Goodness, had that really come out of her mouth?
“Well, we shall have to do something about that, now, shan’t we?” He smoothed away some of the wayward curls around her face. “Your face is a trifle flushed, my dear. And we have been gone a decidedly decadent amount of time. Everyone will know what we have been doing, out here.”
“They will?” she said, alarmed.
“Anyone who was paying any mind,” he replied, “and trust me, many were. It will only serve to intrigue the ton down to the soles of their shoes.”
Beckett led her back to the path and they strolled toward the huge manor house.
“I’m not sure I should want to intrigue the ton…or their shoes,” Isobel remarked, still trying to get her bearings after such a passionate dalliance.
“Too late, my dear,” Beckett said. “You did that when you walked through the door.”
They ascended the steps and crossed the terrace, re-entering the ballroom as nonchalantly as possible. A curious couple nearby noticed their arrival, and a few ladies began commenting behind their fans. Isobel could almost hear the gossip-mill turning now.
“I must find Alfred,” Beckett said. “He’s in the card room, I think. Wait for me here, will you? I see Lady Whitcomb there. I’m sure she will keep you company until I return. I’ll be back directly.”
Isobel nodded and watched her husband round the corner and disappear down the hallway of the huge manor house. She glanced around and took a step toward Lady Whitcomb.
Isobel was totally unprepared for the firm, familiar grip which suddenly circled her wrist, but even as she turned to face him, she knew who it was.
Icy fear squeezed her heart as Isobel stared into the glittery dark eyes that had haunted her dreams since that terrible night at Hampton House.
It seemed a lifetime ago, and yet all too fresh in her mind. What had been happening in her absence? Had Sir Harry Lennox installed himself as master of the estate, as he’d promised he would? And now he was here, like a wolf at the door….
Sir Harry smiled, darkly. He pulled her close and brought his mouth to her ear.
“I’ve missed you, my darling,” he whispered.
Chapter 8
“Come with me out into the garden, Isobel,” Sir Harry ordered in a calm voice that gave her chills. “Don’t make a scene. We have much to discuss.”
Isobel glanced around, but there was no one near. No one who could help her. Oh, where was Beckett?
As if reading her thoughts, Sir Harry said, “Your dear husband is searching out that dreary friend of his. Good of him, really—giving us time to be alone.”
“What do you want?” she demanded.
Sir Harry dug his iron-hard fingers into her flesh and she struggled not to wince. She would give him no satisfaction. He couldn’t hurt her now and she wanted to tell him so.
“What do I want?” Sir Harry asked. “Why, only what’s mine of course. You remember what’s mine, don’t you, Isobel?”
Quickly he walked her down a deserted pathway dragging her deep into the trees. He spun her around and held her in front of him.
“Foolish, foolish girl,” he said, almost sympathetically, lifting her chin with his fingertips. “Whatever am I to do with you?”
Isobel stared into his black eyes and said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I am the Countess of Ravenwood, now, and under my husband’s protection.”
“Yes, I know about your farce of a marriage to that fop,” he said.
“It is not a farce,” she countered.
“Does he know your story, Isobel?” Sir Harry asked. “From what I can tell, he knows nothing about the tragic events at Hampton House involving your deceased guardian, Mr. Langley. It was wise of you not to tell him, Isobel. Very wise, indeed.”
No one frightened her as much as this man did, for she knew what he was capable of.
“I saw you out here with him,” Sir Harry continued “I saw his hands touching your naked skin, and I heard you sighing and gasping like a little trollop. Naughty girl. I advise you not to make a sound, or I will be forced to hurt you. And I would rather save your punishment for later.”
Suddenly, the scene of her guardian’s murder flashed into her mind. She pushed it away, refusing to let the terror overtake her. She would not show fear to this man. That was what he wanted.
“You hold no power over me,” she insisted.
“Oh, my dear, sweet Isobel—I hold every power over you,” he replied. “I shall have both you and the Hampton estate before the season is out.”
“And how do you propose that?” she asked. “As Lord Ravenwood’s wife, my husband now has claim to my property.”
“If you were his wife, yes,” he agreed. “But if you were no longer his wife, what then?”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, a vein of fear snaking its way around her heart.
Sir Harry smiled calmly. “I wonder…would he care to tarnish his name by staying married to a murderess?”
Isobel was dumbstruck. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you know Lord Palmerston, the chief justice of the King’s Bench?” He asked. “He’s an old friend of mine. I explained it all to him, you see. After you are arrested for the rather grisly slaying of your late guardian, I’m certain Lord Ravenwood will arrange for an annulment with great haste. And Palmerston has agreed to hand you over to me. For a price, of course. So you see, Isobel, you will be mine, after all.”
Isobel tried to swallow her fear.
Sir Harry reached out to stroke her face, but Isobel jerked away. He grabbed her jaw, and cruelly forced her to face him. “You have been missing for over fifteen minutes, now, Isobel. You were seen coming out here with me. How will you explain that? Do you think your new husband will believe in your innocence? Or will he believe me when I tell him I’m your lover and I’ve just enjoyed your favors?”
“No!” She bucked and struggled against him, but he held her fast.
“Yes, Isobel,” he said, “keep this up. You’ll only look exactly as you should from another passionate tryst in the garden.”
She flailed in outrage and clipped his chin with her fist.
Quickly, Sir Harry blocked the next strike and pinned her arms to her sides. He smiled dangerously. “You’ll pay for that later, my dear, along with your other transgressions.”
With all her might, she pulled against Sir Harry’s grip, throwing him off-balance. She brought her heel down sharply on top of his foot, and he groaned in pain, momentarily releasing his hold on her arms.
Isobel ran down the dark path as if wolves were chasing her, and she heard Sir Harry curse.
She reached the terrace steps and looked quickly over her shoulder. In the distance, she saw Sir Harry emerge from the darkened path. With a trembling hand, she smoothed her hair and tried to steady her breathing. She ascended the stairs with as much grace as she could muster. Coming around the corner and through the French doors, she almost slammed into her husband.
“Oh! —”
Beckett paused and took quick stock of her appearance, saying, “Where have you been, Isobel? I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”
“I needed a bit of air,” she replied, pointing toward the gardens. “I suddenly felt a bit ill.”
That wasn’t really a lie, for she’d felt dizzy with fear when she’d set eyes on Sir Harry.
“You’re white as a sheet,” Beckett said, touching a hand to her forehead. “And you’re cold as ice.”
She glanced behind her and felt her heart leap into her throat as Sir Harry entered the ballroom. His menacing eyes locked onto hers as he strode boldly toward her.
There was no other choice. Isobel let her knees go weak and gave a piteous little moan as she collapsed into Beckett’s arms.
“Oh!” she heard someone exclaim beside her.
“My word, is the lady alright?” another asked.
She felt herself being hoisted into Beckett’s arms, and let her body fl
op like a rag doll’s.
Where was Sir Harry?
“Make way!” Beckett shouted as he moved through the crowd. “Lady Ravenwood has been taken ill. Alfred, run ahead and see that the coach is not blocked in. Hurry, man!”
In moments they were outside. Beckett carried her into the carriage and laid her down on the seat. He draped a cloak over her and took her hand in his, slapping it lightly.
“Isobel,” he said. “Isobel, can you hear me?”
She waited a few moments, then slowly opened her eyes. There—she was safe, now. Safe with Beckett, for the time being. Immediately, he came to her side and helped her sit up.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I must have fainted.”
“You most certainly did,” he replied. “You finally took my advice about swooning, I see. How are you feeling now?”
“I’ll be fine,” she responded. “Too much excitement, I expect.”
That was an understatement if ever there was one.
“It was the dancing, no doubt,” Alfred remarked, sitting across from them in the carriage and looking quite concerned. “They say too much waltzing can cause terrible health problems. And you, my dear Lady Ravenwood, seem to be living proof.”
“I am sure it was not the dancing that made me ill, Lord Weston,” Isobel said.
No—it was coming face to face with her enemy.
Though she had feigned swooning in order to escape the ballroom, there was no doubt that she now felt as ill as she’d claimed. She could still feel the touch of Sir Harry’s hands on her skin, and it made her want to retch.
Soon they were pulling up in front of the town-house at Covington Place. Beckett helped Isobel up the walk and into the foyer.
“I should like to retire, now,” she said, desperately wanting to be alone to sort out her thoughts.
“Of course,” Beckett answered. “Shall we fetch Doctor Pembleton?”
“Oh, no,” Isobel protested. “It is not necessary. I need to rest, that is all.”
Beckett hesitated. “But surely, a doctor must be called.”
“No, no, I am feeling much better, now. Only tired,” she insisted. “A good night’s rest will cure me.”
“If you are certain, my dear.”
Isobel gave a weak smile, saying, “Yes, I just need to go to my chamber.”
Beckett supported her arm as they mounted the stairs. “Hartley,” he said over his shoulder. “Will you bring Lady Ravenwood a tonic to help her sleep?”
“Certainly, my lord,” the butler replied from the bottom of the stairs. Beckett and Isobel continued up.
Finally, Isobel was alone in her room. She had ignored the sleeping tonic and lay on the bed still dressed in her ballgown. She stared up at the ceiling, vainly trying to calm the waves of fear that washed through her heart. The nightmare was upon her again, her enemy nipping at her heels like a hound from hell.
Sir Harry had found her. It was all over.
The reality of that thought made her eyes well with heavy tears. She closed them, feeling helpless as a rabbit in a trap.
Surely, it was only a matter of time before Beckett abandoned her and washed his hands of his new bride. What reason would he have to stand beside her? They had married for convenience, not love, and it was hardly convenient to be married to a woman accused of murder, no matter the passionate tryst they’d shared in the garden.
Sir Harry could be a very persuasive, charming man when he chose to be. She had no doubt that Sir Harry could make Beckett believe whatever he wanted.
Isobel thought she could escape Sir Harry, yet she’d been like a little mouse trying to outrun a tom cat—blindly running for her life, all the time within sight of the amused and capable predator.
She had to take action. She couldn’t just sit here and wait for Sir Harry’s men to come for her. Beckett might very well do as her enemy predicted. She couldn’t blame him if he did. Worse, her very presence here might endanger the man who had saved her life.
She had to leave. She must run again. But she would wait until dawn. The London streets were dangerous at night.
Isobel turned onto her side and stared into the darkness of her chamber, knowing that sleep would be impossible for more reasons than one. Memories teased and swirled around her—of Beckett’s hard body pressed against hers, creating intoxicating sensations which she’d never felt before. Sensations she would never feel again.
Banishing such pointless thoughts, she waited for the dawn to light her escape.
Chapter 9
Beckett closed the ledger and pushed it across the oak desk.
It was official.
He was terribly, terribly rich.
Beckett hated to admit it, but he didn’t feel much different from the impoverished viscount he’d been before. The only difference was that now he had bags of money and vast amounts of land.
Besides the Ravenwood estate in Kent, he now held property in Cumberland and Lancashire, as well as a large sugar plantation in Barbados. According to the ledgers, this plantation had enabled the previous earl to almost double the family fortune.
He would settle some property upon his mother, as well as a generous allowance and a fashionable London residence in which she could hold court. That ought to put him back in her good graces for awhile, at least.
He poured himself another cup of tea from the silver service and opened the second ledger. But as he tried to concentrate on the figures, his mind returned to Isobel once again.
He would have to arrange her settlement with the solicitors and install her in her own residence, as they’d agreed. But at some time, he supposed, there would have to be an heir.
Isobel understood that her matrimonial duty included producing an heir. They didn’t have to live together to do that. They didn’t have to be in love. They could stick to their agreement. Like many other men of his rank, he could visit his wife wherever she chose to live until she was with child. His child.
She had not been averse to his advances last night in the Whitcomb garden. In fact, there was no point denying the physical attraction between them, which was a good thing—until it was a bad thing.
The more attraction he felt for his bride, the more danger that he might develop feelings for her. Real feelings—not just sexual arousal.
It had taken a good deal of his strength not to lay her down in the grass last night and take her right then and there. Just thinking about it brought heat to his loins.
She had done battle with Cordelia and survived. Isobel had a sharp wit that he found admirable and an exquisite beauty that made him want to protect her and ravish her at the same time.
Yet, their marriage of convenience was a business arrangement, and he had to remember that. He would make sure that while he was kissing Isobel, and stroking her, and mounting her, and burying his face in her neck as he exploded within her—that it was purely business.
Unable to fix his attention on the figures before him, Beckett closed the ledger and looked at the clock. Quarter-past-ten.
He had thought it best to let Isobel sleep late this morning. But he was curious as to her health after last night’s excitement.
Beckett found Hartley in the salon, and asked, “Has Lady Ravenwood arisen yet?”
“She has, my lord,” Hartley replied. “The countess went outside to the gardens to sketch earlier this morning. She must still be there, as I have not seen her since.”
“Is she feeling better?” Beckett inquired.
“She looked well, my lord.”
“Thank you, Hartley,” he replied.
Beckett looked for her in the garden, but Isobel was nowhere in sight. He walked across the lawn, and peered around a rose-hedge.
No Isobel.
Monty, Beckett’s big brown dog jumped to attention and barked happily when he saw his master. Beckett patted his companion’s head. “Did Isobel bring you out, boy?”
He and Monty walked scoured the grounds, at one point, circling the oak tree.
“Isobel?”
The garden answered with silence. Perhaps she had gone into the townhouse again.
Beckett walked back inside. “Isobel?” he called. He trotted up the stairs and nearly bumped into Isobel’s new maid.
“Oh, Katie, is Lady Ravenwood in her chamber? I should like to speak with her.”
The dark-haired girl shook her head. “No, m’lord. I haven’t seen m’lady since early this morning.”
Beckett’s brow furrowed. Obviously, misplacing one’s spouse was one of the irritating aspects of marriage. Beckett hastily checked the upstairs, then descended to the first floor and took a quick look in all of the downstairs rooms.
But Isobel was nowhere to be found.
“Perhaps she has taken a walk, my lord,” Hartley offered. “To the park?”
“It may be possible,” Beckett replied. “Though I’d have thought she would have more sense than to go to Hyde Park alone. If she does not return soon, we shall go and look for her. She may have become lost.”
The door-knocker sounded, and the two men looked at each other with knowing expressions.
“That must be Lady Ravenwood, now,” Beckett said as Hartley went to answer the door. “Doesn’t realize she needn’t knock at her own door, I suppose.”
Hartley opened the door, but instead of Isobel standing there, three gentlemen stared back.
“May I help you?” Hartley asked.
“I should like to know if Lady Ravenwood is at home, if you please,” a distinguished-looking man said.
“She is not at home,” Beckett said. “I am her husband.”
“Then you are most unfortunate, my lord,” the man replied.
“And who are you sir, to speak so?” Beckett demanded, though he couldn’t ignore a sense of foreboding.
The man regarded Beckett with hard, flat eyes, saying, “I am Lord Palmerston, chief justice of the King’s Bench.”
“And what could you possibly want with my wife?” Beckett asked.
Lord Palmerston pulled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket.
“I am here to arrest her, sir.”
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