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Daphne had retired to her room as soon as they had reached home, and he had made no effort to delay her. He would ensure Redgrave was arrested for the attempted murder of a peer if he remained in England. Sylvester had taken a bath and washed the blood from his skin that had soaked through his trousers. Then he’d rubbed liniment on his scraped and bruised knuckles. The fight had been quick and vicious, and at odd times he would feel a surge of fright in his heart when he thought of how close Daphne came to harm.
She mattered more than he thought possible, certainly more than his own life, for he had been willing to die defending his countess. The awareness felt like a revelation.
And she was possibly in love with another man. Everything inside of him rejected the notion, but it was feasible. She had pled for Redgrave’s life, and she had conversations with the viscount about the blackmail letters that Sylvester had spent months searching for after her father died. Redgrave believed they were in his countess’s possession…unless Sylvester was to trust her word that she did not have them.
He gritted his teeth, disturbed with how easy the doubts were once again stirred in his heart. He shook off the uncomfortable vulnerability, then stilled as the connecting door opened and the faint scent of jasmine reached him. Soft footfalls padded on the carpet, and then the bed dipped slightly. His countess curled into his side, breathed a heavy sigh of contentment, and fell into slumber.
Sylvester felt an unfamiliar softening inside him. He gently reached for her, ignoring her irritated murmur, and pulled her across his chest, wanting the comforting weight of her atop him. Her head lay against his chest, her hair a cloud of silver silk in the darkness.
“You are unable to sleep,” she murmured sleepily. “What can I do?”
“Are you willing to open your legs and let me ride you?”
She gasped. “No.”
“Then go to sleep.”
He could feel the beat of her heart against his chest…and her suddenly hardened nipples stabbed him through her nightgown. Her hesitation despite her arousal spoke volumes. Something dark and possessive stirred inside of him, and he badly wanted to grab her hip, drag her up the length of his body, and punish her with kisses and more.
“Are you in love with Redgrave?”
She jolted and tried to move, but Sylvester’s hand tightened across her shoulders. “No, I am not, and I never was. I fell in love with you that day by the river, and despite your stupidity, no one has ever replaced you in my heart.”
A surge of longing that went much deeper than carnal desire went through him. Warmth filled the iciness that had been encasing his insides. Perhaps he had gone a little mad, but words of love from her felt as necessary as breathing, and the significance of that realization was shocking.
“Go to sleep, my husband,” she murmured.
The tension inside of him eased, his heart calmed, and he allowed his eyes to drift closed and the calm of sleep to take him away.
…
The following afternoon Sylvester arrived at Northbrook Park in Hampstead for a visit with his family. There was a burgeoning need inside him to see that Hetty was happy. That Redgrave had been searching for the missing letters did not sit well with him, and dark memories had been stirred to the forefront of his thoughts. Last night he had dreamed of finding his sister bleeding from her wrists and the desolation that had surrounded her.
Instead of taking the carriage, he had ridden Orion, a very graceful and powerful stallion he had purchased at Tattersalls only the previous week. He vaulted from his horse and handed him over to the stable boy with an order he should be given a lengthy rubdown and extra oats, and then made his way to the front door. It opened as he approached, and the butler, Mr. Winter, executed a smart bow.
“Welcome home, your lordship. Her ladyship and Lady Hartington are in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Winters,” Sylvester replied, relinquishing his coat and hat.
He made his way down the hallway to the drawing room, where he knocked once before entering. His mother had busied herself redecorating, which told him of her state of boredom. The drawing room, which had been decorated with puce wallpaper at his last visit, had been redone with pale green and heavy golden drapes. Even the furniture seemed new—well, he was more certain of the pale yellow sofa on which she sat, for he had never seen it before.
“Mother,” he said as he advanced to the middle of the room.
“Sylvester,” she gasped, lowering her knitting needles, which she had been clacking with admirable skill. “I’ve had no word that you were coming down to Northbrook Park.”
“I knew I would arrive before the post,” he replied, bending to press a kiss to her cheek.
His mother beamed her pleasure. At forty-eight, his mother retained traces of her graceful beauty that had ensnared his father. There was only the lightest gray that touched her temples and a few wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. He turned to his sister and opened his arms wide. With a grin, Hetty stood and bustled over to him. She attempted to hug him, laughing when her high, rounded stomach kept them from fully embracing.
“How I’ve missed you, Sylvester. I’m glad you’ll be home for the birth,” she said fondly, patting her stomach. His sister glowed with contentment.
“I am, too, Hetty. And how is Hartington?”
“I thought you would have seen him in town,” she said, moving to sit once more on the sofa.
His mother rang for tea, and he lowered himself in the wingback chair closest to Hetty. “I thought he would have been here.”
“He has ordered a new baby cradle to be made in London and insisted on collecting it himself.” Vibrant green eyes so much like his own settled on him. “He’ll be down by next week. He is eager to be here to welcome his heir.”
A harrumph came from his mother. “Or a daughter,” she said tartly.
His sister laughed. “We will be overjoyed with either, but, Mother, you know how important an heir is.”
As if by some unspoken agreement, they both directed their regard to him.
Sylvester arched a brow. “I sense I am not about to enjoy the rest of the afternoon in peace.”
“Your twenty-ninth birthday approaches,” Hetty said, pursing her lips, favoring him with a thoughtful frown. “All Wentworth men for the last several generations have had their heirs and a spare or two by seven and twenty. Mother and I feel we have been remiss in our duty.”
Amusement rushed through him. “Have you now?”
Mrs. Charing, their stalwart housekeeper, bustled in with tea and cakes. After setting the tea service onto the walnut table, she hurried away and closed the door. His mother then gracefully added the leaves and cubes of sugar to the cups and poured the steaming water.
She handed him a cup.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
She smiled in reply and then did the same for Hetty and herself.
“I heard the most alarming and egregious tidbit I meant to ask you about, Sylvester,” his mother said, delicately sipping her tea. She peered at him with an intense motherly love that had never failed to warm him.
“And what is that?”
“It is said that you acted quite improperly with your countess at Lady Blanchette’s ball a few weeks ago. You know we get the news here a bit late, but I, of course, could hardly credit the rumor.”
“Let me assure you, madam, you heard incorrectly.”
Her shoulders relaxed marginally, and Hetty shot her an I-told-you-so-Mamma look.
“Then—”
“There is nothing I do with my wife that is egregious or improper.”
Hetty’s lips curved into a conspiratorial smile, then she winked. “Do not overlook that he carried her to the dance floor, Mamma. And don’t forget the kiss, an entire page in the scandal sheet was dedicated to that bit.”
His mother gasped. “Surely you must see such behavior is unbecoming of a man of your stature,” she said, undaunted. “To kiss your lady publicly! Outrageous.”
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“No, I don’t,” he said, mildly amused. “What I do with my countess is not anyone’s business, and that includes you, Mother.” Then he smiled to soften the harsh sting of his reprimand.
“Uncle Syl!” The delighted cry had him pushing to his feet and facing the door. His niece, Alexandria, stood with her hand clutched dramatically to her chest, a wide grin on her lips, and eyes as green as his beaming with joy.
“I fear my time with you ladies is over until dinner. I must confer with my leading lady.”
