The Marriage Bargain (7 page)

Well, she would be safe now. No matter if she’d sold herself into a marriage of convenience for protection. Everything had its price.

The carriage ride to the little church in Car-berry Lane took only fifteen minutes, and it seemed to take less time than that for Lord Beckett 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, but her eyes closed as his lips touched hers. She’d been quite unprepared for the warmth of her husband’s mouth, for the heady, male scent of his skin, and for the thrill that shot down her spine and the backs of her legs to the tips of her toes.

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

He broke the kiss and she looked up into fathomless eyes. Her husband smiled down at her.

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.

This was her husband….

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

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

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

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. You’re looking well,” he said, fighting to sound gracious.

“I wish I could say the same for you, Beckett. 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, considering I made them only yesterday.”

Cordelia smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Yes. 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?”

“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. “Yet, 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!”

“Why thank you, Miss Haversham,” Isobel said sweetly. “Coming from one of my husband’s oldest and dearest friends, your approval means even more to me than you could know.”

Cordelia glared and opened her mouth to say something, but Beckett interjected.

“I, too, thank you for the compliment, Miss Haversham. You are right, of course. Isobel is now Viscountess Thornby, and will soon be the countess of Ravenwood. My new wife shall 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. Be assured—I won’t be put aside so easily.”

“I’m afraid you already have been.” Beckett looked over at his true bride. Isobel would make quite a countess indeed. She was beautiful and witty. What more did one need?

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. 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. A woman never is.”

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

“A lovers’ quarrel, nothing more. 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. I did want that once. But I have chosen my bride, and I intend to keep her,” he said, glancing down at the woman beside him.

“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’m afraid the position has been filled. Good day, Cordelia,” Beckett said, touching the brim of his hat and leading Isobel toward their waiting coach.

Beckett handed his new wife into the plush interior and stepped in beside her, settling onto the burgundy velvet seat. He realized that his heart was beating faster than usual, but it was a satisfying feeling. He felt that a chapter of his life finally had been closed. And another one was just beginning.

Beckett glanced at Isobel and smiled. Her engaging brown eyes looked at him curiously 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.”

“Well, my dear, Cordelia was only interested in my money, and when it turned out that I had none—” He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “Now that I am to become an earl, she has changed her mind once again.”

“But you have not?”

“What—changed my mind about Miss Haversham? Certainly not,” he said stiffly.

“I thought her quite beautiful.”

Beckett chuckled cynically. “As beautiful as a rose. With rather vicious little thorns. And having got too close before, I’m pleased to say that I’ve learned my lesson.”

Isobel studied him with intelligent eyes. “And is that why you have chosen me for a bride, my lord?

Because thorns pricked you last time, and you’ve sworn to give up gardening?”

Beckett regarded her silently. It seemed his wife was more shrewd than he’d thought.

“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 handling of the wedding night.

Lord Thornby 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 stared up into bright blue eyes, and felt a thrill move through her.

“Good evening, Isobel.” He took off his hat and passed it to Hartley, who quickly left them alone.

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

“To bed. That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

“It does?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, no. In this case, it doesn’t.”

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

“Because—I am very tired. 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? How unfortunate.”

“Yes. I am very, very ill indeed. In fact, I may faint.”

“Oh, then I must carry you up to your chamber then, before you do.”

“Oh, no! There is no need—ooh!”

In one swift motion, Lord Thornby had swept her into his 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 had her in his arms, and she was helpless to escape. And 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 Lord Thornby 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 smelled so alarmingly good.

Then, they were in the Blue Room, and he was carrying her to the huge, soft bed. Isobel’s pulse quickened as he gently lay her down. She half-feared, half-hoped he would join her there.

He stood straight, looking down into her eyes. Reaching out a hand, he lifted an errant curl from her forehead, letting his knuckles lightly brush against her skin. “I’ll send Martha up with something to help you sleep. And I bid you goodnight.”

Isobel stared helplessly as he bent down toward her. She closed her eyes and waited for his lips to claim hers.

He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.

She opened her eyes to see him quietly leaving the room, and realized there was a knot forming in her heart. He was leaving her alone for the night. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted?

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

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

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

“And how did she seem? 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 her somewhat ill.”

Hartley nodded sagely. “It is often the case with new wives, my lord. These wedding-day illnesses are usually cured the next day—or night.”

Beckett chuckled. “I’m sure you’re right, Hartley. I’ll just go and bring her some breakfast, then.” 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 was facing away from him, but he could see her profile in the warm yellow light.

She looked like an angel.

Enthralled, 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 within him.

Damn it! He didn’t have time for such nonsense. He would not start mooning over this woman like a bloody schoolboy! Wasn’t that why he’d married Isobel? To keep things simple?

That was why he’d been glad she had feigned illness last night. For he had been so tempted to take her to his bed and touch again the perfection of her body; it had haunted him since the night he’d found her. But he’d wanted to do much more than touch her. He’d wanted to pull her close against his own naked form, and feel her warm skin next to him, her lips on his, and feel her legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust himself into her.

Theirs was the perfect marriage: one of convenience. He would not let his base needs play havoc with his plans. She would want to be gone within a few weeks, anyway. It would be no use discovering any charms of Isobel’s that might reduce him again to a blithering 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. He hoped they would even become friends.

And, he thought cynically, friends it would have to be. No one would be allowed to sink his or her claws into him except his parrot.

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, except it was not as grand.

She had spent another restless night filled with terrible dreams of Sir Harry and Hampton Park. 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 with her pencils and paper 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.