The Earl in My Bed (Rebellious Desires 2)

She spluttered and coughed, then gamely took another swig. “What is it?”

“Rum. It was introduced to me by the locals of Jamaica.”

“Most men would not allow their wives to drink this.”

“I am not most men,” he said mildly, “and I’ve already deduced you know your mind and know when you will allow yourself to indulge.”

She sighed happily and beamed at him approvingly. Sylvester blinked at the radiance of that smile. His countess took another healthy swallow before returning the flask.

Clouds moved slowly over the night sky, dimming the moonlight and increasing the darkness. She sidled closer to him, and his lips twitched.

“Why did you travel to Jamaica?”

He took a sip of rum. “These stories are not fit for your sensibilities.”

“I’ll not faint,” she said.

“My father had several plantations, and we knew it, but somehow it hadn’t mattered. It was the way of the new world. Upon coming into my estate, the plantations on the islands were brought to my attention. After the debacle of our wedding, I traveled to Jamaica on one of our ships and docked in Port Royal. I then traveled in a cart pulled by donkeys to Montego Bay, where our largest plantation was located.”

“A donkey?”

He chuckled. “They were introduced to the island by Spaniards.”

“There were no horses…carriages?”

“There were, but I was content with my transport. Jamaica is a beauty, and though the journey to Montego Bay felt like it took forever, I enjoyed the slow crawl. When I arrived at the Wentworth planation something fundamental in me changed. Our fields stretched for miles, with dozens of workers—pardon me, slaves—laboring under the brutal sun with an overseer on a horse above them with a whip.”

Daphne flinched.

“I’d thought after the Zong massacre that I understood in full the cruelty human beings are capable of against each other.”

“The Zong massacre?”

He hesitated.

She touched his arm lightly. “Please, Sylvester.”

“One hundred and thirty-three men and women were thrown overboard on a ship traveling to Black River, Jamaica, because the captain decided it was more profitable to secure insurance payout than to sell possibly sick slaves. You see, there was more profit in their deaths. They were not seen as people who loved and laughed as we do, but as cargo, disposable goods.”

She recoiled. “I… Dear God.”

“Lord Mansfield did not rule in their favor, but men and women had been senselessly murdered, and there had been no justice. Though I knew of such cases, and have read the passionate arguments presented by Granville Sharpe, I never truly understood how disgustingly odious and barbaric the practice was. On Jamaica, on my plantations, I saw men, women, children reduced to mindless property. It is all well to denounce the practice from the safety of our shores with little understanding of how these people are treated. For years, I, too, abhorred the notion of slavery but not the men who were the instrument of this cruelty. My father was such a man and by default, by inheritance, so was I.”

His wife shifted in her chair, facing him with somber and dark, compassionate eyes.

“I had several ledgers detailing the inventories of the plantations, along with their worth. And there they were listed. Their history, their emotions, all their love, fears, hopes, and dreams reduced to a line in a ledger. The first name I saw was John Wentworth, three months old and still suckling at his mother’s breast, listed as property valued at a shilling.”

“Tell me, what did you do?”

“I fired the overseer, and I was determined to free all two hundred and forty-nine souls on the Wentworth plantation. I almost started a revolution, and the other plantation owners hated me fiercely, but I was determined. Thousands of British families have grown rich on slavery, and the very idea of losing their wealth is intolerable. They will do anything to see it preserved.”

There was admiration in the eyes that beheld him, and something warm moved through his chest.

“I remember when the rumors started in the polite world that you had joined Wilberforce’s crusade. Many did not understand it or even want to. I confess, I did not comprehend it myself, but to imagine my liberty being taken, my child in chains and whipped without mercy, it is a horror I truly cannot picture. Your dedication is to be admired, I only wish your life was not in danger for it.”

“As a widow, the freedom you desire would—”

She leaned over and slapped her palm over his mouth. “What a ghastly thing to insinuate,” she gasped.

“Miss me, would you?”

She snatched back her hand, but he recaptured it and pressed a kiss to her knuckles before releasing them.

“I’ve heard rumors that you’ve brought many of the workers from the island and helped them settle here. The distance between us had always prevented me from asking questions about your work. I could only follow through what the newspapers reported, and I have read your articles that have provoked much debate amongst those of our set.”

She had read his work and followed his arguments. He felt inexplicably unnerved at the knowledge. The fight to end slavery was a long and arduous process that he and many lords were determined to see through since Lord Mansfield’s judgment liberated the first slave in England almost fifty years ago. Not only were they fighting for the freedom of men enslaved across British territories, but they were fighting against men like Viscount Redgrave, who, despite the Slave Travel Felony Act and the Royal Navy patrolling the coasts, still found a way to purchase men, women, and children and chain them for profits.

“Lord Mansfield ruled that English law did not allow slavery, and only a new Act of Parliament could bring it into legality. Hence a slave becomes free the moment he sets foot on England’s soil.”

She bestowed on him a warm, approving, and tender smile that did the oddest things to his insides. “And you have been freeing as many as you can.”

The yacht pitched and rolled, sometimes swaying gently on the water and other times rocking with turbulence from a current beneath the waves’ surface. A few of the captain’s men tested the sails and disappeared without intruding on their privacy. A stiff wind blew across the deck, and she shivered.

“Come here.”

She arched a brow.

“Please, my countess.”

She stood, and he shrugged from his jacket. Instead of handing it to her, he reached up, grabbed her by the waist, and tugged her onto his lap. She landed without grace and an oomph.

“Whatever are you doing?”

“Are you ready to retire below?”

She hesitated slightly, a wealth of meaning behind that small pause. “No.”

“I thought we could watch the stars together and finish this rum.” He waved the bottle before her face.

“And pray inform me of the reason I cannot do this in my own chair,” she said pertly.

“We could both be warm with this jacket?”

Her eyes lit with a warm glow of delight. “Perhaps.” She settled against him with a slight smile, the top of her head butting his chin. He threw the jacket over her, so it covered her shoulders up to her chin. She was a pleasant weight against his chest, her head on his shoulder, her hair spreading out across his chest. Her sigh of contentment filled him with pleasure. His countess seemed to be in remarkably good spirits. He pondered that. He was filled with an inexplicable longing to see her contented.

For the first time, he acknowledged this wasn’t just about getting an heir—their marriage could be agreeable. But…she did not want it anymore, and he truly could not blame her. He had dedicated himself solely to his estates, his duty in the House of Lords, and the Wilberforce crusade, hardly thinking of her and her father. He hated to think of the hurt and mortification she’d endured at his desertion.

“Are you happy, Daphne?”

Strange, how unusual her name was on his tongue, and she had been in his life

for so long. He had certainly kept her at a distance, calling her “wife” and “countess.”

Wide, astonished eyes met his. “How does one measure happiness, I wonder. I find it such an arbitrary state.”

That answer brought him no satisfaction.

“I daresay one should be able to tell when they feel a measure of contentment.”

“Are you contented, then?”

He stilled momentarily. The blackmail had come at a time when he had begun to dream up different dreams. He’d wanted to travel, to explore the world—India, Africa, Italy, Venice, and even the Caribbean. He’d traveled some, but not how he had envisioned it for years. Most days he felt driven, confident in his purpose and duty, satisfied with the profits of his estates and holdings…but befuddled about her, and the place she should really occupy in his life. “I believe so.” Was this a question people asked themselves?

“I daresay even you are uncertain as to the state of happiness and what it really is. One ought to know when they feel completed or when something is missing.”

“And what do you lack?”