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,” Isobe
l 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.
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 no
tion. 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.
Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) Page 4