by Sylvia Day
“Celebration” was an apt description for the merry crowd that filled the lawn before the vicar’s small house and the church next to it. Beneath two large trees gathered a few dozen dancing and loudly conversing villagers, and one beaming vicar.
Isabel could not help but offer a wide smile to everyone who approached their equipage in welcome. Grayson made a grand show of introducing her to the boisterous group, and she was greeted with great excitement.
For the next hour, she watched as Gray mingled. He spoke at length with the gentlemen he had labored alongside while building part of the stone wall, and deepened their regard with his ability to recall the names of their family members and neighbors. He lifted small children into the air, and reduced a group of smitten young girls to fits of giggles by complimenting their pretty hair ribbons.
All the while, Isabel basked in his charm from afar and fell so deeply in love, she ached all over with it. Her chest grew tight, and her heart clenched. The innocent infatuation she had felt for Pelham was nothing, nothing compared to the mature joy she found with Grayson.
“His father had the same charisma,” the dowager said beside her. “My other sons do not display it in quite the same measure and I am afraid their wives will dilute the trait further. A pity it will not be passed down from Grayson, who has it in such abundance.”
Shielded by her enjoyment of the day, Isabel shrugged off the usual irritation she felt with the dowager. “Who can foretell what traits a child will bear when it has yet to be conceived?”
“Since Grayson assured me back at the manse that he has no wish to beget issue off you, I think it’s safe to say that he will not be passing along any traits at all.”
Isabel glanced aside at her mother-in-law. With her once pretty features shielded by the brim of her hat, the dowager revealed no outward sign to the milling guests of the ugliness hidden beneath the façade. But that underlying rot was all Isabel could see.
“What are you talking about?” she snapped, turning to face her antagonist head-on. She could take poorly veiled barbs, but pure undiluted venom was too much.
“I offered my felicitations to Grayson on his decision to dedicate himself to preserving the title as he should.” The dowager’s chin lowered, shielding her eyes, but still revealing the smug curve to her thin lips. “He was quick to assure me that Emily is the only woman who would ever carry a child of his. He loved her, and she is irreplaceable.”
Isabel’s stomach roiled at the sudden remembrance of Gray’s happiness over Em’s condition. Thinking back, she found she couldn’t recall a time since his return when Grayson had ever mentioned wanting to have children with her. Even last night, he had avoided the subject rather than address it, stressing that his brothers would see to the task of begetting an heir. “You lie.”
“Why would I lie about something so easily disproved?” the dowager asked with mock innocence. “Truly, Isabel, you two are the most mismatched pair. Of course, if you can put aside any desire for children of your own and live with the knowledge that Grayson’s heir will be the product of another woman, you may manage to rub along with some semblance of contentment.”
Isabel’s hands clenched into fists, and she fought the urge to hiss and scratch like a furious cat. Or cry. She couldn’t decide which. But she knew either response would only give the dowager an advantage. So she managed a smile and a shrug. “I will take great pleasure in proving you wrong.”
Moving a short distance away, she rounded the trunk of a large tree. There, safe from prying eyes, she fell back against the rough bark, heedless of the dirt and possible damage to her gown. Shaking, she laced her fingers together and took deep breaths. She could not appear less than fully composed.
Despite everything inside her that told her to have faith, to believe that she was good enough for Grayson, to trust that he cared for her and wanted her happiness, there was still the voice inside her that reminded her that Pelham had found her lacking.
“Isabel?”
As Grayson stepped beneath the shade of the tree, she met his concerned gaze. “Yes, my lord?”
“Are you well?” he asked, stepping closer. “You look pale.”
She waved her hand carelessly. “Your mother is stirring the pot again. It’s nothing. A moment and I will regain my composure.”
The warning rumble in his throat soothed her, the sound of a man ready to defend his mate. “What did she say to you?”
“Lies, lies, and more lies. What recourse is left to her? You and I are no longer estranged, and we share the same bed, so the only thing she could wound me with was the topic of children.”
Gray tensed visibly, something she noted with a flare of unease.
“What about children?” he asked gruffly.
“She claims you do not want any with me.”
He stood unmoving for a long while and then winced. Her heart stopped, and then caught in her throat.
“Is it true?” Her hand lifted to her bosom. “Gerard?” she prodded when he did not answer.
Growling, he looked away. “I want to give you things, all things. I want to make you happy.”
“But no children?”
His jaw tightened.
“Why?” she cried, her heart breaking.
Lifting his gaze to hers, he bit out, “I will not lose you. I cannot lose you. Risking you to childbirth is not an option.”
Stumbling away, Isabel covered her mouth.
“For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that, Pel! We can be happy just the two of us.”
“Can we? I remember the joy you felt when Emily was pregnant. I remember your exuberance.” Shaking her head, she pressed her fingertips hard against her lower lip to still its quivering. “I wanted to give you that.”
“Do you also remember my pain?” he asked, on the defensive. “What I feel for you is beyond anything I have ever felt for anyone. To lose you would destroy me.”
“You think I am too old for you.” Unable to bear the sight of his torment, which reflected her own, she stepped around him.
“This has nothing to do with age.”
“Yes, it does.”
Gray caught her arm as she walked by. “I promised you I would be enough, and I will be. I can make you happy.”
“Release me,” she said softly, meeting his gaze. “I need to be alone.”
The blue of his eyes swirled with frustration, fear, and a tinge of anger. None of that affected her. She was numb, as she had learned long ago how to be when pierced with a mortal wound.
No children.
Pressing a hand over her aching chest, she tugged the arm that was still trapped in his grip.
“I cannot allow you to go like this, Pel.”
“You have no choice,” she said simply. “You will not hold me against my will in front of all these people.”
“Then I shall go with you.”
“I want to be alone,” she reiterated.
Gerard stared at his wife’s frigid shell and felt a gulf between them so wide he wondered if they could cross it. Panic made his heart race and his breathing shallow. “For Christ’s sake, you never said anything about wanting children. You made me promise not to spill my seed in you!”
“That was before you made our temporary bargain into a permanent marriage!”
“How in hell was I to know that your feelings on the matter had changed?”
“Foolish me.” Her eyes burned with amber fire. “I should have said, ‘By the way, before I fall in love with you and want children, let me ask if you have any objections.’”
Before I fall in love with you…
At any other moment those words would have raised him to the heights. Now they cut him to the quick. “Isabel…” he breathed, tugging her closer. “I love you, too.”
She shook her head, causing the artless curls at her nape to sway violently. “No.” Her hand came up to ward him off. “That is the last thing I want to hear from you. I wanted to be a wife to you in all ways, I was w
illing to try, but you refuse me. We have nothing left now. Nothing!”
“What the devil are you talking about? We have each other.”
“No, we do not,” she said, with such finality his throat clenched tight as a fist, cutting off his air. “You took us beyond friendship and we cannot go back. And now…” She choked on a sob. “I cannot make love to you now, so we have no marriage either.”
He froze, the beat of his heart faltering. “What?”
“I would resent you every time you sheathed yourself in a French letter or withdrew to spill your seed. To know that you will not allow me to carry your child—”
Catching her about the shoulders, Gerard attempted to shake some sense into his wife. Isabel retaliated with a booted kick to his shin, causing him to swear and release her in surprise. She raced swiftly back to the waiting landaulet, and he hurried after her as fast as decorum would allow. Just as Isabel clambered without assistance into the equipage, his mother stepped into his path.
“Witch!” he growled, grabbing her by the elbow and yanking her roughly aside. “When I depart today, I am leaving you here.”
“Grayson!”
“You like this property, so refrain from looking so horrified.” He loomed over her, making her cringe. “Save your horror for the day you see me again. I pray you never do, because it will mean that Isabel would not take me back. And if that happens, even God himself will not be able to spare you from my wrath.”
He threw her aside and followed the fleeing landaulet on foot, but found his way repeatedly blocked by reveling villagers. When he finally arrived at the manse, Pel had already taken the traveling coach and departed.
Fighting a near crippling fear that he had damaged Isabel’s love beyond repair, Gerard saddled a horse and gave chase.
Chapter 20
Rhys waited in the hallway of the wing that housed Abby’s rooms. He paced nervously and tugged at his cravat, but never took his gaze away from her door. His coach waited out front, and the servants were loading his trunks. Time was growing short. He would be leaving soon, but refused to do so until he had spoken with Abigail.
He had been trying all morning, to no avail. He had attempted to take the seat next to her at breakfast, but she moved too quickly, picking a chair bracketed with guests on either side. A deliberate avoidance.
Blowing out an impatient breath, he heard the lock turn, then Abigail stepped out. He pounced.
“Abby.” Striding toward her quickly, he noted the pleasure that lit her eyes, before she lowered her lids and shielded them.
Damned wench was playing at something, and he would get to the bottom of it, by God! Make him fall in love with her and then toss him aside, would she? He would see about that.
“Lord Trenton. How are you this—Oh my!”
Catching her elbow, he dragged her down the hall and into the servant’s stairwell. He paused on the tiny landing and looked at her, noting the slight parting of her lips. Before she could protest, he drew her to him and kissed her, taking her mouth in near desperation, needing her response like he needed to breathe.
When she whimpered and surged into him, Rhys had to bite back the shout of triumph. She tasted like sweet cream and warm honey, a simple flavor that cleansed his jaded senses, and made the world fresh and new. He had to tear himself away, something he barely managed after spending a miserable, sleepless night without her.
“You will marry me,” he said gruffly.
Abby sighed and kept her eyes closed. “Now, why did you have to ruin a perfect farewell with that nonsense?”
“It is not nonsense!”
“It is,” she insisted, shaking her head as she looked at him. “I will not say yes. So please, cease.”
“You want me,” he said stubbornly, rubbing his thumb across her swollen bottom lip.
“For sex.”
“That is enough.” It wasn’t, but if he had her beneath him whenever he wanted, perhaps he could reclaim the ability to think. Once he could think, he could plan to win her. Grayson was bumbling along that path. He could simply follow the trail of crushed greenery.
“It isn’t,” she argued gently.
“Have you any idea how many unions have no passion at all?”
“Yes.” She set her hand over his heart. “But I do not believe that passion will be enough to bear the things others will say about you taking an American to wife.”
“Curse them all,” he grumbled. “We have more than passion, Abby. You and I rub along well. We enjoy each other’s companionship even out of bed. And we both like gardens.”
She smiled and his heart leapt. Then she dashed it to pieces. “I want love, and I won’t settle for less.”
Rhys swallowed hard. It was obvious she did not love him, but to hear her say it aloud was painful in the extreme. “Love can grow.”
Her lip quivered beneath his thumb. “I do not want to take the chance that it won’t grow. I must feel it, Rhys, in order to be happy.”
“Abigail,” he breathed, pressing his cheek to hers. He could win her heart. If she would only give him the chance.
Unfortunately, before he could press further, a door opened on a lower floor and the sounds of two maids speaking to one another rose up to them.
“Farewell, my lord,” Abby whispered, before rising to her toes and gifting him with a bittersweet kiss. “Save that dance for me.”
Then she was gone, and the sudden emptiness in his arms was echoed in his heart.
Pulling into the drive before the Hammond estate, Isabel was relieved to see Rhys’ black lacquered coach preparing for departure. After spending the last hour soaking her kerchief over the demise of her marriage and her broken dreams, she needed her brother’s shoulder to cry on and advice on how to proceed.
“Rhys!” she cried, descending the steps with the help of a footman and running toward him.
He turned with a frown, one hand set at his waist, the other rubbing the back of his neck. He stood tall and proud, his mahogany hair capped with a hat, his long legs sheathed in trim, fitted trousers. To her aching heart, the sight of her brother offered comfort in and of itself.
“Bella? I thought you had left for the day. What has happened? You’ve been crying.”
“I am riding with you back to London,” she said hoarsely, her throat raw. “I can be ready within moments.”
Looking over her head, he asked, “Where is Grayson?”
She shook her head violently in answer.
“Bella?”
“Please,” she murmured, lowering her gaze because his compassion and concern threatened to instigate a torrent of tears. “You will turn me into a watering pot in front of the servants. I shall tell you everything, once I’ve refreshed myself and collected my abigail.”
Rhys muttered an oath under his breath and tugged at his cravat. “Make haste,” he growled, shooting an anxious glance at the front entrance. “Please believe that I don’t mean to be harsh or uncaring, but truly ten minutes is all I can spare.”
Nodding, Isabel hurried into the house. Everything she had with her could not be packed in ten minutes, so she splashed water on her face, took what she needed to be comfortable on the long drive, and left a note for Grayson to see to the rest of her belongings.
At any moment, she expected her husband to appear and the anxiousness of waiting made the cold knot in her belly tighten. She felt rushed, off-kilter, breathless. Her entire world was spinning without the steady core she thought she had discovered in Gray. She should have known she would be lacking in some way. This tightness in her chest that made her dizzy was her own fault. The reality had always been there—she was too old for Gray and he did not trust that her body could give him the children she knew he desired. If she were younger, she doubted he would have such fears about her health.
“Come along,” she said to Mary, and they followed the footman, who carried her valise down the stairs to the front driveway.
Rhys waited out front, pacing restlessly. “Da
mned if you didn’t take forever,” he muttered, gesturing her abigail to the nearby servants’ coach, before catching Isabel’s arm and pulling her toward the waiting carriage. He pulled open the door and nearly thrust her inside.
Isabel had to scramble to stay on her feet and as she lifted her head within the confines of the coach, she understood her brother’s need for haste. Above a gag, eyes of bright blue with golden flecks met hers.
“Dear heaven,” she muttered, backing out quickly. She glanced around in search of a possible audience, then whispered furiously, “What are you doing with Miss Abigail in the coach trussed up like a dinner fowl?”
He heaved out his breath and then set his hands on his hips. “Blasted woman won’t listen to reason.”
“What?” Her arms akimbo pose mimicked his. “This is reason? The future Duke of Sandforth kidnapping an unmarried girl?”
“What recourse do I have?” Holding out his hands to her, he asked, “Was I simply to walk away when she refused me?”
“So you will force the girl into marriage by compromising her? What basis is that for a lasting union?”
He winced again. “I love her, Bella. I cannot imagine going on with my life without her. Tell me what to do.”
“Oh, Rhys,” Isabel breathed, her tears beginning anew. “Do you not think that if I knew how to create love where none existed, I would have done so with Pelham?”
Perhaps it was a familial curse of some terrible sort.
She had wished desperately for Rhys to find a true loving partner. What was left of her heart was broken further to learn that he had fallen in love with a woman who did not return his affections.
Fierce kicking against the interior of the carriage drew their attention. When Rhys moved toward the door, Isabel stepped into his path. “Allow me. You have done quite enough, I think.”
Raising her skirts, she used the small step to gain entry into the coach. She sat on the opposite squab, pulled off her gloves, and began to work on removing the gag that allowed only muffled protests to be heard over Rhys’ constant muttering about “impossible women.”
