Chapter Seven
Sylvester reluctantly eased from the warmth of his wife, his cock aching, his promise not to take her trembling with the strength of his desire. It was perhaps a foolish decision to sleep in the same bed with her when he had been celibate for so long. He had spent half the night awake, fighting through the desire of wanting her and wondering why he had sworn to not touch her.
He padded silently to his room that now had a fire, fresh flowers, and newly spread bed sheets. A steaming bath was already waiting, and an hour later he was dressed smartly with the aid of his valet, who seemed pleased Sylvester had come from his wife’s chamber. He offered no scolding, for their unusual antics had seen him one step closer to having her in his bed. He could be more ruthless and use her untapped passion against her, but he wanted to tread gently with her. It confounded him. He could not explain the need, and he had decided to simply embrace it.
He didn’t want to break her, he realized. He had seen too many beautiful and precious things broken and ruined—his sister as she had lifted listless eyes to him, blood soaking her bandaged wrists, and Magabe, a resilient child who had tried to run away from a plantation only to have his skin flayed from his back for the affront of wanting freedom. Sylvester had bought him—the only way to see Magabe free—and taken him back to England where he could receive true liberty.
The last several days had seen Daphne shying from him, and it had been uncomfortable acknowledging that he did not want to frighten her away, so he was moving with patience. When she hid, he did not pursue, when she ducked into rooms to avoid him in the hallways, he was amused, and when she closed the connecting door to her chamber, he would stand on the opposite side for minutes, fighting back the rampant hunger brewing in his gut to storm her defenses with carnal kisses and touches.
“Shall I call for the carriage, my lord?” his valet asked, brushing invisible lint from Sylvester’s dark superfine jacket.
He would be traveling for several hours and did not anticipate being confined to a carriage. His mother would not take kindly to the fact that he had been in England for several days and had not paid a call upon her, so he’d planned a visit for today. She was not in town but with his sister in Hampstead where Hetty waited out the last weeks of her confinement. Despite the severe blows she had been dealt in life, she had rallied and had recovered. The journey had been arduous, but the support of her family and the lord who had refused to leave her side had allowed her to fight the despair with a strength he admired. “I’ll be riding.”
“Very well, my lord. I’ll inform the mews,” he said, no doubt eager to return below stairs and inform the rest of the staff the happy news of their master being in their mistress’s chamber.
His valet hurried away, and Sylvester exited his rooms. Striding down the hallway, he paused, thinking of his countess. It was normal for him to go about his daily business without informing her of when to expect him. Turning on his heel, he made his way back to her bedroom. As he opened the door the massive form of Gulliver shot through the entrance and down the hallway, no doubt to attend to his business outside.
Sylvester entered his wife’s bedchamber and faltered.
“My lord!” her lady’s maid said, dropping the soap she had been rubbing gently on her mistress’s shoulders.
Daphne had frozen, but she slowly turned her graceful neck and met his regard. They stared at each other without speaking for precious seconds.
“You may go, Letty,” his countess said.
The maid bobbed and hurried from the room, closing the door firmly.
His wife appeared delightfully rosy, her mass of silver-blonde hair loosely pinned in a topknot with several strands tumbling over her shoulders in beautiful waves. She blushed. He liked that. It hinted at innocence and an expressiveness he found vastly appealing. “Good morning, Daphne.”
An oddly penetrating gaze settled on him. “Sylvester.”
“I journey to Hampstead in a few minutes. To see my mother and sister.”
“And you are telling me this because?” Then she took the rose-scented soap and rubbed along her arms.
“It is what husbands do.”
“How remarkably fascinating and a decidedly odd notion. Are we to now inform each other of our daily outings?” she drawled, lowering her lids, but not before he saw the flash of anger.
Her eyes flared as he moved closer to the large tub. With a single word, she could arrest his advance, and Sylvester prayed for her to remain silent. “I would like our relationship to be more candid. Do you not agree, Countess?”
Amusement lit in her eyes and the smallest of smiles curved her lips. “No.”
He made no reply to that. “I may spend the night.”
“As you wish, my lord,” she said dismissively.
One step at a time. “Would you like to accompany me?”
The hand that had been rubbing the soap from her throat to collarbone paused. “To Hampstead?”
“Yes.”
Incredulity filled her gaze. “To see your family?”
“That is what I said.”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I regretfully must decline. My plans cannot be altered at such late notice.”
They stared at each other, and he allowed that the woman before him would never give him a chance to seduce her in their current state. She would try to foil his advances every step of the way. She did not want their marriage. He sat beside the tub, and it was then he saw the pulse fluttering wildly at her throat.
“If I should dip below the water and touch you, will I find you slick with desire?”
He wasn’t sure who the question startled more.
She stared at him, her lips parted, her breath shallow. Her cheeks turned a bit pink, and she looked away for a moment before answering. “You already gave your promise, husband, or does your famed honor not extend to this marriage?”
Then she smiled, a mocking glint in the depth of her dark brown eyes. “And I will never willingly come to your bed.” The naked, aching honesty in her voice was jarring.
“Let’s you and I bargain,” he said a bit hoarsely when her hand with the soap trailed over the globe of her breast and down to the dusky nipple peeking through the soapy film of bathwater.
Provoking amusement and pain glowed from her eyes. She was not at all comfortable with her nakedness, but it gave her satisfaction to know he was bound by honor to not touch her, no matter how tempted he became. He bit back a savage curse as her hands dipped low, past her breast and down.
His eyes were glued to the water, and he wished that soft white film did not obscure his gaze.
His mouth went impossible dry as his countess lifted a delicately arched foot over the edge of the tub. Then her hands went even lower. Sylvester snapped his head up and their gaze collided. He knew exactly where her fingers drifted, and suddenly he could imagine the pink folds she was currently rubbing with that bar of soap.
His hand tightened painfully on the edge of the tub, and her lips shifted upward ever so slightly, a clear indication she knew what he was imagining. Where had this boldness come from? A feeling of loss suddenly tore through him. He should have been there over the years to witness this stunning metamorphosis.
Another soft smile teased at the corner of her full mouth. “Let me hear of this bargain, my earl.”
He cleared his throat. “Our interests are diametrically opposed. I want my heir, and you want a divorce.”
She tilted her head slightly.
“Spend three months with me, as if the past does not exist, and give me the opportunity to change your mind.”
“That is not possible, my lord. I am undeterred.”
“You want a divorce because you are lonely…empty and dissatisfied with our union. We’ve never had an opportunity to see if we could have a pleasant marriage. If you determine after three months you are still not interested in granting me the privilege of your body and to share your life with me, then I will proceed with a petition to the courts.”
Her delicate brows drew together in a frown. “A pleasant marriage?”
The oddest sensation tugged deep inside of him.
“Yes. I hope you would perceive all the advantages attached to an agreeable marriage between us.”
She smoothed a stray wisp of a curl from her temple “And if I find it disagreeable…you will take steps to divorce me?”
He nodded.
For an instant, she looked utterly baffled. “On what grounds?”
“I’m a Carrington. I have no need to worry about grounds. I vow I will use my wealth and resources to ensure Parliament passes a private act granting us permission to divorce. You must, of course, allow this may take several months and your reputation will be in tatters by the end of it all.”
“I know what I risk and why I am willing.” Her eyes probed his features and a worried frown flitted over her face. “Two months, not three,” she murmured.
He had been willing to accept four weeks—eight was more than he had hoped for, he thought with some measure of satisfaction. “Agreed.”
“No past between us?”
“Yes. Let me also be frank, wife…I’ll be kissing and touching you at every opportunity I get.” He paused meaningfully. “I will also cease my attentions the instant you object. I trust this is agreeable to you?”
The gaze that peered at him was disconcertingly perceptive. “It is,” she said softly.
“I trust that I may depend on you to uphold your end of the bargain? You will give me…us a fair chance.”
Sensual curiosity gleamed in her brilliant eyes. Instead of replying, she gripped the edges of the tub and stood without assistance. Every other thought ceased existing under the surge of raw desire that tore through him. He fought to keep his expression even. She was exquisite. Water droplets glistened along every curve and dip of her pinkened body. He swallowed as a trail ran from her neck, down on to her breast to bead on a very large and succulent nipple. Other droplets cascaded in rivulets to her flat stomach and down to her curls that hid the delights of her sex from his ravenous gaze. One foot stepped from the tub, the swishing sound of the water tugging his gaze to her face. There was a becoming flush along her entire body, but her eyes held a message, and he was challenged.
Something in their world had shifted.
This was punishment, he realized. For daring to ignore her for so long, for not claiming what she had offered that night years ago when she had waited with virginal shyness. Her revenge was diabolical, and it testified to the strength of the woman before him, for it was evident from the mortification in her eyes that her wicked brazenness was simply to torture him. For hurting her, and for now wishing to take what she needed to regain her sense of self.
“Your beauty is unmatched,” he murmured.
She shot him a quick, assessing look, a soft pink barely discernible flushing along her cheekbones, but Sylvester noticed, as he had been unable to remove his gaze from her. He wanted to ravish, to dominate, and to slake the need that had his cock throbbing with a brutal ache. And his countess knew it, and was unafraid of his ardor, for she held power. She walked past him, seemingly unconcerned with her nudity. As she strolled toward her bed, she lifted her damp, heavy locks and wrapped them in a loose chignon. He had never seen another female form so delicate yet voluptuous and firm. He studied the elegant line of her spine, the curves of her hips, which were sensually flared, and the rounded globes of her buttocks that made him want to lower his teeth and bite that firm flesh.
He groaned.
She collected her robe and held it out without turning around. How he wished he could see her expression. Was it one of need or chilling incivility? His feet moved as if they had a will of their own over to her. Sylvester took the robe and held it out so she could slip her arms through. He would gladly play her lady’s maid every day if he were treated to such carnal delights.
She faced him, the robe unbelted, the flaps of the silken material clinging to her still damp body, tempting him to betray his honor and her trust. This was her test, and he would possibly endure several, and she still might never allow him to her bed. Something inside him stirred, a bit dark and possessive, and he had to fight not to lift her into his arms, hold her thighs apart, and enslave her to the pleasures he could give her. “If you have need of me, you know where to find me.”
She looked both relieved and strangely disappointed. “I do. Please give my regards to your mother and sister.”
Her aloofness annoyed him even as he was forced to admit that he admired it. Sylvester bowed and spun on his heel, exiting her chamber, but not before seeing her lips part in astonishment. He smiled. How strange she must find it all, for even he felt uncertain, and he was never a man to suffer nerves or second-guess his decisions.
…
The very next day, Daphne ran to Kellits Hall, where she had retired for the first two years after they had married. She had been unable to deny the inexplicable need that had welled in her heart to escape after her husband had spent another night in her bed. She had never thought herself a coward and preferred to face issues with aplomb, but surely this qualified as extraordinary circumstances.
He hadn’t stayed with his family for the night and had thoroughly shocked her when she’d felt him entering her chamber sometime past midnight. He must have ridden through the night, but she had held the questions in. Daphne was intrigued and terrified in equal measure. She had assured her husband two months of amiable companionship, and he had vowed illicit kisses and touches.
He’d slid into her bed silently, but she had been excruciatingly aware of his heat, the lure of his scent, and she despaired how she would resist the kisses and touches he had promised. But he attempted none. Instead, knowing she was awake, he had drawn her into conversation, recalling the ridiculous look on Lord Belmont’s face when they had trounced him while playing cards at their ball of scandal a few nights past, and they spent some time laughing at other recollections of the night. Then, as they went to sleep, he had slipped his arms around her waist, and she had silently wept. Even now, just thinking about it, she found herself hugging her arms to her body.
She had only been at Kellits Hall for a few hours before the sound of horses alerted her to visitors. Daphne lowered the quill onto her writing papers and pushed aside the letter she had been penning to her brother, whom she meant to call upon tomorrow. She stood and strolled to the windows, tugging aside the curtains. Startled, she dropped the drapes, took a steady breath, and parted them once again. Her earl was directing his phaeton, which was drawn by perfectly matched bays, around the forecourt of Kellits Hall. It was deplorable, the way her pulse always quickened at the first sight of her husband.
He had come after her. The burst of pure pleasure took her by surprise. Had she wanted him to chase her? Stepping back, she rang the bell pull and was promptly attended to by the housekeeper, Mrs. Willoughby.
“You rang, my lady,” she said with a smile.
“Lord Carrington has returned. See that his chamber is readied and have tea and cakes sent in.” She took a deep breath. “I will not take a tray in my room as I’d said earlier, but I will be readied for dinner by seven.”
“Will the roast and lamb be fine, my lady?”
She nodded her approval, and Mrs. Willoughby bobbed and hurried away.
Daphne waited for him, and it was not long before the drawing room door opened, and her husband framed the doorway.
Sylvester watched her with an expression of amused interest. There was a curious pause before he strolled over to her. She detected no anger or frustration—he was a blank canvas waiting for emotions or something of the sort to be painted.
She drew a deep, fortifying breath. “I did not rescind our bargain,” she said as he stood in front of her. “I merely needed to gather my thoughts.”
A lazy grin swept his face, and awareness simmered in her blood. So grossly unfair she should have this visceral reaction from a mere smile.
“Of course. I had no other expectations,” replied her husband charmingly. “A private yacht has been reserved to ferry us across the English Channel.”
“A yacht?”
His enigmatic eyes told her very little. “Yes. There are times I have the need to be on the open seas, feel the wind on my face and the fine, salty water on my skin, hear the roar of the ocean. I thought it would be pleasant if you would accompany me.”
Daphne so badly wanted to say yes, which perplexed her to no end. Then it struck her. She was terribly afraid of falling in love with her husband, simply because nothing had ever indicated to her he was capable of such sentiments. Passion, yes… God, the way he had made her tremble in their library… He had an unsettling effect on her emotions. What if she should love him with the depth of emotions she knew she was capable of and he retreated once more to the cold and frightening man she had nothing in common with?
It is only two months…
She steadied herself with a deep breath and tried to think of a reasonable excuse to avoid going with him but instead said, “Yes.”
He smiled, and she found herself responding in kind.
“Excellent.”
“When do we depart?”
“Tomorrow. All the arrangements were made, and we’ll leave from Dover.”
“And go where?”
“Nowhere…and anywhere.”
She laughed. “You are fanciful.” She was intrigued by this side of him. “I’ll inform Letty,” she said, thinking her lady’s maid would be quite taken with the notion of being on a yacht.
Daphne made to skirt around him, but he reached out his hand and snagged her around the waist to face him. She glanced up and realized with a shock that he intended to kiss her. He lowered his head slowly, giving her enough time to push him away or step from his arms. The only sensible thing to do was leave the drawing room.
She did neither, instead tipping on her toes slightly.
It was unbearably tempting to press her mouth to his. If she allowed the intimacy of a kiss, wasn’t that the doorway to her undoing? She was already so very aware of him. That echoing emptiness crept from the corners of her heart and darted through her. Daphne knew the press of his lips, the scent of him, the comfort of touch, the thrill of passion would suppress the chasm.
She should be doing everything in her heart to resist whatever this was, for if she allowed him close enough, he would soon be in her bed, and that way led to disaster, she knew it with a certainty that defied logic. Her lips paused a whisper below his, and the fingers on her hips tensed. A rush of fierce anticipation flowed through her veins, yet the dratted man did not press his advantage at her evident willingness. Instead, he waited, an odd sort of tension riding the air.
He kissed her. She made a soft sound and parted her lips. He tasted of mint, spice, and Sylvester himself. His tongue lightly skimmed along her lower lip, and she softened more against him. Then it was over.
Her lids fluttered open, and she stared at him in bemusement.
“Thank you,” he said.
She suddenly knew with a shattering certainty that their marriage as it had existed in that cold, indifferent state was over. What stood on the other side of the invitation, pain or happiness, she did not know, but she was willing for the next several weeks to discover it.