…
Almost twenty-four hours after Sylvester had kissed and pleasured his countess, he could still feel her beneath his skin. It was strange that he could not rid himself of the aching need being with her, though briefly, had ignited. The day had passed in a curious blur, and several times he had thought of her while he should have been reading the reports on his various estates that had piled up in his absence. Tasting his countess’s passion had been the single most pleasurable encounter of Sylvester’s life. Not in the top five, or two, but the most wonderful. And it felt very foolish to admit it. The wild flavor of her had felt like an assault on his senses, leaving him disoriented.
How had he not known his wife was this sublime? Even now, his body screamed for its own pleasure, for a release it had been denied for years. He still wasn’t quite certain how it had happened. Something powerful and desperate had risen inside him at the thought of her with another. The tight lid on the desire he had kept checked had been pried open, and he had kissed her with all the pent-up longing he had for her. Not only that, he had wanted to wipe away the very idea that another man’s touch could linger in her memory.
She’d left the library as if he had been the devil. He had let her go, too stunned by his visceral reaction to her and the ease at which she roused his anger, his lust, and this unknown tenderness.
How he had prevented himself from chasing her, he did not know, and
perhaps never would. For a few precious minutes, he had been a starving man who had been given his first taste of something sweet and delightful. To center himself, he had drunk a few glasses of brandy in the taunting emptiness of his library, perplexed at the desire to have her with him. Their banter, though filled with such anger and tension, was the most invigorated he had been in years. Something in him had been taken apart and reshaped with her fiery demands.
Sylvester couldn’t imagine how she thought a divorce was a credible solution. The scandal that would taint his family would linger for years and generations. Though he had not been a man who was overly concerned with society’s views for the last few years, the denial of her request had been powerful and immediate. His heart had been a dull, aching thud inside his chest, and the feeling of loss that had torn through him had been hard to reconcile.
He never touched me. The lying, wretched beauty. Victor would not lie to him, and the man’s report mentioned kissing and the ease of familiarity between lovers.
Unless…
Sylvester frowned, remembering the impossible tightness that had gripped his fingers, her whimper of discomfort. Not the reaction of a lady with a recent lover. Then he recalled more. The jolt of shock when he had glided his tongue against hers, the sound of wonderment when she had found her release, the way she had blushed so prettily and had been unable to meet his eyes. Sylvester couldn’t explain the profound depth of relief that swelled inside. His wife did not have a lover, nor had she ever had one.
She’s still mine and she has honor.
With a rough sigh of frustration, he closed the ledger his estate manger had sent from Scotland and tossed it carelessly atop his desk. It was time to accept defeat. There was a part of him not ruled by logic that wanted to think about the woman upstairs. They had dined together that evening, and the silence between them had been chillingly familiar…and it should have been expected. They had sat at opposite ends of a large table that could easily seat twenty and had eaten a truly exquisite meal of veal escapoles with a marsala sauce, trout roasted with almonds, and mushroom fritters. Followed by a lavender-flavored cream and peaches from his estate. A peculiar disquiet had pierced him, and Sylvester had found himself staring at his wife throughout the meal.
She had noticed, bestowed upon him a bland smile, and then excused herself. Her walk had been jerky, and he had sensed the nervous tension. Perhaps she had accurately read his thoughts to visit her tonight. He would not dally on the matter of securing his line.
He stood and made his way from his study, down the hallway, and up the stairs to his chamber. His valet waited, but he dismissed him without undressing. Sylvester sat on the edge of his bed, distantly noting for the first time how different his chamber seemed. His wife had redecorated, discarding the drab gray wallpaper and had replaced it with dark blue silk with silver patterning. He glanced around, noting the sofa’s light blue velvet brocade matched the heavy curtains over his bed.
Sylvester stared at the door connecting their chambers. She had retired over two hours past. Was she still awake, anticipating his arrival? Or would that connecting door be firmly closed? The last time he had been in a bedchamber with her, he had been unable to rouse his desire to consummate their marriage, and he had been harsh in his rejection of their union. It was foolish of him to even expect it to be unlatched, but he pushed to his feet and padded silently to the door. It was locked. Turning on his heels, he made his way to the bedside table and opened the top drawer, collected the key nestled at the bottom, and returned to the connecting door. The key fit, pushing out the one on her side of the door, and he made his way into her chamber and over to the bed.
The fireplace burned brightly, and the room felt warm and inviting. His countess had also redesigned her chambers in softer shades of blue and pink, colors that accentuated her pale skin and hair. Where his room was in straight lines, giving a strong masculine effect, hers was a garden of summer blooms, of which she was the most beautiful by far. The entire picture was one of elegance and sophistication.
Sylvester stared down at his countess as she turned in the large four-poster bed, agitated even in slumber. He blinked at the sight of the wolfhound sleeping beside her. He knew of no other lady who would have their dog in bed with them. She looked so young and innocent, her lashes long and thick against her pale skin.
I want to be held…kissed, loved.
Love, an emotion Sylvester had never truly thought he could apply to himself. He hadn’t wished for it for himself, and had never considered it, not even in the confines of his marriage. Love…such a foreign concept. What good was love to anyone?
He hadn’t even considered she’d refuse to submit to the marriage bed. How arrogant of him. But then, he hadn’t truly dwelled on the motions required to get his wife with child. Sylvester had intended to be as perfunctory as possible when he went to her bed, which he planned to do at least twice a week to get the deed done. He’d wanted no sentiments between them, he wasn’t even sure he was capable of tenderness. He was not the same man of years past. He’d seen an ugliness in humanity that had changed something within him. He had hardened, his hands had taken the lives of those who intended to kill him, and the reputation of ruthlessness he had garnered had not been lightly gained.
As if she somehow sensed him, her lids flickered open, and her lips parted in a silent gasp. As they stared at each other, he felt a peculiar tightening in his chest at the vulnerability he spied. His countess visibly swallowed. She understood he was in her chambers to get on with his business of making an heir for his line, perfunctory, without messy emotions, and she could not deny him. He also spied the resolve to hold back her passion for him. Anything they did tonight would be a cold and calculated coupling. Dutiful.
Suddenly the very notion of her submitting to him out of a sense of duty, of feeling helpless against his power, hurt somewhere inside, deeply. The dark depths of her eyes were reflecting so many emotions they took his breath. Have you become like the masters of the slaves for whom you fight so passionately?
Her words had been harsh but accurate. If a man wanted, he could treat his wife similarly to how slaves were treated, as chattels and nothing more.
Their marriage had started on rocky, ill-formed grounds, and he could not imagine a time it would be amiable and pleasant, despite his hope for a companionable union where they liked each other. But he did not want her unwilling. He wanted her eager and wet and crying for his possession. His wife’s taste had been dark, rich, and sinful, and it was those delights he wanted in his marriage bed. Not duty.
I’m lonely, an empty shell. The pain in that declaration had cut into him, creating a biting sting like a poison-tipped dagger. That sweet girl who had risked her life to save her puppy believed she was an empty shell. A peculiar longing welled inside him. Sylvester had often wondered what it would be like to be not quite so alone in the nights, to have a lover to confide in, to share his fears and triumph. It had been his choice to excise her from all aspects of his life, and he had done so without consideration for what she would suffer. Had she wanted more than the pomp and ceremony of a countess? How startling to think her loneliness was perhaps the same as his, how strange, but perplexingly fascinating.
What might they find together if they allowed themselves the indulgence? What might he find beyond the lust he felt for her delectable body. A friend, perhaps?
The silence pounded and stretched, yet neither spoke.
Sylvester felt as if he was seeing his wife for the first time since they had been married. How often had he possessed a similar thought in his life? How often had he reflected on his marriage and cursed the day he had spied her in that damn river? He had chosen this life many years ago, the only choice he believed he had at the time, and had directed his energies into a cause he had thought honorable and worthwhile, something in which he had been determined to not fail.
His wife rustled, tugging his attention to her.
“There is too much uncertainty
between us to be intimate.”
The softly spoken words, which hinted at a vulnerability she had not shown before, was a crushing fist against his heart. In the library, he had admired that his kitten had grown claws, and had the roar of a lioness. Now… He glanced down. Her fingers were clenched in the sheets beneath her, and her eyes were a wide pool of apprehension.
I am now your lord and master, you will do as I say when I command it, disobey me, my countess, and I will break you.
The words he had slung at her with such furious bitterness right after their vows had been completed echoed through him. Tempering his rage and disgust had been hard. While his bride’s eyes had been bright with excitement and what he had believed were false tender emotions, her father had acted with self-importantance like a stuffed peacock, and her brother, too, had acted as if they had arrived, as if crowns now sat upon their heads and riches were laid at their feet. All while his sister had lain irreparably harmed in bed, hurt, confused, and shamed.
Inexplicably, he knew Daphne was remembering their wedding night, when he had thought to take her to get the deed over with, using his creamed fingers to break her virginal barrier. He hadn’t been harsh, but he had not treated her as a lady of delicacy and refined sensibilities. “Will there ever be a time when things are certain between us, my countess?”
“I cannot submit to my duty.”
I don’t want you to. It was unexpected and even unsettling, this desire to be gentle with her. “I do not want you to accept me in your bed because of duty,” he said gruffly. He wanted her wild and screaming her pleasure, more than how he wanted to take his next breath.