by Reid, Stacy
A low chuckle echoed in the dark, and the sensation winding its way through her felt terrible. “Sylvester?”
He pushed from the wall and made his way around the room, turning up the wick of the single oil lamp, bathing the room in a light and deceiving warmth. He was dressed only in black pants…and his chest was bared. She had never seen her husband in such a state of undress before. The play of muscles across his chest and shoulder had a strange, darting heat pooling low in her stomach. The man was so devilishly handsome that even after six years of marriage he could still steal her breath. It was then she noted his shirt, waistcoat, and cravat were carelessly strewn on the carpeted floor.
Over the years, self-preservation had taught her to deny the assault on her senses he was capable of. Now she dug deep for that same resilience and kept her gaze firmly away from his naked chest and up to his face. Therein lay another challenge, for his eyes bespoke a tangle of emotions she dared to hope were not directed at her.
Why was he undressed? Her gaze flicked around the room and encountered no lurking shadows.
Ask him now—when will I ever get the chance? She closed her eyes briefly. How best to say it? Sylvester, I require a divorce or an annulment. If you mean to procure one, please get on with it.
Years ago, she had thought her earl had consummated the marriage. She had been that naive and stupid. When her Aunt Agatha had queried, Daphne had blushed and stammered a yes. It wasn’t until years later that she understood they hadn’t, and she had hoped there would be a case for annulment, which would prove to be less expensive and time consuming than a divorce. Mr. Knightly had regretfully informed her that to bring a suit of annulment, they would have to prove fraud, incompetence, or impotence. Except she didn’t believe any man within society would ever admit to not consummating their marriage for six years. She could say her earl was impotent, but the ecclesiastical court would require proof, and a man not liking his wife enough to bed her was vastly different. For irrefutable proof, Mr. Knightly had told her, the court might go as far as to procure courtesans for her husband to see if they could rouse a reaction. Daphne had thought it all so absurd.
Sylvester moved closer, a hard, graceful shift of muscle, a ripple of danger. Daphne took a deep, calming breath. She only needed to shore up her courage. Cautiously, she edged around the small walnut table by the sofa, moved to the sideboard, and poured brandy into two glasses. He took the proffered glass, his expression inscrutable. She endured his disquieting scrutiny with what she ardently prayed was a small, curious, and very unconcerned smile.
“I’m glad you are home, my lord. We do need to speak on an urgent and delicate matter.”
“Do we?” He lifted the glass to his lips, those hawkish eyes never leaving her face.
“Yes.” She wetted her lips, hating the tension winding through her. “We have been married for six years now.”
“I am aware of the exact passage of time,” he said dryly, his eyes disturbingly direct and almost predatory.
“You are not making this easy, my lord.”
“And what is this exactly, kitten?”
She flushed at the sobriquet. “We must discuss the state of our marriage as adults and without recrimination.”
Her response filled the library with another layer of tension.
“Ah, we are of like mind then. Our state of marriage is one of the more pressing reasons I hastened to England’s shores.”
Something had changed…something was different. But what, she couldn’t identify. Uncertainty rippled through her. “I am relieved, my lord.” She cleared her throat delicately. “If you would start first?”
It was prudent to allow him to state he wanted the separation. Daphne only hoped he would do so without mentioning his mistress. Unaccountably, she knew to hear her husband speak of a desire to be with another woman would irrevocably wound her and recall to her thoughts all the hopes she’d had in relation to their union. She moved closer to the fireplace, finding security in its warmth. She had grown cold, distressingly so, and Daphne prayed that before the night was out, she could retreat from this unexpected encounter with her pride and heart intact.
Chapter Four
Sylvester turned from his wife, fearing she would see the rage living and breathing inside of him. She wanted to discuss the state of their marriage, did she? How sweetly innocent and appealing she appeared when only a few short hours ago she had been in a darkened alcove with another man, betraying and dishonoring her vows.
As I’ve done with my indifference, instead of cherishing.
“Upon my word, what are these? You are bleeding!”
He had forgotten about the scars on his back and the most recent wound, which had faded into a dull throb. There were rustles of movement, and then his wife’s delicate fingers traced his scars. Her touch was a rush of sensation washing over his flesh. They froze, and he felt the tremor that traveled through her and vibrated against his skin. They did not touch each other, not even in the most passing, casual gesture. It seemed tonight was full of revelations, for he did not feel revulsion but a flare of need so powerful it almost drove him to his knees. “Attempts to murder me.”
“Dear God, I thought…I thought they were rumors.”
How he wished they were. There were many forces within society that wanted Wilberforce, and the few good men he had with him arguing for the full abolition of slavery, to be silenced. Three times disastrous accidents had befallen Sylvester, and he would be a fool to discount the implications.
One of his investigations had revealed the East India Company had a vested interest in seeing them fail in abolishing slavery throughout the British Empire. While the slave trade itself had been outlawed some years ago, those who had been in chains remained so, and many of his fellow lords, and even a few men he had once called friends, continued to grow their wealth on the sufferings of others. The trade to America continued unchecked. And most of society was indifferent. Many believed England’s woes were too many to look to solve issues elsewhere. Sylvester could not agree, and his conscience and honor would not allow him to look the other way, even when it had revealed his life was at risk.
“This looks recent,” she said, touching the ragged edge of the wound under his rib cage.
“Several weeks ago, on the island of Jamaica.”
A harsh breath sawed from her. It warmed him to know that she cared. Strange, that. Sylvester never thought her affection was something he would ever crave.
“You were in Jamaica?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
He frowned at the undercurrent of hurt in her voice.
“Is your injury the reason you have returned?”
It struck him that they were having some sort of conversation. He frowned. Had they ever exchanged more than mild pleasantries with remarks on the weather or some social event? Even when they dined, the silence had been chilling and only broken with a few valiant attempts at discourse from her. Christ. The shattering awareness that he had been married to the woman behind him for years and had never truly conversed with her since their marriage was shocking.
“Partly. As I mentioned, I, too, have given thoughts to the state of our marriage. The threat of death has a curious manner of putting things into perspective.”
The slightest of hesitation. “May I inquire about your perspective, my lord?”
There was a puzzling mix of anxiety and hope in her tone. It then occurred to him his countess had a hope as to his return. “The killer’s blade sinking close to my heart reminded me most powerfully that I am without an heir.” One of his cousins would possibly do, but all the work and investment he had undertaken over the years to grow his holdings had been for his future children.
Her fingers snatched back as if she had been burned. He turned and faced Daphne’s stunned expression.
“You desire an heir?” It was just a whisper, barely that.
“Yes.”
The corner of his lips lifted at the
sheer shock she displayed. His countess stumbled from him as if foxed. She held his gaze, her eyes huge and heart-stoppingly vulnerable. A facade, he assumed, as she had the heart of a mercenary. Yet she seemed different. Irritatingly, his eyes dropped to her mouth, as if they were controlled by some unseen force. Her lips were still pink and wide and sweetly curved and perfect. An intense jolt of lust hardened his length with such swiftness that Sylvester was left light-headed.
God’s blood.
Now was not the time to fall under the wiles he had prevented himself from succumbing to for so long. Not until their marriage was far more agreeable. Yet there was a dark, turbulent need in him to ravish his wife so thoroughly and so completely that she would never hunger for another man. Sylvester had never owned to a possessive nature, so his reaction was unwelcome.
He went and sat on the edge of his desk, sprawling his legs outward. He folded his arms, considering her.
What was changed?
She’d gotten new earbobs—rubies winked from her ears. Her beauty had only increased. No longer was she in possession of soft rounded cheeks, but elegantly slanted cheekbones. It suddenly felt as if he hadn’t truly looked at her in years. She canted her head, raising an eyebrow at this obvious scrutiny. It was her eyes. They no longer shone with laughter, unending questions, or that hint of uncertainty. They were jaded. The awareness sat heavy in his heart, and he frowned.
“You want an heir…and what about what I want?” she demanded, fury flashing in her eyes.
How curious. “I thought you wanted the title Lady Carrington…you got it, and all the trappings that came with it,” he drawled, a cold anger snapping through him before he controlled the emotion. “One might say that it is your duty to the title to produce an heir, and a spare or two. I’d not thought I would need to explain what being a lady to an earl would eventually entail.”
She looked stricken. “What my father did was inexcusable. I never wanted a title, my lord. I met you quite by accident, if you recall. I admired you.”
“And your admiration ensured your father netted me at whatever cost. I dare say I neglected to warn the young bucks of the season—it is not only the ambitious maters they need to worry about. The fathers are even more ruthless.”
Her chin lifted a notch and there was a perplexing shine in her eyes. He swallowed his drink, setting down the glass with a decisive clink.
She rubbed her temples. “Do you expect me to simply fall in line with your ludicrous plan?”
“Most assuredly.”
A mutinous expression tightened her expressive face. “You are very much mistaken in the matter if you believe I will be so easily persuaded.”
He did not want an argument. Sylvester had hoped they would be able to converse with civility, but the awareness of her infidelity was creating havoc with his good intentions. “You mistake me, Countess. You are my wife. I have no need for gentle persuasion. I command, and you will obey.”
…
Daphne stared at her husband with ill-concealed shock. She watched him with a terrible fascination, unable to take her eyes off his expression of ruthless purpose. The unflappable and serene mien she’d wanted to maintain around him was most certainly shattered. He wanted an heir…when she had decided to take the bold, scandalous, and almost impossible steps of obtaining a divorce.
Oh God.
Her every expectation had been torn from her. Did he not have a mistress, then? Worse…I command, and you will obey. That was the one thing she didn’t think she could bear. An overwhelming ache throbbed behind her eyes.
“Tell me, Countess, how was your evening at Lady Cantrell’s ball?”
His voice was so low she wasn’t certain she’d heard correctly. Lady Cantrell? The shift in conversation disconcerted her, but she grappled for it like a lifeline. She took a steady breath, and it was then she observed the lethal stillness to his lean, powerful body, an unfathomable watchfulness in his eyes. “The ball was unmemorable.”
The slightest smile curved his lips, but it did not reach his eyes. Those glittering emeralds remained undeniably disturbing.
“I’ve never seen you so beautiful.”
Something in his intonation rattled her. In all the years they had been together, he had never commented on her appearance. His gaze traced the swell of her bosom, encircled her waist, then went back up to her face. It was imperative she retreat and gather her scattered wits.
“I… Thank you, my lord. I am a trifle tired, and I believe I will retire. This discussion of an heir—surely we can talk about this at a more decent hour.”
Sylvester studied her intently. “I will attend you in my chambers shortly.”
His chambers. She stood motionless for several seconds. Daphne swallowed the contents of the glass, uncaring what she drank but needing to fortify her nerves and hating that her hand trembled.
“No.” Though her denial was whispered, the implication of it was distressingly loud. I command, and you will obey. The law of man and God said Sylvester was her lord and master. She had no right to deny anything that he could ever demand of her.
“No?” he asked with such terrible softness her mouth went dry.
She lifted her chin. “No.”
He leaned in close—uncomfortably close. “Are you denying your duties, wife?”
“I have never been your wife,” she snapped, gently resting the glass on the sideboard. “It is far too late to rectify the matter, and it does not signify that you now want me in your bedchamber.” She was afraid to give in to the emotions tearing through her, lest she throw the glass at his head. Daphne did not want to imagine what his reaction would be to such an unladylike display of anger. And wasn’t that the crux of her discontent? She knew nothing about the arrogant lord standing before her, so impervious to her distress.
“I wonder, is that the distinction you’ve used to dishonor my name?”
For one bleak, horrifying moment, she froze, and fear filled her heart. She spun on her heels and faced him, snapping her spine taut. A flare of rage burned in his gaze before he lowered his lid. Dear God, he knows. Her knees wobbled, and she forced herself to not wither under his probing regard. An emotion perilously close to terror held her heart in a brutal fist. She pressed a trembling hand to her stomach and lifted her chin. Yes. But she could not bring herself to say the words. She had no power in this exchange, and it pained her to acknowledge it. There were so many things he could do to her if he wished it. Her husband could see her banished, exiled, committed, for he was the austere, powerful, and unforgiving Earl of Carrington.
Daphne also couldn’t quell the tremor of guilt that shot through her. She staunchly reminded herself there was nothing for him to discover. She and Redgrave were not lovers. Thank heavens she had held onto her wits and not allowed the man any chance to compromise her reputation. The overly passionate kiss he had pressed upon her earlier had been startling, but at least he was a man who desired her, who made a notable effort to woo her. Before tonight, the viscount had always presented himself as amiable, and seemed genuine in his affections, and she would not feel guilty.
“I’ve never dishonored you,” she murmured with as much dignity as she could contrive.
“Are you not having an affair, Countess?” he asked, his voice smooth, inviting her to share a confidence. But his eyes betrayed him. They glittered with fierce emotions, and Daphne desperately wished to flee from the conversation unfolding. Nothing was going according to how she had planned. She tried to think of anything that would defuse the tension in this awful situation.
“Do you have a lover?”
The fear faded, and a scathing retort hovered on her lips. How dare he ask her that. For years he had abandoned her, and perhaps had dozens of lovers and mistresses in that time, and now he would dare question how she had slaked her loneliness? “No, I do not, nor am I having an affair.”
A lengthy, tension-filled silence stretched between them.
The earl shifted, and she flinched as he
held out a hand to her. He slowly lowered his hand. “Do you believe me capable of hurting you?”
“If you believed I dishonored you, yes,” she said.
“You are ignorant of the manner of man I am.”
“I believe that was your choice, my lord.”
With almost jerky movements she poured brandy into her glass and drank it down in one swallow. She coughed, the burn warming her far too much, but if there was ever a time she needed liquid courage, it was now. Even getting foxed was a desired outcome, for then the tearing emotions would be numbed. That was, if the reputed wonders of being foxed were true.
“I never knew you drank strong spirits.”
Her gaze dropped to the glass in her grasp. “There are depths to me you are quite unaware of, my lord,” she replied with some asperity. Just as I do not know you.
“Evidently.”
She offered him a small smile that felt too tight.
He prowled over to her until she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. She blinked when he took the glass and set it on his desk and then returned to her. He cupped her cheek with one of his palms.
“My lord?” Daphne stared at him, alarm coursing through her veins. He’d never held her with such intimacy before.
She was unnerved by the rather intense look in his eyes. Anger warred with fascination, and she shot a glare at her glass on the desk. Was she already tipsy? That could be the only excuse to even be slightly captivated. What was happening?
He dragged her up against him, one hand curving to the swell of her hips. Her skin prickled with a depth of awareness that shocked her into rigidity. He smoothed a thumb along the curve of her lower lip. She let out a gasp when he pulled her hair pins out and the weight of her tresses tumbled to her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” she asked shakily.
He made no reply. Instead, the wretched man pressed his mouth to hers. They stilled, and her lips trembled against his. He had never kissed her before. They stood like that for what felt like forever, and she slowly became aware that his heart was pounding beneath the palm she had placed on his chest in denial. Her eyes that had instinctively closed flew open.