She pressed her mouth together, as though she were thinking, then spoke in a low, hesitant voice. “I am grateful you are allowing me so much freedom.”
Instead of making him feel beneficent, however, her words made him feel as though she was secretly waiting for him to turn into an ogre.
“Well, why wouldn’t I? You are my wife, not my possession.”
She raised her eyebrow at him then and he felt guilty. Over what, he had no idea.
“But I am. I was bartered to you through neither of our doing, anything I own belongs really to you, and you can do whatever you like to me.”
Oh. Put that way, well, no wonder he felt guilty. “But you must know, Isabella, that I do not view you as my possession”—even though I wish to possess you—“and that if there is anything on which we disagree, we can discuss it as equals.”
That eyebrow was still raised, and he could swear she had a skeptical look in her eye. But she didn’t say anything else, just nodded, and returned to her toast.
Nicholas had rarely—well, never—felt awkward around a woman, much less an attractive woman he wished to bed. But it seemed as though there was a first time for everything, whether it was a kiss for her, or a moment where he was feeling as though he had no idea what to do or say, and had no hint of what she felt for him. Except that she did like kissing him, which suited his agenda, since he also liked kissing her.
Could they forge a satisfactory relationship on kissing?
And if the answer was yes, or even maybe, when was the soonest they could return to that?
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
She set off an hour later, accompanied by the maid the prince had ordered to serve her when she first arrived. She’d tried to go on her own, but the girl had shrieked and folded her arms and said it wasn’t seemly, and that wherever the prince had gotten to, the princess couldn’t go there without a chaperone.
It seemed preferable to take her along than to spend another few hours arguing with her, so she agreed.
The girl, whose name was Catherine, made sure they both had warm cloaks and provisions for the journey. Then she bullied one of the grooms to saddle up two horses.
Jane knew she could never have accomplished that on her own, so she was grateful for Catherine’s presence.
“Which way?” Catherine asked, as they came to a fork in the road.
“Does it matter?” Jane replied. “We don’t know where he’s gone, so the sooner we find out where he’s not, the sooner we will find out where he is.”
Catherine nodded in agreement, and they took the left turn.
Jane just hoped it wasn’t the wrong one.
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 18
She’d left the house an hour later, with Nicholas ensconced in his study with his brother. Griff, not Gruff. She winced as she considered that Nicholas might find it hysterical to share that gaffe with his brother.
Her parents’ house wasn’t that far away from her own—goodness, her own house—so it was only about fifteen minutes later that she was alighting from the carriage and ascending the familiar stairs. As a guest now, not a resident.
“Good afternoon, miss. That is, Your Grace.” Lowton bowed as he held the door wide for first Isabella, then Robinson, to enter Isabella’s parents’ house.
Before he could say anything else, however, Margaret was running down the staircase, a delighted grin on her face. “You’re here! And I was just planning on coming to see you, only you’re here!”
“I am,” Isabella said, smiling in return. There were few people as . . . exuberant as her sister when she was enthused. And to be the object of that exuberance was wonderful; Isabella had found it the only source of happiness when they were younger. Now she had Nicholas as some sort of source of . . . something, she wasn’t sure what yet.
“Lowton, can you bring tea up to my room, please?” Margaret peered over Isabella’s shoulder at Robinson. “You can take a cup of tea in the kitchen while we visit.”
“Thank you, Robinson,” Isabella murmured as Lowton showed Robinson where to go.
“What is even better,” Margaret said in a low voice as they began to ascend the staircase, “is that the parents are off doing something, and so we won’t be disturbed. And thank goodness, because without you, they have been focusing their attention on me, of all people.”
They reached Margaret’s room, and walked in, Margaret making sure the door was firmly closed by leaning against it. Margaret’s room was substantially smaller than Isabella’s had been, and the size was further compromised by the vast amount of books placed on every available surface. Several sheets of paper lay on top of one of the piles, and Margaret flipped them over as they entered the room.
Isabella wanted to ask, since her sister was seldom secretive, but then Margaret might demand information in return.
“I don’t know how you could stand it,” Margaret continued, shaking her head as she gestured to Isabella to sit. “They want to know why I am wearing what I am wearing, and who I might be seeing, and why I didn’t say this thing when I said that thing. Honestly, I wish they would return to just ignoring me.”
Isabella gave a rueful laugh, then drew her bonnet off her head and laid it on one of the shorter stacks of books on Margaret’s dressing table. “They are awful,” she said at last.
Margaret’s eyes widened and she bounced in her chair. “Do you know, that is the first time you have actually said something bad about them that you didn’t immediately follow up with some sort of ‘Well, but they mean well,’ or ‘Perhaps they don’t know how it feels’ comment? Marriage certainly agrees with you,” she said, grinning.
Oh, if you only knew, Isabella thought. “It does. I think.” She frowned, thinking about how to say things without saying other things.
She’d had a lifetime of saying things without imparting knowledge, as every proper young lady had, so she should be able to talk to her sister without saying the thing that was uppermost in her mind.
“What is marriage like?”
So of course her sister went right to the crucial question, not dancing around the topic like Isabella would. She admired Margaret for that, nearly as much as her parents deplored it.
“It’s fine?” She hated how hesitant she sounded. “But it’s been such a short time, and we barely know each other.” I can’t quite tell, for example, if he likes kissing me, or sees it as his duty because he is a gentleman. And my husband.
“Still, you must know if you like his company. I like him, not that that matters,” Margaret said. “Is he talkative? Or quiet? What does he like to do? What do you have in common?”
The enjoyment of good stories, even if they differed on the best way to tell them. Kissing, hopefully. Possibly rain, but she wasn’t certain about the last item.
“He has a good sense of humor, I think,” Isabella began. “He is thoughtful.” She thought about it some more. “Actually, perhaps you would know. Why would a man, a seemingly reasonable man, want to enter a boxing ring? Voluntarily?”
“Oh, so that is what he was doing!” Margaret looked relieved. “I’d wondered what had happened, but didn’t want to ask. Although—now that I know, I have no idea.” She twisted her mouth up in thought. “Perhaps he used to get more exercise, and is feeling restless? Could that be it?”
Restless. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was accustomed to being on his own, free to go wherever he liked, and now he had a wife to deal with. Isabella was beginning to feel less like a wife than she did a millstone around his neck. “He has an entire stable full of horses at his disposal. Unless he doesn’t like to ride?” She shook her head. “I have no idea, except that the morning you came over, that was not the first time he’d arrived home in that condition.”
“All bruised and bleeding?” Margaret did not sound appalled. As a matter of fact, she sounded . . . intrigued.
And as she thought about it, s
omething about the way he’d looked, and definitely about the way he’d smelled, had intrigued Isabella as well. Perhaps there was some sort of unknown mating ritual about which she had no idea that he was enacting? Was she merely being seduced by his bruised knuckles and manly scent?
Or was she just searching for a rational explanation for the way he made her feel, those nights alone in her bedroom?
“But you didn’t tell me the important part.” And Isabella knew to what Margaret referred, of course, since her sister never shied away from any type of conversation, regardless of how proper it might or might not be.
“I can tell you a few things,” Isabella said. She paused, gathering the words. “I can tell you that kissing is one of the most glorious things known to man. And woman,” she said with a laugh. “And there are things that happen during it that sound utterly terrible, but when they occur, you wonder that more people don’t just spend all of their free time in the pursuit of kissing.”
“Oh,” Margaret breathed, her eyes wide and sparkling with interest. “I’ve been kissed before, but I certainly haven’t felt that way.”
“You’ve been kissed? By whom?” And how aggrieved did Isabella feel, to know that Margaret had been kissed before her, and she hadn’t said anything?
Margaret folded her hands sedately in her lap. “I will not tell, just as you won’t tell me what happens after the kissing.”
That is because I don’t know.
“As I said. It wouldn’t be proper,” Isabella said in a prim voice. “And I cannot believe you were kissed, and never told me!” She picked up one of the pillows on the chair she was sitting on and hurled it at her sister, who dodged it with a skill that bore testament to how many times the event had occurred before.
Margaret shrugged. “It was nothing. I just needed to do it so I knew what it felt like. But I think the person I kissed must have been doing it wrong, since I really just wanted it to be over.”
“You did say my husband had that kind of reputation,” even though the thought of him kissing anyone but her made her want to punch someone herself, “so perhaps he is exceptional at it. In which case, I am a very lucky woman,” she finished in a smug tone she would only allow herself to use when alone with Margaret. Even if she had to ignore the parts of her brain that were telling her he didn’t really want to utilize his vast kissing skill on his wife.
“Hmph.”
“Anyway, how are you? What are you doing with yourself now that I am not here to bother?”
Margaret looked up at the ceiling and pursed her lips. “A little bit of this and that,” she said vaguely. And irritatingly.
“That, as you well know, tells me nothing.” She leaned forward and touched Margaret on the knee. “How is it here? Honestly?”
Margaret’s eyes glittered. “Honestly? It’s terrible. But don’t worry about me, I have a plan.”
Isabella narrowed her eyes. “What kind of plan?” Because the last time Margaret had a plan it involved a ferret, a six-foot-long piece of rope, and two cherry pies. It was very messy.
“Never mind that. Take my mind off things here, what have you been doing?”
“Well, starting to think about having a ball. The duke and I—that is, Nicholas and I—decided that we would have it in a few weeks, and he’s left everything up to me, so I’ll be planning the entire thing.”
Margaret beamed. “You are so wonderful at that, if he doesn’t love you already he will love you afterward.”
Isabella held her hand up. “Wait, the last time we actually spoke about him, and my marriage, you were discussing what I could do to escape, if need be. Now you’re talking about love?” That would be entirely unexpected—that he love her. Or, for that matter, that she love him.
It was enough that they tolerate each other, maybe even enjoy each other’s company.
Wasn’t it?
“But that was before I met him,” Margaret said. “Now that I’ve met him, he seems awfully nice. And good for you.”
“What with the bleeding face and the penchant for boxing rings?”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “No, not just that. The way he looked at you, as though he wanted to know what you thought, not just admiring you, like so many of the other gentlemen did. As that duke that was did, too. He just wanted you as a possession, someone to be his duchess and be perfect. This duke seems like he actually wants you—Isabella.”
The words, so casually tossed out by her sister, seemed to pierce through to her soul.
Could he actually want her? Want the person inside the beautiful casing?
She’d never imagined that anyone would actually want her, the woman underneath the facade that had been so carefully nurtured.
It terrified her.
“Are you all right?” Apparently her terror must have shown on her face—something the normally perfect Isabella would never let happen.
What if she were to become . . . less perfect? Would she become more truly Isabella?
That thought was almost more terrifying than the first one.
But, she thought, it was most terrifying to remain as she was—pristine, perfect, and polished to such a bright shine she couldn’t recognize herself.
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
“Prince?”
“Catherine, he is not simply going to perk up his ears and come trotting out of the forest just because you call out his name. Which isn’t even his name, but his title,” Jane said crossly.
They’d been riding for over three hours, and so far they had seen trees, brushes, streams, and grass.
A veritable rainbow of green things.
“Well, how should we call him?” Catherine said reasonably.
“His name, of course.” Until Jane realized she didn’t know his name. He was just the prince, her husband. “Oh, fine,” she muttered. “Prince!” she shouted.
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 19
Nicholas left his study and walked into the foyer, relieved that Griff had had another engagement so they couldn’t spend all day on the tenant improvements. Just half the day, which felt like an entire lifetime. And now he wanted to find his wife. If only he could spend half a day on wifely improvements, that would feel like the work of a moment.
“Isabella?”
“In here,” she called. Nicholas paused, trying to figure out where “here” was.
“The ballroom, Your Grace,” Renning said, bowing as he gestured to the door.
“Thank you,” Nicholas replied, striding to fling the ballroom doors open.
It had been only a few days since they’d agreed on a date for their ball, but already the house was a whirlwind of activity, none of it involving Nicholas.
He told himself he should be grateful, and yet he couldn’t help but feel as though he were just an adjunct part of the entire thing, an ornament or a dusty lamp to be brought out for view, but not for purpose.
Not, as he well knew, that he had any idea of how to throw a party.
But still. He wished Isabella would just consult with him about any of it, perhaps on whether the champagne should be served as the guests were starting to arrive or wait until it was clear the Queen wasn’t coming. Because the Queen never came, but one had to invite her nonetheless.
But Isabella didn’t. She just met him at the breakfast table each morning with a furrow already creasing her lovely brow, her hands full of notes and linens and other things he had no idea of, and she would wish him a good morning before heading downstairs to the kitchen to consult with Cook, or to her sitting room to meet with Renning, or basically see anybody but him.
There were no carriage rides, no moments of conversation, nothing that indicated that they were anything more than inhabitants of the same house.
At night—well, that was an entirely different story.
Nicholas had come to count not just the hours until he could arrive in her bedroom, but the minutes. To
walk into the room, so peacefully pink, and lie with her on her bed and tell stories to her, and hear her soft reminiscences, and then, oh then, they would kiss for what seemed like hours. But was likely only minutes.
He hadn’t had sex in over a month. But it didn’t matter anymore; when they did finally consummate their marriage, he felt as though it would be as if they were both virgins—neither of them had been with the other, and for him, it would be the first time he was making love to his wife.
His wife whom he desired with every fiber of his being, but whom he wouldn’t touch until she asked him to.
The irony didn’t escape him; he could tell her that he wouldn’t do anything until she asked him, but then he would basically be telling her to ask him, and that was exactly not the point of it all.
He wanted her to burn for him as he did for her, to forget who she was—or more precisely, who she was supposed to be—and beg him to take her, to make her feel every sweet, sexual moment.
Meanwhile, he was going to the boxing saloon each morning after breakfast and staying there for hours, getting pummeled or doing the pummeling in order to ease some of his frustration.
Most days he returned home more bruised and occasionally more bloody, and he and Griff would go over what seemed to be an endless amount of business questions. He wondered that anybody actually wanted to be a duke, given how much paperwork there was.
When she did see him, and his bruises, she seemed to take it in stride, not fussing over him as she had initially.
He missed that also.
And, if he didn’t say something, his wife would think he was missing part of his brain.
“You were looking for me?” she said, in a tone that sounded as though she’d already said something, and he hadn’t responded.
“Uh . . . yes.” He was most definitely unfamiliar, perhaps even a virgin, at having to court a woman. All the women he’d known—both biblically and otherwise—had taken very little coaxing to get them to do what he wished, whether it was to remove all their clothing for him or perhaps just fetch him a cup of tea.
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