“I shall send Martha with a tray. Then you should dress and join me in the salon, if it pleases you. We must discuss some details about tomorrow.” He nodded and 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?
Well, soon she would be Lord Thornby’s wife. She would spend a few weeks in this man’s company, as he’d said, and then they would go their separate ways—as so many other married couples did.
He needn’t know about Hampton Park right now. 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. It was deceitful. But given the circumstances, it was clearly her only choice.
Another knock sounded at the door, this one lighter than Lord Thornby’s had been. The door opened and Martha came bustling in with a large silver tray carrying tea, scones and pastries, and a bowl of fresh strawberries.
“The master said I was to bring ye a breakfast tray, Miss, even though it is almost time for tea,” Martha said with a warm smile. She placed the tray over Isobel’s lap, then poured some tea. “I hears there’s to be a weddin’ tomorrow mornin’! And so much to be done before I go home tonight. 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 her cup to her nose and breathed in its warm, earthy scent. Her mother always had said there wasn’t a thing in the world that a good cup of tea couldn’t cure.
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 was to become her husband in less than twenty-four hours. 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?
Still, Lord Thornby’s secrets were none of her concern. Perhaps he wanted to continue with a carefree life, as most noblemen did. Perhaps he had a mistress.
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 her back. She’d been naked in that bed… and he’d been halfnaked, 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.
She had assumed that Martha, the cook, had done it. But Martha had said something about getting the wedding preparations done before she went home. She didn’t live in the townhouse, so it couldn’t have been her.
Isobel felt her blood heat with anger… and something else she couldn’t name. Lord Thornby had taken off her clothes! Had seen her naked body with his own eyes. Had touched her—
They had been in bed together! There had been witnesses. And she had most surely been compromised.
She slapped her hand down into the soft bedclothes in frustration. The resulting sound was quite unsatisfying.
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 for Isobel along with warm water for the wash-basin.
Finished with her breakfast, Isobel completed her toilette and donned a plain muslin dress. It had a scoop neck of respectable depth, 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 best she could. The state of her hair was the least of her concerns.
The heavy door creaked as she slowly 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 Isobel.
“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 pussy-cat. 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? 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 cursing. Was she confident in the story she had given Lord Thornby earlier? She had better stay true to it.
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’s voice came in reply.
“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 door. 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 smiled brightly. A dark-haired man stood beside him and chuckled at the scene.
Isobel covered her mouth as she giggled.
“Pretty bird. Ahhkk! Pretty bird,” squawked Caesar.
“That’s right, Caesar. She is a pretty bird,” Lord Thornby said.
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 squeaked, fearfully looking sideways at the big parrot who was studying her with a yellow eye.
“Hello. Ahhkk! Hello.”
“Caesar! Get off Miss Hampton’s shoulder at once, you silly bird!” Lord Thornby admonished, coming to her rescue. “My apologies, Miss Hampton,” he continued, putting the loudly protesting beast back in its cage. “Caesar becomes excited when he sees new people.”
“Oh, no harm done,” she replied. “What kind of bird is he?”
“An African Gray parrot. 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.
“Oh, do forgive me, Miss Hampton. 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.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Hampton, and very pleased to see you recovered from your ordeal.”
Isobel smiled gratefully. “I owe you a great debt, Lord Weston. I can only thank you and Lord Thornby again for helping me. I’m afraid mos
t men would have left such a bedraggled creature to her fate.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Hampton. It is the duty of all gentlemen to protect the fairer sex. I am only thankful that we happened along when we did.”
He kissed her hand again, and Isobel saw a flirtatious sparkle in Lord Weston’s dark brown eyes. She felt like a lamb in a lion’s den.
“Ahem!” Lord Thornby noisily cleared his throat and glared at Lord Weston, who released her hand and smirked at his friend. Isobel’s soon-to-be-husband then turned to her. “I am glad to see that the gown fits you. We borrowed it from Alfred’s sister-in-law until we could properly fit you with your own trousseau.”
“You are very generous, my lord—”
“Nonsense, Miss Hampton. 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 laughed. “You intend to marry me in that, then?”
Isobel looked down at her plain muslin morning dress. It was totally unsuitable for a wedding. But it wasn’t as if this would be a real wedding, anyway. How extravagant could it be with one day’s notice?
He approached and held her with those deep blue eyes that seemed as bright as jewels. Why was it so impossible to look away from his gaze? He took her small 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. Her husband.
Tomorrow, this stranger would be her husband. And she would be his wife, for better or for worse.
Thankfully, Martha bustled in with a tray. Isobel sipped the hot lemony tea the cook had brought and felt it calm her as it always did. Perhaps she could get through this after all.
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 the 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 more than twenty 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. None of the three women seemed even to notice her.
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 Sir Wilfred’s daughter, but her wedding is not for a few weeks. I can make her another one. 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 thickly 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 god of a man—some handsome hero who had won her heart. She had not 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.
Now, there was only duty. To her husband. And to Hampton Park. For one thing was certain: 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—
“There, ma petite. C’est fini!” Madame de Florette said, waving her hand dramatically. Her assistants seemed to agree, cooing in French and making last-minute adjustments to the flounces and bows.
The dress was beautiful, but Isobel felt nothing for it. Still, she forced herself to smile as Madame de Florette attached her veil.
She 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, showing her fabrics and patterns, until Isobel’s arms ached from being held out straight and her eyes itched with tiredness.
Could it be time for supper already?
When Madame de Florette and her girls 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, and then retired early, exhausted from the day’s preparations.
Isobel was wakened and 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 his dark blue superfine coat making his eyes glow like sapphires.
Suddenly, her knees seemed made of apple jelly.
As Isobel placed her hand in his, she 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. Still, whatever Lord Thornby would do to her couldn’t possibly be as vile as being touched by Sir Harry.
She struggled to shut the images from her mind. Her skin crawled as she felt Sir Harry’s hard hands pulling at her bodice, roughly spreading themselves over her body like a greedy horse-buyer.
Well, she would be safe now. No matter if she’d sold herself into a marriage of convenience for protection. Everything had its price.
The carriage ride to the little church in Car-berry Lane took only fifteen minutes, and it seemed to take less time than that for Lord Beckett 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, but her eyes closed as his lips touched hers. She’d been quite unprepared for the warmth of her husband’s mouth, for the heady, male scent of his skin, and for the thrill that shot down her spine and the backs of her legs to the tips of her toes.
If her knees had felt like apple jelly before, they were now no more substantial than clotted cream.
He broke the kiss and she looked up into fathomless eyes. Her husband smiled down at her.
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.
This was her husband….
As they descended the church steps, a beautiful woman with rich red hair walked toward the bridal party. The woman’s dark green eyes flashed up at her. An unbridled hostility glowed there—and seemed to be directed at Isobel.
Who was this woman? And what did she want with them on their wedding day?
“So, Beckett,” the flame-haired woman spat. “This is the woman you dared to marry instead of me.”
Chapter Six
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. You’re looking well,” he said, fighting to sound gracious.
“I wish I could say the same for you, Becke
tt. 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, considering I made them only yesterday.”
Cordelia smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Yes. Thankfully, your mother called upon me and told me of this ridiculous notion. Did you think I was going to let you make both of us the laughingstock of London?”
“Meaning?”
“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. “Yet, 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!”
“Why thank you, Miss Haversham,” Isobel said sweetly. “Coming from one of my husband’s oldest and dearest friends, your approval means even more to me than you could know.”
Cordelia glared and opened her mouth to say something, but Beckett interjected.
“I, too, thank you for the compliment, Miss Haversham. You are right, of course. Isobel is now Viscountess Thornby, and will soon be the countess of Ravenwood. My new wife shall 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. Be assured—I won’t be put aside so easily.”
“I’m afraid you already have been.” Beckett looked over at his true bride. Isobel would make quite a countess indeed. She was beautiful and witty. What more did one need?
The Marriage Bargain Page 5