Cordelia’s green eyes shot sparks at him. “You can’t do this to me, Beckett. You made me promises.
And I intend to have what is rightfully mine!”
“Nothing of mine ever was or will be yours, Cordelia. You were quite willing to break our engagement when you found my inheritance to be no more than a few shillings. And your feelings on the matter are worth less than that to me now.”
“But surely you knew that I wasn’t serious about breaking our engagement, Beckett. A woman never is.”
“So I mistook your intentions when you threw the ring in my face?”
“A lovers’ quarrel, nothing more. 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. I did want that once. But I have chosen my bride, and I intend to keep her,” he said, glancing down at the woman beside him.
“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’m afraid the position has been filled. Good day, Cordelia,” Beckett said, touching the brim of his hat and leading Isobel toward their waiting coach.
Beckett handed his new wife into the plush interior and stepped in beside her, settling onto the burgundy velvet seat. He realized that his heart was beating faster than usual, but it was a satisfying feeling. He felt that a chapter of his life finally had been closed. And another one was just beginning.
Beckett glanced at Isobel and smiled. Her engaging brown eyes looked at him curiously 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.”
“Well, my dear, Cordelia was only interested in my money, and when it turned out that I had none—” He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “Now that I am to become an earl, she has changed her mind once again.”
“But you have not?”
“What—changed my mind about Miss Haversham? Certainly not,” he said stiffly.
“I thought her quite beautiful.”
Beckett chuckled cynically. “As beautiful as a rose. With rather vicious little thorns. And having got too close before, I’m pleased to say that I’ve learned my lesson.”
Isobel studied him with intelligent eyes. “And is that why you have chosen me for a bride, my lord?
Because thorns pricked you last time, and you’ve sworn to give up gardening?”
Beckett regarded her silently. It seemed his wife was more shrewd than he’d thought.
“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 handling of the wedding night.
Lord Thornby 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 stared up into bright blue eyes, and felt a thrill move through her.
“Good evening, Isobel.” He took off his hat and passed it to Hartley, who quickly left them alone.
“I was just going up to bed,” she blurted.
“To bed. That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
“It does?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no. In this case, it doesn’t.”
“Why not?” He regarded her seriously, but Isobel could have sworn there was the hint of a smile on his lips.
“Because—I am very tired. 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? How unfortunate.”
“Yes. I am very, very ill indeed. In fact, I may faint.”
“Oh, then I must carry you up to your chamber then, before you do.”
“Oh, no! There is no need—ooh!”
In one swift motion, Lord Thornby had swept her into his 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 had her in his arms, and she was helpless to escape. And 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 Lord Thornby 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 smelled so alarmingly good.
Then, they were in the Blue Room, and he was carrying her to the huge, soft bed. Isobel’s pulse quickened as he gently lay her down. She half-feared, half-hoped he would join her there.
He stood straight, looking down into her eyes. Reaching out a hand, he lifted an errant curl from her forehead, letting his knuckles lightly brush against her skin. “I’ll send Martha up with something to help you sleep. And I bid you goodnight.”
Isobel stared helplessly as he bent down toward her. She closed her eyes and waited for his lips to claim hers.
He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.
She opened her eyes to see him quietly leaving the room, and realized there was a knot forming in her heart. He was leaving her alone for the night. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted?
But as Isobel lay there alone on the big, empty bed, she realized that it wasn’t what she’d wanted at all.
“Good morning, Hartley.” Beckett poured himself a cup of hot coffee and took a sip. “Have you seen my wife about? I was told she came down before me.”
“Lady Ravenwood is in the garden, my lord.”
“And how did she seem? 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 her somewhat ill.”
Hartley nodded sagely. “It is often the case with new wives, my lord. These wedding-day illnesses are usually cured the next day—or night.”
Beckett chuckled. “I’m sure you’re right, Hartley. I’ll just go and bring her some breakfast, then.” 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 was facing away from him, but he could see her profile in the warm yellow light.
She looked like an angel.
Enthralled, 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 almo
st 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 within him.
Damn it! He didn’t have time for such nonsense. He would not start mooning over this woman like a bloody schoolboy! Wasn’t that why he’d married Isobel? To keep things simple?
That was why he’d been glad she had feigned illness last night. For he had been so tempted to take her to his bed and touch again the perfection of her body; it had haunted him since the night he’d found her. But he’d wanted to do much more than touch her. He’d wanted to pull her close against his own naked form, and feel her warm skin next to him, her lips on his, and feel her legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust himself into her.
Theirs was the perfect marriage: one of convenience. He would not let his base needs play havoc with his plans. She would want to be gone within a few weeks, anyway. It would be no use discovering any charms of Isobel’s that might reduce him again to a blithering 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. He hoped they would even become friends.
And, he thought cynically, friends it would have to be. No one would be allowed to sink his or her claws into him except his parrot.
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, except it was not as grand.
She had spent another restless night filled with terrible dreams of Sir Harry and Hampton Park. 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 with her pencils and paper 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 fiancée. After all, this 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 as pleasant as ants at a picnic.
She 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.
Isobel 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 blank 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 like a gentle embrace.
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, her regal nose, her 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.
Revealed were the woman’s calculating eyes and cold, thin smile. She was beautiful, yes, but had the cold beauty of a marble statue whose eyes appeared sightless, whose mouth would remain hard and 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’s voice was unreadable, but she heard something dangerous in it. 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 this was outside. In daytime. 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.
“You are looking well this morning, Isobel. I trust you slept well last night.”
“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. You are the Viscountess Thornby and the countess of Ravenwood. I insist that you call me by my Christian name.”
“Yes, my—Beckett,” she replied.
“Yes, my Beckett!” He laughed. “Very well, my Isobel.”
She couldn’t help but laugh with him.
“Well, I am glad that your health has improved since last night. 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 only an impoverished viscount. What did you do, Isobel?”
“Oh, after supper I retired to the library and read Mr. Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew.”
“The Taming of the Shrew? Is there something I should know about, Isobel? Am I to play Petruchio to your Katharina?” He pursued. “Or Lucentio to your Bianca?”
She looked up at him. What game was he playing with her? “I cannot say, my lord, for those that you mention are both pairs of lovers. And as you have said, ours is a marriage only of convenience.”
He regarded her for a moment, then stepped closer to her, as his penetrating blue eyes held her gaze.
“You are right, of course. That is what we both wanted. Is it not?”
“Yes. It is what we agreed upon.”
“So it is, Isobel. So it is.” Beckett’s voice seemed to hold a touch of regret as he looked away. “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. He glanced back over his shoulder just as
he went inside, and Isobel could have sworn she’d seen a sorrowful expression on his face.
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. If her husband meant to honor their agreement, she probably had tasted her first and last real kiss yesterday in front of the rector.
She sighed and plopped herself down on the bed, lying upon her back and staring up at the ceiling.
But did he intend to honor their arrangement? His words 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, he should know she would have no right to refuse him. And what was more worrisome, she knew she would have no intention of doing so.
Chapter Seven
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 better.
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. Especially of his mysterious bride.
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