by Tamara Gill
“I should imagine the next fortnight will be very busy for you. What activities do you have planned for us all?” she asked, wanting to distract herself from her thoughts of the walk.
“Many, all of which I hope you’ll enjoy. I’ve set up a room for the women to paint, if they wish, and I’ve had a harp brought from London as I believe your friend Anne likes to play. There are horses, of course, for both the men and woman to ride, and I have game on my property, if any of the gentlemen wish to partake in that pursuit.”
The thought of going for a ride was welcome, and Isolde put it on her to-do list for tomorrow. “I’ll admit, I’m not as accomplished a rider as Victoria, but I’d like to go out sometime while I’m here. I prefer to be outdoors over being secluded inside.”
He nodded, his smile warm, giving her hope that maybe affection could grow. Someday… “I thought as much, and we could invite the others to join us.”
“I think that sounds like a wonderful idea. Perhaps a picnic?”
He smiled fully then. “I do hope we’re able to become more acquainted during this time, Isolde. It is what I had planned when I had the idea of a house party.”
Isolde could understand why. But the continuing war that was waging inside her body—her mind screamed to move on with her life, clasp what was offered and make the best of a situation. Her heart however, the beating little beast, refused to feel anything for the gentleman before her. Refused to even try to form some emotional tie to Wardoor. He was firmly locked in the friendship box, and there he was bound to stay. “I’m sure we will, and since we’re going to stroll the gardens after dinner, we’re making a good start.”
He smiled but didn’t reply, and she was thankful for the silence that descended between them as they finished their meal.
A little after dinner, when everyone was settled in the downstairs drawing room, partaking in card games and music, Wardoor walked her onto the terrace. It was a warm night, and the air held the soft scent of flowers and freshly cut lawn. They headed toward the stairs that led to a graveled path, walking, if her memory served correctly, in the direction of the lake.
He took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “I wanted to talk to you in private and thought, instead of leaving you all week to wonder when I would gather my courage, I would speak my desire on the first night of the house party.”
Isolde swallowed, keeping her gaze fixed on the path ahead, trying and failing miserably to not get too carried away at his words and what they could mean. “What did you wish to speak to me about, my lord?” Please don’t propose. Please don’t propose.
“You may be aware of my rakish reputation in London and what that would mean for my wife, should I ever acquire one.”
They continued to walk, and Isolde glanced at him. He seemed pensive but determined. “I have heard of your reputation. I doubt there are many who have not.” She chuckled to quell any concerns he may have. Men did have lives before marriage, more freeing than women did, but it was nothing Isolde wasn’t aware of and she was secure enough not to worry.
He smiled down at her and seemed to relax further. “I wanted there to be no secrets, no misunderstandings, should we become betrothed. There are certain aspects of my life that I do not wish to be parted from, as I’m sure you do as well.”
“And they are?” Isolde asked, curious now.
“Should we marry, I would desire us to start a family immediately, and that would entail me coming to you at least four times a week, if you’re in agreement. We would have separate bedrooms, of course, joined by a shared dressing room. You would have a generous allowance and freedom to attend or do whatever pleased you. I would spend some nights at my club and…”
Even in the moonlight Isolde spotted the high color that marked Wardoor’s cheeks. “And what?”
He cleared his throat, his smile a little pained. “I want to be honest, Isolde, but I fear what I will say next may result in me losing you, and I do not want that.”
“Tell me. I value honesty above anything else.”
“I have a mistress and should I marry, that is not something I wish to change.” He pulled her to a stop. “What are your thoughts on this?”
For a moment Isolde was lost for words, but she checked her emotions, looked for jealousy, anger, or resentment, and nothing happened. The man before her was offering her a home, children, and asking for only one thing in return, to keep a mistress. Had she loved him to the very core of her being, Isolde would never allow such to occur, but she didn’t love him. If anything, Wardoor was a friend and nothing more. “Do not tax yourself, Wardoor. If you wish to live your life after marriage in the same way in which you do now, I shall not stop you. I trust that should we marry you will ensure my health, happiness, and wellbeing, and should I wish for you to end your association that you will, without complaint.”
He frowned. “Could you see yourself asking me such a thing?”
She shrugged. “You have been honest, brutally so, in fact, and so will I in return. I do not love you, and therefore your lifestyle as a rakehell will not affect my happiness. If I should ask you to quit such lifestyle, it will be only because I’ve grown to love you and would not wish to share you with anyone. If I promise not to impinge on your life, can you promise to honor my request should you ever receive it?” The balance of their union hung on what he said next. Isolde held her breath, curious to see what he would say.
“I can promise you that wholeheartedly.” Wardoor took her hand and kissed it.
Isolde pulled him into another stroll, not quite ready to go back inside. “Tell me of your home and lands. What are your plans for it?”
Wardoor gestured quite a lot as he discussed his wishes and plans for the estate in the future years. The conversation only grew in enjoyment, and coming back to the house and joining the party, Isolde was more at ease with Wardoor than she ever had been before. He was a libertine, and the tales about London of his conquests were as wild as his gardens, but that did not mean he wouldn’t make a good husband. His honesty and outlay of their life together calmed Isolde’s unease over the union, and hope bloomed in her chest that what she longed for above all else—children—was close to coming true.
The two weeks at the house party flew by, and Isolde came to feel genuine affection for his lordship. Not love—that emotion she doubted she could ever feel again—but certainly her ease and friendship with his lordship was a good base for a marriage, if he proposed.
On the final night of the house party, Isolde found herself once more walking with Wardoor after dinner. A ritual they’d continued from the first night.
He pulled them to a stop beside the lake and turned to face her. A sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead and glistened in the moonlight. Never before had he looked so pensive and scared, and Isolde braced herself for the proposal that would come. “I believe you know that I would like, above all else, to marry you, Isolde. To make you the Marchioness of Wardoor. The house party, bringing a small portion of Society to my estate, was all an effort to get you away, to have you to myself and out of London, so I could ask you a question that has been burning within me for some time now.”
She stood still, unsure how to respond. This question was what she’d prepared to hear from Wardoor. The chance to move on, to clasp a future with a marriage and children shimmered before her—if only she could take a leap of faith and hope for the best. “I…”
“You’re unsure?” He frowned, and she could see the hurt her pause in answering him inflicted.
Isolde shook herself from the thoughts that always plagued her mind. If she said yes, in only a year, God willing, she too could be pregnant with their first child. Living life in the country, her beloved England again, secure and happy as best she could be under the circumstances.
“I’m of an age, Isolde, when it’s time for me to marry. I must have an heir, and I wish for my children to have you as their mother. I want us to build a life together out of mutual respect and necessity, if you
would accept me, that is.” He clasped her hands, and she noted they were shaking. “I have had a wild past as you well know, and you’re aware of how that lifestyle may impact on you, should you say yes,” he said, shrugging. “Will you marry me knowing who I am and how I wish to carry on? Will you be my wife?”
“Would you think me a silly fool for not knowing what to say?” she said, a little lost for words. He pulled her farther into the gardens that bordered the lake, where no lights from the path could intrude on their seclusion.
“Let me kiss you. Let me show you what I may offer you as a husband. I can make you happy, I’m certain of it. I will strive to make each and every day of our marriage a pleasurable one, even enjoyable, if only you would allow me to try.”
She bit her lip. “I…um…” She cursed her stupidity for thinking of Merrick at the mention of the word pleasure. Could she kiss another man? The only gentleman she’d ever allowed such privileges had been Merrick, and oddly, it seemed a betrayal to want to try such an embrace with another. An absurd thought she squashed the moment she considered it. “Yes, you may kiss me.”
Wardoor didn’t shy away from taking her in his arms and doing exactly what he’d asked for. He dipped his head slowly and delicately swiped his lips against hers, urging her to respond to his teasing. She shut her eyes to lessen the nerves that wracked her body. She didn’t want to think about the fact that when her eyes were closed she couldn’t see who was, in fact, kissing her, and she could just enjoy being the center of someone’s intent and purpose.
Wardoor’s hands cradled her face as he deepened the kiss. She opened for him, allowing him to persuade her to be his, to allow the man who was sweet, and trying desperately to woo her, to win her hand. Isolde went through all the motions that made a kiss wonderful, fulfilling, and coaxing, but her body refused to react in the way it always had with Merrick. But then, one could not always have everything one wished for, and what Wardoor offered was a very good option for her. It was identical to most ton marriages she knew, with the exception of Anne’s and her sister Elizabeth’s.
“Marry me, Isolde. I will take care of you, I promise,” he whispered against her lips, kissing them softly.
His words resonated with sincerity, and she let go of all the worries that had held back her answer to his question. “I will marry you, my lord.”
He kissed her again, a quick brush of lips, before escorting her back to the house. “I will speak to your mother directly and ask for your brother’s consent when we return to Town. Are you in agreement?”
“Yes, that sounds suitable.” She followed him, not certain what her feelings were about the whole situation. It was all so different to the last time she’d been betrothed. The happiness she’d had with Merrick, the sureness of what she was doing, had been beyond any doubt. But Wardoor had been honest; she was entering the union with her eyes wide open. Once she was married and increasing with their first child, all her concerns would be nothing but a silly memory to dismiss.
“I will have the banns read and send word to London tonight for the announcement to be made public. We can marry a month from now, if you’re happy to do so. I, myself, do not see any reason why we should delay.”
Isolde ignored her tumbling stomach. “I agree. We should marry as soon as it’s arranged. I’m sure Mama will help us, and a Town wedding during the Season should enable all our friends to attend.”
Wardoor pulled her through the terrace doors, and Isolde noted her mama watching her entrance with calculated interest. He clasped two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and called the room to attention. Her sister Alice’s eyes widened and darted between her and Wardoor, and panic seized her, realizing he’d forgotten to address her mother first before making the announcement public. Isolde took a large sip of wine and mouthed “sorry” to her mama, who composed herself with an affable, knowing smile.
“Thank you everyone for taking your time away from Town and joining me here on my country estate. And now, with not a little amount of pleasure, I can announce that Lady Isolde Worthingham has agreed to be my wife, and we will be married before the Season’s out.” He lifted his crystal glass and urged her to do so. “To us, my lady. May I always honor our vows and our life be nothing but bliss and prosperity.”
“To us,” Isolde mimicked, raising her glass and then smiling, laughing, as everyone present came up to congratulate them. Alice came up to her last of all and, making an excuse to Wardoor that she wished to discuss wedding details, pulled her aside.
The moment they were out of her betrothed’s hearing, she hissed, “You said yes!”
Isolde wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question or even an outraged declaration. She nodded, remembering that the future she wished to have could start the moment she said, “I do.”
“I have, and it’s for the best. Please don’t try to persuade me otherwise. He’ll give me a good home, the opportunity to have children of my own. You know I wish that above anything else.”
Alice slumped and then pulled her into a fierce hug. “I was going to try to make you see reason, to perhaps look to the past for your future, but I see your mind is made up, and I’ll not change it for you. And I truly do hope that your dream of being a mother will come, and your heart will finally be full again.”
Isolde understood exactly what her sister meant by her words, and she was thankful for her honesty. “I hope you’re right, and I’m willing to do my best to ensure we have a happy marriage.”
“I know you will.” Alice hugged her again, and Isolde fought the prickling behind her eyelids. Wardoor was a good choice—secure and honest. All would be well. She was sure of it.
…
Merrick spent a week with William on his estate in Wiltshire before his man of business summoned him back to Town. The missive was precise and to the point. His wife, and her nightly pursuits into the bowels of London, were becoming extreme and more dangerous to herself and the baby she carried. It had to stop and, by God, he’d stop it, if at all possible.
He stared down at the cartoon image of the duchess in the morning paper, fighting not to cast up his accounts. The drawing showed Leonora with a bulging stomach, awkwardly seated upon a man, no doubt Lord Barkley, a drink in one hand and cigar in the other. It was a disgrace. And not only to herself, but her family, his family, and all that they stood for. She was a vicar’s daughter, for the love of God. How could she fall so low as this?
A voice in his head murmured that it was his doing and no one else’s. That Merrick had made her become who she was today—a cold, calculating woman who lived without the love and support of her husband.
A ruckus out in his foyer caught his attention, and he stood, striding from the room to see what the servants were blustering about. A maid dashed upstairs with linens, another with a pail of steaming water.
“Has something happened?” he asked, catching the head housekeeper who followed the maids up the stairs.
“Your Grace.” She bobbed a quick curtsy. “The duchess’s time has come. You should have a new son or daughter within a few hours.”
Merrick nodded, shame washing over him that hearing such news brought forth nothing but ire and disdain. He’d only ever thought of Leonora as a friend, prior to her deceit on the night before his wedding to Isolde. Afterward, he’d hated her more than he ever thought to hate anyone.
And now, with a child coming that wasn’t his—a child he would bestow his name upon, feed, and clothe—his loathing of his wife was even more profound. What she’d done to him was unforgivable, and no matter how wrong such thoughts were, he could not bring himself to care what happened to the woman abovestairs.
Screams and yelling punctuated the quiet of the house, followed by other women and their commands. Merrick walked into his library and shut the door, only looking up from the day’s paper at the mumbling sounds of the doctor being greeted in the foyer before he, too, headed upstairs.
Merrick continued to read the paper; having bee
n out of Town, he’d missed what had happened in London. The business section and political news were mostly unchanged, but the notice of a forthcoming nuptial, an occasion foretold as the event of the Season, caught his attention with sickening force.
A cold chill ran down his spine as the words of an engagement between the Lady Isolde Worthingham, daughter to the late Duke of Penworth and Blake Marlborough, Marquess of Wardoor, were printed in black and white before him.
It could not be true… Taking a deep breath, he sat back in his chair, running a hand through his hair before picking up the paper and reading it once again, lest there was a mistake. But no, there, in little mocking letters, were printed the words that had the power to stop the heart that beat too fast in his chest.
Merrick stood and poured himself a large glass of brandy, downing it in one swallow. How dare Wardoor, a supposed friend, even if their relationship had been strained of late, do such a thing to him? But then, why would he not, when Lady Isolde, pure and kind, sweet-tempered woman that she was, could possibly be his wife? It also helped that they were both unmarried, of a similar age, and circulated in the same sphere of friends.
And now that Wardoor had sold one of his estates, he was no longer in debt to Lord Barkley, or so his steward had informed him. With a more secure footing on which to start a future with Isolde, and with his wife’s dowry—which was a very large sum indeed—they would be comfortable, to say the least, as would any children they were blessed with in the future.
At the thought of Wardoor getting Isolde with a child, his stomach turned and he stood, walking to the window and throwing up the sash. He didn’t want her to marry another. Selfish bastard that he was, he wanted her to remain a spinster, someone he could admire from afar and know that no matter what others thought, he was hers and she was his. Always.
