by Viola Morne
"Warwick informs me that you were ill this morning. You told me you were fine." He hadn't meant to sound like a crown prosecutor, but Isabelle's lips tightened.
"What else did you expect me to say in front of the servants?"
He wanted her to smile at him, to tell him her sweet secret. Instead she clenched her fingers in her lap.
"I'm not breeding, if that's what troubling you."
Not with child. Disappointment sat like a stone on his chest.
"But I thought, when I heard you were..."
Isabelle pressed her lips together, then shook her head.
"If you must know, when I awoke this morning, the memories of what I'd done, what you made me do...I thought of taking your friend in my mouth and the memory of the taste made me vomit. Now may I leave?"
Snow leaned back in his chair.
"Where are you going?"
Isabelle stood up, her expression arctic. "Hatchard's has a copy of the new novel by Sir Walter Scott. I have several other errands and then I promised your sister a morning call."
"I'll bid you good morning then." No hope that she might like him to accompany her.
She sketched him a stiff curtsy and turned on her heel. The door shut smartly behind her. Snow rubbed his face. Even when he'd possessed her body, her spirit eluded him. He didn't know what it would take to make her truly his. All he did know was that he still wanted her, in every way, and he was damned if he'd give up now. Devil take it, he was still her husband. Snow grabbed his hat and walking stick and stormed out of the house to track down his elusive bride.
CHAPTER SIX
The clerk at Hatchard's wasn't surprised to see her, though she hadn't been to London in two years.
"A man was inquiring about your ladyship," Mr. Carter told her. Alarm sparked within her.
"What was his name?"
"He didn't say, my lady. Pleasant fellow, soft-spoken. But he did leave you a note."
Isabelle extended her hand with fingers that trembled. "Thank you, Mr. Carter." She pushed the note into her reticule, picked up her book and left the store. She was unnerved. The anonymous letter writer knew her, where she lived, and now where she shopped as well. Who could know so much about her?
Her carriage waited down the block. She hurried towards it, glancing over her shoulder. He could be anywhere. The footman jumped down to open the door and she climbed inside.
"Tell Coachman to wait a moment, Purvis."
He closed the door and stepped back. She pulled out the note and tore it open.
Dear Lady Snow,
Please meet me in Green Park. I'll wait for you at the pond.
The words were roughly printed, the signature illegible. Did this person want her to meet him at once? She peered out the window. Someone must be watching her, even now. He must have followed her from the house, and slipped in the book shop while she browsed the shelves. Isabelle racked her brain, but could remember no suspicious characters lurking about.
She rapped on the window. Purvis opened it.
"I'd like to go to Green Park."
"Yes, your ladyship." He shut the door and Isabelle sank back on the seat, feeling almost as trapped as she had been at Larkspur Hall. Here in London, an unknown figure stalked her, terrifying her with those ugly letters that hinted at some kind of retribution, for crimes she wasn't even sure she'd committed.
And then there were the tangled relations with her husband, at once proud and passionate. Isabelle had been whipped as a child, as children were, either by her nurse or governess. Her father had whipped her once for taking out his most high-spirited horse without asking permission. She'd sprained her ankle, and he'd been afraid that she might do herself greater harm. She hadn't liked her punishments, but she'd understood them.
What her husband did to her, what she let him do, passed beyond anything she had experienced before. He hurt her, but he also pleasured her. Her feminine parts tightened at the memory of his firm hand on her flesh. She wanted him, God help her, even after what had transpired with Frost. Isabelle shuddered, but her traitorous body grew wet. What a coil.
The coach lurched to a stop, and Purvis swung open the door.
"Green Park, my lady." He helped her down and she adjusted her skirts. She lifted her chin, and strode to nearest path, which wound down to the water. At least she was not alone.
Isabelle looked around cautiously, once she reached the pond. Beyond the usual nannies and carriages, the park was deserted. She glanced back at the carriage, where the coachman and Purvis stood talking. She closed her eyes for a moment to steady her nerves.
"My lady?"
Isabelle gasped and swung around. A small round woman, hands clutching a string purse, smiled at her. Isabelle knew her face but the name...her name was...the effort to recall her caused a familiar stab of pain behind her eyes.
"My lady, it's Rose. Rose McNab, I was when I was with you. Are you unwell, my lady?"
Rose! The nursemaid she'd hired for her daughter. She remembered.
One gloved hand pressed her mouth. A quick calming breath, and Isabelle dropped her hand.
"I am well, Rose. I am just surprised to see you."
Rose blushed. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but I saw the notice of your marriage and I wanted," she hesitated, "I wanted to make sure you...oh, my lady, I've not had word of you since that dreadful time. I've been that worried."
"Oh, Rose! I never thought. My brother came to take me home. I was still ill and when I recovered, I never thought...I am so sorry. Where are you living now? May I assist you in any way?"
"I am fine, my lady. I never expected anything from you, bless you, not with all your troubles. Your brother wrote us references and we've all made out. I went home to my village. I hadn't the heart to stay in town. I married my old beau. It were him who left the message with the clerk. He went each day with a new message until you turned up. I knew it was your favorite shop."
Isabelle's head pounded. Her chest was tight, releasing each breath with effort.
"There, my lady. You are unwell. Let's go sit down, shall we?"
Rose led her to a bench facing the water. She fussed over her, moistening a handkerchief from a vinaigrette and holding it to Isabelle's nose. Isabelle waved her back.
"It was just the shock, Rose. Please, let's just sit still for a moment." Isabelle grasped Rose's hand, who held on with a comfortable grip.
"Now, let's start at the beginning. I want you to tell me everything you recall from that night.”
"The baby was ailing, feverish and coughing. Then, my lady, you fell ill yourself. I had to force you back to bed, because you didn't want to leave the little one. I asked Rogers to tell the master to send for the doctor, I was that worried. Then..." Rose paused, shook her head. "The master, he'd been drinking, worse than ever. He stormed into the nursery, said he wasn't at the beck and call of servants, that he wouldn't stand the expense of having a doctor in. Oh, my lady, he wouldn't even look at the child.
"I begged him, my lady, said you were so poorly I doubted you'd survive the night." Rose's grasp tightened. "It was touch and go...but he, oh, my lady, he laughed! Then he went back to the library and roared for the butler. He sacked us all, there and then. We had to pack and be out. The master said he'd send for the constable and see us all locked up if we wouldn't leave. I tried to stay, but the master, he threw me down the stairs. Rogers helped me out of the house. Some of us stayed around, to see if somehow we could back in the house to help you and the child. But the master barred the door. The next morning when I returned, it was already too late. Your brother had taken you away and we were told by Sir John's servants that the child was dead. They were all over the house, cleaning up all the...blood."
The pain in Isabelle's head grew worse, with each beat of her thudding heart. Flashes of memory surged through her mind: her wedding day; her daughter, plump and pink from her bath; her husband, drunk and unkempt, screaming at her.
"But here you are, healthy, married aga
in, and to such a great lord. I'm that happy for you, my lady." Rose smiled. The past, as far as Rose was concerned, could be tucked safely away again.
Somehow Isabelle mastered her pain, and summoned a smile.
"Yes, Rose, it is just as you say. My husband is all that I could wish for. Thank you for taking the time to come and see me. My memories of that night were unclear. You have helped me to resolve them."
They parted finally, Rose to her new life far from London, and Isabelle to visit her sister-in-law. He had laughed. She remembered him laughing.
* * * * *
He'd just missed her at Hatchard's, the clerk told Snow. The volume in question, ‘Quentin Durward,’ was in great demand and Lady Snow had seemed most happy to obtain it. He left the shop, remembering the books that lined her cage back at Larkspur Hall. Reading had been her solace and escape. He'd forgotten that, obsessed as he had been with his sensual pursuits.
Perhaps the secret to wooing Isabelle lay more in trying to please her than himself. A novel concept, he acknowledged to himself wryly. He tried to find her among the other shoppers who thronged the streets of fashionable London, but failing to do so, retreated to his club. At least Frost was out of town. He was the last man he wanted to see right now. Snow entered the reading room to see a large gentleman leaning lazily against the mantel.
"Winter! I didn't know you were in town."
Major Caine Winter raised his cup in greeting. "Snow, as I live and breathe. Heard you'd been shackled at last."
Snow clasped his free hand warmly. "May I join you? What in blazes are you drinking?"
Winter looked down at the cup. "Tea."
Snow looked at him sharply but said nothing. He asked a hovering waiter for a glass of ale and flung himself in a chair. Winter looked as imperturbable as ever, his large frame clad in riding clothes and worn boots.
"I thought to find Leighton, but I hear he's decamped to his aunt's home in Cornwall."
Snow looked down at his glass. "Yes, he left this morning."
The major heaved himself into the chair opposite. "Everything all right?"
In spite of his rustic appearance, Winter was a formidable man: a leader in war, and the ultimate country squire at home, caring for a vast retinue of servants and relatives, as he'd cared for the men serving under him. Those bonds formed on the battlefield had held tightly over the years.
"I'm damned glad to see you, major."
Winter sipped his tea. His expression remained noncommittal, but Snow could sense the sharpening of his focus.
"In a scrape again, Julian?"
Snow leaned his head against the worn leather. "You have no fucking idea."
The major sighed. “You’d better tell me everything.”
Winter listened, arms crossed, while Snow recounted his courtship and marriage. Then the major leaned over and stabbed a large finger into Snow’s chest.
"I never thought you a stupid man, Julian, but, frankly, I'm beginning to wonder. You treat your wife like a doxy, allow that incorrigible libertine Frost to accost her, and then you sit there whining about how your wife doesn't love you the way she should. Pardon me while I whip out my handkerchief and shed a tear."
Snow gaped at him. A whore. He hadn't, he would never...had he?
"Christ, you're right. I am that fucking stupid." Snow dropped his head into his hands. "Now what am I going to do?"
The major glared at him. "You are going to go find your wife, tell her that you are an unmitigated ass and beg her pardon. If she has any sense, she'll tell you to bugger off. Isabelle, however, did agree to marry you. She may be touched in the head. But she may also, and it is a remote possibility, accept your apology. If you grovel enough. Then you can go back to beating and fucking her yourself, like a husband is supposed to."
Snow shook his head. "It can't be that simple."
Caine smiled, not nicely. "Oh, no, not simple. You're going to have to crawl like hell. Remember the Battle of Vitoria? Picture your bride as a French soldier, only clad in muslin."
Snow swore. "You're enjoying all this, aren't you?"
"Immensely, old friend."
* * * * *
Somehow Isabelle got herself to Lucy's. She crammed all her fears and memories back inside, in order to simply carry on. She'd managed it before; it was either that or collapse altogether. Isabelle had done that the night her daughter died, and it had not served her. Life was unrelenting. Isabelle had no choice but to keep going.
"Isabelle! I'm so happy you came." Lucy fluttered across the drawing room, hands outstretched in welcome. "Let me perform the introductions."
The other ladies in attendance were family members in the main, a scattering of cousins and aunts. Isabelle pinned a smile on her face and tried to act naturally, murmuring greetings to ladies whose names she would never remember. She found herself sitting beside one of Snow's cousins, a sprightly young woman whose conversation centered on the exhaustive accomplishments of her three young children. A stir at the door heralded the arrival of the young heir, a boy of six months, with his mother's smile.
After much cooing and admiring on the part of the ladies, Isabelle looked up to see her hostess bearing down on her with the precious package held in her arms.
"You haven't met our little James, Isabelle. Here."
Before Isabelle could object, Lucy placed the baby in her arms. Oh, God, the feeling of that warm, tiny body, with its sweet baby scent. Isabelle looked down at little James, her whole being frozen in horror. She couldn't do this, she just couldn't...she looked up to see her husband in the doorway. He was speaking with Lucy, but his dark, steady gaze was fixed on her. Isabelle's fingers tightened on the baby, who mewled his discomfort. She gasped, loosened her hold. The baby kicked his fat little thighs. She closed her eyes briefly and wished to be anywhere else.
"My dear, I think you've had your fair share of our newest family member." Snow reached down to scoop up baby James. Her arms tightened automatically, but at her husband's nod, she let the baby go. Relief coursed through her, but her arms felt empty, bereft.
Snow held the baby with assurance, speaking to him soothingly, before placing him in his mother's arms. "Here you are, Lucy. The young master wants his mama."
Isabelle sat silently, her fists clenching and releasing spasmodically. Grief swamped her.
Snow bent towards her, murmuring something she couldn't make out over the pounding in her head. Somehow Snow propelled her from the house, exchanging greetings and goodbyes, while he clasped her trembling hand on his arm, the hard pressure her only anchor in a sea of loss.
* * * * *
Snow ushered Isabelle through the door, keeping a careful arm around her. He spoke briefly with Warwick before he caught her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs. Her bedroom was blissfully dim and quiet, the curtains drawn against the evening sun. Snow set her down carefully. He untied her bonnet and smoothed her hair back from her forehead.
"My head hurts."
"I know, my love. Your maid will help you undress and Warwick will bring you some tea. I'll return shortly to see you." Snow kissed her forehead gently. He let her maid in and left.
Nan clucked over her wan appearance. She assisted her to slip off her frock, then unlaced her stays, and removed her shoes and stockings. Nan pulled her night rail over her head, wiped her face with a cloth, and tucked her into bed. A scratch on the door heralded the entrance of the tea tray.
Isabelle had just set down her cup when her husband returned. He shrugged out of his jacket, kicked off his shoes and sat down beside her. He turned her on her stomach, using his strong fingers to massage her scalp, then her neck and shoulders. Her tension and fear ebbed away under his soothing touch. Even the pain lessened. He helped her onto her side and lay down, his arm curving her body against his. She sighed her pleasure.
"Better?" he whispered in her ear.
"Much." She snuggled into her pillow and drifted away into sweet oblivion.
Later, Isabelle wok
e to find her room in darkness, except for the light of single candle. Her headache was gone but the sadness lingered. All that she had suffered in her marriage, and afterward at her brother's house, were nothing compared to the loss of her daughter. Molly had been the light of her life, the reward for the misery of life with Charlie. For so long, she had shut away her memories of Molly because it hurt too much to think of her. Now, after speaking with Rose, the good memories of her short time with her daughter returned, along with the anguish of losing her.
She tossed restlessly, unable to find comfort in her bed, or in her heart. Perhaps some warm milk, or a good book. Isabelle got out of bed and put on her wrapper. The hall was dim and quiet, the servants already in bed. A light shone beneath the study door. She paused outside and heard the murmur of male voices. She passed on down the passage and through the baize door. A short flight of stairs led to the kitchen. The fire was banked and she stirred the coals to life before pushing the kettle over the flame. A cup of tea, that was the thing.
Isabelle located the tea and sugar in the pantry, finding comfort in performing these simple tasks. While the tea brewed, she sat down at the scrubbed wooden table. The Countess of Snow in her kitchen. She smiled at the thought, before her loss and guilt coiled around her heart once more.
"Isabelle, what are you doing here?" Her husband stood in the doorway, his friend Major Winter behind him.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Julian thought we had a burglar." The major sounded disappointed.
Isabelle stared down into her cup. "No burglar, just me."
Snow murmured something to his friend.
"Well, it's very late. I'm off. Evening, Lady Snow."
She tried to smile at the departing major, but her lips trembled.
Snow crossed the room to kneel by her chair.
"What's troubles you, my love?"
Isabelle shook her head.
Her husband lifted her chin. "You need to feel my hand on you, don't you?"
