The viscount stepped scandalously close and cupped her cheeks, encouraging her to lift her gaze to his. His lightly flecked green eyes glowed with need…and something that seemed frightfully like love. Her heart leaped into her throat. It was so tempting to step off the cliff she was poised upon. The feel of his hands on her cheeks was warm and inviting, and sorrow rose in her. How long had it been since anyone had touched her with such gentleness, with such obvious need?
“He would kill us,” she warned. “You are not thinking clearly.” But she was and had been for the last several months. The path forward was to persuade her earl to divorce her, by any means necessary. The ardent admiration of the viscount would not encourage her to act with recklessness.
“I promise he will not know.”
I will know, she cried silently. Her breath hitched when he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. Her fingernails clenched painfully into her palms. It was tempting to part her lips and return his intimate embrace. Though there was no passionate flare inside, Redgrave’s kisses had always been mildly pleasant, and if she could display enthusiasm, perhaps it would be so much more. However, she kept her lips firmly closed as she had always done. Daphne stepped back and cast him an admonishing glance.
The viscount closed his eyes as if pained. “Do you expect me to wait? A divorce can take years, and I doubt Carrington would even agree!”
“Then don’t wait. I’ve made no promises to you, nor do I expect any from you.”
“I spoke in haste. Devil take it, I’ll wait…I’ll wait.”
She nodded, her throat aching. Wanting to offer some comfort, she stepped into his arms and hugged him. She belatedly realized it was also to comfort herself, to just bask in the warmth of a male. A few seconds later she pulled away and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You are a good friend, my lord. Know that I appreciate you.”
A small, humorless laugh came from him, but he made no reply. Instead, he pressed his advantage and kissed her once again. She pushed against his chest, but Daphne’s struggles only made the bands of his arms tighten.
Suddenly, he released her. “You make me lose control.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How dare you. You are solely to be blamed for your lack of restraint! It is not the mark of a gentleman to imply otherwise or to act in the persistent manner you have displayed despite my ardent objections. I will terminate our friendship if you cannot respect my choices.”
“Forgive me,” he said, shame and regret heavy in his tone. “It is hard to contain my need for you when I know the truth of Carrington.”
She searched his troubled expression. “What truth?”
He glanced away, his lips flattening. When he faced her again, his eyes were wary and shadowed with secrets.
“Tell me,” she said quietly.
“I cannot.”
Daphne scoffed. “It seems your loyalty belongs to the very man you are suggesting I betray.”
A hectic flush worked itself over his cheek. However, he remained silent.
“Would you be more comfortable if I hazard several guesses?” she asked, her heart beating a cadenza inside of her chest.
He nodded stiffly.
“Does he have a mistress?” She waited, her heart thudding, for this was the information she had been seeking for the past few weeks. If she knew without a doubt her earl was unfaithful, it would be easier to put her plan into motion and act with scandalous impropriety. And perhaps if he were attached to this unknown woman, he would not overly mind the notion of a separation.
Divorces were requested by men and obtained by men. Such petitions were not within the purview of wives, and Daphne needed her earl to be the one to seek a divorce. She had done her research, discreetly. It would take an indecent amount of money if she were to retain a solicitor and have him petition Parliament on her behalf. Her solicitor, Mr. William Knightly, had gently explained that the few women who had been brave enough to face society’s scorn and the Church and successfully petitioned for a divorce had extenuating circumstances like incestuous adultery, bigamy, and intolerable physical cruelty to present to the courts. What did she have? Carrington had never lifted a finger to her—in pain or pleasure. In fact, she barely existed on his scale of importance. Perhaps she was not even there.
There was no proof of her earl having a mistress, not that Sylvester indulging in an ordinary affair would qualify for grounds of separation. It was then Mr. Knightly had suggested a bit of deception. The earl would have to make the petition himself, based on her scandalous actions. She would have to indulge in a very public affair, or several, and force his hand and honor into repudiating her.
Having liaisons outside of the marriage bed was an everyday occurrence to those of influence. Women had given her a few sympathetic nods, and the men had assessed her hurt to see if they could take advantage of any vulnerability. It was all part of the spinning of cogwheels that kept their society turning. But if the lady was not discreet…and her husband became aware of his cuckoldry, then other elements were risked, namely the possibility of an illegal duel, banishment, a beating, and in several cases, divorce.
Days after that pronouncement from Mr. Knightly she had been unable to sleep, unable to enjoy the frivolities of the season. Her husband was formidable, and the very notion of putting such a plan into motion filled her with more nerves than she could cope with. But how else to be free? How else to take a slice of happiness for herself?
“Yes,” Lord Redgrave said. “Lord Carrington has a mistress.”
Daphne jerked, quite surprised at how the answer pierced her heart. “I see. Is it Lady Felicity?” How it irritated Daphne that her husband had danced with that woman.
“I am unsure,” the viscount muttered.
She touched his arms lightly. “Thank you for informing me. You are a dear friend.”
Redgrave’s lips curved ever so slightly, and it struck her quite forcibly that he wanted to tear down the fidelity she gave her husband.
There was a shadow of something deceptive in his gaze that had her heart calcifying in her chest. “There is more, Daphne.”
“Just tell me,” she said through bloodless lips. “Surely it cannot get any worse.”
“My sources inform me Carrington means to procure a divorce. Julian was in his cups, so I am not certain if he tells the truth.”
Julian Cavanaugh, Marquess of Belmont, was a known associate of her husband.
The fissure in her heart cracked even wider. “On what grounds?” She had not given him any reason yet, and she was decidedly curious, and perhaps there was more driving her questing, for an indefinable emotion had taken hold of her heart and would not abate. She pressed her trembling hands to her stomach, desperately seeking to stop the nervous flutters. Relief should have filled her that her husband could be moving in the direction she required without Daphne needing to trade her honor.
But now her situation appeared all too real. No longer was she i
n the realm of jotting down ideas and turning them over in her thoughts or discussing them with Mr. Knightly. Was Sylvester finally exhausted with their cold, lonely marriage? How she wished to know if the same disappointed pain in her heart lingered within him. Did he want the freedom to be with someone else?
Their marriage was such a strange one, giving the impression of being whole when it held no sentiments. Whenever he was in England, they had dinner every night, except when he dined at his club or with a friend. She hosted his political meetings and parties, he attended a few balls with her, and on the rare occasion, they took carriage rides together at Hyde Park. To all intents and purposes, they had a normal marriage, and according to a few, foolish romantics of the ton, they were a most admired couple. If anyone had thought it odd they did not dance together at balls, no remark had been given. The smattering of gossips had implied her husband found such activities frivolous, which is why his decision to dance with Lady Felicity had caused an uproar.
Suddenly, irrationally, rage flared through her, burning away the pain and the loneliness. Their marriage could have been so very different. She had made many overtures, and he’d remained uncivil and indifferent.
This is what I want, she reminded herself fiercely. For Carrington to set me free.
Redgrave frowned, his gaze searching her face quite intently. “I did not think you would be injured.”
“I am not,” said Daphne.
“Then why are you crying?” he demanded gruffly.
She lifted a finger to her cheek, startled to feel the wetness. Only ice had hardened in her chest, there was no fiery pulse of emotions. “Perhaps I am wounded after all.”
The words settled between them, heavy and fraught. And a peculiar triumph flashed in his eyes. “Come, let us walk farther into the gardens.”