Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) (7 page)

Damnation, he didn’t have time for such nonsense. He would not start mooning over his new wife like a bloody schoolboy. Wasn’t that why he’d married Isobel? To keep things simple?

He’d been glad she feigned illness last night.

For he had been so tempted to take her to his bed and bury himself in the perfection of her body…

Theirs was the perfect marriage: one of convenience. He would not let his base needs play havoc with his plans. It would be no use discovering any charms of Isobel’s that might reduce him once again to a love-sick 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.

But one thing was certain—no woman would ever sink her claws into him again.

* * *

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.

She had spent another restless night filled with terrible dreams of Sir Harry and Hampton House. 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 this morning with pencils and paper in order 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 fiancee. After all, their 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 anything but.

Isobel 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.

She 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 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 mind and spirit.

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, the regal nose, the 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.

There were the woman’s calculating eyes and cold, thin smile. She was beautiful, yes, but had the hard beauty of a marble statue whose eyes appeared sightless, whose mouth would remain 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 replied. 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 now 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.

“I trust you slept well last night,” he said.

“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. I insist that you call me by my Christian name.”

“Of course… Beckett,” she replied.

“I am glad that your health has improved since last night,” he continued. “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 an impoverished viscount. What did you do, Isobel?”

“After supper I retired to the library and read Mr. Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew,” she said.

“The Taming of the Shrew?” he asked. “Is there something I should know about? Am I to play Petruchio to your Katharina? Or Lucentio to your Bianca?”

“I cannot say,” Isobel replied, “for those that you mention are both pairs of lovers. And as you have said, ours is a marriage only of convenience.”

He stepped closer to her, his penetrating blue eyes holding her gaze. “You are right, of course. That is what we both wanted. Is it not?”

“It is what we agreed upon.”

“So it is,” Beckett replied, finally. “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 without so much as a look back at her. 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.

She sighed and plopped herself down on the bed, lying upon her back and staring up at the ceiling.

Did he intend to honor their arrangement? His behavior 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, she would have no right to refuse him. And what was more worrisome, she knew she would have no intention of doing so.

Chapter 6

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.

Word was that Cordelia would be there, presumably with talons sharpened. According to Alfred, Cordelia had been campaigning to win support from some of the old guard—the Marchioness of Colborne, the Countess of Linfield and last but not least, the Duchess of Rowley.

No doubt, Cordelia was trying to discredit Beckett and his new bride, not that he cared what any of those old crones thought. He adjusted his cuffs and took one last look in the glass. It would do.

He trotted down the staircase with Monty on his heels, then stood near the bottom to await his wife. He felt the dog’s hot breath on his pant leg and moved away. The beast scooted closer, so that he was exactly the same distance from Beckett’s leg as he had been before.

“Monty, I’ve already applied my cologne for the evening, thank you very much. Go on, now,” Beckett said, pointing.

Monty looked up at him with happy brown eyes and continued to steam Beckett’s trousers.

“Monty, go lay down,” he said firmly.

The dog raised sad eyes to his master and obeyed.

A flapping of feathers whooshed through the air and Caesar flew out of the salon, landing on his favorite perch: Beckett’s head.

“Oh, Caesar—get off!” Beckett reached up to disengage the parrot from his head.

“
Get off…get off, ahhkk
!” The bird flapped its wings enthusiastically, and flew up just out of Beckett’s reach, then landed on his head again. They repeated this process until Beckett finally gave up, and stood with his hands on his hips.

“Caesar, I believe you have ruined my hair,” Beckett said.

Light feminine laughter trickled down the staircase.

Beckett looked up to see Isobel standing at the top, covering her mouth with a dainty gloved hand as she giggled.

“You think this quite funny, do you?” Beckett asked.

Isobel appeared to be swallowing her smirk as she descended the stairs and stopped at the bottom.

“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.