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“And your opinion now?”
“Oh, definitely scandalous, but also delightful. I like that the distinction of rank is not overtly observed here. There are just people being awed by the same sights and entertainments,” she said with a light laugh, tucking a wisp of hair that had escape its elegant chignon behind her ear.
The place was an awful crush despite the vast size, and to Sylvester, it seemed everyone chose tonight to visit the pleasure gardens. She licked an ice, her lids fluttering in pleasure. The summer night was balmy, and the air was redolent with flowers, food, and the unpleasant smell of the Thames River. His countess was delighted with it all, and he, in turn, felt a quick dart of pleasure whenever she smiled or gasped, or gaped in appalled disbelief at some witnessed debauchery, of which they had seen quite a bit.
A child ran laughing near the pathway on which they walked, stumbled, and fell to the ground. He grabbed his knee and wailed. Daphne rushed forward and stooped down to gather the boy into her arms. His countess crooned nonsense, uncaring that the child was dirty or that grass stains had ruined her dress. The little boy’s tears halted, and he peered up at her with wide eyes. She spoke, and he nodded, his lower lip trembling. Sylvester glanced about, searching for the child’s parents. The little boy could be no older than five years, far too young to be left unchaperoned in this crush.
He returned his attention to his wife as she tenderly brushed a fingertip across the boy’s cheek. He nodded happily at whatever she said, slipping his grubby fingers through hers. Daphne stood and, instead of letting the boy walk, lifted him into her arms, anchoring him at her hip, uncaring that he dirtied her dress.
She looked at him and pointed. The boy’s face scrunched into a frown, his lips moved, and his countess laughed, a rich, throaty sound that landed in Sylvester’s gut like a hot, pleasurable slide of whisky. How he wished he were close enough to hear what had elicited such a reaction. She presented a very appealing picture with the child in her arms, and there was a glow in her eyes he had never seen before. He considered the boy, his stomach twisting in an odd, tight knot. The notion of an heir had always been so intangible. He hadn’t taken the time to envision a child, one with his stubborn chin and her beautiful eyes. The idea of an heir had simply been impressed upon him since he was a child as a most critical part of his duty.
With a certainty he could not shake, he knew Daphne would be a delightful mother. It was she who would soothe their aches and discomforts, wipe the blood from skinned knees, romp with them on the lake and lawns, and read to them. She wouldn’t relegate their children’s care to nursemaids and governesses. She would be a fierce protector of their children, a lioness, and she would also teach them kindness and love.
He could imagine children, not one or two but perhaps three or four, running on the lawns, streams of ribbons behind them while Daphne gave chase. Then he saw himself cradling her rounded stomach, feeling the kick of their child beneath their palms. He’d never before wanted children simply as a desire, it had always been about duty and expectations, heirs and the blasted title. A different sort of yearning erupted through his heart. The sensations were unknown. He couldn’t define them, but they were entirely pleasant and appealing.
A harried-looking lady burst forth from the crowd, screaming, “Oliver!”
The child’s head twisted, searching for the caller. “Mamma!”
Daphne set him down. The lady saw him, and the profound relief in her expression brought a lump to Sylvester’s throat. She ran to the boy and lifted him into her arms.
The lady bobbed in a curtsy to Daphne, smiling her thanks, before turning away with her son. His countess strolled over to him, a secret smile playing on her lips, her elegant brow arched in question.
No doubt he appeared as poleaxed as he felt. The shattering awareness that he was possibly falling in love with his wife rocked him on his heels. There could be no other explanation of the lust and tenderness, the urgent need to just hold her. Sylvester saw the possibility of a future he suddenly ached, quite desperately, to bring into existence, and only with her. A sliver of uncertainty burrowed under his skin and lodged itself. He had to consider that she would possibly hate him forever if he denied her the freedom she wished for. Perhaps she would need more than two months, perhaps she would need years to experience the life she longed for.
Sylvester had not been honest when they struck his bargain, and the realization soured in his gut. There had been no plan to ever let her go, only to show her that they could indeed have an amiable marriage, one that he could see now only benefited him. He feared his countess was waiting for their bargain to expire so she could claim her freedom. That was evident from the single-minded way she resisted his advances. Oftentimes he caught her with a faraway look in her eyes, and he had wondered what she dreamed of—freedom or passion in his arms.
His gut warned him it was freedom. And that he could not even contemplate. He would have to be more ruthless in his seduction efforts.
Chapter Eleven
Sylvester and his countess made their way through the crowd toward the queue of carriages. An amiable silence lingered, one he had no desire to shatter, and his countess seemed like-minded. They entered the carriage and settled back. Their carriage would take at least half an hour to cross the bridge and make its way to Piccadilly.
She flashed him a slow, enchanting smile. “Tonight has been marvelous.”
“Delightful,” he agreed.
His gaze settled on her ripe, tempting mouth. There was a compelling need to kiss her, not because of the wonderful sensuality she glowed with, but because he needed to taste her. Perhaps then he would find a centering against the raw, unknown emotions twisting through him.
Her eyes flared wide when he reached for her and tugged her onto his lap.
“Sylvester, what—”
He kissed her. He simply had to. The feel of her lips against his was warm, intimate, almost sweet. His wife made an incoherent sound of delight before she parted her lips for a deeper embrace, and he shamelessly pressed his advantage. He wanted her hot and wet and wanton for him…and he used her untapped passion against her, kissing her over and over before she could regain her wits. He savored her taste, her sweet whimpers, then he consumed and ravished, taking her lips with shocking carnality.
And she responded with burning flames of sensuality.
They pulled apart, breathing rapidly. He whispered her name on a harsh breath. Her lips were swollen a
nd glistening. She looked wildly desirable, and he wanted nothing more than to press her down on the squabs and make love to her. But he wouldn’t. Her first time would not be in a carriage.
He lowered his forehead to hers, waiting for the feverish demands of his body to ebb. Slowly he lifted his hand to her face, letting his thumb trace her jaw and over her lips.
“It seems lovely for a walk. Don’t you agree?” she murmured huskily, pressing a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.
Their equipage rumbled through the fashionable quarters and the night seemed alive. He rapped the roof, and a delighted smile crossed her face as the carriage slowed. Sylvester exited and helped her down.
“I feel like tonight is perfect to visit the Asylum. I believe Georgiana is there with her viscount. And I procured the most delightful mask in preparation for Lady Pembroke’s annual masquerade ball.”
He glanced pointedly at her hair.
“I do have wigs,” she murmured, her eyes alight with excitement. “We could hurry home and return within the hour.”
This was another aspect of her character he liked—her spontaneity, so very different from the structured way he lived.
“Carrington.”
The rough demand of his name had him glancing away from his wife’s face. Sylvester faltered as three men approached, deliberately crowding his space.
“Who’s asking?” he demanded flatly, though he had some notion as to what was happening. The dart of alarm that pierced his heart was unpleasant. Never had he thought anyone would dare approach while his countess was with him.
“Sylvester, you know these…gentlemen?” Daphne queried softly, her fingers tightening on his elbow. She had sensed all was not as it should be, and a swift surge of admiration went through him at her calm demeanor.
One of the rougher-looking men cracked his neck and fingers, clearly indicating they intended to be violent. Savagery slithered inside Sylvester, and he ruthlessly buried the desire.
