The Marriage Bargain (5 page)

“It’s been quite a day, Alfred. Looks like I’ve got some searching to do. Fancy a brandy?”

Alfred brought a bottle and two glasses out of one of the cupboards and sat down next to Beckett. He poured the brandy and handed one of the snifters to Beckett. “So, are you going to marry her, then?”

“What, marry the girl?”

Alfred smiled. “It was your idea, man. And, I think, a bloody good one.”

“Hmm. This coming from a confirmed bachelor….”

“I’m telling you, Beckett, she’s the perfect bride. Your mother’s right about Cordelia—she would take you back, and I know you don’t want to fall head-over-heels in love with her again. In fact, I remember you swearing you’d never fall in love with any woman again as long as you lived.”

“And I never shall,” Beckett stated firmly. “Just because I must take a bride doesn’t mean I’m going to fall in love with her. In fact, the perfect bride for any man is one that he is not in love with. Love just spoils things, in the end.”

“Exactly!” Alfred exclaimed, smiling. “Now you’re getting it.”

“And how does all that fit into your plan, may I ask?”

“Well, for starters, you don’t know that girl in there from Eve.”

“So?”

“So, if you don’t know her, you can’t possibly be in love with her, can you?”

“No.” Beckett had an image of her naked body beneath his hands as he bathed her. He shook it off.

“Alright,” Alfred continued. “Let’s review your options. I think I’m right in saying you’d rather have your teeth pulled out by an angry barber than ask Cordelia to take you back. And I think that goes for the other ladies of the ton, who, due to your previous lack of funds, have scorned your recent proposals; though they would surely now be yours for the asking.”

Beckett sipped his brandy. “You’re right about that. I’d sooner wed a goat than take my suit to any of them.”

“I am also assuming you’ve ruled out Martha, your cook, whom—though she is a lovely woman and makes a delicious ‘canard l’orange’—I doubt you would want to kiss, let alone take to your bed.”

Beckett made a face.

“Right. Which leaves our girl. Her voice and manner show her to be cultured—if you overlook the fact that she tried to brain you with a candlestick. She obviously doesn’t have any family, or she would have asked after them. And as for money, she seems woefully without. So you see, she will probably be more than agreeable—and she’s here now, which will save you a lot of time. Not to mention that in the light of day, she is quite an eyeful.”

Beckett gave his friend a look of warning.

“Oh, come along. You also noticed her charms,” Alfred said wryly. “So marry her, inherit the estate, stick her off on one of your properties—as you would do with any wife—then visit her from time to time to make a baby or two, and you and I go traveling about the continent spending your money and having fun!” Alfred downed the last swig of his brandy. “I think it is a marvelous idea.”

For some strange reason, Beckett was beginning to agree. “Your reasoning is not without merit. Certainly I never want to fall in love again, with any woman. I’ve learned that lesson. Love is nothing more than a disease that infects your heart and makes you delusional, leaving you wasted and empty when it has run its course.”

“You make it sound so dreary.” Alfred made a face. “But then again, you’d know. I’ve certainly never fallen in love.”

“It is dreary. It’s worse than dreary. Love is an illusion, old chum. Cordelia taught me that. I can still see the look in her eyes when I told her my father had lost most of my inheritance in bad investments. She told me everything had changed. I realized then that the only thing that had changed was my eyesight. For the first time, I was seeing things the way they really were.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have to worry about that with our mystery girl,” Alfred argued. “Marry her, and you’re the next earl of Ravenwood.”

Beckett swished the last of his brandy around in his glass, and then downed it. The fact remained that he had to marry somebody, or risk losing his inheritance. There was no doubt—he was attracted to the girl.

The golden hair, the challenging eyes, the perfection of a body he shouldn’t have seen so intimately, not to mention her spirited nature; she reminded him of a young filly he had tried to tame once in his youth. He hadn’t succeeded in breaking the magnificent creature, but he’d certainly enjoyed trying.

The decision was made, then.

“Alright, Alfred. You win. I shall make her my bride.” Beckett stood, placing his hands on his hips and bracing his legs apart, ready for battle. “I only hope I can convince her.”

As Beckett shook his friend’s proferred congratulatory hand, he found himself smiling. It was the perfect plan. A marriage of convenience would keep his life just as he liked it. Simple and uncomplicated.

And what could be more simple and uncomplicated than marriage to a beautiful, golden-haired goddess?

The pale yellow light of late afternoon crept through the window, filling the bedchamber with a warm, golden glow. Isobel lay on her side in the huge bed, wondering what time it was. She surveyed the room groggily, studying the dark mahogany furniture and the heavy brocade draperies.

There was a distinct smell in this chamber. It smelled faintly of cigar smoke and leather and horse. In short, it smelled like a man.

A knock sounded on the door, startling her. She sat up in bed and brushed the hair away from her face.

Was it Sir Harry, come to take her away? Was she in the house of his minions?

Another knock came, only a little louder.

She grabbed the candlestick and leapt from the bed, looking down to see she was clad in one of the cook’s dressing gowns. If it was Sir Harry, he wasn’t leaving this house without a nice big hole in his head.

The knob turned slowly, and Isobel watched, readying herself to spring into action. As the door opened, she braced herself for the worst.

Bright blue eyes peered around the door, regarding her inquisitively. It was the man who had lain in bed with her.

He looked to be in his late twenties, tall and sturdy, with a handsome face to match his sparkling eyes.

His wavy, tawny-brown hair gave him a mischievous air, and when he looked at her, he smiled.

“I should like to come in for a chat, if you promise not to brain me.”

Isobel nodded warily, lowering her weapon. She kept it at her side as she sat on the edge of the bed.

He entered smoothly and brought a chair from his desk, moving it and sitting down at an acceptable distance away from her.

“Feeling better?” he asked, smiling. “You’ve been resting for a few hours, now.”

Isobel felt herself relax a little, and wondered at it. “Yes, thank you.”

“I am glad to hear it. I’ve managed to arrange some clothes for you, so you can leave at any time.”

“Thank you… that is very kind.”

“Not at all. You, of course, are invited to stay for supper before you go. But before you leave, there are a few things I would like to discuss.” He languidly crossed his legs and sat back in the chair, a knowing smile curving his mouth.

“You see, my dear, I wish to make you… a proposition. I wish to marry you.”

The viscount waited for her response. Isobel stared at him silently as a maelstrom of thoughts whirled through her head.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am Viscount Thornby.”

“And…”

“Your future husband.”

Isobel tried to keep her voice even. “And why should that be, my lord?”

“That is a long story, only some of which you could yet know.” Lord Thornby rose and walked around the room, looking at her with disarming blue eyes. “I shall give you the condensed version. You see, last night, my friend Lord Weston and I stumbled upon you unconscious, under a heap of refuse on Poole Street. We decided that we could not leave you there in good conscience, so we brought you home.”

He ran a hand through his wavy hair. “We put you to bed and I retired to the adjoining room.

Unfortunately, I awoke in the night and through habit made my way back here, unwittingly falling asleep beside you. For which I now offer my deepest apologies.”

The man smiled boyishly. “You may remember the fiasco that followed—seeing my mother fainting and screaming in shock, which you, if I may commend you, had the presence of mind not to do. While Martha attended to you, I had the most amazing news from my solicitor. News which also concerns you, my dear.”

“Me?” Isobel gasped, her heart racing.

He’d found her, then. Sir Harry—

“Yes. You see, it appears that I am the only heir to the sixth earl of Ravenwood. And in order to claim my inheritance, I must have a bride.”

Isobel stared at him. “A bride?” What did any of this have to do with her? Was this man simply playing a cruel game?

When she didn’t reply, Lord Thornby continued. “Yes, my dear, I need a bride. And I feel that you would be perfect.” His blue eyes seemed to pin her to the spot, making her his prisoner. His voice became softer. “Considering the circumstances—you and I caught sharing a bed together—I would presume an offer of marriage to be most acceptable to you. In truth, I offer a business arrangement, one that would be very advantageous to both parties. Of course, it would be a marriage of convenience—a union in name only. We would have to make the usual appearances before the ton—a few balls, the theater and whatnot, then we could go our separate ways. I would provide a handsome allowance, a nice little property of some sort, and you would, after all, be a countess. That is, assuming that you are not already married.”

“No,” she said slowly. “I am not married.”

“And you have no other family to look after you, or who might object to the match?”

“No.” If she had, she wouldn’t be in this mess, she thought.

“Good!” he smiled. “It’s settled, then. We can be married by special license tomorrow morning—”

“One moment, my lord. I have not yet consented to your proposal.”

Lord Thornby paused, piercing her with his dynamic blue eyes. “But I pray that you will.”

“You do not even know my name!”

“Details!” he waved a hand in dismissal, then looked alarmed. “You aren’t named Hallfrita, are you? I detest that name. Or Egberta? Can you imagine? Egberta, countess of Ravenwood?” He laughed.

In spite of herself, Isobel laughed, too.

“You don’t look like an Egberta to me. Or a Euphemia, or a Withypoll for that matter.”

“Withypoll?”

“Yes… Alfred has a Great Aunt Withypoll. It means ‘twig-head.’ ”

Why was she smiling? Her life had been turned upside down and this man was only making it worse.

“No, my name isn’t Withypoll. It’s Isobel. Isobel Hampton.”

“A perfectly good name. You see? Isobel, countess of Ravenwood. It has a ring to it.”

“But you don’t even know me, my lord.”

“Then tell me. How did you come to be in that alley all alone? Where is your family?”

She had never lied to anyone before, never had the need. But she found how quickly one could acquire new skills when it was a matter of survival. She would lie to this man. She would accept his generous offer and gain back her life.

“I have no home, Lord Thornby, nor any family.” That wasn’t wholly untrue. “You see, my guardian—who recently died—had accumulated a vast debt. The barristers sold everything, and they turned me out into the street.” Her lies and the truth were all mixing together now like knotted embroidery floss.

“I am terribly sorry to hear that, Miss Hampton. Do not trouble yourself further with those awful memories. You needn’t tell me everything now,” he assured her. “There will be plenty of time for that, if you consent to marry me.”

“But why me, my lord? Surely someone of your rank could have any bride he chose.”

“That’s true, now that I stand to inherit an earldom. And I choose you, Isobel Hampton.”

“But why? I must know.”

“I could say all number of things to you, Miss Hampton. I could profess to being overwhelmed by your ethereal beauty. I could confess feelings of undying love for you.” Lord Thornby looked away. “I have my reasons for wanting a marriage of this kind, and part of it has to do with love. You see, I have no interest in it. If you agree to this ‘marriage bargain,’ you must know that love will never have a place in our union. Not now—not ever.”

He looked back at her then. “What I propose is not so unusual, after all. Most of the marriages in London fare the same, I’d wager. Hopefully, we will enjoy an amiable friendship. Hopefully, there will be children. I must know as soon as possible if you accept. Because if you don’t, I’ll need to start looking for another bride before the day is out.”

He held her gaze with eyes that glowed like a sultan’s jewels. “And I must remind you that although it was an innocent mistake, you have, in fact, been compromised. Of course, the decision is entirely yours.”

Isobel twisted her fingers around the candlestick in her hands. The urge to trust him was growing stronger. Something in his voice made her feel strangely comfortable in his presence, though she knew she should be wary.

But if his proposal was serious, it could be the answer to her prayers.

Awful memories spun in her head. Even now, a part of her hoped that what she had seen before her flight from Hampton Park had been some sort of nightmare, but the hard knot of fear in her gut meant it had been all too real.

Yet something had guided her out of that strange hell and led her here… some instinct to survive, no matter what the odds. And she was not going to give up now.

Though she felt hesitant, this was a golden opportunity. What other options did she have? She had nowhere to go. Marriage to this stranger would offer her some protection, for the time being. She would be safe. Hampton Park would be safe. And the price would be a loveless marriage. Compared to the alternative—

Isobel cleared her throat. “I accept your proposal, Lord Thornby. I will be your bride. And I understand the terms of our agreement. Completely.”

Silently, he reached for her hand, and when he touched his lips to her skin a tingle whispered up her spine. She wanted to lower her eyes to hide her reaction, but found that she couldn’t. This man, this stranger with fiery blue eyes, would be her husband.