The Marriage Bargain (30 page)

But the nightmare wasn’t over yet. There was still the false murder charge hanging over her head in London. Would Palmerston proceed with prosecuting her?

Oh, she couldn’t think about that, now. She wouldn’t think about it!

Beckett was alive. He was beside her, warm and strong and alive. She would let nothing else spoil this moment.

Beckett tipped her chin up towards him. His face looked unbearably handsome in the yellow moonlight.

“Tell me something, wife,” he whispered.

“Yes?” She thrilled at the sound of his husky voice.

“Have you ever made love in a carriage?”

Beckett knelt on the floor of the carriage before her, and in the dim light from the lanterns outside the windows, his eyes glowed like jewels. His hands reached up and slid her dress down over her shoulders.

Slowly, with exquisite control, he ran his hands over her breasts. Isobel heard her own intake of breath at the sensation of his skin on hers. Beckett closed his eyes as if she were hurting him, and he turned his head slightly as he caressed her with deft fingers.

His touch was maddeningly light as his fingertips drew circles around the sensitive pink tips. She held on to his arm for support as he took a breast in each strong hand and squeezed. With each thumb, he teased the hard peaks until Isobel heard herself gasping. And all the while, she stared at him, at this beautiful man’s face with blue eyes that seared her like the heat of the sun.

Suddenly, his hands moved to the hem of her skirt. Beckett stopped for a moment, and the wicked promise in his eyes was almost too much for Isobel to bear. He smiled and pushed her skirt up over her knees. His hands explored her thighs, and Isobel arched her back and spread her legs, wanting so much for him to touch her. He pulled off her undergarments and threw them over his shoulder.

Beckett leaned forward and captured her mouth in a burning kiss while his hands stroked between her legs. Isobel felt herself becoming slick, and when his fingers went inside her she moaned and gripped his shoulder.

“I want to worship you,” he whispered in her ear, and it sent shivers down her spine.

Beckett knelt back and dipped his head to kiss her inner thigh. He teased her with lips and tongue, bathing her like a cat. She jolted a little as his warm, wet tongue delved between her legs.

He raised his head and looked up at her. “It’s alright, Isobel. Just lie back and let your husband love you.”

His words sent a bittersweet pain through her heart.

It was dangerous to pretend that their lovemaking was anything more than a physical exchange. This dance of desire, this blinding pleasure was all that Beckett could give to her. She could not hope for more, no matter how he acted. He’d made that very clear long ago. If only she could keep her feelings at bay when he made love to her, and accept their coupling as pure physical sensation. But that was much more difficult than it seemed.

She closed her eyes as his mouth pleasured her. The sensation was so exquisite, so intense, she could never have imagined such beautiful wickedness. It was frighteningly intimate, almost too much to bear.

But she would let him take her down this unknown road, for she was powerless to do anything else.

Beckett moved his mouth with a smooth rhythm, and Isobel heard her breathing quicken. The warmth spread through her body with maddening slowness, like cream travelling through coffee.

She spread her legs wider, her hands reaching down and holding his head as he worked her with his tongue. He lifted her legs over his shoulders. Isobel heard herself gasping. It sounded as if she were in terrible pain, so desperate was her response.

Two of his fingers slipped inside her and she thought she would lose her mind—the double pleasure was unbearable. She wanted to beg him to stop, but words were impossible.

Isobel moaned loudly and rocked her hips against his hand and mouth. Her head thrashed from side to side against the back of the seat. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.

Then, a mind-numbing pleasure seemed to rise and pass through her body from back to front. She felt it everywhere, in her legs, her arms, even her fingertips. It emptied her and yet filled her completely.

Beckett pulled his head away and she regarded him through half-lidded eyes. He unfastened his trousers and slid them down over his hips. Then he reached forward and lifted her towards him. He sat back on the opposite seat and lowered her down onto the hardness between his legs.

Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist. His hands cupped her buttocks, his mouth joining with hers as their bodies moved together.

Isobel circled her arms around his neck as he pumped into her. She closed her eyes and threw her head back as the pleasure of him filled her completely. Then she felt it coming again, that speeding, heady flood that would wash her away so completely, reducing her to skin and blood and sweat.

Beckett groaned and pounded into her with a blinding rhythm. His breathing was short. He moaned as he gripped her buttocks and thrust harder.

Isobel felt lightness overtake her—as though she were weightless and couldn’t feel her body anymore.

She cried out, bursting through glorious waves of pleasure.

Beckett groaned and crushed her to him, burying his face in her shoulder as he, too, found release.

They remained that way for awhile, unable to move. Then Beckett kissed her sweetly, tenderly, and looked into her eyes. He brushed the stray hair away from her eyes and stroked her face.

“You never answered my question, Isobel.”

“What question?” she asked, dazedly.

“Have you ever made love in a carriage?”

She smiled. “Oh, yes.”

“And how was it?”

“Very enjoyable.”

“Hmm. Perhaps you’ll want to go for more carriage rides, then. All about London. Perhaps we’ll go through Hyde Park at five o’clock on a Saturday, and draw the curtains.”

“We couldn’t!”

“We couldn’t draw the curtains? Wicked woman. Then everyone would see.”

“No. We couldn’t do that riding around Hyde Park… could we?”

Beckett pulled her to him and kissed her so passionately, she thought he might make love to her again, right there.

“We shall see. Now, we should get ourselves dressed. I think we’ll be entering the outskirts of London soon. And while I am entranced with your current state of dishabille, I’m afraid I’d rather not share the sight with Hartley when he opens my door.”

Isobel laughed as he threw her undergarments at her head. Dutifully, she rearranged herself, all the while watching Beckett in the growing light as they neared the city.

When she was once again presentable, Isobel sat back on the seat and Beckett joined her. He encircled her with his arms and she leaned her head back against his chest. And though she hadn’t meant to, relief and happiness overwhelmed her and she promptly dozed off.

Isobel rolled over and pulled the covers higher over her head, refusing to let the troubles of the world disturb her. She was certain that she could stay in this bed forever. It was so warm and soft. And yet, there was a niggling feeling in the back of her mind. Where was she?

Isobel sat upright in the bed and realized she was naked. Oh, yes. She was in Beckett’s bed in the townhouse in Covington Place, exactly where this adventure had started.

But she didn’t remember coming into the townhouse, let alone Beckett’s bedroom. The last thing she remembered, she’d started to doze off in her husband’s arms as they neared London. Could she have been asleep all this time?

Isobel looked up as a knock sounded at the door. It opened, and a pair of bright blue eyes peeked around it. They belonged to the most handsome man she had ever seen. Her heart did a flip-flop, and she smiled as her husband entered the room. Close on his heels was the most handsome dog she had ever seen.

“Monty!” She held her arms out to the dog as he bounded over to the bed, his great pink tongue lolling in his excited rush to see her. The shaggy brown dog skidded to a halt just before crashing into the bed, and plunked his rump down obediently, resting his chin on the coverlet.

“Good heavens, wife, I could have had Hartley with me instead of Monty.” He pointed at her bare breasts and cringed in mock horror.

“But you didn’t.” Isobel scratched the dog’s head and ears as the animal gazed at her with a look of unadulterated devotion. “Besides, I seem to have a strange habit of waking in your bed, wearing not even a stitch of clothing. Have I been asleep since the carriage?”

He sat next to her on the other side of the bed and leaned over to kiss her. She patted Monty’s head and then turned her full attention to her husband. His hand absently fondled a breast. “Yes. I carried you in and put you to bed. Rather like the first night we met. Only last night I climbed in beside you in a most premeditated manner. Then I joined you in dreamland. It’s no wonder we slept so soundly. We’d had a bit of an exhausting day, I think.”

“Oh, Beckett… is it true? Is Sir Harry really out of our lives?” Isobel put her arms around his neck and he held her to him. It felt so good to be in his arms again that, for a moment, she thought she might still be dreaming.

“Yes, Isobel. I promise that no one will ever hurt you or take you away from me again.”

“But what about Lord Palmerston?”

He put his hand to her lips. “We shall talk about that later. Now you must get dressed. Alfred is due at any moment. Unless you prefer to entertain guests in all your natural glory.”

Isobel gasped at the suggestion. “I shall reserve such wicked pleasures for my husband only.”

“Wise woman. Perhaps I shall take you up on it tonight. I must confess, I have an urge to see you play the piano-forte thus.”

Isobel laughed and pushed him away.

A knock sounded at the door, followed by Hartley’s voice. “Lord Weston downstairs to see you, m’lord.”

“Yes, Hartley, I’ll be down directly,” Beckett answered. With blue eyes sparkling at her, he kissed her hand softly. Then he rose from the bed and headed for the door, Monty obediently following. “Come down as soon as you’re dressed. Oh, and there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Remind me, will you?”

Isobel nodded and watched them leave. She wondered at his words, trying to quell the uneasiness in her heart. Whatever he had to say to her, she would find out soon enough.

Isobel threw the covers back and walked to the washstand. Quickly she bathed and dressed. She chose a simple gown the same blue as Beckett’s eyes. And as she headed downstairs, she thought to herself, there was one subject she would not bring up.

Since they’d been reunited, she’d been careful not to speak of love. Certainly, they had made love in the carriage, and they had made love before—but it was only the physical relations between husband and wife. She would not confuse it with real love.

It was enough, Isobel had decided, that she loved him. Though she would not speak of it, she would know that in her heart. And Beckett had an affection for her, even if he couldn’t truly love her. He was her friend, and she was his.

She had so much to be thankful for. Beckett was alive, and Sir Harry was out of their lives. That alone was more than she could have hoped for, only a day ago.

Descending the staircase, she felt as she had on that first morning, hearing Beckett and Alfred talking and joking in the salon, and Caesar squawking noisily along with them. But, no—then she had been afraid.

This time, she had nothing to fear. She was at peace with her marriage—a union that was and would always be an arrangement between friends.

Isobel entered the salon, and Alfred turned with an open smile on his face. He quickly crossed the room to greet her. Opening his arms, he embraced Isobel and kissed her cheek.

“Beckett has been telling me about your adventure. I must say, I can scarcely believe it.”

“Believe it! Believe it!” Caesar shrieked from his cage.

“Oh, Caesar—really,” Beckett admonished.

Monty barked his own disapproval at his feathered friend. Isobel laughed as the bird ignored both his master and the dog and kept squawking. “Nor can I, Alfred. Only yesterday, I was Sir Harry’s prisoner and I feared that Beckett was dead. And now I am here at my husband’s side where I belong.”

“And what of Sir Harry?” Alfred asked. “As I was telling your husband, I acquired heaps of incriminating evidence against him while you were in Barbados. Blackmail, bribery, smuggling, swindling—I’m afraid the man is as dirty as a dung-heap. Where is he? Has he been taken off to the magistrate?”

“No.” Beckett reached for a note on the table. He looked meaningfully at Isobel. “This came while you were sleeping, my dear. I thought you and Alfred would like to hear it.” Beckett opened it and began to read aloud as Isobel looked on.

Lord Ravenwood,

I write to you as the Revenge prepares to set sail for Jamaica. I hope you and your wife are well.

Sir Harry Lennox is dead. He was shot while trying to escape from Newgate. Fortunately, no one else was hurt in the escape attempt.

While he was in my custody, I was able to “persuade” Lennox to make a full confession regarding the murder of Edward Langley, the kidnapping of both you and your wife, and his manipulation of Lord Palmerston; a signed copy of which is attached. I will keep the other copy in a very safe place.

With Sir Harry’s death, you and your wife are finally free of his threat.

Sincerely Yours,

Captain Richard Worthington

P.S. Captain Black sends his regards.

Isobel let out her breath, though she hadn’t realized she’d been holding it in.

Beckett pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “You’re free, my dear. Lennox can never hurt you again.”

Alfred reached for the letter. He looked over the confession and seemed satisfied. “Now that Lennox is dead, I should think the murder charge against Isobel will be dropped.”

“Yes, I daresay it will. He was the one pulling Lord Palmerston’s reins. I’m sure Palmerston wouldn’t want it known that he’d accepted a bribe from Lennox in the matter.”

Alfred turned to Isobel. “And what do you think, my dear lady? Do you think that justice has been served?”