“Oh, Dalton.” Accustomed to his moods, she knew the beast was hungry and just how to feed him, so she framed his face. “You are so sweet. How anyone could know you and not love you is unfathomable to me.”
“I do not give a damn what anyone else thinks. All that matters is you.” He set the rose on the bedside table and turned, just as she launched herself at him. An awkward dance ensued, as he fought to touch her, and she struggled to rip off his clothes. Naked and aroused, they sank into the downy mattress.
Their limbs twined, as he gave her his weight. He took her lips and then claimed her mouth. Just when Daphne thought she could withstand no more, and she would explode from need, he deepened the kiss, and the bond spiraled to the heady heights of passion. And then he joined their bodies in a single forceful thrust.
As he moved over her, on her, and within her, Dalton whispered praise and encouragement. He told her what she had done to him, how she had affected him, and, most importantly, how he could not live without her. And she clung to him, coveting the vibrant beat of his heart, which fed a compulsive urgency impossible to deny, and she knew he felt it, too.
Minutes stretched into hours, as they savored the touch of skin to warm skin, of hands exploring, of hips coming together to form an intimate connection, in perfect alignment, until time suspended. The world stood still, as they lingered on the precipice of heaven on earth, and then they plunged, headlong, into paradise.
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In the weeks leading up to the journey to Portsea Island, Dalton spent his days at Randolph House, forgoing his weekly pugilistic exercise and evening brandy at White’s in favor of extended maneuvers, intended to broaden his bride’s horizons, in his bed. As the Season ended, and the ton retired to their country estates for the summer, the streets of London, and Mayfair, in particular, were noticeably less crowded. But he remained on heightened alert for any sign of trouble, especially after another threatening letter, with the same demands, arrived for Daphne.
After hiring additional footmen to guard her, he forbade her from leaving the residence, which his provincial wife accepted without complaint. Given her good humor, he purchased a new lute and invited those members of his family still residing in the city for an impromptu musicale, with Daphne as the star, and how she shined. Later that same night, she gave a private performance, sitting at the end of their bed, wearing nothing but a smile, just for him.
So he had found himself endeavoring to identify all manner of delights to oblige his bride. But Daphne was not like most women. Whereas society ladies preferred expensive jewels, furs, and clothes, his wife’s tastes leaned toward the utilitarian, as evidenced by his latest purchase, which he knew would please her.
“You wished to see me?” Ah, there she stood, gowned in another mourning dress that failed to diminish her inner light, which flared every time she looked him.
“Come in, sweetheart.” Sitting at Dirk’s desk in the study, Dalton pushed back the chair and slapped his thighs. “Join me, here.”
“Should I lock the door?” she inquired, with a winsome blush.
“Are you not the naughty minx?” He whistled in monotone. “But I prefer you that way. And while I love your idea, and we will not abandon it entirely, we are expecting our solicitor, and I would gift you a present before he arrives.”
“What have you done now?” Though she attempted to appear vexed, she had not fooled him for a second, as she stepped about his legs and settled in his lap.
He handed her the wrapped item. “Open it.”
“Dalton, you make me feel terribly guilty, as I have given you nothing but pressed flowers.” She untied the ribbon.
“Trust me, you have given me plenty.” He waggled his brows and patted her bottom, and she swatted him, in play. “And I must make some attempt to keep pace.”
She peeled open the brown paper and squealed with unmasked joy. “They are beautiful, and the pages are lined. Oh, thank you.”
Any other woman would have raised holy hell, had their husband given them a matched set of leather-bound ledgers, albeit embossed with roses, for documenting household accounts, as a treat, but his sensible bride clutched the books to her chest, as priceless treasures, and kissed him. “Given you have always maintained the governor’s holdings, including Courtenay Hall, I had wondered if you might want to manage ours, as my duties for the Brethren often call me to sea.”
“You would have me record our expenditures and supervise our stores, beyond the usual duties of chatelaine?” She looked so hopeful, as she rocked her hips, that he could not tease her.
“That and more, if you are amenable.” Of course, he doubted her not for a second.
“I should be uncontrollably excited to assist you.” She flipped through the crisp parchment and toyed with the bright red silk bookmark. “If you will show me your methods, I would be content to continue your archives as you prefer.”
“I would appreciate that, more than you realize.” In that moment, she glowed. “And I would sail, safe in the knowledge that you are at the helm of my hearth and heart.”
Then you can teach me.” She leaned against his chest. “And I shall be your most ardent pupil.”
“A fact you have already proven to my everlasting gratitude.” That should garner a pleasant reaction. And not to disappoint him, Daphne rested her head to his shoulder and pressed her palm to his chest.
“I do love you, Dalton.” She nibbled his neck. “And I am so glad I boarded your ship that night.”
For a while, he simply held her. Attuned to her emotions, which had taken a desolate turn, he rubbed her shoulders. “It will be all right, Daphne. I will let no one harm you. And if all else fails, we will pay the extortion.” A knock at the door intruded on their brief interlude, and he stood, carrying her with him. As Daphne rounded the desk to occupy one of the Hepplewhite chairs, he said, “Come.”
“Mr. Mortimer is just arrived for Sir Dalton.” Hughes bowed and ushered in the solicitor.
“Thank you, Hughes.” Dalton extended his hand in greeting. “Good to see you, Finlay. May I present my wife, Daphne.”
“Sir Dalton, congratulations on your nuptials.” The short, squatty-bodied man dipped his chin. “And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Randolph.”
“Please, permit me to make you free with my name, sir.” She glanced at Dalton, then to the legal expert, and then back to Dalton. “Should I leave you?”
“No, as this appointment concerns you.” Dalton reclined in the leather high back chair and crossed his legs. “Have you drawn up the papers I commissioned?”
“Indeed, sir.” Mr. Mortimer opened his folio and set various documents atop the blotter. “Everything is just as you requested. It took some research, on my part, but I believe legal precedent supports your position. So we need only your signatures to certify the agreements.”
“Will you explain to my wife what I have asked of you?” Dalton was about to make a major move on his part, and he wanted Daphne to know exactly what he expected for their future.
“Mrs. Randolph, these records extend to you the right to make financial decisions on your husband’s behalf, in his absence.” The solicitor marked the page. “This item represents your husband’s last will and testament, providing for you a generous per annum, along with principal occupancy of Courtenay Hall, as well as any future London residences procured during the tenure of your marriage, until your death. As you well know, English law forbids women from owning property, so the deed to your family’s estate shall remain in trust, until such time as any male children reach full maturation and can thus be endowed, given your eldest brother has expressed no interest in the ancestral home. Should the union produce no male children, then the real estate would be supervised by a qualified surviving member of Sir Dalton’s family.”
“You would do that for me?” Daphne asked, in a small voice.
Dalton picked up the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and signed his name. “It is done, my angel.”
“Well then, my business is concluded.” Mr. Mortimer resituated the parchment in his folio. “These copies are for your records, sir. I shall file everything with the proper authorities, in the morning. If I can be of further assistance, please, do not hesitate to call on me.”
“Thank you, Finlay.” Again, they exchanged the customary male handshake, and Dalton escorted the solicitor to the door. He closed the oak panel and turned—right into Daphne’s kiss.
“You fear the worst, when we journey to Portsea.” She clung to him, and he cursed himself for frightening her. “Else why would you apply for a will?”
“My dear, your assumptions are incorrect.” When she turned the key in the lock, she caught the attention of every inch of him, and a few lethal ones in particular. “In light of our wedding, I had to update my will to include provisions for your care, but I have no plans to die anytime soon. However, I am a military man, subject to the whims of His Majesty. I can be called upon, without notice, and I would not leave you unprotected, so the will is for my peace of mind.”
“And the financial arrangement?” She appeared skeptical, as she bit her lip. “What purpose does that serve?”
“That, my sharp bride, is a vote of confidence, and I thought the added responsibilities would please you.” And he knew well her game, so he had pleased her. “Do you wish me to rescind the powers I have bestowed upon you? I suppose you could use the ledgers as a personal journal, if you like.”
“Oh, no.” She gasped, when he bent and swept her into his arms. “I want to help you, if you will have me.”
“Then that settles it.” He sat her on the blotter, nipped her cute little nose, flicked up her skirts, unfastened his breeches, and situated himself between her thighs. “Now, if you have no more questions, I should very much like to make love to you on my stodgy brother’s desk.”
Those were the last coherent words uttered for the next hour.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The journey to Portsea Island, the site of her ancestral home, had been interesting, to say the least, for Daphne. When her husband had insisted they take their own coach, despite the fact that the viscount’s elegant equipage would have seated the entire party in lush comfort, she had been confused. Until they departed the city, proper, on the first leg of the two-day trip, and he lowered the shades and enacted another titillating tutelage for the next several miles. She would never look at their rig the same again.
“Well that was inspiring, my angel.” At her side, Dalton restored his clothing and hooked his breeches.
“You are insatiable.” And she would never complain, as she smoothed her skirts and re-secured her bodice.
“I am in love.” With his arm about her shoulders, he kissed her hard and fast. “And you knew that when you married me.”
“What—that you were in love or that you were insatiable?” She shrieked, when he tickled her. “Stop, as I can just imagine what our driver thinks we are doing in here.”
“Both.” He pulled her into his lap, cradled her head to his shoulder, and chuckled. “And I would wager he knows exactly what we are doing in here, as well he should, given we are newlyweds.”
With a sigh, she relaxed in his embrace, as the passing Portsea landscape declared they neared the grand estate, and he hugged her tight. The tenor of his passion had intensified, as they counted down their date with destiny, and his underlying urgency had, in turn, fed her desire, which had spiraled beyond her ability to control it. Thus she sought comfort in his body at every opportunity, and, chivalrous knight that he was, he indulged her.
And sometime during the night, after a rigorous round of coitus, whereupon they had rattled the walls of their tiny room at a coach inn, it had dawned on Daphne that the unknown villain could destroy her, if he directed his attentions to her husband. Was that not what felled Rebecca?
The traitor struck Dirk to lure the spy into the open, whereupon she had been kidnapped. So far, Dalton’s plans and added protections revolved around the presumption that the mysterious scoundrel would attack Daphne.
“We are almost home, sweetheart.” As they passed through the main gate, he caressed her cheek. “Are you excited to see the renovations, despite the unfortunate circumstance of our visit?”
“Yes, and I have a surprise for you.” She recalled her last minute changes to the plans, which converted the master suites into a single large sitting room and bedchamber combination. “And I hope you will be pleased.”
“My dear, I like whatever you like.” He kissed her crown of curls and sighed. “You will remain close to me. You are to abstain from your charitable visits and entertain no callers. And you will forgo your morning walks and confine your movements to the estate, within sight, at all times. If you receive any correspondence from the villain, you are to bring it to me before you open it, whereupon we shall meet with Dirk and Sir Ross. Promise you will obey my edicts, until we apprehend the criminal, darling.”
“You have my solemn vow I will do as you command.” Easing her arms about his waist, she shivered, though it was quite warm on that July afternoon. “But we will have to arrange a community party, to set things right, once our nasty business is done, else our neighbors will think me a snob.”
“Angel, you may hold soirees to your heart’s content, once we catch the blackguard.” The coach navigated the drive and halted before the entrance, and Dalton held her in check.
Prior to her marriage, she never would have considered allowing anyone to see her in such a compromising position. But they were in Portsea, the charming island town she adored, and London society, and its ridiculous web of rules, meant nothing in the backwater, so she kept her place. When the footman opened the door, Dalton scooted from the squabs and handed her down.
Standing at attention, with the household staff arranged in a line, Hicks smiled. “Welcome home, Miss—er, Mrs. Randolph.”
“Old habits are hard to break, my friend.” And she still refused to believe that Hicks or Mrs. Jones had anything to do with the reprehensible incidents. “And how are you?”
“Quite well, ma’am.” The butler lifted his chin. “And Mrs. Jones and I have brought the personnel to almost full capacity, and we are grateful for their assistance.”
“We hope our hires meet with your approval, Mrs. Randolph.” Mrs. Jones appeared tentative, in the face of such esteemed guests, so Daphne made the effort to hug the housekeeper, who smelled of her unique recipe for homemade soap. “Oh, it is good to have you home, ma’am.”
“We should have tea, tomorrow, and catch up, as it has been too long.” Before Dalton discovered their reworked room, she caught him by the wrist. “Right now, I would have a bath and wash away the road dust. If you could settle the viscount and viscountess, I would appreciate it. And I will show my husband to his accommodation.”
“Of course, Mrs. Randolph.” Hicks clicked his heels and hurried to direct the footmen.
“My lovely wife, what are you about?” Dalton narrowed his stare. “Did you overspend your budget?”
“I told you there were unanticipated cost overruns, and you indicated it was not a problem.” She dragged him into the foyer, up the stairs, and down the hall. “And it is too late to complain now.”
“Indeed it is, and my brother warned me about such extravagances, when it comes to wives and wallets.” He groaned. “Wait a minute, what happened to the door to my apartment?”
“It has moved.” She gave him a swift yank. “Permit me to give you a grand tour of your new and improved space.” With heightened anticipation, and a little bit of nervous anxiety, Daphne pushed open the double oak panels and ushered her knight into their new sanctuary. “What do you think?”
“Good God, it is massive.” He rotated slowly, taking in the refined elegance of his signature shade trimmed in mahogany. “I could chase you for hours and never catch you.”
Velvet drapes framed the floor to ceiling windows of the sitting room, and matching damask overstuffed chairs and a sof
a blended with the crème colored chaise. Sapphire wall coverings, in the flock-tradition, featured a taupe floral ogee motif, and she had limited the accessories to the bare necessities interspersed with nautical antiques, including some resplendent spyglasses and her framed creations, which she had composed specifically for their private abode.
“You would never have to catch me, my darling husband.” She hugged him from behind. “Because I am yours for the taking.”
“And I do so love that about you.” He covered her hands with his. “So show me your lair of licentious iniquity.”
“Our lair, my naughty knight.” In the inner sanctum, she paused before the footboard of the massive four-poster. When Dalton strolled to the bedside table that would be his, given their usual preferences, drew from his coat pocket the small oval frame in which she had pressed his rosebud, and situated the keepsake in pride of place, she inhaled a shaky breath. “Are you pleased?”
“How could I not be, when you planned it.” In that instant, she shed the last concerns regarding the hastily sketched remodel. “And constructing dressers in the expanded closets was a stroke of brilliance.”
“But how could—you knew.” And just like that, her sails deflated. “Who told you?”
“Sorry, angel.” He gifted her the lopsided grin that never failed to melt her insides. “Mr. Benson let it slip, when I approved the closing disbursements. Your alterations were included in the final sketches, and Mr. Dumas was quite put out, given he had kept your confidence to the very end, and I did not want to spoil it for you.” Dalton flicked his fingers, and she ran to him. “But it gave me hope, such as I had dared not covet, as we had yet to consummate our vows, so I said nothing.”
The Lucky One (Brethren Of The Coast #6) Page 27