“A lovers’ quarrel, nothing more,” she said. “We can put that nonsense behind us, and I will be your wife, as you’ve always wanted.”
“It is strange to think it, Miss Haversham,” Beckett said. “I did want that once. But I have chosen my bride, and I intend to keep her.”
“But—” Cordelia looked disbelievingly at Isobel and then back at Beckett. “But, I must be your wife. I must be the Countess of Ravenwood!”
“I have my countess. Good day, Cordelia,” Beckett said, touching the brim of his hat and leading Isobel toward their waiting coach.
Beckett handed his wife into the plush interior and stepped in beside her, sitting on the burgundy velvet seat. He felt a wave of relief. A chapter of his life finally had been closed, and another one was just beginning.
Isobel’s intelligent brown eyes studied him as the coach jerked forward.
“My apologies for that dreadful scene, my dear,” he said. “What is it they say—hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?”
“But I thought it was she who had scorned you,” Isobel said.
“Cordelia was only interested in my money—” Beckett stated, “until it turned out I had none. Now that I am to become an earl, she has changed her mind once again.”
“But you have not?”
“No,” he said stiffly.
“I thought her quite beautiful,” Isobel commented.
“As beautiful as a rose—with rather vicious little thorns,” Beckett said cynically. “If one gets too close, you end up bleeding.”
“Is that why you have chosen me for a bride, my lord?” Isobel asked. “Because thorns pricked you last time, and you’ve sworn to give up gardening?”
“I was never much for roses,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “They make me sneeze.”
* * *
Isobel closed the heavy book and rested it in her lap. Somehow, reading The Taming of the Shrew again had failed to lighten her mood as it usually did. Instead, it made her feel like Katharina, suddenly wed to a stranger—her world irrevocably changed.
The play had a happy ending.
Would her marriage turn out as well?
She had spent the afternoon and evening alone. After the wedding breakfast, Beckett had gone to complete the business of his inheritance with Lord Weston in tow. He had assured her that he would be home by six o’clock. It was now half-past nine.
Oh, she wanted to kick herself! Not even married a full day, and she was already acting like a shrew. Her husband’s affairs were none of her concern. What did it matter when he came home, if at all? For if he did, it would bring up the question of the wedding night.
Lord Ravenwood—for Beckett was the earl now—had said the marriage was no more than a business transaction. But would he want a wedding night, with all the trimmings? What man wouldn’t?
Perhaps if she retired now to her chamber, he would be reluctant to disturb her when and if he came home. Yes, that was a good plan. And besides that, it was the only plan she could come up with at the moment.
Isobel rose from the library sofa and replaced the heavy volume on the shelf. Just as she opened the door into the hallway, another door opened, and accompanied by a draft of cool night air, her husband walked into the foyer.
Isobel felt a heated thrill move through her.
“Good evening, Isobel,” Beckett said, taking off his hat and passing it to Hartley, who quickly left them alone.
“I was just going up to bed,” she blurted.
“To bed?” he asked. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
“It does?” she stammered.
“Quite decidely.”
“Oh, no,” she replied. “In this case, it doesn’t.”
“Why not, darling?” He regarded her seriously, but Isobel could have sworn there was the hint of a smile on his lips.
“Because—I am very tired,” she said. “And… I’m not feeling well at all. In fact, I am quite ill.”
It was true. Her stomach churned dreadfully at the thought of a wedding night. Truly, she felt she must be turning green.
“Really?” he asked. “That is unfortunate.”
“Yes—I am very, very ill indeed,” Isobel said flatly. “In fact, I may faint.”
“Then I must carry you up to your chamber, before you do,” he said.
“There is no need—ooh!”
In one swift motion, Beckett swept her into his strong arms and held her as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“Really, I can walk.” Isobel pushed against his broad chest, but to no avail. Her husband carried her aloft in his arms, and she was helpless to escape.
Worst of all, the sensation was anything but unpleasant.
Was he holding her tighter?
Whatever he was doing, he was taking his time!
The moments seemed to pass with agonizing slowness as Beckett carried her up the staircase. Funny, but Isobel had never noticed there were so many steps, or that the hallway was so long, or that her husband could set her pulse to racing so quickly.
Beckett entered in the Blue Room, and carried her to the huge, soft bed. Isobel’s pulse quickened as he gently lay her down upon it. She half-feared, half-hoped he would join her there.
He looked down into her eyes, reaching out to lift an errant curl from her forehead. The back of his hand brushed against her skin, leaving a trial of tingles dancing over it. “I do hope you are feeling better,” he said. “You’ve had a busy day, my dear. I bid you goodnight.”
Isobel closed her eyes and waited for his lips to claim hers, but was surprised when he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.
She opened her eyes to see him quietly leaving the room, as a knot formed in her heart. He was leaving her alone for the night.
Wasn’t that what she’d wanted?
As Isobel lay there alone on the big, empty bed, she realized that it wasn’t what she wanted at all.
* * *
“Good morning, Hartley,” Beckett said, pouring himself a cup of hot black coffee. “Have you seen my wife about? I was told she came down before me.”
“Lady Ravenwood is in the garden, my lord,” Hartley replied.
“And how did she seem?” Beckett asked. “Did she look to be in good health this morning?”
“She seemed in excellent health, my lord.”
Beckett popped a strawberry in his mouth. “Good. I am afraid the excitement of yesterday’s events made the countess somewhat ill.”
Hartley nodded sagely. “It is often the case with new wives, my lord. But these wedding-day illnesses are quickly cured.”
“Undoubtedly,” Beckett agreed. He took a linen napkin and placed a handful of strawberries in it, bundling it up and heading down the hallway.
He opened the French doors and walked out into the bright morning. Quickly, he spied her. She faced away from him, but he could see her profile in the warm yellow light.
He watched as the sunlight played upon her golden curls, and made them glint as if they were crowned with fairy dust.
Gadzooks, but she was beautiful.
Where Cordelia’s beauty was almost blinding, Isobel’s was soft as a rose petal. Cordelia’s eyes burned with heat, but Isobel’s glowed with warmth, like the play of firelight through a whiskey glass. Where Cordelia was statuesque and voluptuous, Isobel was dainty and petite.
And while Cordelia’s voice was deep and throaty, Isobel’s was soft and sweet. Beckett watched her as she sketched. She seemed so innocent, so unaware of her own loveliness. The realization stirred something powerful within him.
Damnation, he didn’t have time for such nonsense. He would not start mooning over his new wife like a bloody schoolboy. Wasn’t that why he’d married Isobel? To keep things simple?
He’d been glad she feigned illness last night.
For he had been so tempted to take her to his bed and bury himself in the perfection of her body…
Theirs was the perfect marriage: one of convenience. He would no
t let his base needs play havoc with his plans. It would be no use discovering any charms of Isobel’s that might reduce him once again to a love-sick idiot. He had played that role once for Cordelia, and found it quite tiresome.
Certainly, he would be polite, and treat Isobel with the utmost respect.
But one thing was certain—no woman would ever sink her claws into him again.
* * *
Isobel sat on the marble bench beside the little pond and watched the fish swim up to the surface, then flip their tails as they headed back down toward the dark, soft bottom. This place was not unlike her own garden at home.
She had spent another restless night filled with terrible dreams of Sir Harry and Hampton House. She’d awakened to find her nightdress soaked through, her hands shaking in terror. Seeking to banish the fears of the night, Isobel had come out to the garden this morning with pencils and paper in order to sketch.
A bee buzzed past her on its way to some sweet-smelling roses. She watched the insect fly into the center of a delicate pink blossom, and gather its nectar to bring back to the hive.
She thought of Beckett’s talk of roses yesterday in the coach. There were indeed many sharp, wicked-looking thorns adorning the flower’s stem, a potent protection from anyone trying to possess its delicate beauty.
The confrontation with Cordelia Haversham had been unsettling. Isobel knew she had no reason to be jealous of Beckett’s previous fiancee. After all, their marriage was purely a business arrangement.
Hadn’t last night’s events, or lack thereof, proven that?
Yet she couldn’t help but be curious about her husband’s former love. From what she’d seen, the woman was as spoiled as a wicked child. And though extremely beautiful, her personality was anything but.
Isobel had been trying to sketch all morning, but the face that flashed before her eyes clouded her vision. Dark, glittering eyes stared up at her from the blank paper and mocked her.
She tried to concentrate on her view of the pink rose and the yellow-striped bee that flew happily around it. Forcing her hand to the paper, she slowly sketched the rose on the sheet in front of her. As the picture took shape, the fluid lines and shadows drew her problems into the folds of the petals. Her artwork had always soothed her mind and spirit.
Taking a new sheet of paper, Isobel thought of Cordelia, of her rich red hair, porcelain complexion and bright green eyes. Though Isobel had no love for the woman, she would be a superb subject.
She moved the lead quickly this time, her soft lines becoming Cordelia’s cheekbone, the regal nose, the coy eyes. Isobel worked methodically, the action blotting out the whirlwind in her mind. Using her fingertip, she smudged some lines to make them softer. Isobel looked down at Cordelia’s likeness with a bit of shock.
There were the woman’s calculating eyes and cold, thin smile. She was beautiful, yes, but had the hard beauty of a marble statue whose eyes appeared sightless, whose mouth would remain frozen for eternity.
“I didn’t know you were an artist,” a voice said from behind her, breaking the silence of the garden.
Isobel looked up to see her husband’s face shaded by the branches of the oak tree. She felt a thrill of surprise, then self-consciousness. Usually, she didn’t show her drawings to anyone, let alone the subject’s former love.
“May I?” Beckett asked, his hand outstretched.
Reluctantly, Isobel gave him the drawing. “I hope it doesn’t offend you, my lord.”
“Why would it offend me? It is merely a piece of paper,” Beckett replied. Abruptly, he held the picture toward Isobel. “You’ve captured her, my dear.”
She retrieved it and stared at him for a moment, taking in his relaxed attire. The white shirt he wore was not buttoned to the top, and showed the soft, cinnamon-colored hair of his chest.
She had never been this close to a man who wasn’t fully dressed before. No—she corrected herself. There had been that morning in his bedchamber. Of course, she had been unconscious for most of that. He’d been entirely without his shirt, but she’d been so concerned with her own state of undress that she hadn’t really looked at him very closely.
But now she could see the texture of his skin in the sunlight. Isobel wanted to shake the thoughts from her head. She shouldn’t be thinking about his skin, she should be thinking about her own. Isobel forced her eyes back to his roguish expression and took a deep breath.
A faint hint of his cologne drifted toward Isobel on the soft breeze, tantalizing her senses just as it had done yesterday when he’d held her close and carried her upstairs.
“I trust you slept well last night,” he said.
“Yes, my lord. I slept quite well.” It was a lie. She hadn’t slept well, at all.
He made a face, waving his hand in annoyance. “And let us dispense with you calling me ‘my lord.’ We are husband and wife now, Isobel. I insist that you call me by my Christian name.”
“Of course… Beckett,” she replied.
“I am glad that your health has improved since last night,” he continued. “Too much excitement, I expect. You had a very full day, as did I. Alfred took me to White’s after I officially became Lord Ravenwood. We had supper, played at cards, and found I had all manner of new friends crawling out of the woodwork to congratulate me. Comes with being a wealthy earl, I suppose, because none of them was the least concerned with me when I was an impoverished viscount. What did you do, Isobel?”
“After supper I retired to the library and read Mr. Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew,” she said.
“The Taming of the Shrew?” he asked. “Is there something I should know about? Am I to play Petruchio to your Katharina? Or Lucentio to your Bianca?”
“I cannot say,” Isobel replied, “for those that you mention are both pairs of lovers. And as you have said, ours is a marriage only of convenience.”
He stepped closer to her, his penetrating blue eyes holding her gaze. “You are right, of course. That is what we both wanted. Is it not?”
“It is what we agreed upon.”
“So it is,” Beckett replied, finally. “I shall be off to the solicitors’ again this afternoon. Don’t wait up for me, hmm?”
Isobel watched him walk across the lawn to the doorway without so much as a look back at her. Slowly, she packed up her drawing leads and papers, trying to quiet the thudding of her heart. She wanted nothing more than to retire to her room where she could be alone.
Doubts swirled in her head, as dark and brittle as a whirlwind of autumn leaves.
Who was this man that she’d married so hastily? He seemed such a contradiction—one day insisting that he wanted a marriage of convenience, and the next, teasing her about lovers and wedding nights.
But as strange as this marriage was, it was necessary for her survival. She would make sense of it somehow. If Katharina and Petruchio could make their marriage work, then so could she and Beckett.
Surely most of the women in London would trade their best bonnet for a true marriage with a man who was so attractive. And he was an earl, to boot. A very wealthy earl.
As she entered her room, Isobel found herself remembering the softness of Beckett’s lips on hers yesterday in the church, and then last night so chastely upon her forehead.
She sighed and plopped herself down on the bed, lying upon her back and staring up at the ceiling.
Did he intend to honor their arrangement? His behavior in the garden had been most puzzling. She could have sworn he’d been flirting with her.
If Beckett decided he wanted her in his bed, she would have no right to refuse him. And what was more worrisome, she knew she would have no intention of doing so.
Chapter 6
Beckett stood in front of the mirror and arranged his ivory silk neck cloth. Unfortunately, Hartley’s talents in this regard were sorely lacking, and Beckett himself had been forced to learn how to tie a proper knot or risk looking like an uncultured oaf. He pulled on the bow to make it puff. There. Much bet
ter.
Tonight he and his wife were making their first public appearance since their wedding two days ago. By all accounts, their attendance at the Whitcomb Ball was the talk of London. It seemed everyone wanted a glimpse of the new Earl and Countess of Ravenwood.
Word was that Cordelia would be there, presumably with talons sharpened. According to Alfred, Cordelia had been campaigning to win support from some of the old guard—the Marchioness of Colborne, the Countess of Linfield and last but not least, the Duchess of Rowley.
No doubt, Cordelia was trying to discredit Beckett and his new bride, not that he cared what any of those old crones thought. He adjusted his cuffs and took one last look in the glass. It would do.
He trotted down the staircase with Monty on his heels, then stood near the bottom to await his wife. He felt the dog’s hot breath on his pant leg and moved away. The beast scooted closer, so that he was exactly the same distance from Beckett’s leg as he had been before.
“Monty, I’ve already applied my cologne for the evening, thank you very much. Go on, now,” Beckett said, pointing.
Monty looked up at him with happy brown eyes and continued to steam Beckett’s trousers.
“Monty, go lay down,” he said firmly.
The dog raised sad eyes to his master and obeyed.
A flapping of feathers whooshed through the air and Caesar flew out of the salon, landing on his favorite perch: Beckett’s head.
“Oh, Caesar—get off!” Beckett reached up to disengage the parrot from his head.
“Get off…get off, ahhkk!” The bird flapped its wings enthusiastically, and flew up just out of Beckett’s reach, then landed on his head again. They repeated this process until Beckett finally gave up, and stood with his hands on his hips.
“Caesar, I believe you have ruined my hair,” Beckett said.
Light feminine laughter trickled down the staircase.
Beckett looked up to see Isobel standing at the top, covering her mouth with a dainty gloved hand as she giggled.
“You think this quite funny, do you?” Beckett asked.
Isobel appeared to be swallowing her smirk as she descended the stairs and stopped at the bottom.
Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) Page 5
