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An affair? She would have been only seventeen, and Danbridge was a married man of some years, who had garnered quite a reputation as a rake amongst his set. How in God’s name had his sweet and properly brought up sister fallen under the man’s wiles? Where had his mother been? Where had he been?
“I have the next copy of this report locked away. With signed testimonies from a midwife and the letters from Danbridge, all bound and ready to be delivered to a scandal sheet of my choice.”
Sylvester stared at the viscount, and the man cleared his throat. “Let me be clear, Lord Carrington, if I should be met with a foul end, my solicitors are instructed to act accordingly. I’ve planned this very carefully.”
The man had accurately read the murderous thoughts beating through Sylvester’s soul.
“You will force me to reveal a most sordid affair that will see your family ruined, and your sister’s current alliance damaged beyond repair. Not even a venerable title like yours will be able to render her respectable,” the viscount murmured, something akin to regret flashing in his eyes before quickly vanishing. “Let’s negotiate like the gentlemen we are.”
Foreboding slithered through Sylvester’s veins. “What do you want?”
“I’ve thought this through rather carefully, my lord. I want you to court and then marry my daughter by the end of the month. A special license will be procured, and our families united with all haste.”
Miss Daphne Collins.
“She is a child,” he snapped in disbelief, not to mention he would never give this vile blackmailer the satisfaction. “I have no notion of her character, nor she of mine.”
“Yet it is you she wants, and you she shall have.”
“What in God’s name do you mean?”
“My daughter likes you, Carrington, and I must say I never hoped to land an earl for her. Certainly, a gentleman for her hand, but not one of your stature and lineage. I greatly admired your father, you know. He was a fine man.”
Sylvester slowly stood. “She knows nothing of the man I am or aspire to be. Why would she wish to be my wife?”
“It only matters to me that she would.”
Anger lit in his veins. “You would cause my family untold pain with these vicious unfounded rumors because your spoiled daughter has told you she wants my title?” For the last two seasons, he’d been chased relentlessly by marriage-minded debutantes and countless matchmaking mamas. Sylvester was acquainted with the lengths and antics mothers and daughters indulged in when they set their cap on an unwilling suitor, but this…this was disgusting and unforgivable.
“Yes,” replied the viscount without any evident remorse.
How ill-judged Sylvester had been of her character, and how silly of him to have believed her to be a witty and pleasant young lady. He had thought her sweet and innocent. The very thought of being shackled for life to a covetous, grasping female like Miss Collins filled him with icy anger. “You do realize I would never love a deceptive bitch like her,” he said cuttingly.
There was a slight tightening around Lord Blagrove’s mouth, but he replied mildly, “She will be a countess, there is no more I could wish for my daughter. With the need you will have for an heir, I am certain you will eventually be overcome by her charms.”
“If you will excuse me,” Sylvester said sharply, “the air has been decidedly fouled.” With a huff of disgust, he spun on his heels.
“You will be back, my lord,” Blagrove said softly. “For I will not hand over these papers until my daughter is your wife.”
Sylvester ignored him, wrenched the door open, and with clipped strides exited the manor…and collided with Miss Collins. The bundle of flowers dropped from her hands, and she glanced up. She visibly brightened, delight burning in her brown eyes. The sun struck the silvery blond of her hair, lighting the darker strands with golden fire. She made a breathtaking picture.
Disgust slithered through him that he could admire anything about her, knowing her avaricious heart.
“My lord, I was not aware you had called,” she said, dipping into a quick, graceful curtsey. “How do you fare?”
Fearing he would throttle the scheming beauty, he skirted around her without acknowledgment. She gasped, but Sylvester did not even deign to look back. His carriage was brought around, and he hauled himself inside, hating the pain twisting through his body.
Could his sister truly have endured such hardship, and he’d been unaware? Or was this simply a vile rumor? Did he have a niece in the world that had been abandoned by her family?
He would confront his mother, since surely Hetty would not have acted on her own. Someone had made the arrangements, if the reports were true. And he feared they were, for he recalled a time Hetty had been in the country with their mother, a prolonged illness, he had believed.
The trap Miss Collins had laid was intricate, and he saw no way to escape it without bringing ruin to his sister. If he didn’t know better, he would believe Miss Collins had orchestrated her rescue by the river.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he prayed the report was a lie and Hetty had not abandoned her child to strangers. He prayed she hadn’t been used and discarded by a vile seducer like Danbridge.
Closing his eyes, Sylvester settled against the squabs, hating that if the reports were true, he would be obliged to bind himself to the manipulative Miss Collins, for he would do anything to protect his family. A heavy weight settled into his gut at the very idea of marrying someone who only saw his wealth and status. How careful he had been to avoid the mothers and daughters of the ton who pursued him with such ruthless matrimonial fervor. How it infuriated him his choice was being blackmailed away from him, and how it stung that while he had admired her wit and beauty, she’d only had avarice in her heart and eyes.
I’ll not give her any part of me. The vow traveled through his soul.
She could take the bloody title, but nothing else.
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.
