by Viola Morne
Isabelle held up her hand. "Pray, no more, brother. I will consider all you have said."
"May I tell Lord Snow you will speak to him?"
Isabelle opened her mouth to refuse, but John looked so hopeful. To be fair, she knew she had been nothing but a trial to her brother, whose chief god was respectability. So she nodded. John paused by her chair, pressed her shoulder briefly, and left the room. Isabelle scarcely had time to collect herself before Snow was there, knocking softly on her door.
He seemed oddly serious. Isabelle had expected irony, even mockery, anything except sincerity. Snow waited for her to stand before he took her hand, kissed it lightly and asked her, quite simply, to marry him.
Isabelle's heart beat faster. She pulled her hand away. "I had not thought to ever marry again."
"I see. Would you consider it now? Your position in your brother's house is scarcely a happy one. If you marry me, you will be returned to your proper sphere. I can keep you safe from any whispers. No one will dare question my countess."
Isabelle was tempted to accept him, if only to get away from John and Cordelia. But the memory of the night of the lake, the pleasure, and the feelings he'd stirred, made her want to run out the door. She would not give her heart away so thoughtlessly again.
"I won't be an easy husband. I will exercise my authority as your husband. I will want to know where you are and what you are doing. Your body will be mine to enjoy, whenever and however I wish. And I'll punish you if you disobey me. That is my way. You see, I pay you the compliment of being frank about my expectations."
He leaned closer, until his breath stirred her hair. He smelled of clean wool and leather, with a hint of whiskey. He smelled of warm, male flesh. Isabelle wavered.
"But, Isabelle, you will know that you're mine, and that I will care for you, and protect you, above all."
"Will you be faithful?" The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
Snow took both her hands and held them, tightly, painfully. "If that's what you want, what you need."
Isabelle looked into his intense dark eyes. "It is."
* * * * *
The wedding was a simple one, held in the family chapel. It had taken several weeks for Snow to procure the special license and get his household in order for his bride. His wife. Isabelle stood beside him, uttering her responses in a low voice. The vicar pronounced them man and wife. He bent to kiss her cold lips. They trembled against his mouth.
Snow smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Isabelle looked gravely back at him. He'd decided against any sort of reception afterward, and now he waited for his wife to say goodbye to her family.
Sir John embraced Isabelle, pressing a kiss to each cheek. "Be happy," he heard him whisper.
Cordelia also kissed her, with some reluctance. They spoke briefly while the carriages were readied. Snow was surprised to feel Isabelle's small gloved hand slip into his. He raised it to his lips, and placed her hand carefully on his arm. She was his.
They traveled silently through the deepening day. They stopped briefly several times, but Snow was anxious to get Isabelle home and settled. The wedding lines secure in his pocket, Snow needed to see her installed safely in his household. Her gaze was fixed out the window while he watched her, the line of her brow and nose outlined in exquisite detail against the rose light of sunset. He'd tasted the pleasure of her body, but her mind and heart remained a mystery. Was that the source of her fascination for him? He'd experienced so many different women, but somehow, Isabelle, his Isabelle, was different. He had even promised to be faithful. He would, he realized, have promised anything just to possess her.
* * * * *
She was so weary, in body and soul. Impulsive Isabelle, deciding to marry a man she knew nearly nothing about. Would it be like Charlie Croucher all over again? Then again, it could hardly be any worse.
Her new husband seemed kinder, more considerate in many ways. Once Snow decided to stop pursuing her as a mistress, and marry her instead, his manners had undergone considerable improvement. And then there were his promises to care for and protect her, as well as his vows to control and discipline her.
After marriage to Charlie, inconstant, careless, and selfish, those promises of Snow's seemed to offer a safe haven. No longer would she be 'poor Isabelle,' the neglected wife or 'wicked Isabelle,' fodder for scandal. She would have a husband who actually thought about her, instead of his next drink or game of chance. He had even pledged his fidelity
But would Snow deliver on his promises? What exactly did he mean by discipline anyway? Isabelle yawned behind her glove. She would have to ask him later. The coach continued inexorably on to London and her new life. She slept.
Isabelle awoke to Snow's gentle touch on her shoulder. "My dear, we have arrived." It was full dark, the characteristic London sounds muted in this quiet, exclusive street. Her new home was elegant and handsome, much like her husband. The staff were on hand to welcome her, and the housekeeper was eager to show Isabelle her new rooms.
"The earl had everything decorated, my lady," Mrs. Hutchins told her. She bustled about, closing the curtains of blue toile, which matched the freshly painted walls and bed hangings. Two cream and rose-striped chairs by the fireplace were flanked by vases of pink roses. Their scent reminded Isabelle of the night she'd met Snow.
A knock on the door, and her husband entered. Mrs. Hutchins excused herself to complete the supper arrangements.
Snow leaned against the door, his posture relaxed but his gaze watchful. Isabelle was alone with the man to whom she'd pledged her body, her very existence. She licked her dry lips, which had the effect of riveting his gaze on her mouth. He straightened and prowled towards her. Isabelle swallowed. He tucked back a loosened curl, his fingers trailing from her hair down her throat to linger on the top of her breasts where they swelled above her bodice.
"Such soft skin."
Snow slipped his hand beneath her chemise, squeezing her breast lightly. He found her nipple, pulling and twisting it to just this side of pain. A hot thread of desire tightened between nipple and womb. Isabelle opened her mouth to protest, but heard herself moan instead. Snow smiled slightly and released her.
"Shall we go down for supper? I believe Mrs. Hutchins has planned something special." Snow offered his arm. How could he appear so composed when she felt ready to jump out of her skin?
The champagne flowed and the meal was delicious, though afterward Isabelle couldn't remember a thing she'd eaten. Her attention was riveted on Snow--the glow of his dark eyes in the candle light which softened the strong, angular lines of his face.
"What are you thinking about, Lady Snow?" His voice was deep yet beguilingly soft.
"It sounds so strange to be addressed as Lady Snow." Isabelle shook her head. "I confess to feeling somewhat at sea."
"I shall anchor you, sweetheart; never fear. There will be a period of adjustment, for us both. You will become accustomed very soon, I am sure."
She looked down at her plate. "I don't even know why you wanted to marry me."
Snow raised a brow. "Surely that is a question that may be answered at a more appropriate time."
Isabelle glanced at the footmen waiting patiently against the wall. She bit her lip.
Snow picked up his fork. He continued to eat the olives of veal as if life hadn't changed utterly for both of them. His serenity maddened her.
Isabelle picked at her plate. Her gaze fixed on her husband's hands, those strong, lean fingers which had caressed her so intimately. She swallowed a surge of panic. How could she go through with this marriage to a stranger? She stood abruptly, throwing her napkin on the table.
"Pray excuse me," she said and left the room.
* * * * *
Snow looked up to glimpse the swirl of his wife's skirts as she nearly ran out of the room. His lips tightened. The servants, though they stood like statues, would be gossiping over this when the meal ended. His wife's want of conduct could not, a
nd would not, be tolerated.
The earl took a sip of wine. He had intended their wedding night to begin in quite a different fashion, but it was evident his new countess was in sore need of correction. Snow set down his glass and called for the next course. It would never do to strike her in anger. Let her stew about her bad behavior while he finished dining. Time enough then to set things straight, to begin their marriage the way he intended it to continue. He had married her, hadn't he? She ought to be grateful.
* * * * *
Isabelle sat on the edge of the high bed. She wore a robe of finely embroidered lawn, her hair loose about her shoulders. Her bare feet, narrow and high-arched, dangled in the air like a child's. She hadn't looked up when he opened the connecting door between their rooms. Instead, she stared at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.
"Isabelle, look at me."
Her beautiful eyes were shadowed with emotion. Snow lifted her chin.
"Your conduct at dinner was unacceptable, my dear. We spoke about obedience and correction before we were married. You must be aware that your actions would have consequences."
Isabelle bit her lip. "I'm sorry, my lord. It was badly done of me."
"I am afraid you will be even sorrier very soon."
Snow sat down beside his shrinking bride. He grasped her arm and pulled her over his lap. A small mew of protest escaped her. Snow arranged her in a satisfactory position, bracing one leg. He pushed her robe aside. The fabric of the nightgown was so fine that the line separating her buttocks was visible. He rolled up the shift. Such lovely, smooth skin, waiting to receive his mark. Snow ran a hand over the globes, absorbing the texture, the feel of her. He captured her wrists with his other hand, pinning them against her back.
"Tell me why you are being punished."
A light slap on one buttock; she started, legs flailing.
"Keep still. Tell me." His voice was firm, unyielding.
"I, I...didn't comport myself properly, as your wife...I spoke too freely in front of the servants..."
Another slap, crisper, on the opposite buttock. "And?"
"And...I left the table without being excused."
"Very good." He started to spank her in earnest then, alternately firm blows to each reddening globe. He paused to test the heat on her skin. "A few more, I think," he said and spanked her again until her bottom glowed.
He caressed her then, enjoying the warmth his slaps had given her skin. "What a lovely ass you have." He traced one finger slowly along the crease. She gasped. Snow chuckled, pulled down her skirts and set her on her feet.
"There," he said, unbuttoning her robe. "You are forgiven.
* * * * *
He'd blown out the candle. After spanking her, her husband had put her to bed and drawn up the bedclothes, tucking them gently around her. Snow had kissed her forehead and left her alone in the moonlight. Her bottom, or her ass, as he called it, throbbed. Isabelle rubbed her hand over the heated flesh. It had hurt.
She tried to think rationally about what had happened, but only base emotions stirred in her brain. Pain, shame, and then relief, almost absolution. What a curious thing. She shifted uncomfortably a few times before falling into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
"Good morning, my love." Snow greeted her from the breakfast table. He was tucking into sausages and kidneys. Isabelle shuddered, and chose a slice of toast. The footman hurried to pour her tea. Snow took a sip of ale. She crumbled a few fragments and tried to eat.
"We'll need to start planning." Snow pushed back his plate.
Isabelle looked up blankly and he chuckled.
"The announcement of our marriage will be published today. The ton will want to call and pay its respects. And we will have to have some kind of gathering. Not a ball, but a reception--somewhere around two hundred guests should be appropriate."
"Two hundred?” Isabelle gulped. "I wouldn't know where to begin."
"Mrs. Hutchins and my secretary, Mr. Trent, will assist you. I'll get Trent started on the invitations today. Now, I must leave you. I have a meeting in the City. We have an appointment with Madame Reynard later this morning to order your new wardrobe. I'll be back to collect you."
Snow tossed his napkin on his plate, dropped a kiss on her cheek and strode out, whistling. Isabelle took a sip of tea. Marriage seemed to agree with her husband.
The morning drifted by agreeably. Mrs. Hutchins toured the house with her, delighted to have a mistress once again. His lordship's mother had been gone twenty years, she explained, and a household was always better with a mistress. Isabelle felt a little guilty about gossiping with her housekeeper, but that lady was so affable and so eager to share her forty-year history with the Beaufort family, that she allowed Mrs. Hutchins' inexhaustible store of family anecdotes to flow unchecked.
"This was my lady's favorite room." Mrs. Hutchins paused in their tour, opening the door to a small parlor tucked away at the back of the first floor. "She called it her morning room, did all her correspondence here."
The housekeeper ran her hand along a green silk-upholstered chair with a reverent air. "That's her, in the portrait above the fireplace. Lady Margaret Rayne, she was, before marrying the old earl. God bless her."
The portrait showed a young woman with chestnut curls and beautiful dark eyes, very like her son's. The formality of her pose was belied by a glint of mischief in those fine eyes.
"She was lovely."
Mrs. Hutchins beamed. "The loveliest lady you ever saw, so kind and gentle. Until he broke her like a toy and threw her away."
"The earl mistreated his wife?" Isabelle was startled into asking a question.
The housekeeper hesitated. "It's not my place to say, my lady, but the boys, my lord and his brother, suffered terribly. Lady Margaret loved to laugh, and dance, but he stopped all that. She had to make him proud, be a proper countess, stiff-necked like him. He was a dour man, hard, unforgiving. He didn't understand her nature, and what the earl didn't understand, he destroyed."
Isabelle's stomach clenched. "How did he destroy her?"
"It was an offense to be gay, wrong to show affection. Whatever sweetness she had, he made it a sin--until she couldn't stand it anymore. She took a lover and the earl found out. Threw her out of the house with only the clothes on her back. The older boy was at school, so she begged to take my lord with her, but the old earl just laughed at her, cruel, like a lad tearing wings off a butterfly."
"How horrible! Could not her family intervene?"
"Oh, they got her a settlement all right. Lady Margaret went to live somewhere in Italy because of the shame. But the worst thing that happened that night, my lady, was what I saw after the earl had pushed her out the door and slammed it in her face." A tear rolled down the older woman's cheek. "The boy was sitting in the shadows at the top of the stairs, a witness to the whole thing. And that was the last time my lord ever saw his mother. She died abroad before he was fifteen years old."
Mrs. Hutchins bowed her head for a moment. Isabelle touched her shoulder lightly, to show the pity it would be improper to express. The housekeeper sniffed and gave Isabelle a watery smile.
"I'm sure you've heard enough of my blathering for one day, my lady! Perhaps a tray of tea in the garden?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Hutchins. I appreciate your frankness about my husband's family. He is not...forthcoming about them. Your confidences shall be kept, I do assure you."
The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy and hurried off. Isabelle continued down the hall and through the drawing room where French doors opened onto the secluded garden beyond. She found a seat, set among the perfectly aligned borders.
So her husband was the child of an unhappy marriage, a child whose mother had chosen a lover over her family. Though it could be argued that a wife had chosen to save herself from an unbearable marriage. Isabelle could certainly understand her decision, but to risk losing her child? That, she found hard to comprehend.
Perhaps if she had made different c
hoices, Charlie and her daughter might still be alive. Isabelle rubbed her hand over her face. It was no use. She could not remember that night, no matter how hard she tried. She would just bring on another of her headaches. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe there was a good reason for her memory lapse.
Isabelle tilted her head and looked up at the sky. A flock of swallows dipped and turned in the warm air, before flying off westward. She watched until she could see them no more.
* * * * *
The promised tea was accompanied by delicate sandwiches and cakes, all beautifully arranged on china decorated with Snow's family crest. A far cry from her own family's tender care, Isabelle thought with more than a tinge of bitterness. Though what might have happened had not her brother stepped in to protect her, she did not know. She should be grateful. She was certainly freer than she had been before her marriage. The staff were inclined to cosset her, her rooms beautifully appointed.
Isabelle found herself reluctant to venture from her new harbor into the world of society again. But she must. She owed it to her husband and his position. He had promised she would adjust and she hoped that was true. She would hate to disappoint him again.
"Warwick said you were out here." Snow dropped in the seat beside her. "You look quite at ease."
Isabelle smiled. "How could I not be, with everyone waiting on me hand and foot?"
"I'm pleased that you are being treated as I instructed. You will see that being a countess is not such a terrible thing, after all."
Isabelle flushed, conscious of her still tender flesh. Snow reached over to tip up her chin.
"I am teasing you, Isabelle."
She met his gaze briefly before moving away. "I am afraid my sense of humor is rather defunct of late."
Snow turned her face towards his. "Another thing I am sure we can change." His lips brushed hers lightly. "Madame Reynard awaits us, my dear."
