“Manhandled?” She croaked feebly.
“Not, of course,” he went on conversationally, “that I have anything against your brothers finding entertainment with anyone else. And not, surely, that I can find fault with your brothers for being rather particular about who actually is allowed to seek you out.” He cast his head in shadow again and peered down at her, his lips quirking. “Walter Barth—I believe that’s the fellow’s name—is not good enough for you, Isabelle.”
This caught her off guard. “And why would you be thinking that, my lord?”
“Well, aside from the fact that that mole on his face will only get larger as the years pass, there is the truth that he is a mama’s boy and wouldn’t know what to do with so precious a creature as you.”
Now it was true that there might have been a time when Isabelle’s heart would have melted at hearing such glorious words as these from this man. Presently, however, having no knowledge of his position or intentions, she wondered at his motive here, and thus these words were discounted as merely words. She would not fall twice.
She just would not.
“Whatever made you buy the Dutchman’s Manor, my lord?” She felt she needed to know. It was indeed a risk she took just by posing this question to him. He would likely spout some unwanted truth about his own hunting lodge having been actually burned beyond repair; he might state that the hunting here seemed fairly plentiful; he might, in fact, suggest frankly that it had nothing to do with her.
Instead, he answered with great solemnity “Because I missed you, Isabelle.”
She was quite aware that her face did drain of all color, leaving her pale and then breathless, too. But she was guarded still, unwilling to give up her own emotion to him when her last venture in this regard had ended so disastrously. She stared at him and that was all.
He nodded his head before her, acknowledging her silence as his due. “When I left you, I thought I was protecting you,” he explained, “from myself,” he added when she did not ask the obvious question. “Isabelle, I have lived, up until the death of my father last year a very dissolute and reprehensible life. I can blame my father, of course, and say that it was all done in an attempt to goad him into any kind of emotion towards me, but that is not fully the case. In truth, I seemed to enjoy that lifestyle, and I am ashamed to say, I cared not whom was hurt in my pursuit of it.”
She gave no indication that she had even heard or understood a word that he’d said, though her eyes firmly connected with his.
“I actually retreated to Makesly’s place in my first attempt to escape that wayward path, though perhaps I did not know this at the time,” he continued, lifting his hand to remove and errant curl from her cheek. “And then I met you and you proved so damnably attractive in every way imaginable. You helped me turn that final corner on the road from dastardly to respectable.” He drew a deep breath and said to her then, “And I didn’t know that I loved you until I’d hurt you. A sickness stayed within me with thoughts of your face at our last meeting. Twas only fitting that I should suffer so much for having done you this harm but—” He wasn’t finished, but then he couldn’t finish, as she had flung herself into his arms and cried now into his shirtfront, gripping tight the rounded lapels of his jacket. His arms came around her, holding her close. He kissed the top of her head, telling her, “Back in London, it occurred to me that I really couldn’t live without you and so I decided then that I should not.”
She agreed to this, nodding her head against his chest, crying now not quite so silently, which brought a small chuckle from him at her overwhelming emotions.
Eventually, Isabelle raised her tear-stained but joyous face to him. This seemed a perfect inducement to kiss her and so he did, laying his lips over hers with more of a hunger than previously shown, sliding his arms fully around her to draw her nearer still. Isabelle slanted her head to receive his kiss, parting her lips as his tongue demanded entrance, reveling in this. Just this.
But he ended the kiss too soon and breathed heavily into her face. “You possibly haven’t any idea what I’d have given these last few weeks just to hear you say those word again to me.”
A slow smile spread across her face, brightening her eyes. “I love you, my lord. I plan on doing so for a very long time.”
His smile then was equally as blissful, though perhaps a bit of relief crept into his voice. “I am so glad to hear you say that. I love you, Isabelle. I plan to never stop.”
There was, at that moment, a burst of noise which turned Christian and Isabelle’s heads toward the path. There stood her brothers and sisters and even Aunt Ester and Uncle Herb, and they were cheering, clapping their hands and stamping their feet while the dog barked and danced around them.
Isabelle looked up at Christian, stilled held tightly in his arms. “Have you any idea what you are getting involved with here?”
He considered her family, so excited at her happiness and then glanced back down at her. He kissed her lips briefly and said to her, “Isabelle Covington, I know exactly what I am getting. I want it all.”
Chapter Seven
Isabelle Covington was married to Christian, Earl Somersby, the following autumn. Vicar Wyatt was pleased to perform the small ceremony on the narrow bank of the creek. The groom was nervous but ecstatic, standing under a carefully erected archway of greenery and flowers, including that bloody mignonette that he still believed to be quite dreadful to look upon. At his side, dressed with an equal trend toward dashing stood the bride’s own brothers, Timothy and Donald. Christian had, naturally, frisked them for weapons before they were allowed to stand at the makeshift altar with him.
The bride, having tussled with her three-legged dog for possession of the train of her gown upon her approach, had won and now stood at the groom’s side. Her gown was resplendent, an airy confection of white froth and lace, which highlighted to perfection what remained of her summer color. But there was an added blush to her cheeks today, and—truth be told—often when in Christian’s presence. Like as not, she could smile no more fully than she did, her exuberance a contagious thing, her groom ever thankful that she truly was such an open book. He never need doubt her love. Every day, he saw it written plainly upon her exquisite face.
He smiled to himself when he noticed that within the homemade coronet perched atop her magnificent curls, there were several ash tree leaves hidden amid the mums and autumn crocus and alyssum. As she was attended by both Molly and Katie, the earl stole a glance at their wreaths but found no ash leaves there.
And so, the dog barked throughout the entire ceremony, still chewing and wrestling with Isabelle’s train. The boys had somehow managed to get three frogs through Christian’s pre-wedding inspection, which they loosed upon their sisters, and this sent the two youngest scurrying about the happy couple, shrieking as was their want. Aunt Ester cried noisily into her dainty handkerchief, then not so quietly chided Uncle Herb for not having thought to bring his, as hers was no longer of any use. The good Vicar Wyatt droned on and on about the sanctity of marriage, taking forever it seemed to get to the actual vows.
Christian and Isabelle managed to ignore most of this, smiling at each other like the love-struck pair that they were. And when the din of the action seemed to finally penetrate, they glanced about themselves with merry contentment and then were not surprised at all when it began to rain.
“I love you, Isabelle.”
“I’ll always love you, Christian.”
The End
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About the Author
Rebecca Ruger has been a lover of romance books since the seventh grade, when her mother introduced her to Victoria Holt, and her sister shared her Barbara Cartland collection. She is the founder and former editor of Glassing Magazine, the first ever print periodical
all about sea glass and beach glass (which she sold in 2018, and is now called BeachCombing Magazine).
She is the mother of four (her greatest loves) and lives in Western New York with her perfectly supportive husband, Larry, and their just-ok dog, Brody.
The Touch of Her Hand is the first in the Highlander Heroes Series, to be followed by The Shadow of Her Smile, available October 2019, and The Memory of Her Kiss, available December 2019.
www.rebeccaruger.com
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Love Comes Softly (A Regency Rogue Novella Book 1) Page 5