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“I…” Victor cleared his throat. “I followed the viscount tonight to see if he met with any of his contacts. I saw him with her and they were quite intimate.”
He arched a brow.
“It was at Lady Cantrell’s ball, my lord.”
Where was he going with this? “And?”
Victor visibly braced himself. “The lady I spied him with…was your countess.”
Sylvester stilled as shock arrowed through his gut. The denial that rose inside was swift and brutal, yet he presented no outward reaction. A thick, heavy silence blanketed the library. As if he’d heard an unspoken command, Victor handed him the report, a line of regret heavy on his face.
Sylvester did not open the pages. “Are you certain?”
“The countess is not a woman that could be easily mistaken. Her beauty…it is uncommon. Her silver blonde hair is unique within society.”
How curious to imagine that the frightened kitten, who had fainted the day after their wedding, was now bold enough to trample on his family’s honor. The icy rage that filled him unnerved him with its intensity. “How intimate?” It gutted him to ask, but he had to know.
Victor’s jaw clenched. “She was closely embraced in his arms. They were kissing, then he led her to a dark alcove, and I could not follow for it would have revealed me, my lord.” He cleared his throat. “I must say, my lord, Lady Carrington was only in the alcove for a few minutes at best, and when she reappeared she was very composed…and not disheveled.”
As if that would mitigate the sheer affront of her actions.
The front door opening sounded, and his wife’s sweet, deceptive voice filtered down the hallway and through the doors. Immediately Victor melted into the dark, slipping through a window and out into the back gardens. His man of affairs had a real flair for theatrics. Though Sylvester appreciated his caution. His countess may have spied Victor at the ball. They badly needed to find out who Redgrave’s contacts were and how was he able to continue to obtain slaves for his plantations in the West Indies when the practice had been outlawed in England. A ledger procured had shown the man kept adding women and men to his fields yearly.
How in God’s name had his wife become entangled with the viscount?
Sylvester lowered himself onto the edge of his desk and flipped open the folder. He skimmed the information. Redgrave had been suspected of having a mistress now for almost a year. A cold knot formed in Sylvester’s gut. How dare Daphne act with such indiscretion and wanton display of impropriety. The very idea of the viscount touching, kissing, and pleasuring his wife had violence singing through his blood.
Needing to cool his anger, he rose and went to the windows, resting his forehead against the cold glass. It did nothing to relieve him from the image of his wife in another man’s arms. Perhaps he should have tried harder over the years to make her his wife in truth and bury the pain of the past. The surety of his conviction that his wife could not be trusted or forgiven for her part in his sister’s pain had decided much of his interaction with her over the years. Had he pushed her to infidelity or would she have eventually succumbed to the lure of a lover as many in the ton did? An unpleasant ache darted through Sylvester, for he had no notion of his countess’s true character, and he could only place the blame at his unforgiving heart.
The haunting memory of failing his sister rose, swift and brutal, and he had to suppress the vision of the pain in her eyes when he had confronted Hetty. He had moved too slow in courting Daphne for Lord Blagrove, so the wretched man had sent Hetty a threatening note, promising to reveal all the sordid details of her past. How unforgivably stupid he had been, for he had almost lost his cherished sister. He would never forget his mother’s screams or how she had pummeled his chest and roared her anguish. To escape the shame of her decisions, and the knowledge that the threat of discovery hovered like a sharpened blade, Hetty had thought to take her life. The dark memories snapped through him, once again burning rage through his soul for Daphne and her father.
They had stolen too much from his sister.
For years, every time he had looked upon his wife, an image of his sister, bloody and broken, crowded his thoughts. The helpless feelings would once more wash his senses—the rage, the regret—and he would retreat from her and the emotions and direct his energies onto matters he could control.
The door opened, and her delicate jasmine fragrance reached him before he saw her. He shifted slightly so he would not miss her. Then she appeared in the library, closing the door behind her, and her fragile beauty rocked him, as it had always done. Sylvester’s breath faltered completely at the stunning sight of his countess. A mass of white-blonde hair was piled atop her head in a glorious array of curls. Her daring red gown was scandalous with its far too revealing décolletage. Her breasts were plumped delightfully, and a snarl of fury almost escaped him. Her nearness ruffled his demeanor. She’d always had that power, and he had resented her for so long because of her allure. It had been unpalatable craving to kiss and touch a woman who had only wanted him for his wealth and title.
He was aware his countess was held to be a great beauty and a sought-after hostess. How many gentlemen had tasted her passions? For years, he had denied himself the temptation of her charms, and now she had granted the privilege to another when she had no right to do so. He held back a ragged sigh. There was a hollowness inside that wouldn’t abate. Had he waited too long to mend the breach with his countess? The question set his teeth on edge, for he did not relish the notion he had once again failed, whether it be from sheer stupidity or stubbornness.
Nor could he ignore the pain that lingered behind the sting of betrayal. The emotion felt unusual, foreign, and it shook him to the core.
…
A soft sigh slipped from Daphne as she eased the silver dancing slippers off her feet. Her stocking-clad feet sank into the plush carpet as she made her way over to the side mantel that held several decanters of spirits. She needed to fortify her courage for the letter she would pen to her husband tonight. A discussion must be had, where she would lay her cards on the table and pray she had a winning hand.
There wasn’t a whisper of sound in the library, but something alerted Daphne that she wasn’t alone. An undeniable foreboding filled her body. Containing her gasp of alarm, she whirled around. There was a dark shadow, the clear outline of a man, leaning along the wall overlooking the gardens bathed in moonlight.
Wariness rolled down her spine in a chilly wave, and Daphne’s heart leaped to her throat.
Sylvester.
What was he doing here? Even the servants seemed to be more loyal to her husband. Why hadn’t Knobbs mentioned his lord had returned?
Hoping Sylvester did not see her, or perhaps that he would not care to speak with her, she inched toward the door. Daphne did not want a confrontation tonight. She needed to don her armor, to be unflappable and firm when he turned those piercing green eyes on her, eyes that had always seemed as if they could see all the secret yearnings in her soul.
“Stay.”
He arrested her retreat with that taut command. Taking a deep breath, which sounded too loud in the silence of the room, she spun on her heels, nervous tension biting her. “You are home,” she said softly, though she wanted to blurt a thousand questions.
Why was he here now? Where had he been? Did he truly have a mistress?
“Have you been in town long?” she finally said.
“A couple of weeks. I stopped off at the manor, but I wished to attend the lords.”
She had been trying to enjoy the season alone, as she had done for the past few years. Of course he ha
d returned to England and had not seen fit to inform her. Outside of the little charade needed to maintain the air of a civil marriage, her earl ignored her presence in his life with icy indifference. A bug squashed under his feet received more attention than she did. “Where have you been staying?”
His lips curved into a slight smile, but somehow, she did not believe her husband to be amused. “My place of abode is irrelevant. You know of my aversion to scandal, Countess,” he said with lethal softness.
As Lady Carrington, you will always conduct yourself with good sense and temperance, and it would be ill judged if you were to bring scandal to the Carrington title. Other than that, I have no expectations of you, and my lady…it would do you well to avoid my presence.
His expectation of her conduct was one of the things she had considered from every possible angle if she had to be the one to push him away from their marriage. The scandal of her actions would be explosive, horrendous. And when he eventually repudiated her, she would have to leave the country for years until the furor was over, and even then, the stain of being a divorced woman would linger.
It was such a terrible price to pay, but she could no longer endure her empty marriage. Everything was such a frightful gamble. With his distaste of any scandal touching his family he might not elect to divorce her, no matter how scandalous she became. She tried not to think of the other avenues open to a man of his power, especially committing her without consequences. Worries like that would only dampen her determination.
“Yes, I am aware.” A foreboding silence fell upon the room. To dispel her discomfort she asked, “Is all well with your mother and sister? I’ve meant to make a call upon them.” But Daphne had been reluctant, since they had made no efforts over the years to be good-natured. They treated her with a similar distance and veiled contempt to that which he displayed. And she had too much pride to fall at their feet and beg forgiveness for her father’s actions. It hardly mattered that it wasn’t until her wedding night that she found out the length her papa had traversed to secure an unmatched future for his daughter. She had been judged just as guilty, perhaps even more so.
