over before she could regain her wits. He savored her taste, her sweet whimpers, then he consumed and ravished, taking her lips with shocking carnality.

  And she responded with burning flames of sensuality. />
  They pulled apart, breathing rapidly. He whispered her name on a harsh breath. Her lips were swollen and glistening. She looked wildly desirable, and he wanted nothing more than to press her down on the squabs and make love to her. But he wouldn’t. Her first time would not be in a carriage.

  He lowered his forehead to hers, waiting for the feverish demands of his body to ebb. Slowly he lifted his hand to her face, letting his thumb trace her jaw and over her lips.

  “It seems lovely for a walk. Don’t you agree?” she murmured huskily, pressing a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.

  Their equipage rumbled through the fashionable quarters and the night seemed alive. He rapped the roof, and a delighted smile crossed her face as the carriage slowed. Sylvester exited and helped her down.

  “I feel like tonight is perfect to visit the Asylum. I believe Georgiana is there with her viscount. And I procured the most delightful mask in preparation for Lady Pembroke’s annual masquerade ball.”

  He glanced pointedly at her hair.

  “I do have wigs,” she murmured, her eyes alight with excitement. “We could hurry home and return within the hour.”

  This was another aspect of her character he liked—her spontaneity, so very different from the structured way he lived.

  “Carrington.”

  The rough demand of his name had him glancing away from his wife’s face. Sylvester faltered as three men approached, deliberately crowding his space.

  “Who’s asking?” he demanded flatly, though he had some notion as to what was happening. The dart of alarm that pierced his heart was unpleasant. Never had he thought anyone would dare approach while his countess was with him.

  “Sylvester, you know these…gentlemen?” Daphne queried softly, her fingers tightening on his elbow. She had sensed all was not as it should be, and a swift surge of admiration went through him at her calm demeanor.

  One of the rougher-looking men cracked his neck and fingers, clearly indicating they intended to be violent. Savagery slithered inside Sylvester, and he ruthlessly buried the desire.