“Sit, angel.” Spearing his hair, he shifted his weight. “You look unwell.”
“Must you have said that?” To her utter humiliation, her tempestuous belly rebelled again, and she covered her mouth. Retracing her earlier steps, she made it to the washstand with no time to spare, as she bent and vomited violently.
“Do not fight it, Daphne.” At her side, Dalton held her long locks out of the line of fire, as she heaved. “Poor little thing, you have nothing to fear, as I know what I am doing, and I would never cause you pain.”
“But that is the problem.” Mortified, she buried her face in a towel. “You know so much, and I know nothing. How am I to please you?”
“On that account, you need expend no effort.” Dalton chuckled and massaged her shoulders. When he skimmed her bare arms, she flinched and lurched.
“Stop.” Daphne scampered to the opposite end of the chamber, and the four-poster lay as a very real barrier between them. He veered left, and she darted right. “Dalton, please. This is ridiculous.”
“This is your game.” With his chin lowered, he grinned. “You wish me to pursue you, angel? Believe me, I am more than ready to give chase.”
“No.” Before she could utter another word, he dashed over the mattress, and she bolted into the sitting room and sheltered behind the chaise.
“I will catch you.” He bounded to the fore, and she scrambled toward the door, but he executed a brilliant flanking maneuver, which had her racing back to the interior apartment.
“Go away.” With the oak panels shut, she tried to set the bolt against her husband, but he shoved hard, and she stumbled. “Leave me alone.”
“Daphne, cease your nonsense, this instant.” Breathing heavily, he stared at her and shrugged from his lawn shirt, which he flung aside. “You are my wife, and I am no stranger, so I find your behavior perplexing. Did my sisters not prepare you?”
“Actually, they explained quite a bit.” As she glimpsed his incredible chest for the first time, her insides balled into knots, and her cheeks burned. “But I have no experience, and you have more than I wish to know.”
My dear Mrs. Randolph, would you prefer an uninformed clumsy dolt who might cause you untold discomfort or a seasoned man of the world possessed of the ability to play your body as a finely tuned instrument?”
“I am unsure.”
“You must be joking.”
“It would be nice to have someone with whom I could sympathize.”
“You think me insensitive to your needs?”
“You stalked me.”
“Point taken. But in my defense, it is our wedding night.”
“And you wish to consummate our vows.”
“Very much.”
She dreaded what he desired. How on earth could they reconcile their differences? Squared off, as two combatants on the field of glory, she zigged, he zagged, and she sought escape via the bed. But her one true knight dove over the footboard and snagged her ankle.
“Let go.” She kicked hard.
“Not a chance.” He squeezed her calf and blazed a trail to her thigh, with his naughty fingers. “Do not fight me, angel. I promise, you will enjoy it.”
But could she say the same for him?
As long as you live, you will never satisfy him as I satisfied him.
With that thought taunting her, she wiggled loose and toppled to the floor, whereupon she crawled to her vanity. When she jumped to her feet, with fists at her sides, Dalton mirrored her stance.
Given all her dreams and fantasies, which had culminated in a mystical joining that defied the temporal plane, Daphne peered at the patterned rug and sobbed. “This is not how I had envisioned this moment.”
“Believe me, that makes two of us.” Her husband exhaled in unmistakable frustration, and her already flagging confidence sank to new depths.
“Perhaps, we could talk.” Her mind raced in search of a solution. “If you would—”
“What would we discuss that had not been covered?” In a flash, he rushed her fences.
Locked in the throes of nervous agitation, she sought a diversion—and nothing more, as she seized upon her silver-backed brush. Before she realized she had moved, she flung the refined lady’s accouterment at Dalton. To her horror, the heavy utensil struck him in the forehead. With a countenance of unutterable shock, he dropped to the floor.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A wicked headache penetrated his sleep, suspending a rather ribald reverie featuring Daphne as the star participant, and Dalton groaned. Massaging his temples, he stretched long, came alert, and recalled his wedding. Then a series of images composed a visual tapestry that devolved in rapid succession from elegant to disastrous. Daphne gowned in sapphire. Daphne singing like a nightingale, as she played her lute. Daphne paralyzed with fear. Daphne vomiting in the basin. Daphne fleeing in fear. Daphne assaulting him with what he had considered nothing more than a harmless hairbrush.
“Bloody everlasting hell.” He opened his eyes and glanced at what should have been his wife’s side of the bed and found nothing but space and silence for company.
“Feeling better?” Dirk inquired in a low voice.
“Please, kill me.” When he tried to sit upright, the world spun out of control, and he sagged amid the pillows. “Where is Daphne?”
“Reinstalled in her guest quarters, as she was hysterical, when she ran for assistance.” Occupying a chair beside Dirk, Jason scratched his chin. “Dr. Meade prescribed an uninterrupted night, and Alex guards your lady.”
“Of course.” Dalton remembered her panicky pleas for forbearance and his stubborn refusal to heed the depth of her distress. “How is she?”
“Rebecca informed me that your bride dozed, at last, after the physician dispensed a healthy dose of laudanum, but she should be fine.” His elder brother scrutinized the shine of his boots. “Given we found you half-naked, unconscious, and bleeding on the floor, I take it you never consummated your vows.”
“What do you think?” Sunlight peeked through a separation in the closed drapes, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “But I ought to be horsewhipped for what I provoked here.”
In that instant, Trevor and Jason fumbled in their pockets and then passed a few pound notes to Dirk.
“I do not believe it.” Seething ire flourished, only to be quenched by steely humiliation, as Dalton propped on an elbow. “You wagered against me?”
“Because I know you too well, you are damn right I did.” With a grin, Dirk counted his winnings. “You could not wait to make feet for children’s stockings, before we departed London. As I am well aware you never put much store in delayed gratification, I even bested my lady spy. In fact, Becca swore you would rout Daphne’s privy-counsel prior to your nuptials, but I declared otherwise.”
“But how could predict my founder?” Narrowing his stare, Dalton mulled the possibilities, which made no sense. “Daphne is a stranger to you.”
“You forget those few days I passed in her company, as I audited the estate ledgers, while you moved the Siren to Portsmouth.” Dirk tossed Dalton’s lucky coin. “That wisp of a girl ran Portsea Island, and kept her household together, while her father gambled away their legacy, invested the larger portion of his monthly stipend in wenching, drowned his sorrows in a bottle, and took his own life rather than face the consequences of his actions, leaving her to pick up the pieces. Like my Becca, your Daphne is formidable, and she will do very well in our family. And although you possess a vast deal of knowledge of the fairer sex, when it comes to seduction, you know nothing of wives. Trust me, they are as different as ebony and ivory.”
“So you bet on her.” He ignored Trevor and Jason’s smirks.
Proud as punch, Dirk thrust his chin. “I did.”
“And how much did I add to your purse, with Rebecca’s ante?” he asked, as he ought to have collected half of Dirk’s stakes, in recompense for the nasty injury.
“Oh, I chanced something far more precious, with my agent prov
ocateur, and I aim to savor the payoff—tonight.” With a chuckle, Dirk folded his arms. “Now, may I dispense a bit of advice to smooth virgin waters, given you struck breakers on your initial attempt to dock in her harbor?”
“Am I ever going to hear the end of this?” Dalton rolled his eyes.
“Not if we can help it.” Trevor elbowed Jason in the ribs, and they burst into laughter. “Damn, but I wish Everett was here, as Daphne’s attack by affected arsenal has topped Sabrina’s leap from a moving coach, and I never thought that would happen.”
“I say, gives a whole new meaning to ‘having a brush.’” Jason tapped his cheek.
“Or ‘taking a flyer.’” Trevor pointed for emphasis.
“Ah, I have another.” Jason snapped his fingers. “What about ‘making a stitch?’ Or, in this case, several stitches.” With a sly smile, Jason nudged Trevor, and the two collapsed in another fit of mirth.
“I am so happy to provide you with comedic sport, brothers.” While he would rather go to his grave than admit Dirk was right, Dalton could not ignore his present circumstances. “Instead of mocking my shame, I would much prefer you offer sage counsel.”
“Might I suggest next time you duck?” Trevor replied and then snorted.
“Or I could loan you the helmet to the suit of armor that graces the foyer at Stratfield Manor.” Holding his belly, Jason snickered, and Dalton reclined and pulled the covers over his head, but even the thick bedclothes could not temper the blonde knight’s boisterous rumbles. “But you might frighten the poor girl. Wait—you already did that.”
Dalton braced for the forthcoming levity, and his fellow nautionniers had not disappointed him, as the room reverberated with their merriment. If only he could join in their amusement, yet his wife occupied his thoughts. What could he do now? How would he ever earn Daphne’s trust?
“Are you still with us?” Dirk drew back the counterpane and winked. “However late, I am glad you were not seriously injured. Dr. Meade assured me that you would recover, as long as you avoid physical exertion, for a fortnight, or so.”
“That should not be too difficult,” Jason quipped.
“Enough.” Dalton winced, as his temples throbbed. “I made a mess of my wedding night, and now I suffer some strange burning agony, which has taken residence deep in my chest, such as I have never known. Is that what you want to hear?”
To his relief, the chamber grew quiet as a tomb.
In the suddenly unwelcome solitude, he reminisced of his original strategy and sighed. Breakfast was to have been a singular triumph, after a night of heretofore-unrivaled passion. He had plotted, planned, and ordered a sumptuous repast, which he had aspired to partake of with Daphne nestled in his lap.
“Brother, how well we know your pain, as each of us stumbled on our way to the altar.” Leaning forward, Trevor wiped his face and grimaced. “We are none of us perfect.”
“Some of us fell flat on our face, even after the ceremony.” Jason whistled in monotone. “It took me months to gain ground with Alex, and I would spare you such extended torment, so I will share my secrets to success. Poetry. Alex collects my original compositions in a leather-bound journal, which she takes with her, whenever we travel. And she never fails to express her appreciation in the manner I favor most. Also, try your hand at floral arrangements. At Stratfield, I often raid the rose garden, to create custom offerings to my wife’s incomparable beauty, and Alex raves of my talents.”
“I am not so creative as Collingwood,” Trevor revealed, with a frown. “My advantage was born of seclusion. I took Caroline to my beach cottage, so we could spend time, alone. Without doubt, I suspect we conceived all three of our babes in the modest structure, as there is little else to occupy the hours at our remote hideaway.”
“And I won Rebecca by offering her something she never presumed possible—a loving family and a home.” Dirk shifted and straightened his lapel. “Therein lies the key. Every woman is unique, and what she covets is equally distinct. You know Daphne. What appeals to her? Identify what entices her, and give it to her. And then let her come to you, as she will do that, when you least expect it.”
Dalton relaxed in bed long after his brothers had vacated the honeymoon suite. After revisiting cherished memories of their first encounter aboard the Siren, and their subsequent days on Portsea Island, he seized upon the answer to his conundrum.
Flinging aside the sheets and blankets, he swung his legs over the side of the mattress and stood. Just as quick, he landed back in the four-poster. On his second try, he moved slow and steady. Still wearing his breeches from the previous evening, he staggered into the dressing room and located a robe.
Draped in black satin, he cinched the belt at his waist and ambled from the chamber. In the hall, he gathered his bearings and strolled to the wing in which Daphne had been accommodated. At her door, he considered knocking, but if she slept, he did want to disturb her. So he turned the knob and peeked into the dark quarter.
The sitting room boasted a wide expanse of windows, which shielded the open portal to the inner boudoir. As he neared, he spied Rebecca.
“Dalton, what are you doing here? Dr. Meade gave explicit instructions, and you were not to be about so soon.” His sister-in-law vacated a bedside chair and rushed forward. “Are you all right? You gave us a terrible scare.”
“I am quite well.” He shuffled his feet. “Daresay the worst injury is to my pride. May I have a moment with Daphne?”
“Of course, as she is your wife.” Rebecca patted his cheek. “I will wait in the hall, to give you privacy, but I would caution you not to wake her, as she drifted off just as the sun rose above the horizon. She cried for hours, Dalton.”
“I promise, I will not disturb her.” The fact that he had reduced his new bride to tears tore at his gut. As he gazed upon her still form, with her angelic features sublime in repose, he noted the swelling about her face and her red nose, and he cursed himself. How ironic was it that a provincial virgin had capsized one of the most notorious rakes in London? “Worry not, sweetheart. Everything will work out, in the end, because fate favors the lucky.”
#
Four days later, beneath the shimmering sun on a warm June morning, after her family had announced the governor’s untimely demise from an infectious fever, Daphne stood at graveside in Portsea and let loose the grief, so long locked deep inside, and it flowed as the incoming tide. No, her father had not been a very good man, but he was her sire nonetheless, and so she had ached to honor his memory. Garbed in the somber black attire of mourning, she flung a single rose atop his grave, above which Hicks and Dalton had broken the earth, to give the allusion of a fresh dug resting place. So paradoxical an end it was, that her father would remain at her mother’s side, for all eternity, in death, when in life he had scarcely regarded her.
Owing to a fear of contagion, she had not permitted the governor’s casket to lie in state at Courtenay Hall. The locals commended her, for her customary prudence in such matters, and so they abided and respected her request to gather on a nearby rise, while the immediate relations congregated in the fenced plot, and the hastily sketched ruse played its final act.
How different it was from the original midnight internment, five months ago, in the glow of a full moon, after Hicks and Robert had constructed a modest wooden coffin, with only Richard and Mrs. Jones for company. Now, Daphne leaned on her husband and wept, without shame, as the others had retired to the house, in preparation for an afternoon visitation.
“It is done, darling.” Cradling her head, Dalton hugged her close. “For all intents and purposes, he is safely in the ground. You need carry this burden no more.”
“I can hardly believe it is over.” When he pulled her fully against his chest, she broke.
For a while, he simply held her, as she lamented for her parents. But it was the deplorable deterioration of her fledgling marriage that really hurt. She shifted in his grasp and gazed at her mother’s headstone. Friends had always
said she was just like mama, and Daphne had considered such praise a high compliment. Given her fractured union, she rued the similarity.
“Oh, Dalton, I am so sorry.” They had barely spoken in the wake of their disastrous wedding night, and she blamed herself for everything that had gone wrong. “I know not what got into me. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Sweetheart, there is nothing to forgive.” Trailing the curve of her cheek with a finger, he bestowed upon her a sweet kiss and then led her from the Harcourt graveyard. Pausing beneath the thick canopy of an old oak tree, he turned and drew her into his embrace. “I owe you an apology, love. As the more experienced party, I should have recognized the extent of your distress and responded as would a gentleman. Instead, I compounded your anxiety, and I assume full responsibility for the resulting fiasco. I let you down, and you are faultless.”
“Do you really mean that?” Though she suspected otherwise, she would not argue with him, as at last they were conversing. “As I never aimed to cause you injury.”
“Evidence to the contrary. Actually, I am quite impressed, as you are a devil of a shot.” Favoring her with his boyish grin, he chuckled. “In future, I should remember that, whenever we have a row, and ensure there are no hairbrushes within reach.”
“Stop it.” Comforted by his jovial demeanor, Daphne sighed in relief. “And regardless of your indulgence, I am ashamed of my behavior. If you wish to try again, I will not fight you.”
“Darling, so much has happened in so little time, and you have every right to feel rushed.” Framing her face, he rubbed his nose to hers and then touched his lips to hers in a whisper of a buss. “When you are ready, come to me. Until then, I will wait.”
“What?” He sounded so methodical—nothing like the flirty knight who claimed her heart. “Do you not want me?”
“Of course, I want you.” She nestled close and inhaled his signature spicy scent. “But I would not hurry you. Let us take a brief respite, spend a few days in Portsea, and dispense with your father’s final affairs. When we return to London, we are booked for dinner with the family, and I received orders to commence transporting wounded soldiers from the Continent, as soon as the Siren is out of dry dock. Given we are officially in mourning, we may forgo the few remaining engagements of the Season and keep to ourselves. Would that please you?”
The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) Page 21