“I come bearing gifts.” Daphne untied the twine and unfolded the brown paper. “My mother taught me to press flowers, and I created collections from Portsea’s native growth, to commemorate my wedding, since you stood as witnesses.”
“This is gorgeous but entirely unnecessary.” Alex held up her frame, as she admired Daphne’s peculiar talent. “You are quite skilled.”
“I would call her an artist.” As she studied the blooms, Rebecca smiled. “It is lovely, Daph. I will hang it in a position of prominence at Randolph House, and perhaps I can persuade you to construct another for Lyvedon Hall.”
“It would be my honor.” Basking in their praise, Daphne ignored the consternation surrounding the threatening missives, as she could reflect on that, tomorrow. After all, the letters had preceded her nuptials. Now that she was married, what could the sender do to her? “And I am so glad you like it.”
“Well I love mine.” Caroline propped the display of viper’s bugloss and sea radish on a sideboard. “When Trevor comes home, I shall ask him to help me select a conspicuous place in the drawing room, so all our guests will view it.”
“So how are you, sister?” When Rebecca narrowed her stare, Daphne feared the former spy might have seen more than Daphne was prepared to reveal. “Regardless of your attempts to the contrary, you strike me as a tad out of sorts. Have you mended the rift with Dalton?”
“To a degree, yes.” It was Becca’s directness that Daphne both welcomed and rued, as the secret agent never minced words. “I apologized for knocking him unconscious, and he expressed remorse for frightening me. We have made a serious effort at détente, but we have not…that is to say…I cannot—”
“You have not consummated your vows.” Rebecca lifted a teapot but halted mid-pour. “Is this the chamomile?”
“Yes.” Caroline nodded at Dirk’s wife. “Daphne, I fear we owe you an apology.”
“Oh—how so?” Curious, she inclined her head and summoned calm. “As you have done nothing but support me with your vast knowledge and experience.”
“That is one way to look at it.” Biting her lip, Alex lowered her chin and sighed. “But we misled you, in a manner of speaking, when we neglected to share the difficulties that preceded the eventual development of our, for lack of a better term, and forgive my forthrightness, propitious coital relationships.”
“Precisely.” With a sorrowful visage, Rebecca compressed her lips. “The night I approached Dirk, he rejected me and bade me vacate his bedchamber.”
“After I gave Jason my bride’s prize, he accused me of trying to trap him, and he refused to marry me.” Wiping a stray tear, Alex sniffed. “I was alone, pregnant, and so afraid. When he returned to our shores, and Damian forced Jason and I to marry, I punished my husband by withholding my favors. It took months to set things right.”
“And even after Trevor and I made our vows before the archbishop, my stubborn spouse did not trust me.” As she twirled a lock of her hair, Caroline averted her gaze. “Later, he charged me with having an affair, with a former beau, Lord Darwith, and Trevor left me. In comparison, your only difficulty is the retention of your maidenhead. So we are none of us perfect here.”
At Caroline’s innocent proclamation, Daphne peered at her reticule. Should she apprise them of the threats, or had she lent too much weight to a harmless prank? As she had celebrated her wedding almost a fortnight ago, and had suffered nothing more than her self-made disaster, should she worry the pregnant Brethren wives?
“I hope you do not take this the wrong way, but I find your stories rather reassuring. In light of your deleterious beginnings, how did you establish yourselves as you are now?” She reminisced of their seaside walks in Portsea and their new customary practice of breaking their fast in her sitting room, wherein they always spent several minutes engaged in heated kisses. “Dalton told me to relax. When I am ready, I am to go to him, so he will not initiate the deflowering, and I am at a crossroad.”
“But that is perfect for our cause.” Rebecca glanced at Alex. “As our recommendation is unanimous. You must adhere to our example and take charge, as that is how we won our men.”
“How so?” At the prospect, Daphne gulped. “Because the last time I took the lead, I knocked Dalton unconscious.”
“True.” Caroline furrowed her brow and then snorted. “But that was a spectacular comeuppance, and that can be a good thing, as grooms should fear their brides, a little.”
“What if I do not please him?” To her chagrin, Lady Moreton’s crude pronouncement echoed in her brain. “Dalton has had so many women.”
“But therein lies your primary advantage, as Dalton has never had you.” Rebecca tapped a finger to her chin. “And there are countless variations of virtue, my dear. Prior to meeting Dirk, I performed questionable acts with men, targeted because they possessed vital war secrets, who were strangers to me. However my sweet viscount did it, he surmised I was not so pure as the typical London debutante, but it mattered not in the grand scheme. When he rebuffed me, he did so because he wanted to distinguish our lovemaking from our prior liaisons with other people. In that respect, Dalton is every bit as much a virgin as are you, and I would wager he is equally anxious.”
“I concur.” Scooting to the edge of the chaise, Caroline swiped a square of shortbread. “Trevor and I consummated our vows aboard the Hera, as he later admitted he required his trusty bunk to feel at ease.”
“As did we, on the Gawain.” Rebecca snapped her fingers. “Since the Siren is dry-docked in Portsmouth, you must choose your moment and your locale, and you must do so wisely.”
“And do not attempt a full-scale seduction on your first strike.” Alex pointed for emphasis. “Have you glimpsed his one-eyed helmeted buccaneer?”
“Not yet.” Daphne shook her head. “And the unknown terrifies me.”
“Then you must make your move, when you are ready.” Alex seemed so certain, and the force of her conviction gave Daphne hope. “Take him in hand, to build your confidence. Give him a stout yank, just as we taught you, and count the number of tugs necessary to fire his shot. If he reaches completion in five or less jerks, you are a veritable Delilah.”
“Well I am impressed, as you make that sound almost scientific, Alex.” Caroline reclined amid the pillows and stretched her legs. “You know, after a long voyage, I need only expel my breath to the tip of Trevor’s Jolly Roger, and he lets fly a virile barrage.”
“Oh, dear.” Daphne swallowed hard. “I pray you do not think less of me, but I do not possess the courage to use my mouth.”
“Now do not let that scare you.” Rebecca patted Daphne’s shoulder. “We tell you this so you might understand that men are not so difficult as you imagine. They are maneuvered by their most protuberant part, just as a rudder navigates their ships, and nothing you do will miss the mark.”
“Trust us, Daphne.” Alex pressed a palm to her chest. “We would not steer you awry.”
“All right.” Riding a wave of newfound courage, Daphne waved her fist in the air. “I will do it.”
And with bold visions swirling in her mind, she returned to Dalton’s bachelor lodging, determined to initiate a tryst with her husband, after dinner. In the foyer, she doffed her shawl, bonnet, and gloves.
“There is a missive for you, Mrs. Randolph.” Merton held a silver salver, and a crisp white envelope with now familiar handwriting mocked her.
“Thank you, Merton.” Her heart sank, as she stifled a cry of despair, and she studied the same peculiar franking she had come to dread. “Is Sir Dalton in residence?”
“No, ma’am.” The butler bowed.
A chill crept from her toes, seeped into her calves, penetrated her thighs, pervaded her gut, and invested her chest with a sense of powerful foreboding, as she strolled into the drawing room. Sitting in an overstuffed chair near the hearth, she tore open the note, unfolded the stationary, and sobbed.
I know the truth, and Dalton Randolph cannot save you. You should not ha
ve married him, as you will live to regret it.
#
“Everything was going well—until it was not.” Frustrated and aroused beyond words, Dalton wanted to pound someone to a pulp, given he could not make love to his wife. “Daphne hides something from me, and I have, thus far, failed to induce her to share her worries.”
“It is a delicate business, as you do not want to rush her, again.” Dirk refilled the brandy balloons and returned to sit by the hearth in his study. “As the woman is blessed with lethal aim, and you may not be so lucky, next time.”
“Very funny.” Dalton rolled his eyes and pictured his wife, as she skipped along the water’s edge at Portsea. The priceless reminiscence conflicted with her current demeanor. “We break our fast, every morning, together, and discuss our schedules. And tonight we dine in her sitting room, but she displays no interest in our marital bed, and I promised I would let her come to me. But at this rate, I could go to my grave with a wicked erection, and mountainous calluses, as my wife shows no signs of surrender.”
“Perhaps it is just a severe case of nerves, and she requires a period of adjustment.” His elder brother leaned on an armrest and averted his stare. “No doubt, she regrets what happened and wishes to make amends, but she could be unsure how best to achieve reconciliation. Are you positive you are not making something of nothing?”
“No, I am not.” He sifted through the memories of recent days and frowned. “Daphne has always been a woman of lighthearted spirit. Yet, only yesterday, I came upon her in the garden, her brow a mass of furrows and her exquisite features invested with sorrow. On normal occasions, the sight of my beautiful bride in repose inspires peculiar warmth in my chest. But in that moment, I struggled with a chill of unease, and my instincts tell me she is in some sort of trouble.”
“Indeed, I know well your unrest.” Dirk huffed. “So I sympathize.”
“Nightmares continue to plague Rebecca?” Dalton had been so focused on his problems, that he had ignored his sibling’s difficulties. “And she still refuses to reveal their content?”
“Aye.” With a mournful sigh, Dirk rubbed his eyes. “Every night is the same. She wakes me with bloodcurdling screams and insists she is drowning, until she is fully compos mentis. I have been gentle with my queries, but she insists I am overreacting. Yet I know she battles unknown demons from her past, and I cannot fight what I cannot identify.”
“I am sorry, brother.” Wound tight as a clock spring, he shoved from his seat and paced before the windows. It was a habit he had never practiced, as he thought it symptomatic of control run amok, and that was not his character. At least, it had not been in his nature—until he met Daphne. “Is there anything I can do?”
“You already have.” Dirk raised his glass in toast. “Misery loves company.”
“And we are a fine pair.” For a second, he forgot about his injury and winced, when he scratched his forehead and caught a suture. “So tell me the truth, how did you foster such an harmonious conjugal relationship with Rebecca?”
“Allowing for discretion, I must admit I cannot assume credit for our rapport between the sheets, as I was not exaggerating when I explained how Rebecca pursued me.” Dirk pinned Dalton with a steely glare. “If you ever betray my confidence, I will tie you to the Gawain’s rudder and haul your traitorous arse across the Channel. But suffice it to say on the night I claimed my wife’s most intimate gift, she launched an invasion of my private apartments, insisted I take her, and brooked no refusal, despite my initial rejection.”
“You were not joking?” Why could Dalton not be so fortunate? After all, he was the lucky one. “And you rejected her?”
“I plead temporary insanity, as my Becca, naked as the day she was born, could drive a sane man mad as a March hare for want of her.” Chuckling, Dirk grinned. “God, but she was glorious, brother. In vain, I tried to rebuff her advances, because I wanted to wait until the vows were spoken, but my heretofore-vaunted self-restraint yielded to the strength of her desire.”
“So you took her.” Dalton had always suspected as much, but that had not diminished the weight of the revelation, given Dirk’s oh-so-noble reputation.
“Because I love her, as she loves me, I acquiesced to her demands.” Dirk clucked his tongue. “Our intimacy was superb, unlike any I had ever enjoyed. And it was all I could do to focus on her needs. Summoning the patience of a saint, I brought her to release and breached her harbor, as she savored completion. It worked perfectly, and we have benefited from an abiding ardor, ever since.”
Filing the information for future use, Dalton contemplated his next move. He desperately wanted to aid Daphne, but he could not broach the subject without trampling what little trust they had forged. For good or ill, he had to retrench and wait for his wife to come to him. And when she vouchsafed her secrets, he would accept them with unimpaired sangfroid.
“I appreciate your frankness, brother.” Dalton downed the last of his brandy and set the balloon on a nearby table. “But I should—”
“Am I intruding on anything of significance?” Rebecca strolled into the study. “Oh, please, do not stand on my account, my sweet lord.” As she pushed Dirk back into his chair, she peered at Dalton. “Your wife made the loveliest gift. What a thoughtful woman you married.”
“Thank you.” To his embarrassment, the burn of a blush seared his cheeks, and he shuffled his feet. “Daphne is a kind and most generous lady.”
“Becca, what are you about?” Dirk narrowed his stare, as she stepped about his legs and eased to his lap. “I should see Dalton to the door.”
“He knows his way out, as he grew up in this house.” She wound her arms about Dirk’s neck. “And I would take a short nap, as we have an hour before the dinner bell sounds. Would you refuse me?”
“Never.” Dirk nipped her nose. “Brother, I bid you farewell and much luck.”
“Good evening.” He sketched a bow and headed for the exit. In the hall, he turned to close the oak panel and discovered Dirk and Rebecca sharing an amazingly thorough kiss. Polite decorum demanded he avert his gaze, yet he found their tender exchange riveting.
How he envied their reciprocal passion, and he wanted that with Daphne.
In mere seconds, Dalton collected his curricle and steered for home and his wife. Thoughts of their prearranged appointment to partake of their meal in her sitting room filled him with anticipation, and fiery zeal rode hard in its wake. Minutes later, riding a wave of fervor, he skipped up the steps and entered his residence.
“Where is Mrs. Randolph?” he inquired of his butler, as he doffed his hat, coat, and gloves, and adjusted his cravat.
“Mrs. Randolph asked me to convey her regrets, as she is unwell and unable to keep her commitments, tonight.” Merton bowed. “Shall I tell Cook to prepare a tray, sir?”
Overwhelming disappointment settled as a lead ball in his belly, and Dalton grimaced. “No, as I am not hungry. That will be all, Merton.”
Despondent, Dalton trudged upstairs and halted on the landing. Upon their arrival from Portsea, his bride had vacated the large chamber that adjoined his and moved to a small guestroom at the other end of the hall. At first, he had wanted to rain holy hell, but he had said nothing, after recalling the debacle that had been his wedding night.
Carrying a candlestick, he tiptoed into her quarters and found her asleep. The room was quiet, save the ticking of the mantel clock and his heartbeat, which seemed to keep rhythm. To the undiscerning observer, nothing appeared amiss. But what struck him was her tearstained face. She had been crying, but—why? What had happened? And why had she excluded him from her anguish? Sitting at the edge of the mattress, he adjusted the covers, pulling them to her chin. Daphne vented a soft sob indicative of some inner torment, and he ached to console her. Hours had passed before he left her.
#
“Brothers, we are gathered here to welcome two new nautionnier knights into our distinguished order. Captain George de Vere, Viscount Huntingdon and my
nephew, and Captain Lucien Wentworth, sixth Earl of Calvert and Rebecca’s elder brother.” Admiral Douglas perched at the edge of his desk. “Despite the Treaty of Fontainebleau, the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy and Louis XVIII, and the exile of Napoleon to the island of Elba, Wellington does not believe we have seen the last of French aggression, so we increase our ranks to serve His Majesty. To that end, I anticipate a plethora of assignments from the Lord High Admiral, any day.”
“Hear, hear.” Blake slapped his thigh. “Now pass the brandy, and let us commence the celebrations.”
“Knights, at the ready.” Damian corralled the veteran seamen. “Love, honor, and devotion were the beginning of our Order. Bonds of kinship and friendship, all-important. We uphold these principles embrace for embrace, desire for desire, for one, for all. For King and Country we stand, for love and comradeship we live.”
In unison, the group shouted, “Nulli Secundus.”
As his fellow Brethren of the Coast toasted and roasted the latest additions to the famed order descended of the Templars, Dalton found no joy in the festivities. His thoughts centered on his wife, who had closeted herself in her chamber and eschewed their breakfast ritual, to his monumental disappointment. It was only when they were scheduled to depart for the family dinner that she appeared in the foyer.
In the coach, as they drove to Upper Brooke Street, Daphne had not uttered a word, and she looked pale. And although Lady Amanda had planned a tempting menu with not one but three of Daphne’s favorite dishes, his bride had hardly ate a bite.
“Shall we rejoin the women, as Cook prepared apple snow, and I am quite fond of it?” The admiral clapped twice, and the rowdy sailors quieted. “And Amanda and I have another announcement to make.”
As usual, immature ribbing continued in the hall, and Dalton hugged the rear, given his sour mood. In the drawing room, the ladies chatted, and Daphne sat alone, near the hearth, gazing at the flames. He grabbed a cup of tea from the trolley and weaved his way to her.
The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) Page 23