The Earl in My Bed (Rebellious Desires 2)

Her husband looked away into the roaring fire for precious seconds. “Redgrave signed his death warrant the moment he touched you,” Sylvester said, his voice hard, uncompromising, and ruthless. “I will break him into bits. What to do with you, I wonder?”

Weakness assailed her. She believed in the cold implacability that stared back at her, and fear for the viscount flared through her. “He never touched me, not in the intimate manner you are thinking,” she said through bloodless lips. “And I was never tempted to.” And with that acknowledgment, she felt such despair her throat went tight. How could the only man she ached for with such passion be the wretched one who stood before her?

“Is that so?”

“Yes…and why would you care if he had? You have a mistress.”

Her husband dealt her an arrested stare. “The last woman I took to my bed was three weeks before I married you,” he said with such gruff sincerity. “You truly are ignorant of my character if you believe I could act with such dishonor.”

Astonished, Daphne could only look helplessly at him. A peculiar relief rushed through her, and her eyes smarted. “And Lady Felicity Mclean?”

Curiosity gleamed in his gaze. “A friend, and nothing more.”

“You danced with her,” Daphne whispered, hating the sudden tightness in her throat. “And no one else.”

He frowned, then knowledge leaped into his eyes. “At the Duchess of Hardcastle’s ball, one year ago. I recall you dancing the night away with several young bucks.”

“You didn’t ask me.”

“That I did not,” he said, regret heavy in his tone. “I will admit, Countess, that I have ignored the state of our marriage for far too long. That, I promise, will be remedied. There will be no more talks of divorce or separation.”

She shook her head, sharply disconcerted. “I will not submit to you and ignore my heart,” she said hoarsely.

“After you have given me my heir and spare, Countess, if you are still determined I will set you free,” he promised with icy civility. “Until then, I will not hear the words separation or divorce from your lips. Nor will you see Viscount Redgrave again. I trust you understand.”

“I beg your pardon?” she practically breathed out, for a moment utterly dispossessed of all rational thought. “Despite being my husband, you will not abandon me for six years and believe you still have the right to command me to give you an heir. I will not relinquish my freedom and allow you to impose upon my person your will. I will not simply obey. Have you become like the masters of the slaves for whom you fight so passionately?”

There was an intolerable ache of tears burning in the back of her throat. Without waiting for an answer, Daphne turned on her heels and hurried away in what she hoped was a dignified manner, hating everything about their encounter.

She was also terribly mortified. The sensitive flesh between her thighs was so swollen and needy it ached. How could he do this to her when she hated him? Perhaps I only think I hate him. She suppressed the tormenting thought. No, she had fallen in love with him as a silly girl and had longed for him most embarrassingly, but all those infantile sentiments had bled away. She would stick to her path of freedom, and if he thought she would now obey him because he declared it so arrogantly after six empty years, he was decidedly mistaken.

She would be the most outrageous, the most scandalous in her pursuits of pleasure, and then he would simply have to set her free.

Chapter Five

A few hours later, Daphne awoke from a restless slumber, and without taking the time to break her fast, she performed her toiletries and ordered the carriage to be ready. She had to call upon her dearest friend, Georgiana, the Dowager Duchess of Hardcastle—and now Viscountess Montrose, after marrying Rhys Tremayne, one of the most fascinating and dangerous men known to the London underworld. Daphne required his peculiar brand of service, for he was a broker of information and secrets.

After last night, she needed an arsenal to fight against her husband and his uncanny shrewdness. Scandal alone would not be enough, not for a man who was so self-assured and ruthless, and who with little effort had almost taken her in the library on the chaise lounge. Oh! The mere memory had her heart racing. It was as if her body had rebelled against her heart and mind, and she could not allow that to happen again.

She closed her eyes. If she were to ever fall with child, the freedom she had been hoping for would never be attained.

Almost an hour later, she arrived at one of the most sophisticated townhouses in Mayfair. She alighted from the carriage and the butler opened the front door without her knocking, bowing as she entered.

“Thank you, Milton,” she said with a smile as he collected her pelisse and bonnet.

She glanced up to see Georgiana strolling toward her, and a soft sigh of relief slipped from Daphne. Seeing the beautiful, serene countenance of her dearest friend released the tension and anxiety she hadn’t realized she held in. She could always count on Georgiana for sound and insightful advice without recriminations.

“Dearest Daphne, how I’ve longed to see you,” Georgiana said, holding out her hands.

They hugged and, arms around each other’s waist, they made their way to the drawing room. Soon she was seated opposite her friend on a plush, rose-colored sofa, taking tea.

They exchanged mild pleasantries for a few minutes, then Georgiana said, “I can see you are disturbed. Is all well?”

Daphne sighed. Confiding in her dearest friend was a trifle more difficult than she had imagined. “I want to know my husband’s secrets,” she said mildly, ignoring the sting of guilt.

Georgiana considered her over the rim of her cup. She took a few delicate sips. “Daphne, you’ve admired Carrington for years.”

“Have I?” she said, hating how shattered she sounded. “I’ve admired his dedication to his duties, but I believe it stopped there. It would be quite silly of me to hold any affection for the wretched man.”

“Oh Daphne, I’ve been a poor friend. I know you have been morose of late but not this badly. Why do you want Rhys to ferret out your husband’s secrets? Whatever shall you do with them?”

“They will be my bargaining power.” Her heart lurched at the very notion of acting in such a reprehensive manner.

“I’m disinclined to pry, Daphne dearest, but I must ask—why do you need such power over your earl?”

“I want a divorce, and he is disinclined to grant my request because he wants an heir and a more agreeable marriage.”

Georgiana flinched, and then set the tea and saucer on the beautifully designed rococo table with a clink. “Upon my word, how did Carrington react to your position?”

“With more aplomb than I expected. I was not beaten or banished to an estate in Scotland. Instead…he…he touched me, kissed me.” Incredulity rang through her voice, and a flush ran along her entire body. “I admire him still, sometimes, but it is not enough,” she said with a small, tight smile. “I told him my desire for us to separate. He knows he must be the one to petition Parliament. I have no grounds upon which to stand unless I am willing to lie in the most horrible way and say he is terribly cruel to me in a physical manner.”

Georgiana sucked in a horrified breath. “I would ruin him myself should he dare hurt you,” she hissed, her blue eyes flashing.

“I daresay I am finding the courage to free myself from the shackles of duty and an empty marriage.” Daphne took a sip of her tea. “Do you know my marriage is still unconsummated?”

Georgiana stood. “This calls for stronger libation.” She walked over to the sideboard and filled two glasses with amber liquid. Then she returned and handed one to Daphne, who traded her tea for the stiffer drink. She took a sip of the liquid, coughing slightly.

“Our wedding ceremony was very small and intimate, but I thought it was beautiful. I was so naive, so filled with admiration and budding love for my earl I did not take note of his chilling distance, nor did I question why a man of such esteem and wealth would offer for me.” She took a steadying breath. “After our wedding breakfast, we traveled separately to Cheswick Manor. It was when he came to my chambers hours later that I understood our marriage was not real at all.”

The worst of it was that he had tried to consummate their union. The memory of his cold eyes as he’d ordered her to undress and lie on the bed still had the power to distress her nerves. She had complied, shaking with nerves and alarm, wondering where the man she had fallen halfway in love with that day in the rain was. He had been so cold, so clinical as he had parted her thighs, taken some thick cream from a jar, and touched between her legs. There had been some pain as he slid his fingers into her, and her breath had hitched on a sob. Sylvester had recoiled, his face a grimace of disgust before he had slammed from the chamber. The mere memory had humiliation burning the back of her throat.