Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) (6 page)

In the days before the wedding, Isobel stayed at the London townhouse alone. Beckett had gone to Kent, looking after the business of the Ravenwood estate.

On the morning of their wedding, Isobel was helped to dress by Martha, who, though she undoubtedly knew how to dress a turkey, proved to be all thumbs with a woman and a wedding gown. Still, together Martha and Isobel managed to secure all the buttons and affix the veil to her hair with some semblance of style.

As Isobel descended the townhouse staircase, Lord Thornby waited for her at the bottom. He leaned against the banister with one foot crossed over the other, looking for all the world as if he were about to go and play at cards. He was impeccably dressed, with a dark blue superfine coat making his eyes glow like sapphires.

Suddenly, Isobel’s knees seemed made of apple jelly.

As she placed her hand in his, Isobel realized that as his bride, she would have to do whatever this man wanted. Wasn’t that what all women had to do when they married? Why should her marriage be any different?

If he wanted to exercise his rights as a husband, she would have to surrender. Isobel wished she had a mother to advise her. Still, whatever Lord Thornby would do to her couldn’t possibly be as vile as being touched by Sir Harry Lennox.

She struggled to shut the images from her mind. Her skin crawled as she felt Sir Harry’s hard hand circling her waist and pulling her body against his.

It was no matter if she’d sold herself into a marriage of convenience for protection. She would be safe now. Everything had its price.

The carriage ride to the little church in Carberry Lane took only fifteen minutes, and it seemed to take less time than that for Lord Thornby to slip a ring onto her finger and for the rector to pronounce them man and wife.

Isobel looked up at Beckett’s face as he leaned down to kiss her. She’d been quite unprepared for the heat of her husband’s mouth, for the heady, male scent of his skin, and for the thrill that shot down her spine to the tips of her toes.

If her knees had felt like apple jelly before, they were now no more substantial than clotted cream.

Beckett broke the kiss and she looked up into fathomless eyes.

The rector spoke again, though what it was exactly that he said, Isobel didn’t quite know. She was too busy staring at the man she had just bound herself to for life, as his friend Lord Weston shook his hand and gave him a beaming smile.

As they descended the church steps, a beautiful woman with rich auburn hair walked toward the bridal party. The woman’s emerald-green eyes flashed up at her. An unbridled hostility glowed there, and seemed to be directed squarely at Isobel.

Who was this woman? And what did she want with them on their wedding day?

“So, Beckett,” the flame-haired woman said. “This is the woman you dared to marry instead of me.”

Chapter 5

Beckett kept his expression impassive. It would do no good to give Cordelia any satisfaction. This was his wedding day. And it might have been hers, too, if she’d been interested in more than just his inheritance. It stung to think of how blind he’d been.

“Miss Haversham,” he said. “You’re looking well.”

“I wish I could say the same for you, Beckett,” she replied. “You seem a trifle out of sorts. Of course, the stress of such hasty wedding plans would give anyone a turn, wouldn’t it?”

“Strange how you found out about them so quickly,” he noted.

Cordelia smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Thankfully, your mother called upon me and told me of this ridiculous notion. Did you think I was going to let you make both of us the laughingstock of London?”

“Meaning?” Beckett asked.

“All of the
ton
knows about this girl you found in the gutter, Beckett,” Cordelia said, as though Isobel were not standing right there beside him. “But I want you to know that I’m willing to overlook this bit of madness. You can have the marriage annulled immediately and we will have a proper wedding, not some farcical ceremony in a rundown church in the most unfashionable part of London.”

Cordelia adjusted her gloves and looked at Beckett as if all were decided. “I must say, Beckett, I had no idea what lengths you’d go to in order to win me back. Truthfully, I am flattered. But it really was a bit much, don’t you think, darling?” She glanced at Isobel. “A fine countess she’d make.”

“My wife and I thank you for the compliment, Miss Haversham,” Beckett said. “You are right, of course. Isobel is now Viscountess Thornby, and will soon be the Countess of Ravenwood. My lovely wife will undoubtedly make me the envy of the ton.”

Damn, but he was enjoying this.

“You can’t be serious, Beckett,” Cordelia snapped, vainly trying to regain her composure. “You and I were to be married. We had an understanding.”

“Until we didn’t,” he said. “You broke with me, Cordelia. You have no claim.”

“Be assured—I won’t be put aside so easily,” she warned.

“I’m afraid you already have been,” Beckett replied, turning to look at his bride

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,” he said. “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,” Cordelia replied. “A woman never is.”

“So I mistook your intentions when you threw the ring in my face?” he asked.

“A lovers’ quarrel, nothing more,” she said. “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,” Beckett said. “I did want that once. But I have chosen my bride, and I intend to keep her.”

“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 have my countess. Good day, Cordelia,” Beckett said, touching the brim of his hat and leading Isobel toward their waiting coach.

Beckett handed his wife into the plush interior and stepped in beside her, sitting on the burgundy velvet seat. He felt a wave of relief. A chapter of his life finally had been closed, and another one was just beginning.

Isobel’s intelligent brown eyes studied him 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,” Isobel said.

“Cordelia was only interested in my money—” Beckett stated, “until it turned out I had none. Now that I am to become an earl, she has changed her mind once again.”

“But you have not?”

“No,” he said stiffly.

“I thought her quite beautiful,” Isobel commented.

“As beautiful as a rose—with rather vicious little thorns,” Beckett said cynically. “If one gets too close, you end up bleeding.”

“Is that why you have chosen me for a bride, my lord?” Isobel asked. “Because thorns pricked you last time, and you’ve sworn to give up gardening?”

“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 wedding night.

Lord Ravenwood—for Beckett was the earl now—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 felt a heated thrill move through her.

“Good evening, Isobel,” Beckett said, taking off his hat and passing it to Hartley, who quickly left them alone.

“I was just going up to bed,” she blurted.

“To bed?” he asked. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

“It does?” she stammered.

“Quite decidely.”

“Oh, no,” she replied. “In this case, it doesn’t.”

“Why not, darling?” He regarded her seriously, but Isobel could have sworn there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Because—I am very tired,” she said. “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?” he asked. “That is unfortunate.”

“Yes—I am very, very ill indeed,” Isobel said flatly. “In fact, I may faint.”

“Then I must carry you up to your chamber, before you do,” he said.

“There is no need—ooh!”

In one swift motion, Beckett swept her into his strong 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 carried her aloft in his arms, and she was helpless to escape.

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 Beckett 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 could set her pulse to racing so quickly.

Beckett entered in the Blue Room, and carried her to the huge, soft bed. Isobel’s pulse quickened as he gently lay her down upon it. She half-feared, half-hoped he would join her there.

He looked down into her eyes, reaching out to lift an errant curl from her forehead. The back of his hand brushed against her skin, leaving a trial of tingles dancing over it. “I do hope you are feeling better,” he said. “You’ve had a busy day, my dear. I bid you goodnight.”

Isobel closed her eyes and waited for his lips to claim hers, but was surprised when he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.

She opened her eyes to see him quietly leaving the room, as a knot formed in her heart. He was leaving her alone for the night.

Wasn’t that what she’d wanted?

As Isobel lay there alone on the big, empty bed, she realized that it wasn’t what she wanted at all.

* * *

“Good morning, Hartley,” Beckett said, pouring himself a cup of hot black coffee. “Have you seen my wife about? I was told she came down before me.”

“Lady Ravenwood is in the garden, my lord,” Hartley replied.

“And how did she seem?” Beckett asked. “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 the countess somewhat ill.”

Hartley nodded sagely. “It is often the case with new wives, my lord. But these wedding-day illnesses are quickly cured.”

“Undoubtedly,” Beckett agreed. 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 faced away from him, but he could see her profile in the warm yellow light.

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 almost 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 powerful within him.