“Hmph.” Beckett reached up and grabbed the bird before he could flap his gray wings and escape. “Caesar, I’m afraid that your career as a hat is over. Back in your cage, now.”
“Ahhkk! Bye-bye. Bye-bye,” the bird squawked as his owner placed him back in his big brass cage.
Beckett returned to Isobel’s side. For some reason, she kept putting her hand to her lips and looking at the floor, or the door, or anywhere but directly at him.
“What is it?” he inquired.
“Your hair, I’m afraid.”
“Damnation,” He said, crossing over to the glass in the hallway. Beckett laughed himself when he saw the strange coiffure the bird had wrought upon his head. His hair stuck out in every direction. He turned back to Isobel, and with as serious a face as he could muster, said, “You mean you don’t like it? But I hear it’s quite the dash.”
Isobel seemed unconvinced.
Beckett ran his hands through his hair and fluffed it forward, then checked in the mirror. It would have to do.
It seemed that only then did he notice her gown, a stunning creation of amber silk with a daring neckline. Well, he supposed it was respectable enough for a married woman. But the thought niggled at him that she was his married woman, and perhaps he didn’t want all of society looking at her breasts all night long. He offered his arm and felt her little hand tuck into the crook of his elbow. “You know what to do?” he asked.
“Yes,” Isobel replied. “If anyone says anything out of turn, I am to bat my eyelashes, laugh as charmingly as possible, and perhaps sigh rather whimsically.”
“Exactly,” he said. “And if that doesn’t win them over, be sure to swoon. Most people love a good swoon.”
“Will Miss Haversham be there?”
Beckett nodded. “Like Napoleon, itching for battle. And you must be like Wellington. Stand your ground, and you’ll see the enemy run.”
“Will there be time to dance, in between dodging enemy volleys?” Isobel asked.
Beckett laughed, admiring Isobel’s spirit. “I will make certain you do more dancing than dodging, my dear. This is our first ball as the Earl and Countess of Ravenwood. Let us enjoy ourselves, and in doing so, set all of London on its ear.”
Beckett led his wife out the door and helped her into the waiting carriage. As they pulled away and drove down the street, he hoped for Isobel’s sake that this evening would not be the disaster Cordelia would surely try to make it.
The carriage rolled into the long torchlit drive of Whitcomb Park and stopped as they waited for a space. Carriages lined the circular drive from end to end. In the flickering light, a steady flow of guests promenaded up the wide staircase and through the main doors.
As they waited to pull up beside the steps, Isobel looked across at Beckett, who sat back leisurely as if this were a simple soiree they were attending. The flames from the torches lit the inside of the cab, flickering over his face in the dark.
Beckett was an incredibly handsome man. The thought that he was her husband and would be squiring her around the ball gave her a heated thrill.
The door opened and a footman appeared, reaching his hand in to help Isobel out of the carriage. She gathered up her skirts and put her hand in the footman’s as he helped her to the ground. Beckett quickly followed, offering his arm to Isobel.
“We must keep watch for Alfred,” Beckett said. “It’s always good to have him around once the quips start flying.”
Through the massive front doors, Isobel could see the dancers swirling around the ballroom. Music drifted out to greet them on the soft evening breeze. The orchestra played a sprightly waltz, which sang over the sounds of conversation and pattering feet.
The women floated in beautiful concoctions of diaphanous fabric, their jewelry glittering in the golden light of the candelabras. A heady mixture of flowers, food, and brandy perfumed the air.
Isobel looked down at her gown of amber silk and hoped she looked like a countess. She touched the emerald and diamond necklace that her husband had given her, and took a deep breath.
“The Earl and Countess of Ravenwood,” the butler announced, holding his arm out and motioning them ahead.
“My dear,” Beckett said, “may I present the Earl and Countess of Whitcomb.”
Her husband’s hand touched her lower back, steering her toward their hostess and her spouse.
“She’s lovely, Beckett,” the aged noblewoman said, smiling. “Wherever did you find such a treasure?”
“You know what they say about treasure, Lady Whitcomb,” Beckett replied. “One always comes across it buried in the most unusual places.”
Their hosts eyed each other, shaking their heads.
“Beckett, you are still the charmer, I see.” The countess laughed, then whispered to Isobel, “I hope you can handle him, my dear.”
“I will certainly try, Lady Whitcomb,” Isobel replied.
They passed through the outer doors and into the ballroom. “There,” Beckett said, “you’re through the first assault of this ballroom battle. Stay sharp, Lady Ravenwood. This is where it gets interesting.”
He led her through the crowd, introducing her to so many viscounts, marquesses, earls, and even a few dukes, she knew she’d never remember all their names. Finally, he turned away from her to speak to a round little admiral with enough medals on his chest that it was a surprise he didn’t topple over.
Isobel felt a man’s hand on her arm. Startled, she whirled around to find Alfred close beside her. “Lady Ravenwood, you look absolutely beautiful.” Languidly, he brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Beckett demanded good-naturedly. “Trying to woo my wife, are you?”
“Why, yes, actually,” Alfred replied. “She is the prettiest woman here.”
“You’d better watch your tongue, Alfred. If you insist upon shamelessly flirting with my wife in such a manner, I may have to box your ears,” Beckett warned.
“Hah!” Alfred scoffed. “I’d like to see you try, old man. Until then, I shall admire Lady Ravenwood’s stunning beauty to my heart’s content.”
Alfred performed an elaborate bow for Isobel’s benefit, his mischievous dark eyes shining up at her. “Lady Ravenwood, would you do me the honor of accepting my request for a dance?”
“I’m afraid I am not a very good dancer, Alfred,” she said.
“Wonderful. Neither am I!”
But he was a good dancer. The room spun around her as Alfred expertly maneuvered them through the crowd. Isobel felt weightless as she danced in the glow of the candlelight, but Alfred’s touch didn’t make her skin tingle as Beckett’s did. She glanced over at her husband.
For a moment she forgot everything. For a moment, as she met her husband’s eyes across the room, and felt the heat of attraction quicken her blood.
Less than a week ago, she would have thought it impossible to feel anything but fear. Right now, in this ballroom, the memory of Sir Harry and her flight from her home seemed only a bad dream.
She would not think of it. She was safe now, surely. Sir Harry Lennox would never possess her or Hampton Park. He would never be able to make her his bride, now that she was another man’s wife.
Isobel stole another glance at Beckett and saw his gaze upon her—a penetrating mixture of ice and fire. Instantly, the memory of their wedding-day kiss flooded her senses.
Isobel would fulfill her part of the marriage bargain by appearing publicly united with her new husband. Then she would retire to Hampton Park as the true mistress of the estate. And she would rid herself of Lennox once and for all. It was a perfect arrangement.
At least that’s what she kept telling herself.
Chapter 7
“So,” the woman said, “you actually had the audacity to attend Lady Whitcomb’s ball. How very provincial.”
Isobel turned around slowly, as befitting a countess, and met the icy green stare of Cordelia Haversham.
Where was
Beckett? He was nowhere in sight. She would have to do battle with this harpy alone.
“My husband and I were invited by Lady Whitcomb,” Isobel replied. “I am sorry if our presence distresses you, Miss Haversham.”
“Distresses me?” Cordelia gave a brittle laugh. “Oh, I assure you, I am not in the least bit distressed. It is you, my dear, who should be so. You have quite the nerve.”
“That is precisely what I was going to say about you,” Isobel said, smoothly.
Cordelia’s eyes blazed as she replied, “You are deceiving yourself if you think Beckett married you for any other reason than to get back at me. You are a joke, my dear. A little trollop from the gutter, masquerading in a countess’s clothing. Everyone knows what you really are.”
“You mean the Countess of Ravenwood?” Isobel asked. “Why, considering that you might have been Beckett’s countess, it really is so very kind of you to call attention to my good fortune.”
If steam had risen from Cordelia’s ears, Isobel would not have been the least bit surprised. As it was, the woman’s face contorted with rage and turned a very unbecoming color.
“Are you ill, Miss Haversham?” Isobel asked, innocently. “You look as if you’ve swallowed a large fruit.”
“If there were any large fruit near at hand, I would most likely stuff it down your throat!” Cordelia said, seething.
“There is a pineapple across the room, there,” Isobel said, pointing. “I would dearly love to see you attempt it. Shall we give everyone a good show?”
“Do you think me stupid enough to cause a scene?” Cordelia scoffed. “There’s no use in trying to make me look a fool.”
“You don’t need my help in that regard, Miss Haversham, as you are doing quite well on your own.”
Cordelia looked around quickly and grabbed Isobel’s arm, jerking her close. “Look, you little harlot,” she hissed. “You may be the Countess of Ravenwood right now, but who knows—you might get sick. You might die. People have accidents. I had Beckett wrapped around my little finger before, and I can do it again. I could have any man in this room, but I want Beckett and I want the Ravenwood estate. No one casts me off, do you hear?”
Isobel yanked her arm back and met Cordelia’s venomous glare. “If you’ll be so kind as to remember, Miss Haversham, it was you who put Beckett aside when you learned that he had no fortune.”
“Well, now he has one, doesn’t he?” Cordelia replied. “That was the only reason I broke the engagement. And don’t try telling me you married him for love. I know very well why you married Beckett, and so does everyone else in this room.”
“For his fortune and title?” Isobel asked. “Those were your reasons. Not mine.”
Cordelia stood tall. “Whatever the reason, be warned. I shall not rest until I am the Countess of Ravenwood.”
“Then you shall become quite tired, indeed,” Isobel said. “And now, I must return to my husband.”
Isobel turned slowly, as she had before, and walked away as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Moving through the crowd, Isobel saw Beckett near the refreshment table. As she drew close to him he handed her a glass. She brought it to her lips and tasted the raspberry punch, its welcome sweetness filling her mouth.
“Are you enjoying the evening, Isobel?” her husband asked.
“Very much so. Though I was unable to use your advice about swooning while conversing with the Honorable Miss Haversham.”
“Cordelia?’ Beckett asked. “What did she say? What did you say?”
Isobel pondered thoughtfully, then replied, “At one moment she looked unwell and I remarked that she resembled someone who had swallowed an oversized fruit. To which she replied that if there was one available, she would take great pleasure in stuffing it down my throat. I pointed out the pineapple, but she abandoned the notion.”
Beckett stared at her, seemingly dumbfounded. Then his face lit up, and he chuckled. “A pineapple? You don’t say.”
Isobel smirked and surrendered to her own laughter. “Do you think the story will get ’round?”
“I wouldn’t completely rule it out,” he replied. “We shall have to check the Times tomorrow morning.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “I shall cause a scandal.”
“I don’t care if you do, Isobel. And neither should you. I shall be quite happy being husband to the “Lady of Large Fruit.”
“Of large what?” Alfred said, popping up beside Beckett. “I say, is that any way to speak to your wife?”
Beckett took Isobel’s hand. “They are beginning another waltz, my dear. Would you do me the honor?”
Isobel felt a thrill of excitement at his touch. “I would be most pleased.”
Beckett led her onto the dance floor and curved an arm about her waist, his hand flat against the small of her back. She looked up into his face and saw the laughter was gone from his expression. He stared down at her with heated eyes, and all at once Isobel knew why moths flew into the flame.
Isobel felt herself becoming terribly warm all over. The memory of his lips on hers kept returning, and suddenly, unexpectedly, she wanted him to kiss her.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice like velvet. “You’re flushed, Isobel. Is it from your thoughts, or is it from the dancing?”
“I’m sure it is from neither,” she said weakly.
“Are you? Well, I am not so convinced,” he replied. “Let us do an experiment. What would you say, Isobel, if I pulled you close and kissed you here in front of this whole room?”
Isobel’s head jerked up as she met his demanding expression. “You wouldn’t.” A cascade of hot tingles spilled down her back.
“You see, I was right,” he said. “You blushed because of your thoughts. And right now I would give anything to know what they were.”
Feeling suddenly daring, Isobel answered, “If you must know, I was thinking about when you kissed me on our wedding day. I imagine you must be quite shocked by my forwardness. I admit, I am feeling very bold tonight. Becoming a countess must be going to my head.”
“Then, it agrees with you. I like a woman who can speak plainly.” He pulled her closer and they suddenly stopped swirling. “And I like a woman who thinks about kissing. Especially about kissing me.”
Isobel stared transfixed. Was he really going to kiss her in front of all these people?
“Perhaps we should take a turn out in the gardens,” he said, finally. “It is a lovely night.”
Isobel nodded silently. Beckett was her husband. If he wanted to push her up against a tree and kiss her senseless, it was his right to do so. And suddenly she knew that if he wanted more from her, she would not protest.
Beckett led her out onto the balcony. He nodded to the other guests and as they walked. They made their way down the steps and headed toward one of the torch-lit paths on the grounds.
Oh, why was her heart pounding, so?
Beckett looked down at her and placed his hand over hers where rested in the crook of his arm. “One of the benefits of marriage is being able to enjoy a walk in the gardens like this without causing a scandal. I daresay these gardens are as big as Vauxhall. And just as private.”
They walked farther, and Isobel became aware of a number of couples embracing in the shadows. The muffled sound of their giggles and laughter floated on the still night air with forbidden promise.
Beckett stepped off the path and led her into the trees. In one swift movement he turned her around to face him. She could just make his features out in the dim torchlight that spilled from the pathway.
Beckett lowered his mouth and captured her quivering lips with his own. He pulled her close against his hard body as his tongue delved into her mouth.
Instantly, hot, dangerous sparks shot down her spine.
Beckett’s powerful arms encircled her and brought her hips tight against his own. Isobel clung to him, not knowing whether it was uncertainty or pleasure that made her do so.
“Wait,” she said, “I fea
r someone might see us.”
“So what if they do?” He asked, teasing her with his tongue. “We can do this whenever we like.”
“We can?” she whispered weakly.
“This…and much more,” he replied heatedly.
“How much more?”
Beckett smiled and slid her dress down over her shoulder. “Let me show you.”
Isobel gasped in shock as the cool night air touched the bare skin of her breast. Certainly, this must be terribly wicked. Even if he was her husband!
He lowered his head to her breast and brushing his lips against it.
Isobel gasped in pleasure and clung to him for balance. The mixture of the cool air and his hot breath on her skin threatened to drive her mad as he continued his torment. Her knees felt as if they would buckle.
He pulled the other side of her gown down, baring her naked breasts to his gaze. With his tongue, he teased the nipple of one, making deliciously maddening circles around the hard tip. With his hand, he pinched the other until it was just as hard, just as aroused.
Isobel arched her neck back and whispered his name. What was he doing to her? Her body tingled with hot desire, which pooled achingly between her legs. Whatever this was, she didn’t want it to stop. She had never felt this maddening, torturous passion before. Her body had somehow become an instrument, and Beckett was a skilled musician. He knew how to make her blood sing. She wanted him to touch her—she wanted to be naked before him as he took his time pleasuring her.
He lifted his head again and pressed his forehead against her shoulder. Then he stepped back, drawing her gown up to cover her.
“Why are you stopping?” she asked, momentarily bewildered.
Beckett’s eyes burned down at her, simmering with raw, dangerous passion. “I must stop now, Isobel—or not at all. And I do not want to take your virginity in Lord and Lady Whitcomb’s garden.”
Isobel tried to reply but could not form words.
“Unless you have a preference for gardens, of course,” he added.
“No. No preference,” she stammered. “I mean, I’m sure I have no preference at all where to do such a thing.”
Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) Page 6
