Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) (5 page)

Isobel twisted her fingers around the candlestick in her hands. The urge to trust him grew stronger. Something in his voice made her feel strangely comfortable in his presence, though she knew she should be wary.

But if his proposal was serious, it could be the answer to her prayers.

Awful memories spun in her head. Even now, a part of her hoped that what she had seen before her flight from Hampton House had been some sort of nightmare, but the hard knot of fear in her gut meant it had been all too real.

She’d witnessed the murder of her beloved guardian, and the man responsible—Sir Harry Lennox—had sworn to find her. No one could know the depths of the man’s depravity. He was determined to possess both Isobel and the Hampton estate, no matter what the cost.

Something had guided her out of that strange hell and led her here—an instinct to survive. She refused to give up now.

This was a golden opportunity. What other option did she have? She had nowhere to go. Marriage to this newly minted earl would offer her valuable protection. She would be safe. Hampton Park would be safe. The price would be a loveless marriage.

Compared to the alternative, it was an attractive offer.

Isobel cleared her throat and leveled her eyes at him. “I accept your proposal, Lord Thornby. I will be your bride. And I understand the terms of our agreement. Completely.”

He reached for her hand, and brought it to his lips. A sizzling tingle whispered up her spine as his mouth pressed against her skin. She wanted to lower her eyes to hide her reaction, but found that she couldn’t. This man, this handsome stranger with the enigmatic blue eyes, would be her husband.

In name only.

“We shall be married as soon as possible,” he said, standing. “Please join me in the salon. We must discuss details about the wedding.” He closed the door behind him.

Isobel looked at a crumpled handkerchief that Martha had given her earlier and smoothed it, fingering the pale-blue stitching of his initials. God in Heaven, had she done the right thing? Was a marriage of convenience to this Lord Thornby the only way to remain safe from the fiend who haunted her nightmares, and threatened her body and soul?

Soon she would be Lord Thornby’s wife. He needn’t know about Hampton Park just yet. He would inherit substantial property with the earldom. When the time came for her to assume her new residence, she would merely state her preference for her ancestral home.

It was dishonest, what she was doing. But given the circumstances, it was clearly her only choice.

Another knock sounded at the door. It opened and Martha came bustling in with a gleaming silver tray carrying steaming tea, mouthwatering scones and pastries, and bowl of fresh, fragrant strawberries with Devonshire cream.

“The master said I was to bring ye a breakfast tray, Miss, even though it is almost time for luncheon,” Martha said with a warm smile. She placed the tray over Isobel’s lap, then poured the tea. “I hear there’s to be a weddin’! And so much to be done. Cakes and pastries to be made. I’ll need eggs and kidneys for the breakfast. And ham… Lord Thornby likes ham, so he does…” The cook muttered the last to herself as she waddled out the door.

Isobel raised the cup to her nose and breathed in its warm, earthy scent. She sipped the drink and took a bite of buttered scone, thinking of her wedding. She would need more than tea to get her through that.

As she devoured the contents of the breakfast tray with unladylike speed, Isobel’s thoughts centered around the man who would shortly become her husband. Could a man as handsome as Lord Beckett Thornby really be so desperate for a bride that he’d marry a girl he found in a rubbish heap?

Lord Thornby’s secrets were none of her concern. Perhaps he wanted to continue with a carefree life, as most noblemen did. Perhaps he already had a mistress. Perhaps he had children with her.

She should consider herself lucky that Lord Thornby had chosen her to be his bride, whatever his reasons.

Suddenly, the memory of waking up next to him sent strange shivers down Isobel’s spine. She’d been naked in that bed…and he’d been half-naked, for his part. What exactly had happened between them?

He’d apologized, but he hadn’t explained the full truth of the matter. Who exactly had undressed her? The answer hit her with a horrible certainty. It had been
him
.

Isobel felt her blood heat with anger, and something else she couldn’t name.

Excitement?

Lord Thornby had taken off her clothes with those strong-looking hands of his. What happened after that?

Still, if Lord Thornby had wanted to take advantage of her, wouldn’t he have done so, and tossed her right back onto the street? He certainly wouldn’t have felt obliged to offer for her hand in marriage.

A quick knock sounded at the door and Martha appeared, bringing clothes, along with warm water for the wash-basin.

Finished with her breakfast, Isobel completed her toilette and Martha assisted her with dressing.

She donned a fine muslin day dress, with a sprigged pattern of clover green. She couldn’t help but wonder where the garment had come from. It was certainly not the portly cook’s. Perhaps it belonged to one of Lord Thornby’s mistresses. Absently, Isobel thought how she missed her own clothes, her own bed, and her own house. If she played her cards right, they would be hers again before long.

Isobel pinned up her long blond curls and arranged them as fetchingly as she could. The state of her hair was the least of her concerns.

The heavy door creaked as she opened it, and Isobel almost tripped over the dog lying in the doorway. The shaggy brown shepherd bounded to his feet, tail wagging furiously, and turned around to pant up at her.

“I remember you,” she said, patting his big furry head. “You certainly gave me a fright when we first met. But now I see you’re really a pussycat. Pardon the comparison.”

The dog didn’t seem to mind. He regarded her through half-lidded eyes, his pink tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.

“Where’s your master?” she asked. “Can you take me to him, boy?”

The dog barked, then trotted down the hallway to the top of the staircase. He stopped to look back at Isobel, then headed down.

As Isobel tried to keep up, she heard loud male voices coming from one of the front rooms. Her heart beat a little nervously at the laughter and scandalous cursing. As the dog led her to a doorway, Isobel heard more of what seemed to be a strange conversation between three people.

“
Caesar want treat. Caesar want treat
,” a strange, high-pitched voice said.

“No, Caesar. No treat,” Lord Thornby replied.

“
Caesar good boy. Caesar want treat
.”

“I said no, Caesar.”

Did Lord Thornby have a child he hadn’t mentioned?

“
Caesar want treat. Caesar want treat. Ahhkk
!”

A loud flapping sound filled the air, and curiosity made Isobel rush around the doorframe. Her eyes widened as she saw a large gray bird sitting on Lord Thornby’s head, flapping its wings and screeching like a banshee.

Thornby turned, the bird still on his head. When he saw her, he grinned mischievously. A dark-haired man stood beside him and chuckled at the scene.

Isobel covered fought to stifle a giggle.

“
Pretty bird. Ahhkk! Pretty bird
,” squawked Caesar.

“That’s right, Caesar. She is a pretty bird,” Lord Thornby said, grinning wickedly.

Caesar took flight in a flurry of pale gray wings. Isobel squealed in shock as the creature landed on her shoulder and fluffed its feathers.

“Oh!” she sputtered, fearfully looking sideways at the big parrot who studied her with a penetrating yellow eye.

“
Hello. Ahhkk! Hello
” the bird said.

“Caesar! Get off Miss Hampton’s shoulder at once, you silly bird! My apologies, Miss Hampton,” Lord Thornby said, putting the loudly protesting bird back in its cage. “Caesar becomes excited when he meets new people.”

“Oh, no harm done,” she replied. “What kind of bird is he?”

“An African Gray parrot,” he replied. “I found him sitting in a tree in Hyde Park one morning. He flew down to see me, and I brought him home to join the menagerie.”

“You mean there are more?” Isobel asked.

“Beckett’s been taking in stray animals since we were boys,” the man next to her fiancé answered.

“Do forgive me, Miss Hampton,” Lord Thornby said. “Allow me to introduce Lord Weston, who assisted me in bringing you home. Alfred, Miss Isobel Hampton, soon to be the Viscountess Thornby and Countess of Ravenwood.”

Lord Weston took her hand and gallantly pressed it to his lips. His dark, coffee-brown eyes bored into hers with a smoldering look. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Hampton, and very pleased to see you have recovered from your ordeal.”

“I owe you a great debt, Lord Weston,” Isobel said. “I can only thank you and Lord Thornby for helping me. I’m afraid most people would have left such a bedraggled-looking creature to her fate.”

“It is the duty of all gentlemen to protect the fairer sex,” he insisted. “I am only thankful that we happened along when we did.”

“I am glad to see that the gown fits you,” Lord Thornby said. “We borrowed it from Alfred’s sister-in-law until I could properly fit you with your own trousseau.”

Isobel replied, “You are very generous, my lord—”

“Nonsense, Miss Hampton,” Beckett insisted. “I have Madame de Florette coming within the hour. She’ll bring a selection of ready-made dresses that she and her seamstresses will alter for you here. They will have to do for the time being, I’m afraid.”

“Really, there is no need.”

Lord Thornby quirked a brow. “You intend to marry me in that, then?”

Isobel looked down at her borrowed dress. It was totally unsuitable for a wedding. But it wasn’t as if this would be a real wedding, anyway. How extravagant could the ceremony be with such short notice?

Why was it so impossible to look away from this man’s gaze, she wondered?

He took her hand in his and kissed it, saying, “It is my wish that you be beautifully dressed for our wedding, my dear.”

Isobel felt tingles skip over her skin at his touch, his words, and the intensity of his eyes.

This man would be her husband. And she would be his wife, for better or for worse.

As Beckett had promised, Madame de Florette arrived not thirty minutes later. The diminutive, dark-haired Frenchwoman hurried Isobel into Lord Thornby’s chamber and began flinging dresses out of a trunk and onto the bed. Her two assistants stood with needles poised, like soldiers ready for battle.

The women spoke in rapid French as Isobel was fitted for a multitude of dresses. And though Isobel spoke the language fluently, Madame de Florette never asked for Isobel’s opinion on any of the gowns—in English or in French.

But when Madame de Florette presented the last dress, she gave Isobel a brilliant smile. “Your wedding dress, ma belle. I had been making it for the Marquess of Salisbury’s daughter, but apparently, she has called it off. The groom was caught with not one but
two
other women in zee Marquess’s own bed.” She wagged a finger and said, “Tsk, tsk tsk! But zis dress should not go to waste. For you, ma chere, I’ll put more bagatelles, a different trim, and no one will know ze difference!”

Isobel held her arms out as Madame de Florette slipped the dress over her shoulders. The women fluttered around her like sparrows—pinning, stitching bows and trims, and Isobel felt a huge sadness wash over her like a cold ocean wave.

This was her wedding dress. So many times as a girl, she had dreamed of her wedding. Of marrying a dashing, gallant man—a handsome hero who had won her heart. She had never dreamed of a marriage of convenience to a man she barely knew. Obviously, such girlish wishes of love no longer had a place in her life. Not with Sir Harry as such a threat.

Now, there was only duty—to her future husband. And to Hampton Park. If Isobel didn’t become Lord Thornby’s bride, Hampton Park would be lost forever.

The thought of Sir Harry clouded her vision and made her stomach swirl with loathing. After tomorrow, she would be safe from the foul monster. He would never put his threatening hands on her again. He would never take such liberties with a countess.

“There, ma petite. C’est finil” Madame de Florette waved her hand dramatically. Her assistants agreed, making last-minute adjustments to the flounces and bows.

The dress was beautiful, but Isobel felt nothing for it. She forced herself to smile as Madame de Florette placed the veil on her head.

Isobel just wanted the ceremony to be over. Then she would feel safe. And she would be that much closer to starting her new life alone at Hampton Park as the Countess of Ravenwood.

The dressmaker and her assistants spent the rest of the day taking measurements, and showing her fabrics and patterns. Isobel’s arms ached from being held out straight and her eyes itched with tiredness.

When Madame de Florette and her assistants finally took their leave, Isobel found herself alone in the grand townhouse. It seemed that her husband-to-be and his friend Lord Weston had gone to their club for the evening and were not expected to return for some hours. Isobel took her supper alone, then retired early, exhausted from the day’s preparations.