by Marina Myles
He squared his hulking shoulders. “Whatever gave you that impression?”
“Is that your attempt at a joke?” She cocked her head to the side.
“I told you: I rarely joke.”
“If we are only to see one another at mealtimes,” she said, “maybe it’s best if we didn’t see one another at all.”
“That would make me very unhappy.” Looking her directly in the eye, he smiled awkwardly. “I . . . I apologize for the homecoming I gave you. I was angry that you abandoned our union, but I admit that I was the one who led you to that decision. Now I am glad you have returned.”
She stood and moved closer to him. “There you go again.”
He gave her a perplexed look. “What is it I’ve gone and done?”
“Your words and your expression speak something different.”
The loveliness of Isabella’s amber eyes flushed heat through his veins and his sex reacted.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Your face doesn’t convey the same apology as your words.”
“Confound it!” He began to pace again. “I didn’t come here to be analyzed, like some patient in that blasted asylum.”
The color drained from her face.
Control your temper, Draven told himself. You need Isabella. Months ago he had tried to kill himself, but the knife wound to his heart had healed instantaneously. Now he was relying on his wife to stop him.
He halted in his tracks then took a step forward. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Why did you come here?” she challenged him.
“To tell you that I request your presence at breakfast tomorrow morning.” He forced a dry thump down his throat. “I could not join you for the first two meals of the day due to circumstances beyond my control.”
“Will you be joining me for breakfast on the morrow?” she asked.
“I shall.”
A heavy silence hung between them while he summoned a kinder tone. “You have my word. If I am forced to miss any more meals in the future, I will send word to you through Mrs. Eaton—or Rogers.”
She shot him a dubious look.
“Would it please you if we shook hands on such a promise?”
Draven extended his palm forward. When Isabella grasped it, her fingers quivered beneath his firm touch. He leaned in and whispered, “Have you been faithful to me these months, my dear wife?”
“I have.” Isabella raised her chin.
“Then you have no potential lover waiting for you in the wings—a lover willing to grant you children?”
Red blotches spread across her chest and her palm grew moist.
“As I thought,” he said. “You were bluffing about conducting a liaison.” Lowering his gaze to the ruffle that bared the swell of her breasts, he wet his lips.
“I was not bluffing!” she cried.
“You were because you wouldn’t disappoint me by being a harlot.”
She snatched her hand away. “You know nothing of what I will or will not do. Furthermore, my ultimatum stands.”
Draven drew back. She was making things bloody difficult. He wanted to bed her, feel her soft curves beneath him, but he wasn’t going to let her treat him like a puppet on a string.
With a swirl of his coattails, he turned to leave. “I will knock on your door and accompany you to breakfast tomorrow morning. I expect you to be ready.”
“I will never do as you command,” she raged.
Glaring, Draven slammed the door to avoid being hit by the candlestick Isabella thrust in his direction.
Chapter Ten
Anger makes nary a good bedfellow.
Waking from an abominable night’s sleep that testified to the adage, Isabella rubbed her eyes. As she willed them to focus on the somber haze that filled the room, her anger over Draven’s insolence returned full force.
Perhaps, she thought, a bath would soothe her fury.
She padded to the washroom where she located the servant’s cord. As she waited for Gwyneth to arrive with warm bathwater, she busied herself by smelling an array of fragrant bath salts that surrounded the tub.
The freckle-faced abigail arrived in no time with two buckets of water. Isabella resisted the urge to help the girl when she struggled to dump the water into the tub. After Gwyneth took her leave, she pinned her mass of curls atop her head and slipped out of her nightshirt. Gripping both sides of the bathtub, she dipped into the bayberry-scented water. Her stress melted away momentarily as she leaned her head against the polished porcelain and captured a cloud of frothy suds in her sponge. Purring like a kitten, Isabella released a rich cascade of water between her breasts.
A feeling of unease skittered across her neck and raised goose bumps on her arms. Clenching the sides of the tub, she glanced around but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Still, she was unable to brush aside the feeling that someone—or something—was watching her. She turned to look in a standing mirror that sat on a nearby ledge. In the reflection, she saw a human eye between the stones of the wall. Donning her robe, she rushed into the hall and ran headfirst into Draven.
He looked dashing in a finely cut, blue waistcoat and snug-fitting breeches tucked into a pair of polished Hessians. Although his well-groomed appearance contrasted with the tousled, fiery man she had encountered last evening, defiance still shadowed his face.
Pulling the cords of her robe into firm knots, she stared up at him. “Were you watching me, my lord?”
“Watching you do what exactly?” was his arrogant response.
“I was taking a bath just now and I saw someone watching me between the stones in the wall. If it was you, I thought you weren’t interested in seeing me without my clothes.”
“My dear wife, I am the first to admit my longing for female company at this secluded mess of an estate,” Draven said, “but I am no Peeping Tom. My guess is that some young hall boy has become fascinated with you. If I find him, I’ll have his position without recourse.”
“I don’t see a hall boy about,” Isabella said. Giving him a hard frown, she mumbled something else under her breath.
“Pardon?”
“I said: you would never admit to spying on me.”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Believe what you want.”
Isabella wrapped a hand around her damp neck.
“You’re creating quite a puddle out here,” Draven remarked as his expression softened. “Let’s dismiss this unpleasantness, shall we? Why don’t you get dressed since I’m here to accompany you to breakfast?”
Refusing to be charmed by him, she lifted her chin. “I never agreed to that. I’ll meet you in the breakfast parlor, although I have little to say to you until you are willing to discuss the ultimatum I presented you with.”
Draven’s eyes narrowed. In a stiff motion, he tucked one hand behind his back and bowed. “I will go ahead, if you wish.”
Feeling no need to impress her unpredictable husband, Isabella stepped back into her suites and slipped into a simple muslin dress. She exited her chambers once more then retraced the complicated hallways and staircases she had conquered yesterday. When she entered the sunny breakfast parlor, the clink of china and the smell of baked bread greeted her.
Helena was seated at the head of the polished table. The noblewoman merely nodded her head in Isabella’s direction before resuming the preparation of her tea.
Isabella decided not to complain about Helena taking the seat designated for the mistress of the house. After all, she didn’t care to start an argument this early in the morning. She did, however, make a mental note to speak with Draven about his mother’s presence here when breakfast was over.
Accepting the chair Rogers pulled out for her, she stole a look at her husband. He’d chosen a chair at the opposite end of the table from Helena. The intenseness of his gaze allowed Isabella to see that, in the illumination of morning, his eyes appeared colder than ever. Black as a chalkboard, they possessed no spark of warmth. She glanced down a
nd fussed over her tea, but his stare continued to vex her nerves.
As the trio ate, the subdued noise of breakers washing over boulders provided the only sound. Isabella tried to raise her teacup without her hand shaking as her husband continued to scrutinize her.
“I have taken the liberty of having some dresses made for you,” he said. “They will be delivered in a few days.”
“I’m sorry if my wardrobe displeases you,” she said, meeting his gaze.
“Not at all,” Draven replied. “I think you look lovely.”
A scalding warmth rose in her cheeks. She tore her eyes from his and looked down at her food.
“Your notorious pendant is rather stunning.” Helena spoke up.
“Thank you.” Isabella brushed her fingers over the smooth surface. Radiating a spectacular blue color, the thin, rectangular lapis bore carved lines of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Symmetrical inserts of coral and onyx highlighted the ancient engravings.
“I, for one, have never heard the story of the prophecy in full detail,” Helena said. “Pray tell?”
Sucking in a breath, Isabella considered sealing her mouth shut and running from the room. But Helena was showing a rare moment of civility, and better yet, their conversation deterred her from acknowledging Draven’s narrow stare. She proceeded to recount the curse of the stone as succinctly as she could.
When she was finished, Helena offered no visual reaction to the story. “Don’t tell me you believe in this curse.”
“Of course not,” Isabella replied. “But I cherish the amulet greatly since it was a gift from my father.”
“Word has it that your father never recovered its counterpart, the bracelet of Amenhotep,” Draven chimed in.
“That’s right.” Isabella slid him a glance. She was surprised that he’d taken an interest in her father’s work.
“And what power does this bracelet supposedly possess?” Helena queried.
Isabella took a sip of her tea then returned the cup to its saucer. “Amenhotep had the bracelet made so that the other priests from the court—his loyal friends—may bless it. Filled with the power of good, the bracelet was created to oppose the forces of black magic. Amenhotep was about to put it on, to protect himself, when Tousret stabbed him to death.”
“What a dreadful story,” Helena said. “I would never wear anything so morbid.”
“You mean you would never be brave enough to,” Draven said. “Personally, I think it’s fascinating.”
Both Isabella and Helena flung him a disbelieving stare.
His chair scraped the marble tile as he stood. “Adequate breakfast,” he said. “Now I’m off for a good ride. Care to join me, Isabella?”
She bit back her surprise. Hadn’t Draven claimed they would see each other at mealtimes and nothing more?
“I don’t own a riding habit,” she protested. If he was ready to discuss the ultimatum she had given him, they could hardly do so while they rode.
He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “I’m sure that frock paired with an overcoat will do. Remember I have ordered you a bevy of new dresses if that one gets ruined.”
She cringed inwardly for riding was one of her least favorite things to do. “But it rained this morning. Surely the moors will be soaked with mud—”
“Don’t tell me a sensible woman like you is afraid of a little mud? I suggest that, since we are stuck here with one another, we should try and be civil.”
She said nothing.
His gaze was direct as he tried another tactic. “Still, if you’re inept on the back of a horse—”
Isabella looked down her nose at him. “I’ll meet you at the stables in a quarter of an hour.”
Draven breezed from the room and her stomach fluttered. She’d been aware of his fixating stare at breakfast but whether or not he meant for her to notice it, she wasn’t sure. She only knew it belied his attraction to her and she was going to take this opportunity to seduce him.
Chapter Eleven
Isabella was the first to admit that she had very few adventuresome qualities. Clumsy at anything involving motion, she’d fallen from a horse when she was a girl and hadn’t ridden since. She had watched little Phillip receive riding lessons every Wednesday afternoon, but that did her no good now.
Trying to ignore her quaking nerves, she hastened to her room and grabbed a pelisse from her wardrobe. As she tugged it on, the image of Phillip pulled at her heartstrings. With china-blue eyes and hair the color of saffron, the eight-year-old boy possessed a temperament as sweet as his angelic appearance. Regardless of her plan to produce a genuine Winthrop heir to secure her position with Draven, her personal ache for a child was beginning to consume her. She had become a governess because she loved children, because taking care of others was in her nature. It was something she’d always done and a secret part of her had been anxious to wed Draven so that they may start a family.
Isabella maneuvered down the steep flight of stairs at the back of the house. The stairwell was designated for servants but it was the quickest way to the fields.
Nearing the kitchen, she was enticed by the scent of a soufflé baking in the kitchen’s oven. The smell made her realize she’d eaten very little during breakfast. After her ride with Draven she would ask Mrs. Tidwell, the head cook, for an early nuncheon.
She took another step toward the kitchen but voices stopped her in her tracks. Isabella peered around the corner and listened.
“I wonder if her ladyship plans to eat any more meals in her room,” Mrs. Tidwell said sharply. “My food doesn’t taste nearly as good after sittin’ on a tray.”
“Lord knows,” Gwyneth answered between the clanking of dishes. “But I hardly blame ’er. Her ladyship doesn’t seem very ’appy to be back.”
“I hope the master doesn’t scare her off again,” the cook said. “She’s a right angel, returnin’ to ’im in the first place.”
“I ’ope she stays too,” Gwyneth added. “His lordship gave me a lift from kitchen-maid to abigail. If the countess leaves, I’ll be right back where I started.”
“Right proud of any position, ye should be. My mother, God rest her soul, always told me: be respectful and hold fast to the position ye’re given.”
Gwyneth dropped her voice to a whisper but Isabella could still hear. “I’m not one to gossip, but I overheard somethin’ shockin’ in the hallway. It was her ladyship accusin’ Master Draven of spyin’ on ’er during ’er bath.”
Mrs. Tidwell tsked. “They’re a married couple but they don’t act as such. And I’d say his lordship is capable of much worse than spyin’. Did ye know that Master Draven spent three years in an asylum after his father died?”
Gwyneth sucked in a breath. “My word!”
“Not that I like ta gossip either,” the cook continued, “but I heard it was somethin’ besides his father’s death that put him there.”
“Ye don’t say! Well,” Gwyneth stated, “he’s ’andsome enough to make me knees knock but he seems a bit off. I hear ’im wanderin’ the halls at all hours before ’e locks himself in the library. Then there’s ’is doses of lithium. . . .”
“He’d scare me dead away too!”
The two women shared a giggle.
“I just wonder if the missus knows about his lordship’s madness,” Mrs. Tidwell said after their laughter subsided.
Gwyneth sighed. “She’ll find out soon enough. Well, can’t spend all mornin’ jabberin’ in the kitchen. I’m off to tend to ’er ladyship’s room.”
My God, Isabella thought. Even the servants suspected Draven of being a lunatic. I’m about to seduce a madman.
She set herself into motion as Gwyneth passed her on the stairs.
“M’lady!” The girl went rigid.
“Gwyneth.” Isabella smiled. “I’m off for a ride.”
The girl remained silent while her cheeks went pink. “Remember what I said about those horses.”
“I remember,” she said gently. “Now please tell
Mrs. Tidwell I’d like an early meal when I return.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“Thank you, Gwyneth,” she said.
Isabella continued on until she reached the fields beyond the manor house. They were a mess, just as she had anticipated. To add to her irritation, she discovered a wicked-looking horse standing on a small slope in front of the stables. Massive in size and nasty in disposition, the creature bore a silver saddle that complemented the richness of its pewter coat. Frowning, she accepted the horse’s reins from the stable lad she’d encountered the other day.
“His name is Dante,” Viktor said.
Isabella wound the leather reins around her hands nervously. “Of course it is.”
“Pardon me, my lady?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Good luck with him.”
“Thank you.” She paused. “Where is my husband?”
“Master Draven will be out in a moment. He prefers to ready his own horse.”
As she waited, Dante fumed and snorted in Isabella’s direction. There was no doubt in her mind that her husband had hand-selected the horse to make her look like a fool.
Taking his sweet time, Draven emerged with the reins of his magnificent black horse clasped in his gloved hands. He swept toward Isabella without uttering a word. Erect in posture, Draven displayed an alluring confidence as he dropped his horse’s reins and came to assist Isabella into her saddle. He clamped his strong hands around her waist and she fought the urge to lean back against his chest. Still, he was close enough for her to feel his breath at her earlobe and the sensation shot right through her.
After Draven mounted his stallion, they were off. Under clear skies of blue and over thick pockets of mud they thundered with a liberating fury. As her husband moved alongside her, it became apparent to Isabella that he was an accomplished rider. In fact, an impressive show of his straight back and experienced hands made him an attractive horseman.
Twittering in her own saddle and clinging desperately to the bridle, Isabella followed Draven over the moist marshes, down through the woods to the edge of Dunwich and back.
