Chapter Two
Present day…
London, May 1822
Daphne Wentworth, Lady Carrington, allowed Viscount Redgrave to twirl her across the ballroom with effortless grace. But it was impossible to lose herself in the rhythm of the sensuous waltz due to the voices of doubt and uncertainty rioting inside over her chosen path. Though the ball was an anticipated event of the season and promised to be great fun, Daphne was frightfully unhappy, a state she feared would soon drive her mad. Emptiness rose inside her like a great swell, threatening to choke her.
She was three and twenty and had never been truly kissed, never been seduced by a charming scoundrel…or the man she had fallen in love with six years ago—Sylvester Wentworth, the eleventh Earl of Carrington, and her husband. How naive and foolish she had been. A man such as he had not been capable of love or even tender sentiments. Not then, and over the years he had only grown more austere, garnering a reputation for being remorseless and unforgiving. And she was his wife, his countess. She had once ached for him with such intensity that even now the mere memory had her breath trembling.
Their marriage was not one of convenience or love, but one born through hatred and blackmail. Though it was safe to say his hatred had evolved over the years to cold indifference.
Indifference. How the notion stung, deeply. She had once only desired the admiration of Sylvester. Now she was glad they hardly saw each other. The cruel charade of her marriage had become unbearable.
Blackmail and dishonor netted you a title. I hope it keeps you warm when the nights are long, cold, and lonely…Countess.
Words said years ago on her wedding night echoed in her heart with the same brutal sting. Oh, Papa. How she wished he had not interfered. Daphne had been too excited, too naive, and too foolish to consider the sudden engagement without the benefit of a lengthy courtship odd. Certainly, some of the blame rested on her shoulders for not wondering why an earl with such estimable wealth and connection would offer for her so suddenly. Nor had she thought overly much of his reticence on one of the few occasions he paid his addresses, and on their wedding day. Daphne had truly believed him to be similarly captivated. How silly she had been when she had thought she was worldly and self-aware because she was well-read.
The waltz ended, and they glided along the edge of the ballroom, the heat of the crush almost stifling.
“You are delightful,” the viscount murmured in a low, intimate tone. “I wish to dance with you again.”
Lord Redgrave’s eyes glowed with warmth and heat, and she wished she could respond, but she would not. He hardly understood her reticence. After all, almost every lord and lady of the ton was indulging in some affair. It was a well-known fact most were not faithful; their proclivities were simply not commented on. It wasn’t that she found Redgrave unattractive. Far from it. He was the prime catch of the season. He was handsome, with his dark blond locks, hazel eyes, and one of the most charming smiles she had ever encountered.
“We’ve already danced the quadrille and a waltz. Tongues will wag if we dare anymore,” she said with a small smile to remove the sting of her refusal.
She tilted her head gracefully, absently noting the manner in which his gaze lingered on the gentle swell of her breasts, how it dipped and stayed on her hips. The viscount wished to be her lover, and he was naive enough to believe they could cuckold her husband and live to enjoy their stolen moments. The few kisses he had pressed upon her were pleasant, but Daphne would not allow more until she was free. And even then, she was not certain if she would enjoy a liaison with him.
At times it frustrated her heart that she did not desire him in the same manner. She did like him, a lot. He made her laugh, and his charming and affable company was such a delight. But it was only her husband who had the power to make her ache with need from a mere stare. Except that dratted man wanted nothing whatsoever to do with her.
“May I procure you a glass of champagne, my lady?”
“Yes.”
He smiled, a hopeful tendre in his eyes, before moving through the crowd to fulfill her wish. The piece the orchestra had been playing had ended, and then another waltz was announced to the delight of the throng. A dark yellow turban crossed her line of sight, and she stiffened. A few matrons standing on the sidelines made it their duty to glance in her direction, then back at the owner of the feathered turban and scandalous yellow dress. The last ball she had attended, her husband had only danced with that woman, Lady Felicity Mclean, and society had taken note.
Unable to bear the loud laughter, the clink of glasses, and the sudden stifling heat of the overcrowded ballroom, Daphne pushed through the crowd, almost running to reach the terrace doors. She escaped onto the balcony, taking great gulps of fresh air, grateful there was no one else present. She lifted her face to the stars, appreciating the beauty of the night. A rustle sounded, and she spun on her heels.
Lord Redgrave moved toward her and handed her the glass of golden liquid.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Daphne.” He tugged at his cravat, a grimace twisting his handsome features. “Please leave with me tonight.”
She would have to be polite and firm for both their sakes, though if she were honest with herself, he did not rouse a fierce passion within her. Though she longed to be held and kissed, it was not his arms she envisioned around her, nor his touch she wanted dipping in the valley of her bosom. No, late at night, when she allowed her questing fingers to tentatively explore her body…she always imagined the shadowy figure of her earl.
She hadn’t felt anything in so very long, and Redgrave had tried, except his smoldering intensity left her unmoved. Sadly, she was simply a marble effigy. Had she ever felt desire? It was a startling notion to contemplate. For a while, she had been infatuated with her husband, but he had done nothing to deepen their attachment in all the years they had been married. Six cold and lonely years, devoid of any touch or mutual affection.
Her throat burned, and the yawning chasm loomed once more. Six years, and she’d kept every desire and passionate wish buried beneath the surface of her skin and played her role of Lady Carrington to perfection.
No more.
However, if she left Lady Cantrell’s ball with the viscount, the scandal sheets would surely mention it, and she would eventually have to give an account to her husband. Not that he was a man inclined to gossip or reading the scandal sheets, but he had a network of spies through all of London, from the highest lord in society to the poorest beggar found in the slums of London. His ravens, his loyalists, those who lauded him for his honor and his courage. Sylvester was one of the few powerful lords who fought with such resilience for slaves, who had made enemies as he publicly lent his support to end the barbaric practice, and he had survived at least a dozen assassination attempts. Or so the rabid rumors declared. He was a man admired and feared in equal measure, and it distressed Daphne to realize she similarly regarded her husband.
Remembering Redgrave was still waiting for her to say she’d leave with him, she said, “I cannot.”
“The scandal sheets will speculate it was the presence of Lady Felicity who caused you to flee. Nothing more, I promise.”
Consternation bit deep. “Was I truly that obvious?”
“I fear you were. You know what the rumors say.”
She did—several months ago there was gross speculation that her husband had found himself a mistress. He had danced with Lady Felicity, which had been shocking, for he had never danced with his wife in all the years they had been married. She recoiled from the memory of her shattered pride, how heavy her heart had felt, and how she had wept that night into her pillows.
“Daphne, darling, let me make love to you.”
She darted a glance at Redgrave from the corner of her eye. “No,” she said firmly.
“Blast it! Why are you so loyal to him when you are clearly discontented?” He thrust his fingers through his hair. “Daphne, darling, you smile, but your eyes are blank. You dance in my arms, but your thoughts are miles away. You gamble quite recklessly, and I think sometimes it is to draw his attention.”
She stared at him in mute shock. “I…I do not think of Carrington.” Redgrave’s sigh implied he knew she fibbed, and a mortified flush crawled up her neck. “We should return inside.”
“Come home with me, Daphne, please. It’s been several months. I want you, desperately.”
“Your persistence does you no credit.” Normally Redgrave respected her decision, except for the few times he allowed passion to overtake his common sense. Like now.
Death would indeed be a blessing if she were to ever succumb to her loneliness and Sylvester discovered her infidelity. Discretion in the ton was a myth. Her earl was reputed to be one of the most powerful, honorable, and ruthless lords in all of London.
“I am hoping for a divorce from Carrington,” she said softly, whispering the damning truth for the second time. She had confided in her dearest friend, Georgiana, the Duchess of Hardcastle, now Viscountess Montrose, only last week of her impossible ambitions.
“You wish to have a divorce?”
“Yes.”
Redgrave stiffened, an almost eager light entering his eyes. “Is he beating you?”
As if that would be enough. A man could beat his wife as if she were merely chattel. Parliament would only take note if it was excessively cruel physical punishment with a very heavy burden to prove it and then it would be hideously expensive as well.
“How absurd. Carrington is honorable,” she said, then took a deep breath. “He would have to be the one to divorce me, and perhaps there is a way to encourage my earl in that direction.”
“Daphne, darling, the scandal would never be overcome, and have you considered the cost to your reputation?”
What she’d considered was her emptiness, and that she felt shackled to a life she no longer desired. In truth, she had never aspired to such elevation. Her father had wanted her future secured, and she had been eager to marry for love. Her romantic dreams had been frivolous. Now there were so many things she craved, and perhaps if she were bold enough, they would be unlocked to her. She had enough wealth to move to France or Italy and live a life that was free from society’s expectations. Perhaps she would eventually remarry. Perhaps.
She did desire a life of contented bliss with a lover, eventually a child to cradle in her arms and love. About two years into her sham of a marriage, she had thought Carrington’s desire for an heir would eventually drive him into her arms. But he had shown no inclination to come to her bed. His needs were being satisfied elsewhere, and she had been too much of a coward to find out who was his mistress. It had been a relief no rumor had surrounded the topic until recently.
“Daphne…I…I do not believe I could marry you after the scandal of a divorce. My family would be most displeased,” Redgrave said, wariness settling on his face.
She could not help it, she laughed. “Do not be absurd, my lord. If I should ever be so free, I promise you, I would never exchange one cage for another.”
He scowled. “What are you saying?”
“I am not interested in the bonds and shackles of matrimony. I’ll remarry no man, and if I do eventually remarry, it will be my desire and on my terms.”
His expression cleared, and a relieved smile curved his lips upward. “I’ll set you up as my mistress, very discreetly, of course.”
“I’ll be no man’s mistress, either, Lord Redgrave,” she said softly. “I like you, and if I do decide to be your lover, that is all it would be. I do not need to be anyone’s mistress. My father ensured I was wealthy in my own right.” Society would hardly welcome her again, even if she could rely on her true friends to not cut her.
“You will not regret taking me to be your lover. I promise I will adore you forever, Daphne,” he said with earnest desperation. “Please, darling, come home with me to my townhouse tonight. Let me prove my adoration to you.”
“No.”
His lips tightened, and frustration flashed in his eyes. “I’ve been waiting for months for you to come to my bed.”
“I’ll not dishonor my vows,” she said softly. At least not yet… If she were to commit to her ruinous plan, she risked so much more than just her reputation, and that decision could not be taken lightly.
“Your husband does not want you,” Lord Redgrave said with raw force. “He is never here to dance with you, take you to the opera, stroll with you in the gardens. I am here, and I have been for months. Why do you give him fidelity and honor when he gives you nothing?”
Oh, the pain of it almost felled her.
The viscount stepped scandalously close and cupped her cheeks, encouraging her to lift her gaze to his. His lightly flecked green eyes glowed with need…and something that seemed frightfully like love. Her heart leaped into her throat. It was so tempting to step off the cliff she was poised upon. The feel of his hands on her cheeks was warm and inviting, and sorrow rose in her. How long had it been since anyone had touched her with such gentleness, with such obvious need?
“He would kill us,” she warned. “You are not thinking clearly.” But she was and had been for the last several months. The path forward was to persuade her earl to divorce her, by any means necessary. The ardent admiration of the viscount would not encourage her to act with recklessness.
“I promise he will not know.”
I will know, she cried silently. Her breath hitched when he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. Her fingernails clenched painfully into her palms. It was tempting to part her lips and return his intimate embrace. Though there was no passionate flare inside, Redgrave’s kisses had always been mildly pleasant, and if she could display enthusiasm, perhaps it would be so much more. However, she kept her lips firmly closed as she had always done. Daphne stepped back and cast him an admonishing glance.
The viscount closed his eyes as if pained. “Do you expect me to wait? A divorce can take years, and I doubt Carrington would even agree!”
“Then don’t wait. I’ve made no promises to you, nor do I expect any from you.”
“I spoke in haste. Devil take it, I’ll wait…I’ll wait.”
She nodded, her throat aching. Wanting to offer some comfort, she stepped into his arms and hugged him. She belatedly realized it was also to comfort herself, to just bask in the warmth of a male. A few seconds later she pulled away and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You are a good friend, my lord. Know that I appreciate you.”
A small, humorless laugh came from him, but he made no reply. Instead, he pressed his advantage and kissed her once again. She pushed against his chest, but Daphne’s struggles only made the bands of his arms tighten.
Suddenly, he released her. “You make me lose control.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How dare you. You are solely to be blamed for your lack of restraint! It is not the mark of a gentleman to imply otherwise or to act in the persistent manner you have displayed despite my ardent objections. I will terminate our friendship if you cannot respect my choices.”
“Forgive me,” he said, shame and regret heavy in his tone. “It is hard to contain my need for you when I know the truth of Carrington.”
She searched his troubled expression. “What truth?”
He glanced away, his lips flattening. When he faced her again, his eyes were wary and shadowed with secrets.
“Tell me,” she said quietly.
“I cannot.”
Daphne scoffed. “It seems your loyalty belongs to the very man you are suggesting I betray.”
A hectic flush worked itself over his cheek. However, he remained silent.
“Would you be more comfortable if I hazard several guesses?” she asked, her heart beating a cadenza inside of her chest.
He nodded stiffly.
“Does he have a mistress?” She waited, her heart thudding, for this was the information she had been seeking for the past few weeks. If she knew without a doubt her earl was unfaithful, it would be easier to put her plan into motion and act with scandalous impropriety. And perhaps if he were attached to this unknown woman, he would not overly mind the notion of a separation.
Divorces were requested by men and obtained by men. Such petitions were not within the purview of wives, and Daphne needed her earl to be the one to seek a divorce. She had done her research, discreetly. It would take an indecent amount of money if she were to retain a solicitor and have him petition Parliament on her behalf. Her solicitor, Mr. William Knightly, had gently explained that the few women who had been brave enough to face society’s scorn and the Church and successfully petitioned for a divorce had extenuating circumstances like incestuous adultery, bigamy, and intolerable physical cruelty to present to the courts. What did she have? Carrington had never lifted a finger to her—in pain or pleasure. In fact, she barely existed on his scale of importance. Perhaps she was not even there.
There was no proof of her earl having a mistress, not that Sylvester indulging in an ordinary affair would qualify for grounds of separation. It was then Mr. Knightly had suggested a bit of deception. The earl would have to make the petition himself, based on her scandalous actions. She would have to indulge in a very public affair, or several, and force his hand and honor into repudiating her.
Having liaisons outside of the marriage bed was an everyday occurrence to those of influence. Women had given her a few sympathetic nods, and the men had assessed her hurt to see if they could take advantage of any vulnerability. It was all part of the spinning of cogwheels that kept their society turning. But if the lady was not discreet…and her husband became aware of his cuckoldry, then other elements were risked, namely the possibility of an illegal duel, banishment, a beating, and in several cases, divorce.
Days after that pronouncement from Mr. Knightly she had been unable to sleep, unable to enjoy the frivolities of the season. Her husband was formidable, and the very notion of putting such a plan into motion filled her with more nerves than she could cope with. But how else to be free? How else to take a slice of happiness for herself?
“Yes,” Lord Redgrave said. “Lord Carrington has a mistress.”
Daphne jerked, quite surprised at how the answer pierced her heart. “I see. Is it Lady Felicity?” How it irritated Daphne that her husband had danced with that woman.
“I am unsure,” the viscount muttered.
She touched his arms lightly. “Thank you for informing me. You are a dear friend.”
Redgrave’s lips curved ever so slightly, and it struck her quite forcibly that he wanted to tear down the fidelity she gave her husband.
There was a shadow of something deceptive in his gaze that had her heart calcifying in her chest. “There is more, Daphne.”
“Just tell me,” she said through bloodless lips. “Surely it cannot get any worse.”
“My sources inform me Carrington means to procure a divorce. Julian was in his cups, so I am not certain if he tells the truth.”
Julian Cavanaugh, Marquess of Belmont, was a known associate of her husband.
The fissure in her heart cracked even wider. “On what grounds?” She had not given him any reason yet, and she was decidedly curious, and perhaps there was more driving her questing, for an indefinable emotion had taken hold of her heart and would not abate. She pressed her trembling hands to her stomach, desperately seeking to stop the nervous flutters. Relief should have filled her that her husband could be moving in the direction she required without Daphne needing to trade her honor.
But now her situation appeared all too real. No longer was she in the realm of jotting down ideas and turning them over in her thoughts or discussing them with Mr. Knightly. Was Sylvester finally exhausted with their cold, lonely marriage? How she wished to know if the same disappointed pain in her heart lingered within him. Did he want the freedom to be with someone else?
Their marriage was such a strange one, giving the impression of being whole when it held no sentiments. Whenever he was in England, they had dinner every night, except when he dined at his club or with a friend. She hosted his political meetings and parties, he attended a few balls with her, and on the rare occasion, they took carriage rides together at Hyde Park. To all intents and purposes, they had a normal marriage, and according to a few, foolish romantics of the ton, they were a most admired couple. If anyone had thought it odd they did not dance together at balls, no remark had been given. The smattering of gossips had implied her husband found such activities frivolous, which is why his decision to dance with Lady Felicity had caused an uproar.
Suddenly, irrationally, rage flared through her, burning away the pain and the loneliness. Their marriage could have been so very different. She had made many overtures, and he’d remained uncivil and indifferent.
This is what I want, she reminded herself fiercely. For Carrington to set me free.
Redgrave frowned, his gaze searching her face quite intently. “I did not think you would be injured.”
“I am not,” said Daphne.
“Then why are you crying?” he demanded gruffly.
She lifted a finger to her cheek, startled to feel the wetness. Only ice had hardened in her chest, there was no fiery pulse of emotions. “Perhaps I am wounded after all.”
The words settled between them, heavy and fraught. And a peculiar triumph flashed in his eyes. “Come, let us walk farther into the gardens.”
They strolled in silence, and the edge of suspension Daphne felt hung on had her hands trembling. They came upon a hidden alcove with a small stone bench. She sat, and he lowered himself beside her.
“I believe there may be another solution to your quandary.” Redgrave glanced over his shoulder, before leaning in close. “Do you still have the letters?”
Her mind blanked for precious seconds. “What letters?”
He shot her a chiding look. “Come, my lady, the letters your father left in your care, the ones that gave you all the power you needed over Carrington.”
The moon dipped, and for a moment something sinister glowed in his eyes.
“I have no notion of what you speak.”
“Your brother discreetly mentioned the viscount had given you the means to bring your earl to heel.”
Blast Henry. How dare he speak of private family matters! Her heart jerked to hear of her father’s deplorable actions spoken of so lightly. The day after her marriage Daphne had confronted her father and had been met with a cold wall of silence. His lack of denial had wounded her deeply, and he had never divulged what information he had used to net her the title of countess. “You speak nonsense. I have no such letters.”
Frustration flashed across his features before he buried it under charming affability. Wariness shifted through her. What is going on? “Why would you be interested in letters that have the power to ruin Carrington?” Not that she believed such a thing remotely possible.
“My dear Daphne, I only thought to help you. With such a bargaining chip, you could prevent the earl from divorcing you.”
“I want him to procure a divorce.”
He smiled insincerely. “The privilege you have as countess is unmatched. The scandal of a divorce would see you never welcomed into society’s fold again. I offer you another solution to scandal and ruin, my darling. You could use the information your father left to keep your earl in check. Just imagine having such power. You could do anything you desire without fear—take a lover, gamble as much as you want, host scandalous parties. Just think of the freedom not to be burdened with disgrace.”
She canted her head to consider the dear friend who had been pursuing her for almost a year to be his lover. For the first time, she realized his attentions ran ominously deeper than his declared affections. “Do you know the content of these mysterious letters, Lord Redgrave?”
“No,” he growled. “Your father’s journal did not say. Only that he would make provisions to leave them with you.”
Her mouth went dry. “Where is this journal?”
“Your brother has it.”
And somehow the man before her, now revealed to be a possible snake, had charmed the information from her too trusting brother. An ache settled in her heart. Oh, Papa. “My father died suddenly. He gave me no letters.” And even if she had possessed any such damning letters, she would not give them to her brother or anyone else.
She stood. “I’m tired, Lord Redgrave, I bid you good evening. I will not betray the confidence you shared with me tonight.”
He jumped to his feet, reached for her hands, and pressed a kiss to the glove’s surface. “I had hoped you would be less faithful to him when I revealed his true heart.”
Daphne withdrew her hand from his eager clasp. “Did you?”
Without waiting for a reply, she walked away, eager to be home. If she could call the elegantly appointed townhouse in Grosvenor Square her home. It did not echo with laughter and love, only angry words and her bitter sobs. She hurried up the terraced steps and entered the ballroom once more. She did not linger, bidding Lady Cantrell adieu and calling for her carriage. There was a desperate ache inside her to ensconce herself in the library with a glass of sherry and think about all she had learned tonight.
She wanted a divorce.
There was the greatest possibility her husband wanted one, too.
Perhaps there was no need to start a scandal like the ton had never seen to push him toward a separation.
And most distressingly, the piercing pain that had lodged in her heart like the wickedest of barbs needed to be examined. She hungered to be free, so why did it hurt so badly?