The Marriage Bargain

by Michelle McMaster

  Word was that Cordelia would be there, also, with talons sharpened. According to Alfred, Cordelia had been campaigning to win support from some of the old guard—no doubt trying to discredit Beckett and his new bride. Not that Beckett cared what any of those old crones thought.

  But for Isobel, meeting the ton tonight would be like battling lions in a Roman coliseum. And unfortunately, these lions were particularly hungry.

  Beckett adjusted his cuffs and took one last look in the glass. It would do.

  He trotted down the staircase with Monty on his heels, then stood near the bottom to await his wife. He felt the dog’s hot breath on his pant leg and moved away. The beast scooted closer, so that he was exactly the same distance from Beckett’s leg as he had been before.

  “Monty, I’ve already applied my cologne for the evening, thank you very much. Go on, now,” Beckett said, pointing.

  Monty looked up at him with happy brown eyes and continued to steam Beckett’s trousers.

  “Monty, go!” he said firmly.

  The dog raised sad eyes to his master and slunk away.

  “That’s not going to work, my friend. Just lay down there and be good.”

  Just then, a flapping of feathers whooshed through the air and Caesar flew out of the salon, landing on his favorite perch: Beckett’s head.

  “Oh, Caesar—get off!” Beckett reached up to disengage the parrot from his head.

  “Get off… get off, ahhkk!” The bird flapped its wings enthusiastically, and flew up just out of Beckett’s reach, then landed on his head again. They repeated this process until Beckett finally gave up, and stood with his hands on his hips.

  “Caesar, I believe you have ruined my hair.”

  Light feminine laughter trickled down the staircase.

  Beckett looked up to see Isobel standing at the top, covering her mouth with a dainty gloved hand as she giggled.

  “Oh, you think this quite funny, do you?” Beckett asked.

  Isobel appeared to be swallowing her smirk as she descended the stairs and stopped at the bottom.

  “Hmph.” Beckett reached up and successfully grabbed the bird before he could flap his gray wings and escape. “Caesar, I’m afraid that your career as a hat is over. Back in your cage, now.”

  “Ahhkk! Bye-bye. Bye-bye,” the bird squawked as his owner placed him back in his big brass cage.

  Beckett returned to Isobel’s side. For some reason, she kept putting her hand to her lips and looking at the floor, or the door, or anywhere but directly at him.

  “What? What is it?”

  She looked up at him. “Your hair.”

  “Damnation.” He crossed over to the glass in the hallway and almost laughed himself when he saw the strange coiffure the bird had wrought on his head. It stuck out in every direction, and one clump of hair in particular made a perfect little triangle on top of his head. He turned back to Isobel, and with as serious a face as he could muster, said, “You mean you don’t like it? But it is quite the dash, I hear. Tip-top.

  Sparkish, what?”

  Isobel seemed unconvinced.

  Beckett ran his hands through his hair and fluffed it out, then checked in the mirror. It would have to do.

  “Hmm, well, it is a good thing Caesar didn’t want your head as a perch.”

  It seemed that only then did he notice her gown, a stunning creation of amber silk with a daring neckline.

  Well, he supposed it was respectable enough for a married woman. “The new maid must be doing a good job, then, Isobel. You look quite ready to take on the ton.”

  But the thought niggled at him that she was his married woman, and perhaps he didn’t want all of society looking at her breasts as he was doing.

  Isobel smiled almost shyly. “Thank you, my—thank you, Beckett.”

  “Ah, you’ve remembered my name, I see. Always a good sign on the third day of a new marriage.”

  She laughed again, and he felt warmed by her eyes, as sweet as cinnamon sugar. He offered his arm and felt her little hand tuck into the crook of his elbow. It was terribly pleasing.

  “Now, you know what to do?”

  “Yes. If anyone says anything out of turn, I am to bat my eyelashes, laugh, as charmingly as possible, and perhaps sigh rather whimsically.”

  “Exactly. And if that doesn’t win them over, be sure to swoon. Most people love a good swoon.”

  “Will Miss Haversham be there?”

  Beckett nodded. “Like Napoleon, itching for battle. And you must be like Wellington. Stand your ground, and you’ll see the enemy run.”

  “Oh dear,” Isobel said, looking worried. “Will there be time to dance, in between dodging enemy volleys?”

  Beckett laughed, admiring Isobel’s spirit. “I will make certain you do more dancing than dodging, my dear. Now, this is our first ball as the earl and countess of Ravenwood. Let us do nothing more than enjoy ourselves, and make those fools regret not having attended our wedding, hmm?”

  Beckett led his wife out the door and helped her into the waiting carriage. As they pulled away down the tree-lined street, he hoped for Isobel’s sake that this evening would not be the disaster Cordelia would surely try to make it.

  * * *

  The carriage rolled into the long torchlit drive of Whitcomb Park and stopped as they waited for a space.

  Carriages lined the circular drive from end to end. In the flickering light, a steady flow of guests promenaded up the wide staircase and through the main doors.

  Isobel had never seen so many fashionable people in one place before. But these were members of the ton. They made the fashion. And tonight they were here to see her.

  Surely, though, they would see through her. Surely they would see that she was not truly the countess of Ravenwood, so much as an actress playing the part. Who was she, really? Certainly she was no longer the innocent girl she’d been at Hampton Park. Now, she was the wife of a virtual stranger… and she herself was a stranger in a strange world.

  As they waited to pull up beside the steps, Isobel looked across at Beckett, who sat back leisurely as if this were a simple soiree they were attending. The flames from the torches lit the inside of the cab, flickering over his face in the dark.

  Beckett was not the first handsome man she had ever seen, certainly not. But for some reason, over the last few days, Isobel found herself stealing glances at him when he wasn’t looking. And then she would remember that he’d undressed her that first night and her face would blush with heat.

  Since they were man and wife, she told herself, she could have much more to blush about than the fact that he’d undressed her once.

  The door opened and a footman appeared, reaching his hand in to help Isobel out of the carriage. She gathered up her skirts and put her hand in the footman’s as he helped her to the ground. Beckett quickly followed, offering his arm to Isobel.

  “We must keep watch for Alfred,” Beckett said. “It’s always good to have him around once the quips start flying.”

  Isobel glanced at her husband, suddenly feeling uncertain. It must have shown on her face, for Beckett clasped her hand in his and smiled down at her reassuringly. Strange how one touch of his hand could calm her inner fears, while at the same time set her heart to racing.

  Through the massive front doors, Isobel could see the dancers swirling around the ballroom. Music drifted out to greet them on the soft evening breeze. The orchestra played a sprightly waltz, which rang over the sounds of conversation and pattering feet.

  The women all seemed to be floating in concoctions of diaphanous fabric, their jewelry glittering in the light from the hanging candelabras. A heady mixture of flowers, food, and brandy perfumed the air.

  Isobel looked down at her gown of amber silk and hoped she looked like a countess. She touched the topaz necklace that her husband had given her, and took a deep breath.

  “The earl and countess of Ravenwood,” the butler announced, holding his arm out and motioning them ahead.

 
“My dear, may I present the earl and countess of Whitcomb.”

  Her husband’s hand touched her lower back, steering her toward their hostess and her spouse.

  “She’s lovely, Beckett.” The aged noblewoman smiled, offering her hand to Isobel. “Wherever did you find such a treasure?”

  “You know what they say about treasure, countess. One always comes across it buried in the most unusual places.”

  Their hosts eyed each other, shaking their heads.

  “Beckett, you are still the charmer, I see.” The countess laughed. “I hope you can handle him, my dear.”

  “I will certainly try, Lady Whitcomb.” Isobel smiled and made her curtsies as Beckett made his bows.

  They passed through the outer doors and into the ballroom. From behind her, Beckett put his hand on her elbow and leaned around to whisper in her ear. “There—you’re through the first assault of this ballroom battle. Stay sharp, Lady Ravenwood. This is where it gets interesting.”

  Beckett led her through the crowd, introducing her to so many viscounts, marquesses, earls, and even a few dukes, she knew she’d never remember all their names. Finally, he turned away from her to speak to a round little admiral with enough medals on his chest that it was a surprise he didn’t topple over.

  Isobel felt a man’s hand on her arm. Startled, she whirled around to find Alfred close beside her, though she couldn’t stop a little squeal from escaping her lips.

  “Terribly sorry,” Alfred said. “Forgive my appalling manners, Lady Ravenwood. I did not mean to frighten you.” Languidly, he brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed it.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Beckett asked, turning away from the admiral. “Trying to woo my wife, are you?”

  “Why, yes, actually. She is the prettiest woman here.”

  “You’d better watch your tongue, Alfred. If you insist upon shamelessly flirting with my wife in such a manner, I may have to box your ears,” Beckett said, but he was smiling at his friend.

  “Hah!” Alfred scoffed, good-naturedly. “I’d like to see you try, old man. Until then, I shall admire Lady Ravenwood’s stunning beauty to my heart’s content.”

  Isobel blushed as Alfred pressed his lips to her hand.

  “Might I ask the lovely creature to dance, Beckett?” Alfred inquired.

  “You might.”

  Alfred performed an elaborate bow for Isobel’s benefit, his mischievous dark eyes shining up at her.

  “Lady Ravenwood, would you do me the honor of accepting my request for a dance?”

  “I’m afraid I am not a very good dancer, Alfred,” she warned.

  “Wonderful. Neither am I!”

  But he was a good dancer. He guided her gently and helped to cover up her mistakes as they moved across the ballroom. Isobel swirled around and around, letting the music make her feel light as air.

  The room spun around her as Alfred expertly maneuvered them through the crowd. Lord Weston was like the older brother she’d never had, for his embrace was strong, kind and protective. Isobel felt weightless as she danced in the glow of the candlelight, but Alfred’s touch didn’t make her skin tingle as Beckett’s touch did. She glanced over at her husband.

  For a moment she forgot everything. For a moment, as she met those intense blue eyes across the room, she felt real, unexpected happiness.

  Less than a week ago, she would have thought it impossible to feel anything but fear. Had it all really happened? Right now, in this ballroom, the memory of Sir Harry and her flight from him seemed only a bad dream.

  She would not think of it! She couldn’t. Not here. She was safe now, surely. Sir Harry Lennox would never have her or Hampton Park. He would never be able to make her his bride, now that she was another man’s wife.

  Isobel stole another glance at Beckett and saw his gaze upon her—a penetrating mixture of ice and fire.

  Yes, she was certainly another man’s wife. Instantly, the memory of their wedding-day kiss flooded her senses, a reminder that Sir Harry could never claim her.

  Isobel would fulfill her part of the marriage bargain by appearing publicly united with her new husband.

  Then she would retire to Hampton Park as the true mistress of the estate. And she would rid herself of Lennox once and for all. It was a perfect arrangement.

  At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

  Chapter Eight

  “So. You actually had the audacity to attend Lady Whitcomb’s ball. How very provincial.”

  Isobel turned around slowly, as befitting a countess, and met the icy green eyes of Cordelia Haversham.

  Where was Beckett? He was nowhere in sight. She would have to do battle with this harpy alone.

  “My husband, the earl of Ravenwood and I, were specifically invited by Lady Whitcomb. I am sorry if our presence distresses you, Miss Haversham.”

  “Distresses me?” Cordelia gave a brittle laugh that was quite unattractive. “Oh, I assure you, I am not in the least bit distressed. It is you, my dear, who should be distressed.”

  “Miss Haversham, I wonder, are you planning to use the word ‘distressed’ with such constancy during our discourse? Because if you are, and you surely have a preference for the word, I will leave off using it.

  I have found that it is quite tiresome to use the same word so very much during genteel conversation.”

  Cordelia’s eyes blazed. “You have quite the nerve!”

  “I am sure you think so.”

  Cordelia’s eyes narrowed. “You are deceiving yourself if you think he married you for any other reason than to get back at me. You are a joke, my dear. A little trollop from the gutter, masquerading in a countess’s clothing. Everyone knows who you really are.”

  “Oh—Lady Ravenwood, you mean? Why, thank you for reminding me, Miss Haversham. I can hardly get used to the idea myself. And considering that you yourself might have been Beckett’s countess, it really is so very kind of you to point out my good fortune.”

  If steam had risen from Cordelia’s ears, Isobel would not have been the least bit surprised. As it was, the woman’s face contorted into a strange configuration and turned a very unbecoming color.

  “My word,” Isobel intoned. “Are you ill, Miss Haversham? You look as if you’ve swallowed a large fruit.”

  Cordelia seethed. “If there were any large fruit near at hand, I would most likely stuff it down your throat!”

  “There is a pineapple across the room, there,” Isobel said, pointing, “and I would dearly love to see you attempt it. Shall we give everyone a good show?”

  “Do you think me stupid enough to cause a scene? There’s no use in trying to make me look a fool.”

  “Oh, you don’t need my help, Miss Haversham. You’re doing quite well on your own.”

  Cordelia looked around quickly and grabbed Isobel’s arm, jerking her close. Her voice was a harsh whisper in Isobel’s ear as she said, “Look, you little harlot. You may be the countess of Ravenwood but who knows—you might get sick. You might die. People have accidents.” The woman pulled her closer, so that they were nose to nose. “I had Beckett wrapped around my little finger before, and I can do it again. I could have any man in this room, but I want Beckett and I want the Ravenwood estate. No one casts me off, do you hear?”

  Isobel yanked her arm back and met Cordelia’s venomous eyes. “If you’ll be so kind as to remember, Miss Haversham, it was you who put Beckett aside when you learned that he had no fortune.”

  “Well, now he has one, doesn’t he? That was the only reason I broke the engagement.” Cordelia made a face. “And don’t try telling me that you married him for love. I know very well why you married Beckett, and so does everyone else in this room.”

  “For his fortune and title?” Isobel asked. “Those were your reasons. Not mine.”

  Cordelia stood back and glared at Isobel. “Whatever the reason, be warned. I shall not rest until I am the countess of Ravenwood.”

  “Then you shall not res
t, shall you, Miss Haversham? Do enjoy the rest of the evening. I must return to my husband.”

  Isobel turned slowly, as she had before, and walked away as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She heard Cordelia behind her, snorting and stomping like a badly behaved horse. It made her smile.

  Moving through the crowd, Isobel saw Beckett near the refreshment table. As she drew close to him he handed her a glass. She brought it to her lips and tasted the raspberry punch, its welcome sweetness filling her mouth.

  “Are you enjoying the evening, Isobel?” her husband asked, catching her eye meaningfully.

  She met his gaze and smiled. “Yes, I think so. Though I was unable to use your advice about swooning while conversing with Miss Haversham.”

  “Cordelia? What did she say? What did you say?”

  “Well, at one point she looked unwell and I remarked that she resembled someone who had swallowed an oversized fruit. To which she replied that if there was one available, she would take great pleasure in stuffing it down my throat. I pointed out the pineapple, but she abandoned the notion.”

  Beckett stared at her, seemingly dumbfounded. Then his face lit up, and he doubled over with boisterous laughter. “A pineapple! A pineapple?” Eventually, he regained control of himself and regarded Isobel with laughing eyes. “My dear, I knew you would make a name for yourself, but I had no idea that name would be the countess of Pineapple.”

  Isobel smirked and surrendered to her own laughter. “Do you think that it shall get around?”

  “I wouldn’t completely rule it out. We shall have to check the Times tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh dear. I shall cause a scandal.”

  “I don’t care if you do, Isobel. And neither should you. I shall be quite happy being husband to the Lady of Large Fruit.”

  “Of large what?” Alfred said, popping up beside Beckett. “I say, is that any way to speak to your wife?”

  Beckett bowed over Isobel’s hand. “They are beginning another waltz, my lady. Would you do me the honor?”