by Viola Morne
"Yes," she whispered.
He smoothed her hair.
"Don't be ashamed. I know what you need. Let me take care of you."
Isabelle nodded. Snow moved back.
"Stand up," he told her.
Isabelle stood, hands braced against the table. She watched Snow lock the door and trembled with anticipation.
"Bend over the table."
She sighed, and stretched her body over the table, grasped the edges with both hands.
"Lift your skirts."
Isabelle brushed her hands down her body. She shimmied her skirts over her thighs and then bared her buttocks. A tendril of lust spiraled along her veins.
She felt him grasp her wrists. Snow tied them behind her with something soft, like a length of flannel. He placed a firm hand on her back.
"Don't move."
Isabelle couldn't understand why his voice, stern and implacable, made her so wet. She pressed her legs together. Snow moved behind her and pushed her thighs apart.
"Naughty girl."
He moved away again. Her breath caught, part fear and part longing. Perhaps he did understand her, after all. Maybe even better than she understood herself.
Isabelle heard the rasp of a kitchen drawer being pulled open. The clink of metal, the clatter of wood, as Snow rummaged through the drawer. At last, he grunted in satisfaction.
"Just what we need."
The heels of Snow's boots thudded as he walked towards her. Her pulse sped up in response. Isabelle lay stretched and open to his pleasure, to his will. She could taste fear, yes, but her pelvis tightened shamefully and her breath quickened. She ground herself against the table.
"No." His voice, so commanding, it quickened her desire to fever pitch.
Isabelle felt Snow smooth something hard and cool over her exposed skin. He stroked it over her buttocks, down her thighs and back to her bottom. The edge of the instrument snagged in the space between them, where the rough surface caught at the delicate skin within and made her gasp.
"You liked that, did you?"
This time that hard edge rubbed right through the crease. She moaned, without volition. She must truly be wicked when such a sensation took her to the very brink. Abruptly, it was gone. Snow was silent behind her. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation. Without warning, the flat side of the wooden spoon thwacked her flesh, hard. Smack on the other cheek. Heat bloomed along her skin. The pain was sharp but so sweet. Her thighs opened helplessly. The blows rained down then, without mercy. Something stirred inside her in response. The physical pain of the spanking sparked a connection with her sorrow and guilt. It was if the pain outside made the agony within more bearable. A final round of strikes and Snow paused. Isabelle heard his footsteps again, as he crossed the room and returned to stand behind her once more. Something dark slithered along the table. A leather strap. Snow drew it over her back. The leather felt smooth, cold against her reddened skin. She shuddered.
Isabelle heard the leather hiss through the air and felt a line of fire as the strap hit the swollen surface of her spanked bottom. She reared back in reaction, but Snow placed a large hand in the small of her back and pushed her down. She wasn't going anywhere.
He gave her a moment to settle, to accept what was about to happen. Isabelle forced herself to lie quiescent, and allow the tension in her muscles to uncoil. Snow must have felt her surrender because he removed his hand. She inhaled deeply, once, twice. The strap hissed and fell again. Dimly, she heard the impact of leather on skin. Her flesh burned and her spirit soared past the confines of body to a place of peace. Sweet, sweet agony. Tears burned in her eyes and, finally, she let them fall, gathering strength, until her grief burst from her chest in great, shuddering sobs.
The strap fell on the table beside her and her husband pulled her into his arms and carried her to bed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Isabelle found the letter on the salver with the rest of her mail when she went to her desk in the morning room the following day.
Dear Countess
It's time for us to meet. I know your filthy secrets and have little compunction about sharing them, unless you make it worth my while. Meet me at Blackfriars Bridge at noon, or I shall do just that. I am sure you don't want to lose another husband.
Come alone and tell no one. Or I'll remove your husband myself.
Would her torment never end? Thank God, Snow had risen early to ride in the park with Major Winter. She needed time to think. What did this anonymous letter writer want from her, beyond torturing her with his knowledge? He made no specific demands, but he clearly wanted something. If he wanted money, why did he not name a specific sum?
She feared meeting with him. She feared not going even more. God, what should she do?
Isabelle tried to calm her tortuous thoughts. She had to retain her wits if she meant to triumph over her opponent. If it was his intention to harm her, he could have done it before now.
She struck her palm in frustration. The only person she could ask for advice was her husband, something the blackmailer had forbidden her to do, with deadly consequences if she did not obey.
She was weary of being a victim. This time, she would act. Isabelle walked to the bell rope and pulled. She glanced at the portrait of the last Countess of Snow. Was that a glimmer of approval in her painted eyes?
I'll keep him safe, she promised, whatever the cost.
The door opened to admit Purvis, the junior footman. Just the man she needed.
"Purvis, I'll need a hackney in one hour."
* * * * *
"You seem more settled this morning, Julian."
Snow smiled. The summer sunshine was warm on his face.
"I believe my wife and I have finally reached a rapprochement. We begin to understand each other."
"This is excellent news, my friend. I am happy for you."
"I'm taking her to see Constable's latest exhibition this afternoon. He's done something modeled on a landscape by Claude. Isabelle is quite anxious to attend."
Winter regarded him with awe.
"I had no idea you were so interested in art."
"Neither did I."
They both laughed.
"Speaking of lovely women, how is your ward, Elinor?"
Snow could have sworn the old warrior blushed.
Winter cleared his throat.
"She's driving me to distraction with all these new ideas about household management. Why she wants to be a housekeeper, I'll never know. I told her she could have a Season in town, but the cursed woman wasn't interested. She wants to run my house, like some damned Roman goddess, what's her name."
Snow controlled his laughter, with some difficulty.
"I think you mean Vesta."
"I don't understand bloody women."
"Oh, major," said the earl, as he clapped his friend on the shoulder, "tell me something I don't know already."
"Very humorous. Come, I'll race you to that tree." Winter dug in his heels and streaked away. Snow followed, not much caring whether he won or not. He already possessed the only prize he desired.
He won by a nose, a fact that the major blamed on his horse being distracted by a squirrel, but Snow thought his old friend had something on his mind.
They parted ways and Snow continued on home. He looked forward to seeing Isabelle again and pleasing her by taking her to the exhibit.
He was surprised when Isabelle wasn't at home. Warwick explained she had called for a hackney and left some time ago. When she didn't turn up in time to attend the exhibit, he was concerned, and when dinner came and went, he was frantic.
He summoned Purvis to question him again.
"No, my lord, the countess didn't say where she was going. She asked me to procure her a hackney carriage because she had an appointment."
"Those were her exact words, that she had an appointment?"
"Yes, my lord. I walked down to the square, found a carriage and told the driver to come by at eleven, just like my lady requested. He
got here on the dot and she went off."
Her maid, Nan, was just as helpful. “Lady Snow hadn't said where she was going, though she had seemed a little distracted.”
Finally, Snow called for his horse and instructed the footmen to search for Isabelle. The search went on for several hours before he finally called a halt. She was nowhere to be found. He slammed into his study and poured himself a stiff measure of brandy. He tossed it off and poured another. He was on the point of summoning a constable when Warwick entered with a note.
"The groom said a lad left this with him."
Dear Snow,
I fear this letter will come as a shock, but I haven't known how to tell you. You see, I've met someone else, a man whom I believe will make me truly happy. We are leaving the country, so you won't need to worry about me anymore. I will always be grateful to you, but I can never love you. I'm so very sorry. My lawyers will be in touch.
With sincere regards,
Isabelle
Snow tried to process what he was reading, but it made no sense. He read her note again. She was leaving him, for another man. They had been so close last night. Isabelle had wanted his hand on her. They had come to an understanding. Snow twisted the letter in his hands, like he wanted to wring her neck. Poor deluded fool, so sure the heart he had entrusted to her care was in safe hands. He flung down the letter, shoved his fingers through his hair. Wait, that didn't make sense.
"Why the groom?"
"I beg your pardon, my lord?"
"Why was this note left with the groom? Why was it not delivered to the front door?"
"Perhaps it arrived when everyone was out looking for her ladyship. Shall I ask at the stables..."
"Never mind. It doesn't matter."
Snow picked up the letter and tossed it in the grate. So his wife had left, just like the rest of them. Just like his mother. Lightskirts, all of them. Oath-breaking, false-hearted Jezebels. He was finished, with her, with every other so-called lady of quality. All he needed was a real whore. One paid for their bodies and one risked nothing, especially not one's heart.
Snow finished his drink and pulled on his gloves. He was not a marrying man. Isabelle had proved him right.
* * * * *
A fist hammered on the door. Snow raised his head from the doxy's breast and shouted, "Fuck off. This room's taken." He wrenched open the fall of his breeches and the whore obligingly opened her legs.
The door crashed open. Snow felt a hand on his collar just before he was lifted bodily from the bed and flung to the floor.
Winter picked up a robe and threw it at the girl. "Get out." She started to protest, but the major jerked his chin towards the door and she fled.
Snow pulled himself up and staggered to the dresser. He took a lengthy pull at the whiskey bottle. "Crashing the party? I was willing to share the girl, you know."
Winter growled at him, "You cretin. What the hell are you doing here, when your wife is missing?"
Snow showed his teeth. "Missing? She left me, damn you." He picked up the bottle again only to have Winter knock it out of his hand.
"That's not going to help you get her back. Now get dressed; we're getting out of here." Winter flung some coins on the bed and marched him, bleary-eyed, down the stairs. He threw him into a waiting carriage and pounded on the roof.
The house seemed empty without Isabelle. Snow lurched up the stairs to the first floor, to her room, where her scent of lavender lingered.
"You see? She's gone, I told you!"
He stumbled across the carpet to one of the armchairs.
Winter followed behind him. Frowning, he looked over her dressing table, opened several drawers and threw open the wardrobe door. He turned and pulled the bell. Isabelle's maid entered quietly and waited.
"Can you tell me what items your mistress took with her? Clothing, jewels?" Nan curtsied, performing a thorough search of Isabelle's dresser and wardrobe while the major waited in silence. Snow thought of the whiskey bottle in his study.
"Beg pardon, sir, my lord, but there's nothing missing, save her everyday cloak and a reticule. Even the jewels she keeps in the dresser are still here."
Winter wheeled around from the window. "Nothing is missing?"
"Not a stitch, sir."
Snow blinked. "But that makes no sense."
"Unless she didn't know she wasn't coming back?" The major turned to Nan. "Search everything. I don't care if we have to tear the room apart."
The little maid gasped and hastily opened a drawer. Winter started in the wardrobe.
Snow stared at them. "What the hell are you doing?" He rose unsteadily.
Winter turned around, a small casket open in his hands. He lifted out a pile of letters. Snow snatched them away. They were all addressed to Isabelle in the same block printing. He tore one open and read:
Dear Countess Snow,
How lovely that title must sound to you. After all, how could a mere baronet compete with a viscount? Though why two men of property would want to wed a trollop like you exceeds all bounds of common sense. Tell me, what does your new husband prefer, your loose morals or your tight cunt?
You'll be hearing from me again, Countess.
Snow looked up at his friend, heart twisted in anguish. "She was being blackmailed."
Winter took the letters, scanning several of them in turn. He spoke to the maid. "We'll need coffee, lots of it, in his lordship's study." He turned to his friend. "Pull yourself together, Julian. Your wife needs you."
Snow still stood, staring blankly at the carpet. He looked up, shook himself out like a dog climbing out of water, and bellowed through the open door. "Cheem! I need a bath and clean clothes. At once!"
The staff tripped over themselves to assist their master, and it was less than half an hour before a cleaned-up and much chastened earl strode into his study where Winter pored over the letters. He nodded to the coffee. Snow poured himself a cup, refilled the major's and threw himself in his chair. A headache threatened behind his eyes. He sipped the coffee gratefully.
Caine put down the last letter and tapped it, pursing his lips.
"The first letter arrived only days after you were wed."
Snow rubbed his reddened eyes. "Isabelle never said a word."
"Julian."
Snow looked at his friend, his brain fogged with drink and misery.
"Isabelle is not your mother. She is a good woman, who overcame a terrible past, to find a new life with you, one you have chosen to share with her. Don't give up on her now." Winter bent over the letters again. "And, Julian? You are not your father."
"These letters, they hint of some knowledge of what occurred the night Lady Snow's first husband died. But there is no mention of any actual proof, only insinuations, along with the idea that you, as the unwitting husband, would be angered if you knew the truth about your wife. The tone is increasingly threatening, until this last one...it mentions a meeting..."
Snow leaned over the desk and grabbed the letter.
"A meeting? Where?"
"Blackfriars Bridge. They were to meet yesterday at noon."
"He must have taken her at the bridge or soon after." Snow cursed and paced around the room. "I'm the worst fool in England, and the most useless husband."
"No time for recriminations, Julian. We'll go to the bridge and see if anyone witnessed the abduction and make our plans from there. That bridge is usually crowded, so someone must have seen something."
Snow stopped in place. "You're right. Isabelle needs me."
He whirled and strode through the door.
"Coming, major?"
Winter sprinted after him.
* * * * *
Dawn had barely broken, but already Blackfriars Bridge teemed with traffic. Horses, carriages and pedestrians streamed back and forth across the Thames. Amid the noise and dirt, Snow searched frantically for anyone who might have seen Isabelle. He was met with blank stares and head-shaking. One enterprising gentleman even told him to shove
off. Snow held onto his temper with difficulty.
"There," Winter clutched his arm. "The hackney stand. They may have hired a coach here to transport Isabelle, if he didn't have his own. He couldn't have just walked away with her."
One of the ostlers heard him out and spit between his teeth.
"Might 'ave seen 'im, mind you, sir, oi couldn't be sure."
"He would have been with a young woman, medium height, reddish hair, well-dressed."
"Ginger-haired?" He scratched his neck. "Blue dress? Didn't seem too happy to see the gent. I seen her. Yestiday sometime. That the one?"
Snow nearly embraced him.
"Yes, that's her. Where did they go?"
"He come 'ere, first, like and 'ired a carriage, then drove over to bridge. Met up with your lydy and took 'er up in the carriage. They went off down south, across the bridge."
Snow thanked the ostler and tossed him a coin, which the fellow caught and pocketed in a single motion.
"They could have gone anywhere." Despair threatened, but he shook it off. "Where next?"
The major rubbed his jaw.
"You won't like it, but I want to go back to the house. There is something about those letters that bothers me. I want to look at them again."
Snow hesitated. He wanted to be on the move, tracking Isabelle and her captor southward. But he knew Winter and trusted the major's instincts. If there was a chance to learn more from examining the letters, then that was the prudent move. If only every instinct didn't urge him to ride after them, even not knowing where they were going. He nodded and reluctantly turned his horse homeward. He sensed that time was not on his side.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The groom hurried to take Snow's horse. The earl took the stairs two at a time and burst in the door.
"Any word from her ladyship, Warwick?"
"Nothing, my lord, I'm afraid. There is something else that I found when we searched the house, as you ordered."
Snow blew out an impatient breath. "Well, what was it?"
Warwick looked troubled. "The lock on the cabinet in your study was broken. Nothing was touched anywhere else."
