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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.
Chapter Eight
By noon the next day, Sylvester and his countess were aboard a private yacht, having embarked in Dover, and now bobbed atop the waters of the English Channel with too much vigor for a lady’s sensibilities. Except his countess seemed to be enthralled with every dip and churn as the luxurious vessel rolled with the waves, the sails flapping in the wind. Most of the crew were below deck, and only a handful were awake to guide their yacht safely in the darkened waters. Sylvester had known strapping men who had become violently ill, and even when they reached land could not seem to orient themselves. Not Daphne. Even now, she stood on the deck, holding onto the railings, her face lifted to the night sky, the vast, dark beauty of the sea splayed before them, with only a sliver of light from the moon to light their surroundings.
Daphne’s sensual figure was clad in boy’s breeches and a billowing shirt that did nothing to hide her mouthwatering curves. How delighted and shocked she had been when he had suggested she dress so scandalously. But he believed in being prepared for the unexpected, like a sunken ship. It would be easier to swim to safety without a dress hampering her. He moved as soundlessly as possible across the deck, but she sensed his presence. She turned, and her face lit up, a welcoming smile curving her mouth, then it faded. The laughter also vanished from her eyes, and as simply as that, everything felt meaningless.
“No,” he said. “Smile for me.”
It took him a second to recognize the anxiety that glittered in her brilliant eyes. “Sylvester, I—”
“Please.”
“I do not smile on command,” she said, her eyes suddenly dancing with humor.
It was not the same, but he would take it. He felt the strangest compulsion to make her happy. “I hate that your joy leeches whenever you see me. At first, there is a pleasure, which warms me, but it invariably fades as caution wins out.”
“You do not steal my happiness, my lord.” She turned away from him, toward the open water, and lifted her face to the night stars. “Isn’t it beautiful, Sylvester? I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.”
He felt invigorated by the soft bite of the wind, the soft whisper and sometimes powerful crash of the waves. “I do this sometimes. Sail for days when I want to escape the noise in my head. I have a smaller boat I take out myself from Dover.”
She slanted him an enigmatic glance. “What kind of noise crowds your thoughts?”
He hesitated briefly, and a shadow darkened her eyes.
“The ones that echo unrelentingly of duty and helping others. The frustration of having a motion turned down in Parliament by pigheaded lords, the desperate plight of the people, and the fascination that is my countess.”
“Fascinated by me, are you?”
He was bemused by the tone of slight wonder in her voice. “Quite so. Tell me, what do you enjoy, my countess?”
“You truly wish to know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I like long walks. When I am in the country, sometimes I stroll for hours admiring the beauty of the rolling countryside. Often I become quite lost in my thoughts and the possibilities of the future.”
“You were lonely,” he said gruffly, wishing he’d tried to see beyond his anger much earlier. When he’d just met her, Sylvester had been enchanted by her lively wit, and it gutted him to know that he hadn’t tried to remember that about her. How had he never seen that her smile was sweetly charming and not sophisticated and cynical? Several times he found himself wondering if he hadn’t had that brush with death, how long would the pain of the past have held him from seeking contentment with his wife. With me you’ll never be lonely again.
She lifted a shoulder in an inelegant shrug. “I’ve taken an interest in several charities, but the Havendale Orphanage is very special to me. I visit the children at least once a week, and I always take them presents. They are quite delightful, and several are musically and otherwise artistically inclined. I’ve recently added a music room and an art room and hired extra tutors for them.”
“That is quite commendable,” he said quietly, wondering how he could have thought her life had only been about balls and routs.
“The bills were frightfully expensive, and I’ve directed them all to you.”
Her eyes were laughing at him, and it struck him how beautiful they were. His wife had a quick wit and humor. He liked that.
He held up his hands in mock dismay. “I’m quite used to your frightfully expensive bills.” He had gotten them season after season, some so outlandish his lawyers had spluttered and waited for him to curtail her spending and her exorbitant allowance. Sylvester had done neither, and he had never quite understood why.
“What else do you enjoy?”
“I am dreadfully fond of horrid novels. Papa thought—” She glanced away.
He moved to stand beside her, close enough their elbows brushed where they rested atop the railing. “There is no past for the next several weeks, remember? Please, freely speak of your father.” It killed a part of him to even think of the man who had brought his sister to such depth of despair, but he had to start somewhere. He could not keep thinking of his wife and her family in the same breath.
“You anticipate it returning, do you?”
“The past?”
“Yes.”
“The sting will eventually fade altogether.”
Her mouth softened, and the urge to re
ach out and drag her into his arms and press his lips to hers was suddenly a fire in his veins.
“Papa never really approved. He thought reading such novels would give me unladylike notions. However, Mamma insisted I be allowed to read them, and he loved her quite desperately, so I was given the freedom to read what I wanted.”
The wistfulness in her voice tugged at something inside of him. “You miss them.”
“Every day. Especially Mamma.”
Silence lingered, and he lifted the carafe he had taken from his cabin. “Do you care for a drink?”
“Is your strategy to get me drunk, my lord?”
A shiver of pleasure went through him at her teasing question. “Would it work, I wonder?”
For the first time, a tiny hint of mischief flickered in his wife’s eyes. She gave a tiny shrug. “Perhaps not. I am made of frightfully stern stuff.” She chuckled, and the sweet, carefree sound pleased him in a way that left him discomfited.
She looked down, watching the water for several seconds before turning to him. “I can see the stars,” she murmured. “And they are quite splendid, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” he answered, unable to take his regard from the prettiness of her features.
“You are not looking at the sky.”
“You are a far more interesting study.” He wanted to know her. The need curled through him with shocking intensity.
His countess made no reply. Instead, she faced the open sea once more. The moonlight glinted off the surface of the water, and they fell into a few moments of companionable silence watching the water rush by.
“Would you like to lounge on the deck chairs?”
Daphne glanced toward the reclined chairs. “Yes, I would.”
She went over and sat, leaning back with a gusty sigh of bliss. He lowered himself onto the chair beside her and similarly relaxed his frame in the sturdy and comfortable chair. Sylvester took a healthy swig from the flask and swallowed the burn of fiery liquid. Then he handed her the bottle. His countess took it and tipped it, the elegant line of her throat working on a swallow.
