The Marchioness of Blanchette’s ball was another crushing success, and for the first time in years, Daphne found herself idly standing on the sidelines, as if she were a wallflower or a matron. Eager to commence with her plan of ruination, she had dressed in her most scandalous gown, but perplexingly there was not one gentleman willing to take her to the dance floor, or even procure her a glass of punch. She found it all rather odd. Daphne had never been without a dance partner or some eager gentleman wanting to escort her to supper. She snapped her fan closed, scanning the room. Could it be they were all wary of her husband?
Daphne felt uncertain about everything. When he’d entered her chamber, and she had thought he would force her, the rage that had filled her had almost drowned her, and tears had burned behind her lids. Sylvester hadn’t demanded what was his by law and right, and he hadn’t put her in that position to resist him, which she had been determined to do at all costs. Why he had done it, Daphne did not know, would perhaps never know, and it only cemented her need to be free of him. Six years as his wife and countess, and she knew nothing about the mind behind the cold, distant, although arresting, stare.
A dart of awareness prickled along her skin, and as if she had summoned the devil himself, her husband appeared atop the landing. The hour was late enough where he would not be announced, but somehow everyone became aware of his presence. For a timeless moment there was a hush, then a ripple as whispers went around the room.
“Spends most of his time abroad…”
“Mixes with slaves.”
“He is terribly handsome…”
“He has blacks working in his household.”
“How mortifyingly scandalous…”
“There are rumors he fathered a mulatto.”
The gossip ebbed around her, and Daphne blatantly stared at him as he made his way toward her. Sylvester did not pause to greet anyone and moved through the crowd with prowling grace, quite unconcerned that he had ruffled their feathers. What was he doing there? The last time her earl had attended a ball had been a year ago, and she had not been the recipient of such shivering intensity.
He cut a direct swathe to her, his long strides undeniably confident and graceful, and she waited, not liking the anticipation that flowed through her veins. For this past week, Daphne had deliberately kept her social calendar full to avoid him and planned to keep connecting doors firmly closed. Not that he had attempted to exercise his husbandly duties. That had surprised her, and each night she had sat in the middle of her bed and waited and waited…and he had done nothing. The few times she espied him, there was a watchful amusement in his gaze, as if he were waiting for her to realize something, or to invite him to her bed.
Satisfaction filled her. He would wait forever, then, and that would be quite acceptable until she figured out the way to start the wickedest scandal yet and avoid falling into her earl’s bed. She was haunted by his kisses…especially the wicked one. How she ached for her husband’s caresses was not terribly reassuring.
He stopped in front of her. “Countess.”
“My lord,” she greeted him with a small smile that did not reach her heart. What was he doing?
“May I have your hand in the next dance?”
Daphne was obliged to smile politely as she peered up at him. The eyes of the ton were upon them, and she could give no indication of how her husband rattled her just now unless her scandalous and reprovable behavior was to start here. Her smile widened, and his eyes narrowed in surprised warning. A dreadful stillness blanketed her husband as he awaited her decision.
Her heart fluttering too fast, Daphne lifted her chin quite defiantly and turned away from her earl, unquestionably cutting him.
Several gasps sounded. There would be much to condemn in her conduct, but she would face those consequences in the morning. At this moment she’d acted on her desires, and it felt glorious.
Your move, my lord…
When it came, Daphne almost fainted. Firm hands gripped her waist, lifted her with effortless strength, and a few strides later deposited her in the middle of the dance floor. She felt certain she would expire from the shock. “Sylvester!”
And as if he had not just started a scandal for the season, Sylvester bowed, then held out his hand.
“May I have this dance, wife?”
His beautiful lips curved into a challenging smile, and her breath hitched. The orchestra hurriedly struck up a waltz, while it seemed as if the entire throng held its collective breath. Her senses struck dumb, she tried to pull her disjointed thoughts into some semblance of order. Daphne dipped into a curtsy and then walked into his arms.
An awfully intense sensation twisted low in her stomach when he rested a strong, powerful arm about her waist and swept her into a world of pure feeling. It felt like coming home. It was torture, and it was bliss. His arms were where she wanted to be, and where she desperately wished to leave. It’s just a waltz, she frantically tried to remind herself. But it felt like so much more, and there was an undefinable emotion in his green gaze. He was thinking it, too, she belatedly realized.
Our very first dance.
“I’ve been a damned fool,” he murmured. “Dancing with you is very pleasant, my lady.”
There was something mesmerizing about the moment, and she couldn’t take her eyes from his, trapped by his intensity. His dark hair gleamed in the light of the chandeliers, his cheekbones appeared sharper, and his eyes were carefully shuttered. Her husband wore the cloak of refined power and elegance as if it were a second skin.
“I wouldn’t dare contradict you, my lord. A damned fool indeed.”
He gave her an odd smile, drew her closer, and her heart tumbled in her chest quite alarmingly. She was intensely mindful of his hand, strong and warm, on her back.
“I’m sure you are aware the eyes of the ton are upon us,” she felt compelled to point out.
“I had been feeling an unusual prickle on my shoulder. I’m relieved it isn’t something dastardlier.”
She was so unsettled, so off balance, that she could do nothing but immerse herself in the elega
nt dance, shattered by the awareness that she had never felt this delight, this contentment dancing with another. They made a full circle of the ballroom in silence, and she dazedly recognized her husband was a most accomplished dancer. She tried to recreate the appropriate space between them as discreetly as possible, but his fingers tightened around her waist. And they danced. And she sighed. And she shot him reproving glares, and all through it, he watched her with a piercing intensity, as he if were trying to figure out a complex puzzle.
She was unequivocally flustered.
The waltz ended, and before she could retreat, Sylvester lightly brushed his mouth across her lips, ignoring the ripple of shock that went through the ballroom.
The wretched man was publicly staking his claim.
He lifted his head and smiled while Daphne spluttered quite inelegantly.
“That was to remind every man who is watching you with such unabashed lust that you are mine. I hope I haven’t distressed your sensibilities.”
“I did not think you a man to start a scandal.”
“That was hardly important.” His gaze lowered to her décolletage before climbing to her face.
“Everyone is positively atwitter. There is no doubt the scandal sheets will declare themselves scandalized in tomorrow’s publication.”
“Perhaps. Do you care?”
“I… No.”
He held out his arm and she blindly took it, allowing him to escort her from the dance floor. Many ladies were fluttering their fans and gazing at her with envy and admiration. She spied Viscount Redgrave, and he made an obvious effort to not glance in her direction.
None of the gentlemen that normally flocked her side in the hopes of persuading her to the dance floor, or to tempt her to a more illicit encounter, approached Daphne or her earl. In fact, they looked wary. No doubt they were relieved she had stingingly rebuffed their advances. Sylvester’s keen attention and his unusual display spoke volumes.
“Will you accompany me to the card rooms?”