“Let’s go dance with them,” the little girl said, excitement shining in her eyes.
“We can’t this time. Perhaps next year His Grace will be feeling better.” Noting the child’s disappointed expression, Isabelle added, “Tomorrow we’ll play outside in the garden. Or perhaps we’ll walk through those giant oaks over there and go to the river. I’ll bring my flute. Won’t that be fun?”
Lily clapped her hands together.
A knock on the door drew their attention, and Isabelle called out, “Enter.”
Dobbs walked into the room. The majordomo smiled at Lily and then turned to Isabelle. “His Grace wishes to know if you are supping with him.”
“Please tell His Grace I suffer from the headache.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The majordomo turned to leave.
“Mister Dobbs, tell His Grace that Mistress Dupre hopes his bowels feel better,” Lily called out.
“Bowels?” Dobbs echoed, whirling around in surprise. The little girl’s words broke the man’s usually haughty demeanor. He struggled against a shout of laughter and lost.
“Problem bowels are not funny,” Lily scolded, shaking her finger at him.
Regaining control of himself, Dobbs said, “I do apologize and will definitely deliver your sympathy to His Grace.”
The majordomo retreated across the chamber to the door. Isabelle noted that the man’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.
Another knock on the door drew their attention. Before Isabelle could call out, the door opened and Juniper walked in.
“I’ve prepared a chamber at the other end of the corridor,” the woman reported.
“Go with Mrs. Juniper,” Isabelle instructed the girl. “She’ll give you warm milk with honey and biscuits. Then she’ll tell you a story.”
“Myrtle doesn’t want to leave you.” Lily threw herself into Isabelle’s arms. “Myrtle is afraid.”
Isabelle read the insecurity couched in her disarming eyes. She couldn’t blame her for being afraid. Her mother had abandoned her in a crowd of two hundred people, and she would pass the night in a strange house.
“You must sleep in your own chamber,” Isabelle said, her voice gently persuasive. “Myrtle doesn’t need to be afraid, because Mrs. Juniper will be with her. Did you know that Juniper took care of me when I was a little girl?”
“She did?”
Isabelle smiled and nodded.
“I’ll stay with Juniper too,” Lily agreed. “Will you come with us?”
“I’ll play you a lullaby,” Isabelle said, reaching for her flute.
Together the three of them walked down the length of the corridor and entered the last chamber on the left. Isabelle and Juniper undressed the child down to her chemise and tucked her into bed. Juniper sat in the chair near the hearth.
Isabelle sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the girl back on the pillow. “Close your eyes, little one. Listen to my song.”
Lifting the flute to her lips, Isabelle began her song, a melody that her guardian angel had played for her through the years, one that always persuaded her to sleep. The lilting notes vibrated throughout the chamber, bringing peace to the girl, whose eyes closed. The tune was a soothing bath of warm notes that conjured spring twilight and then the rhythmic turning of the tides.
Isabelle realized the little girl’s breathing had evened, and she slept with a smile on her face. So young to be abandoned by her mother. So young to be rejected by her father. So young to be alone.
At least Giselle had come into her life on the day of her father’s passing. How fortunate she’d been, though she hadn’t realized it at the time.
Isabelle rose from her perch on the edge of the bed. She mouthed the words thank you to Mrs. Juniper and left the chamber.
Isabelle changed into the nightgown that had been created for this special night. Scooped-necked and sleeveless, the gown was made of silk and nearly transparent.
“Inflaming a man’s passion is the gown’s intent.”
Surprised by the voice, Isabelle whirled around and saw Giselle sitting in the chair in front of the hearth. “And what do you know about a man’s passion?”
Giselle gave her an ambiguous smile but said nothing.
“Is Lily my husband’s daughter?” Isabelle asked.
Giselle shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Isabelle shook her head. “Is Myrtle an angel like you?”
“Myrtle is the girl’s imaginary friend.”
“People have always believed that you are imaginary because they can’t see or hear you,” Isabelle said.
“Alas, the world is filled with skeptics,” Giselle said. “Your prince has arrived.”
A knock on the connected door between her chamber and her husband’s drew Isabelle’s attention. She glanced at Giselle, but the old woman had vanished.
Isabelle rose from her chair and crossed the chamber to the door. At least Lily’s arrival had kept her from worrying about what was going to happen in a few minutes.
Isabelle opened the connecting door. John wore a black silk bed robe that tied at the waist with a sash. Her gaze slid to the robe’s opening, which revealed a muscular chest covered with a mat of black hair.
Faced with her husband’s virility, Isabelle lost her confidence. She lifted her violet gaze and found that his gaze was riveted on her body, almost completely visible through her transparent night shift. Her husband had the intensely hungry expression of a man who hadn’t eaten for days.
“Is our wedding night canceled?” John asked.
Isabelle shook her head.
“You’ve recovered from your headache?”
“Completely recovered.”
John shifted his gaze to her chamber and looked at her again. “Where is she?”
“Lily and Juniper are sleeping in the chamber at the end of the corridor.”
John inclined his head. His bride had the good sense to put the issue of Lily off until the morning.
“I have champagne chilling.” He offered her his hand to escort her into his chamber. “Will you share a glass with me?”
When she placed her hand in his, John saw that anxiety had etched itself across her delicate features. His experience with blushing virgins was limited to Lenore Grimsby, and the night had proved less than enjoyable. He would need to proceed slowly and gently with her, for whatever happened between them on this night would color their marriage for the next forty years or so.
John looked from his bride’s pale face to her white-knuckled hands clutched together in a death grip. He dropped his gaze to her body, barely hidden beneath her sheer nightgown. She looked too beautiful to be real.
Without sparing her another glance, John opened the champagne and filled a crystal goblet. “Let’s sit on the chaise and share the champagne while we talk.”
“You want to talk?” Isabelle echoed in surprise.
John couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved. “Sit on my lap,” John invited her, relaxing on the chaise.
“The chaise is big enough for two,” Isabelle said.
“I want to be close to you. Please.”
That one word please worked a tiny miracle. She nodded and sat on his lap.
Putting his left arm around her, John drew her close until she rested against his chest and lifted the goblet to hers lips. “Drink.”
Isabelle took a sip and swallowed. “The champagne tickles my nose.”
John smiled at her comment and took a sip of the champagne. He set the goblet on the floor and drew her down until her head rested against his shoulder.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked, his hand on her shoulder beginning a slow caress.
“Yes,” Isabelle gazed up at him from beneath the thick fringe of her blond lashes.
“Darling, you have nothing to fear. Lovemaking is a natural expression between a man and his wife and binds their—” John hesitated, catching himself before he uttered the word love. “Lovemaking binds their vows for all time. With
out this physical joining, those sacred vows are empty, meaningless words. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Will you share my bed?”
Isabelle looked at him through enormous violet eyes. She paused so long before answering that John feared she would refuse. And then what would he do?
Isabelle slipped out of his embrace and rose from the chaise. “Yes, I will share your bed.”
John stood and held his hand out in invitation as if he were asking her to waltz. Isabelle dropped her gaze from his dark eyes to his outstretched hand. When she raised her gaze to his again, John saw that the anxiety had crept back into her expression.
“I’ll stop whenever you say,” he promised. “Trust me?”
In an unconsciously sensual gesture, Isabelle flicked her tongue out and wet her lips, gone dry from nervousness. Then she placed her hand in his, and they walked to the bed.
John reached out with both hands and slid the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders. The gown fluttered to the floor in a pool of silk.
Ignoring her furious blush, John worshipped her with his eyes. He dropped his gaze from her face to her beautiful breasts, her tiny waist, her rounded hips, and her dainty feet. When his gaze returned to hers, John unfastened the bed robe’s belt and shrugged out of it. His robe mingled on the floor with her nightgown, even as their bodies were about to mingle.
Isabelle silently refused to drop her gaze below his neck and John suffered the urge to laugh, but controlled himself. “Look at me, Belle. Please?”
Again, that word worked its magic.
Slowly, Isabelle slid her gaze from his broad shoulders to his chest. Her gazed dipped lower to his tapered waist and then lower.
John stepped a hairbreadth closer. He caressed her cheek and glided his fingertips down the column of her neck to her shoulders.
Allowing her no time to think, John drew her into his embrace and captured her mouth in a lingering kiss. Then he scooped her into his arms, placed her on the bed, and lay down beside her.
For the first time in her life, Isabelle experienced the incredible sensation of masculine hardness touching her female softness. And she liked it.
John lowered his head and sought her lips in a slow, soul-stealing kiss that seemed to last forever. When she returned his kiss in kind, he sprinkled dozens of feathery-light kisses on her temples, her eyelids and the bridge of her nose.
“I love your freckles,” he murmured.
“What freckles?” she whispered, dazed with awakening desire.
John smiled and let his gaze roam from her hauntingly lovely face to her rounded breasts. “Exquisite,” he said, gliding his hand from the column of her throat to the juncture of her thighs.
His lips followed the path his hand had taken, from the column of her throat to her breasts. He paused there to suckle upon her pink-tipped nipples, igniting a heat between her thighs that banished all coherent thought.
“Spread your legs for me, love,” John ordered, his voice thick with desire.
Isabelle heard his voice and obeyed without hesitation. John kissed her again and then, watching her face, inserted one long finger inside her.
Isabelle opened her mouth to cry out, but John was faster. He covered her lips with his own, the urgency of his kiss drugging her senses.
“Be easy, darling,” he coaxed her, inserting a second finger inside her. “I want to make you ready to receive me.”
John dipped his head to suckle upon her nipples, making her gasp, while he began moving his fingers seductively inside her. And then Isabelle began to move in response to his fingers, enticing them deeper inside her writhing body.
Moaning with need, she moved her hips faster and faster. And then his fingers were gone.
“Darling, look at me,” John said, kneeling between her thighs, his manhood pointed to pierce.
Isabelle opened her eyes and stared at him in a daze of desire.
“One moment of pain,” he promised.
John pushed himself inside her and buried himself deep within her trembling body. Clutching him, she cried out in surprise as he broke through her virgin’s barrier.
John lay still for several long moments and allowed her to accustom herself to the feel of him inside her. Then he began to move, enticing her to move with him.
Innocence vanished and instinct surfaced.
Caught in the midst of swirling passion, Isabelle wrapped her legs around his waist and met each of his powerful thrusts with her own. With a cry, she exploded as wave after wave of exquisite sensation sent her to paradise.
Knowing she’d found fulfillment, John unleashed his powerful need. He groaned and shuddered and poured his seed deep inside her.
They lay still for several long moments, their labored breathing the only sound in the chamber. Finally, John rolled to one side and pulled her with him into his embrace. He gazed at her expression of wonder and saw her heart shining in her eyes.
John gave her a lazy smile and pulled her across his chest. “I apologize for failing to tell you about the war,” he said. “I only wanted our wedding day to be perfect and would have told you in the morning.”
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness,” Isabelle said, smiling at him. “Now, about Lily—”
“May we please save the subject of Lily for the morning?”
“I suppose so.”
John drew her down and kissed the top of her head. “We’ll be thinking more clearly then.”
“I’m keeping her.”
John smiled down at her. “Go to sleep, wife.”
Isabelle closed her eyes. When her breathing evened, John knew that she slept and joined her in a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 13
Good Christ, she’s talking to herself again.
John stood at the window in his office and watched his wife sitting alone on a stone bench in his garden the following morning.
Isabelle looked like an angel destined for Bedlam. She wore a wreath of oak leaves and violets on top of her blond head and carried on an animated conversation, complete with hand gestures, with the vacant spot beside her on the bench. Where was the child?
John tore his gaze from his bride and scanned the area until he spied the girl at the far end of the garden. Wearing a wreath of oak leaves and violets, the girl skipped and danced around and around as if life held no greater joy than frolicking beneath the summer’s sun in his garden.
The girl’s joy was contagious, and John was unable to suppress a smile. Had he ever been that enamored of the simple joys in life? Perhaps once, a long time ago, before Lenore Grimsby had shattered—
The door opening behind him drew his attention. Ross, followed by Dobbs carrying a breakfast tray, walked into the room. While the majordomo set the tray on the desk, his brother sauntered across the room to him.
“What a charming picture,” Ross said, gazing out the window.
John cast him a sidelong glance, but said nothing.
“To whom is Isabelle speaking?”
“She’s speaking to the little girl over there,” John lied.
“The child isn’t listening.”
“Many children don’t listen when an adult speaks,” John said.
“Well, they do make a fetching picture,” Ross remarked, and then turned away from the window.
John relaxed. He didn’t want his brother to think that Isabelle possessed the peculiar habit of talking to herself.
After the door clicked shut behind the majordomo, the two brothers sat at the desk. John poured his brother a cup of coffee and then filled one for himself.
“So, how goes the married life?” Ross asked.
John scowled at him.
“That good, huh?”
“The girl’s arrival almost cost me my wedding night,” John said. “And that was after Grimase dropped the news of England’s war with America.”
“You hadn’t told Isabelle about it?”
John shook his head. “After failing to
tell her, I thought she would place the girl’s needs above mine.”
Ross grew serious. “She’s an adorable child, but I’ve never seen a sadder, more bewildered expression on anyone.”
“Mistress Dupre, as she insists on being called, passed the night with Juniper,” John said.
“Shall I return her to Lisette?”
“Isabelle won’t allow it,” John answered. “Mistress Dupre will remain at Avon Park until you finish investigating her paternity.”
“And if someone else sired her?”
“I will not accept a child who isn’t mine.”
“And if she is yours?”
“Her presence here is a scandal,” John said, with a shrug. “I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s mine.” He stood then and crossed the chamber to gaze outside. “What time are you leaving for London?”
“Mother says that Hester and she need a couple of hours,” Ross answered. “Then we’ll be off.”
“While you’re in London, speak with Constable Black,” John said. “I’m paying him and his investigators a small fortune to find that would-be assassin. I’m certain the villain will not elude the constable forever.”
“I’ll send word if there’s any news.”
John fixed his dark gaze on his wife, who now sat quietly on the bench and watched the girl prancing about. Isabelle rose from the bench and started across the lawns toward the girl. Lily stood beneath one of the giant oaks separating parkland from woodland. The child was pointing at something in the tree, and his wife looked up as if trying to discern what was up there.
Isabelle stared up at the oak’s branch. She smiled at what she saw.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Lily asked.
Surprised by the girl’s use of the title, Isabelle whirled around. “Why did you call me that?”
“Juniper said I mustn’t be too familiar,” Lily explained. “She told me to call you Your Grace.”
Isabelle crouched down to be eye level with her. “My friends call me Belle.”
Lily grinned. “Are we friends, then?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“I wouldn’t wish to make Juniper unhappy,” Lily told her.
“Call me Lady Belle.”
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