The Marriage Bargain (10 page)

They walked farther, and Isobel became aware of a number of couples embracing in the shadows. The muffled sound of their giggles and laughter floated on the still night air and seemed to tease her with forbidden promise.

Beckett stepped off the path and led her into the trees. He turned her around to face him, and she could just make his features out in the dim torchlight that spilled from the pathway.

Beckett lowered his mouth and captured her quivering lips with his own. His hands moved around to Isobel’s back and pulled her close as his warm tongue delved into her mouth and sent hot sparks shooting down her spine.

Beckett’s powerful arms encircled her and brought her hips tight against his own. Isobel clung to him, not knowing whether it was uncertainty or pleasure that made her do so.

“Oh—” she whispered. “I fear I may faint.”

“Too much for you, is it?” Her husband breathed in her ear, teasing it with his tongue. “And this is just the beginning, Isobel.”

“You mean it gets worse?”

“Much worse.”

“How much?”

Beckett smiled and slid her dress down off of her shoulder. Isobel gasped in shock as the cool night air touched the bare skin of the top of her breast. Certainly, this must be terribly wicked. Even if he was her husband!

“Well, this is one of the ways,” he growled, lowering his head to her breast and brushing his lips against it.

“Oh… Oh my. My goodness.”

“Your goodness is right,” he said, briefly lifting his head and flashing her a wicked grin.

The mixture of the cool air and his hot breath on her skin threatened to drive her mad as he continued his torment. Her knees felt as if they would buckle.

He lifted his head again and stepped back, drawing her gown back into place.

“Why are you stopping?”

He chuckled. “Well, I must stop now, or not at all. And I do not want to take your virginity in Lord and Lady Whitcomb’s garden.”

“Oh.”

“Unless you have a preference for gardens, of course.”

“No. No preference. I mean, I’m sure I have no preference at all… where to do such a thing.” Goodness, had those words really come out of her mouth?

Beckett’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Well, we shall have to do something about that, now, shan’t we?” He looked her up and down, and smoothed away some of the wayward curls around her face.

“Your face is a trifle flushed, Isobel. And we have been gone a decidedly decadent amount of time.

Everyone will know what we have been doing, I think.”

“They will?” she said, alarmed.

“Well, anyone who was paying mind. And it will only serve to intrigue the ton down to the soles of their shoes.” He smiled.

Beckett led her back to the path and they moved toward the huge manor house.

“I’m not sure I should want to intrigue the ton. Or their shoes,” remarked Isobel.

Beckett laughed. “Too late, my dear. You did that when you walked in the door.”

They walked up the steps and across the terrace, re-entering the ballroom. A few curious couples noticed their arrival, and began commenting behind their fans. Isobel could almost hear the gossip-mill turning now.

“I must find Alfred. He’s in the card room, I think,” Beckett said. “Wait for me here, will you? I see Lady Whitcomb just over 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 into the hallway. She glanced around and took a step toward Lady Whitcomb.

She was totally unprepared for the sickeningly familiar grip that suddenly caught her wrist, but even as she turned to face him, she knew whose it was.

As icy fear squeezed her heart, Isobel looked into the glittery dark eyes that had haunted her dreams since that terrible night at Hampton Park.

It seemed a lifetime ago, and yet all too fresh in her mind. What had been happening at Hampton Park 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, snakelike. He pulled her close and brought his mouth to her ear.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

“Come with me out into the garden, Isobel,” Sir Harry ordered in a calm voice that gave Isobel chills.

“Don’t make a scene. We have much to discuss, my precious. Very much indeed.”

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 this time to be alone.”

“What do you want?” she spat.

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? 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?”

“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.”

“It is not a farce!”

“Does he know who you are? From what I can tell, he knows nothing about Hampton Park or your deceased guardian, Mr. Langley. It was wise of you not to tell him, Isobel. Very wise, indeed.”

Something in the tone of his voice made her very, very frightened. She tried to keep her expression even as he reached up and stroked the side of her face.

“I saw you out here with him… saw his hands touching your naked skin. I heard you sighing and gasping like a little trollop. Naughty girl,” Sir Harry said, bringing his face inches away from hers. “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. For that was what he wanted—what he needed to feel powerful.

“You hold no power over me,” she insisted, meeting his cold, dark eyes.

“Oh, my dear, sweet Isobel. I shall have both you and Hampton Park before the season is out.”

“And how do you propose that? As Lord Ravenwood’s wife, my husband now has claim to my property.”

“Hmm. Well, if you were his wife, yes. But if you were no longer his wife, what then?”

“What do you mean?” she whispered, a little vein of fear snaking its way around her heart.

Sir Harry smiled nonchalantly. “Would he care to tarnish his name by staying married to a murderess?”

Isobel was dumbstruck. “What are you saying?”

“Do you know Lord Palmerston, the chief justice of the King’s Bench? He’s an old friend of mine. I explained it all to him, you see. After you are quietly arrested for the rather grisly slaying of your late guardian, I’m certain Lord Ravenwood will arrange for a divorce 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 up to stroke her face again. Isobel jerked away. His hand shot up to grab her jaw, and he cruelly snapped her head back 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, eh? Do you think your new husband will believe you? 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. Keep this up. You’ll only look exactly as you should from a little tryst in the garden.”

She squealed with outrage and flailed at him, clipping 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 his grip, unbalancing him. She brought her heel down sharply on top of his foot, and he groaned in pain, momentarily releasing his hold on her arms.

Fleeing, Isobel ran down the dark path as if wolves were chasing her. She heard Sir Harry curse from the darkness behind her.

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! I—”

Beckett paused and took quick stock of her appearance. “Where have you been, Isobel? I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

“I needed a bit of air.” She pointed feebly toward the gardens. “I felt quite ill.”

“You’re as white as a sheet.” He put a hand on 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 dark, menacing eyes locked onto hers as he strode 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 flop 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. 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… I must have fainted.” Her shaky voice sounded surprisingly genuine, even to her own ears.

“You most certainly did. You finally took my advice about swooning, I see.” Beckett took her hand in his. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll be fine. Too much excitement, I expect.” That was an understatement if ever there was one.

“It was the dancing, no doubt,” Alfred remarked. He sat across from them in the carriage, 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.” It was coming face to face with my enemy that has made me so.

Though she had feigned the swoon 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. It made her want to retch.

Soon they were pulling up in front of the townhouse at Covington Place. With his arm around her, Beckett helped Isobel up the walk and into the foyer.

“I should like to retire, now, I think,” she said, desperately wanting to be alone to sort out her thoughts.

“Of course,” Beckett said. “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. A good night’s rest will cure me.”

“If you are certain, my dear.”

“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.

After what seemed like an eternity, Isobel was finally alone in her room. She had ignored the sleeping tonic, dismissed the maid, 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. 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 mysterious 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 brief flirtation they’d shared in the garden.

Sir Harry could be a very persuasive, charming man. After all, her poor father had considered the despicable villain a friend. She had no doubt that Sir Harry could make Beckett believe whatever he chose to tell him.

What had ever made her hope to escape Sir Harry and his hateful plan? She’d been like a little mouse trying to outrun a tom cat—blindly running for her life, and 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 had predicted. She couldn’t blame him if he did. Worse, her very presence here might be endangering 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, as she had learned before.

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 those intoxicating sensations that she’d never felt before. Sensations she would never feel again.