AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“There are things I need that you are not able to give me, I am quite certain.”
That cool smile tempted him, challenged him.
This intrigued him. “I am the Earl of Carrington.”
Her expression turned exasperated. “Therefore?”
“There is nothing I cannot procure for you.”
She laughed, and it warmed somewhere deep inside him he hadn’t realized was chilled.
“You are arrogant.”
That response was not sufficient for him. “A coveted estate?”
She frowned. “What?”
“What is it you need—an estate, rare jewels, a new carriage? I am very curious.”
There was an odd flicker in her eyes, then she considered him with unnerving calm. “None of those things, my lord. I have thousands of pounds, so I can readily purchase these things.”
If her yearnings were not in the materialistic vein, what were they? “Love?” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Is that what you hunger for?”
She flinched, very subtly, and if he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he would have missed it. His heart trembled in his chest, and he frowned at the odd arrow of sensation that darted through him, only to quickly disappear.
“Is that want you want?” His voice sounded rough, foreign to his ears.
The gentle sea wind ruffled their hair.
“Do you have it to give?”
She seemed braced for his response, and he recalled their wedding night when she had asked if he had affection for her. His “no” had been clipped and angry. The look of pain and rejection in her eyes had been unbearable to see, and he had walked away, shutting off his emotions and the guilt and rage that came with the entire sordid affair. Strange how he hadn’t realized how hollow his feelings had been for years. It was as if he did nothing with his emotions, only followed a sense of honor and duty.
Love was never a part of the deal or even an expectation for Sylvester. Even if he had not caved in to blackmail and had waited to take a wife of his own choice, he would have married because of his duty and obligations to his title. Certainly, he desired respect and a modicum of affection. But love? How did he even define and quantify the emotion?
Her eyes were more curious than anything else as they gazed at him, and he searched them intently, at a loss as to what he was seeking in her golden depths. Knowing what he fought against, a distraction hovered on his lips. Instead, he found himself responding with honesty. “I find the notion of romantic love vague and farfetched. What do you suppose it is?”
She made a choking sound. “You do not know what love is?”
“I have the deepest affection for my sister and mother. I want to care for them, protect them, and know they are contented with their lot in life. The few people I’ve heard sing rhapsodies about their paramours were almost violent in their declarations. I must say the emotions differ at a fundamental level at best.”
“I daresay familial love and romantic love hold the same ingredients. The latter may, perhaps, have a bit more spice and sweetness.”
“Do you speak from experience?” he asked, recalling her wish to be with Redgrave. The sting of jealousy bit along his skin, and he pushed back the emotion.
His wife was peering up at him as if she found him fascinating. “I thought I did once.”
“With the viscount?”
Her eyes widened. “Of course not.” She licked her lips, a seemingly nervous gesture, and Sylvester found himself staring at her ripe, tempting mouth.
He shifted, suddenly uncomfortably with the direction of his desires. Though he had promised to kiss and tempt her at each opportunity, he did not want her to believe that was all their weeks together would be about. He frowned. What was it all about? The only desire that had pushed him to even think about his countess was an heir. But now…
He glanced down at her to see that she hadn’t moved her regard.
“What do you truly want from life?” He couldn’t credit that it would be scandal and ruin and divorce. There had been a time when she wanted something else, something from their marriage.
“I want to feel.”
Her soft response felt like a punch in his gut. How many days had he, too, wondered if life was only about duty and going through the motions? Weariness stole over him. Strange, he hadn’t truly accepted that he was lonely or that he needed something more from life. Not when he was so committed with other honorable men to making England better. He leaned back in the chair and grunted as pain lanced through his shoulders.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
Her gaze narrowed. “It is the wound on your shoulder. It has not healed.”
She pushed from him, her knees digging perilously close to his cock. At her encouragement, he sat up and removed his waistcoat and shirt.
Daphne inhaled sharply. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“My valet and I do a good job.”
“Not good enough,” she muttered. “It is red and swollen. I need bandages or clean linens, and needle and thread.”
A few minutes later, her maid delivered the required material, and she probed at his shoulder. Pain darted under his skin, and he tensed. He grinned as he swore he heard her mutter that he deserved it.
“I do not believe it to be infected.”
He grunted softly, thinking he would happily endure several more wounds to have her hands on his body forever. Stoically bearing the pain, he made no comment when she imperiously asked for the rum and poured it liberally across his injury. A hiss escaped him at the raw sting. His wife soaked the thread in the rum and made what felt like the finest of stiches into his skin.
He wondered if she realized she paused at intervals to rub soothing circles on his shoulder while muttering soft, crooning words. Sylvester couldn’t help smiling. She fascinated him. Undoubtedly fierce, evident in the way she declared what she desired, yet so achingly sweet and soft. Her tender touches left him painfully hard. His feelings for his countess were much more complex than he’d realized.
“There, all done.”
Reaching up, he gently caught her wrist in his fingers and guided her until she stood before his splayed legs. “Thank you.”
Her lips curved into a sweetly sensual smile, and dark lashes shielded the expression in her eyes. “I couldn’t very well let you die on me, now could I?”
The blast of pleasure at her teasing rocked him. And he had the visceral awareness he wanted his wife more than he’d wanted any woman or anything else in his life.
Chapter Nine
It was, of course, impossible to sleep, or even pretend it.
Daphne was curled onto her side on the small bed in the otherwise spacious cabin with her husband lying motionless behind her. She was maddeningly conscious of his body next to hers. They had spent another hour or so on the deck, and she would allow she’d never had a more wonderful
time. Sometimes they were silent and simply watched the stars, other times they talked, about anything and everything. It had seemed frighteningly normal. That this is what their marriage could be like had been a resounding thought. The laughter, the friendship as they drank and shared the things they cared about. And the sweet tension that had filled her with every heated stare from her husband, every brush of his breath against her nape, and the gradual hardness that had formed beneath her buttocks, which they had elected to ignore.
She’d had no idea what their days together would be like. So far nothing had gone as she’d expected. Somehow, when they’d retired she had thought they would occupy separate cabins. The vessel had certainly seemed large enough. As it was, Daphne dismissed Letty to another cabin when her husband had entered hers dressed in only black trousers and bare feet. The earl’s state of undress had disconcerted Daphne. Her lady’s maid had squeaked her mortification and hurried from the cabin, her eyes downcast. The wretched man had chuckled, amusement dancing in his green eyes.
With toiletries completed, she had slipped between the sheets on the small bed. He had joined her, and Daphne was certain an hour had passed, and she was still unable to sleep. She was simply too aware of the man behind her. Unwilling to examine her feelings closely, Daphne found herself oddly restless. She shifted, and he swore under his breath. Her eyes widened.
She wriggled again, and he said some choice words, ones that were decidedly unfit for a lady to hear. She fought a smile and lost. It bemused her that she was grinning widely.
If only she could tempt and torment him for six years.
“Merciful Christ,” he muttered, sounding thoroughly aggrieved. “Please, be still, my wife.”
My wife. She tried, truly she did, but a full minute passed before she kicked the cotton sheets from her leg, feeling unbearably warm. Her body felt incredibly alive, every sense somehow keener. “Are you sleeping?”
He grunted. She sighed. There was an awful frustration tugging at her insides without an ounce of mercy.
“Take what you need,” he said softly.
