Read Online Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor by Regina Jeffers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Regina Jeffers
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shall lose enough weight to cinch her waist tightly; soon she will no longer require her tight laces,” she told the boy as she cradled him in the crook of her arm. “I shall have the appearance of a boulder,” Isolde declared with an ironic chuckle. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
She rose to place the child in the cradle. “Your mother has no idea how precious you are, my Sweet.” The first time Isolde had laid eyes on the boy, her heart had melted. He was wrapped loosely in a small blanket, his face scrunched up in a cry of protest, but she had thought the child a dark angel: A wriggling, squirming dark angel. The remembrance brought another smile to Isolde’s lips.
Miss Satiné had ignored the child completely, and her mistress’s actions bothered Isolde more than she cared to admit. Isolde had come from a large, animated family, one with what often felt to contain a hundred cousins. She would relish having a family of her own to add to the bedlam. Thinking upon her family always brought on a restless desire to be among them again.
Generally speaking, she had enjoyed her employment in Miss Aldridge’s household; after all, the work had not been exhausting nor had it been beyond her abilities; yet, Isolde was no longer so certain she would remain under Baron Swenton’s employment once she reached England. The baron had sworn a vow to assist her in locating her father, but as much as Isolde desired news of Eoghan Neville’s fate, she did not wish to be party to the pain she expected Baron Swenton would experience at his wife’s hands. Since having the man’s acquaintance, Isolde had become more than an interested observer. Baron Swenton was quite besotted with his baroness, and he had repeatedly proved himself a worthy suitor; yet, Miss Satiné had not shared in the baron’s enthusiasm. “Foolish, foolish girl,” Isolde muttered under her breath. “Love’s perfection is within your clasp.”
*
For three days and nights, he had tended his wife’s fever. Other than when Miss Neville had relieved him for meals and his personal requirements, John had remained by Satiné’s side. It was his duty to perform, and he had proudly fulfilled his responsibility. His wife–a concept that did not feel as foreign as John had expected–had suffered greatly. During her fever-induced rants, Satiné had abused him thoroughly for bringing her upon this “God-forsaken journey”–for “assuming advantage of my situation”–and for “not being Henrí.” The man’s name, Henrí, had rung clearly in his head each time John closed his eyes to seek rest. Henrí . Likely the boy’s true father. The man his wife had “loved” enough to present him her most precious gift. The man who had known Satiné first. It ripped John’s heart raw to experience the contempt in his wife’s tone, and although he told himself Satiné’s words were spoken when she was not in her right mind, a part of him wondered if some truth in her condemnations could not be found buried in Satiné’s soul: She had resented accepting his proposal and joining with him.
As he bathed her face and arms in cool water, John battled the urge to seek out Miss Neville and question the woman regarding what she knew of Henrí . Yet, he knew without a doubt, it was not fair to involve the woman in his marital strife. Yet, the obsession had grown. Had Satiné loved Henrí? John’s first thought was it must be so, but there remained the hope she had succumbed to a rake’s wiles. If she had loved the mysterious Henrí, could his wife essentially learn to love him? Kerrington, Crowden, and Fowler had known an instant attraction to their wives; but Wellston, Kimbolt, and Lowery had earned their ladies’ affections. John prayed to follow the examples of the earl, viscount, and baronet.
“John,” his wife murmured as her eyes flickered open and closed.
“I am here,” he said as he washed her face with the cooling cloth.
“Water.”
He
She rose to place the child in the cradle. “Your mother has no idea how precious you are, my Sweet.” The first time Isolde had laid eyes on the boy, her heart had melted. He was wrapped loosely in a small blanket, his face scrunched up in a cry of protest, but she had thought the child a dark angel: A wriggling, squirming dark angel. The remembrance brought another smile to Isolde’s lips.
Miss Satiné had ignored the child completely, and her mistress’s actions bothered Isolde more than she cared to admit. Isolde had come from a large, animated family, one with what often felt to contain a hundred cousins. She would relish having a family of her own to add to the bedlam. Thinking upon her family always brought on a restless desire to be among them again.
Generally speaking, she had enjoyed her employment in Miss Aldridge’s household; after all, the work had not been exhausting nor had it been beyond her abilities; yet, Isolde was no longer so certain she would remain under Baron Swenton’s employment once she reached England. The baron had sworn a vow to assist her in locating her father, but as much as Isolde desired news of Eoghan Neville’s fate, she did not wish to be party to the pain she expected Baron Swenton would experience at his wife’s hands. Since having the man’s acquaintance, Isolde had become more than an interested observer. Baron Swenton was quite besotted with his baroness, and he had repeatedly proved himself a worthy suitor; yet, Miss Satiné had not shared in the baron’s enthusiasm. “Foolish, foolish girl,” Isolde muttered under her breath. “Love’s perfection is within your clasp.”
*
For three days and nights, he had tended his wife’s fever. Other than when Miss Neville had relieved him for meals and his personal requirements, John had remained by Satiné’s side. It was his duty to perform, and he had proudly fulfilled his responsibility. His wife–a concept that did not feel as foreign as John had expected–had suffered greatly. During her fever-induced rants, Satiné had abused him thoroughly for bringing her upon this “God-forsaken journey”–for “assuming advantage of my situation”–and for “not being Henrí.” The man’s name, Henrí, had rung clearly in his head each time John closed his eyes to seek rest. Henrí . Likely the boy’s true father. The man his wife had “loved” enough to present him her most precious gift. The man who had known Satiné first. It ripped John’s heart raw to experience the contempt in his wife’s tone, and although he told himself Satiné’s words were spoken when she was not in her right mind, a part of him wondered if some truth in her condemnations could not be found buried in Satiné’s soul: She had resented accepting his proposal and joining with him.
As he bathed her face and arms in cool water, John battled the urge to seek out Miss Neville and question the woman regarding what she knew of Henrí . Yet, he knew without a doubt, it was not fair to involve the woman in his marital strife. Yet, the obsession had grown. Had Satiné loved Henrí? John’s first thought was it must be so, but there remained the hope she had succumbed to a rake’s wiles. If she had loved the mysterious Henrí, could his wife essentially learn to love him? Kerrington, Crowden, and Fowler had known an instant attraction to their wives; but Wellston, Kimbolt, and Lowery had earned their ladies’ affections. John prayed to follow the examples of the earl, viscount, and baronet.
“John,” his wife murmured as her eyes flickered open and closed.
“I am here,” he said as he washed her face with the cooling cloth.
“Water.”
He
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