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…
A few days later…
The ton declared the Countess of Carrington’s ball a success even before it was over. Despite the stunning crush, and the fact that Daphne had been bold enough to invite Riordan O’Malley—a man who the polite world considered wholly unsuitable to mingle with the ton—the impropriety of Sylvester dancing most of the dances with her would no doubt take precedent in the morning scandal sheet. Daphne laughed, delighted with him and their love, which had somehow been so evident it had set the ton on its ears.
Her earl spun in a full arc, the heat of his fingers burning through her dark green ball gown.
A whisper floated in the air.
“How improper…”
“This is the fifth dance with his countess. I cannot credit such behavior.”
“Isn’t their love grand?”
“Grand? Scandalous is what it is. It is not seemly for a husband to dote so publicly on his wife. And Lady Carrington displays a similar attachment that is vulgar.”
The gossips of the ton took pleasure in discussing Daphne and her earl, some with shock and others with open admiration. Since the night her earl had declared his love, Daphne had never felt such contentment. They laughed, they loved, they healed, and then they laughed and loved some more. Each moment in his arms had been a lesson in scorching pleasure, and she found herself enjoying him more daily. The beauty of being able to envision their life without fear of being hurt was a treasure she held close to her heart. The only ache was the six years wasted, but she’d promised herself not to dwell on the past, only the joyful possibility of the future.
They worked together. She’d hosted a ball, a soiree, and a few of his political dinners. He had taken her to the gambling hall Asylum, where she had been dazzled by the world of sin and vice. She read his arguments for Parliament; she helped him write his articles on the horrors of slavery and its threat to humanity. And they had lively and spirited discussions. Then they would make love again and again.
The waltz ended. Sylvester placed a steady hand on the small of her back and guided her through the crowd to a secluded terraced window, then down the stairs and down the brick path to their large garden lit with several lanterns. He locked their fingers together as they strolled farther away from the laughter and music spilling from the ballroom.
They stopped, and he took her into his arms, pressed her chest to his, and danced with her wickedly close.
“Have I told you recently how much I love you, my wife?” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple.
“Only this morning,” she replied, lifting her face to his, already anticipating the heat of his kiss. It came as a gentle glide across her lips. Daphne sighed happily, wondering how her husband managed to infuse such love, comfort, and sensuality into a mere touch. “I adore you, my husband.”
She had yearned for his love and respect, dreamed of it, but nothing compared to the reality of being loved so ardently by Sylvester. Happiness had swallowed her whole, and she never wanted it to release her from its beautiful clasp.
