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Authors: Leigh Michaels
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order.”
Gavin bowed assent. After the duke was gone, he said, “Gentlemen, let’s work off some frustrations at the billiard table. Unless you’d rather set up a ring in the stable yard and test who can draw the other’s cork first?”
Maxwell laughed, and to Gavin’s surprise he came along to the billiard room and played with every evidence of enjoyment and not so much as a glance at his pocket watch.
Probably, Gavin thought, only because he felt too sorry for Gavin to leave him alone with the battling duo.
At the top of the stairs, Emily offered to come in and brush Isabel’s hair. “For it’s obvious that you’re still in pain, my dear. Send your maid away, and I’ll take care of you.”
Isabel accepted—not because her head was still hurting, though it was, but for the company. Surely Maxwell wouldn’t press for an answer until she was alone, so the longer she kept Emily by her side, the longer she would be able to think over his offer.
Though why she felt a need to think was beyond her. Why hadn’t she told him right there in the hallway that bartering over a child as though he were merchandise was repugnant?
His words whispered through her mind. It’s no more than you promised me when we wed.
True, a lady didn’t marry a titled gentleman without understanding the bargain: her only task was to provide him with an heir. She and Maxwell had never spoken of it during their brief betrothal, because there was no need; the expectation was clear.
But that had been before the wedding.
Isabel had always known that he found the marriage contract so inviting only because she brought Kilburn with her. Her father had told her as much. But that, too, was a part of their world—money and property were behind many an aristocratic match.
But when Maxwell had vanished from their new home on their wedding night to carouse and commiserate with his friend Philip Rivington—the same Philip Rivington whose betrothal to her sister, Emily, had been announced that very day at Isabel’s wedding breakfast—and then to act as Rivington’s second in a duel at dawn over the well-born lady he had tossed aside when he contracted a marriage with Emily…
It wasn’t that Isabel had expected—or even dreamed of—love. That wasn’t the way of the world; the best a woman could hope for was to be comfortable in her marriage, in the same way her parents had seemed to be before the countess’s long illness.
No, Isabel hadn’t aspired to love.
But she did require that her husband show the same respect for her good name that a bride was expected to show for her husband’s. By standing with Philip Rivington, Maxwell had helped to create the scandal that had so hurt Emily. He had turned his back on Isabel—on every reputable lady, when it came right down to it—to support a cad in his loose behavior.
With that action, her husband had voided all contracts as far as Isabel was concerned—which was exactly what she’d told him on the day after the wedding, when he had finally reappeared. Nothing had happened, in more than a year since Rivington had died in that duel over Lucilla Lester, to change her mind.
Isabel’s decision had been made long since. It was time to move on to other things.
Emily ran the brush gently through the long, heavy strands of Isabel’s hair. “Am I helping your headache, Isabel? Is it Maxwell who’s making you so miserable?”
She had never told Emily that the man who had negotiated the terms of the duel, stood by as Rivington fought, and held him as he died was her own husband. Knowing how Maxwell had betrayed them both would only hurt Emily more.
“Yes, it’s much better.” Isabel sat up straighter. “Tell me, Emily—what do you think of Athstone?”
“Gavin Waring, you mean—because the thing isn’t certain as yet.”
“Not certain? Surely you’re not thinking that Father’s foolishness in planning to marry Chloe Fletcher might inspire Uncle Josiah to do the
Gavin bowed assent. After the duke was gone, he said, “Gentlemen, let’s work off some frustrations at the billiard table. Unless you’d rather set up a ring in the stable yard and test who can draw the other’s cork first?”
Maxwell laughed, and to Gavin’s surprise he came along to the billiard room and played with every evidence of enjoyment and not so much as a glance at his pocket watch.
Probably, Gavin thought, only because he felt too sorry for Gavin to leave him alone with the battling duo.
At the top of the stairs, Emily offered to come in and brush Isabel’s hair. “For it’s obvious that you’re still in pain, my dear. Send your maid away, and I’ll take care of you.”
Isabel accepted—not because her head was still hurting, though it was, but for the company. Surely Maxwell wouldn’t press for an answer until she was alone, so the longer she kept Emily by her side, the longer she would be able to think over his offer.
Though why she felt a need to think was beyond her. Why hadn’t she told him right there in the hallway that bartering over a child as though he were merchandise was repugnant?
His words whispered through her mind. It’s no more than you promised me when we wed.
True, a lady didn’t marry a titled gentleman without understanding the bargain: her only task was to provide him with an heir. She and Maxwell had never spoken of it during their brief betrothal, because there was no need; the expectation was clear.
But that had been before the wedding.
Isabel had always known that he found the marriage contract so inviting only because she brought Kilburn with her. Her father had told her as much. But that, too, was a part of their world—money and property were behind many an aristocratic match.
But when Maxwell had vanished from their new home on their wedding night to carouse and commiserate with his friend Philip Rivington—the same Philip Rivington whose betrothal to her sister, Emily, had been announced that very day at Isabel’s wedding breakfast—and then to act as Rivington’s second in a duel at dawn over the well-born lady he had tossed aside when he contracted a marriage with Emily…
It wasn’t that Isabel had expected—or even dreamed of—love. That wasn’t the way of the world; the best a woman could hope for was to be comfortable in her marriage, in the same way her parents had seemed to be before the countess’s long illness.
No, Isabel hadn’t aspired to love.
But she did require that her husband show the same respect for her good name that a bride was expected to show for her husband’s. By standing with Philip Rivington, Maxwell had helped to create the scandal that had so hurt Emily. He had turned his back on Isabel—on every reputable lady, when it came right down to it—to support a cad in his loose behavior.
With that action, her husband had voided all contracts as far as Isabel was concerned—which was exactly what she’d told him on the day after the wedding, when he had finally reappeared. Nothing had happened, in more than a year since Rivington had died in that duel over Lucilla Lester, to change her mind.
Isabel’s decision had been made long since. It was time to move on to other things.
Emily ran the brush gently through the long, heavy strands of Isabel’s hair. “Am I helping your headache, Isabel? Is it Maxwell who’s making you so miserable?”
She had never told Emily that the man who had negotiated the terms of the duel, stood by as Rivington fought, and held him as he died was her own husband. Knowing how Maxwell had betrayed them both would only hurt Emily more.
“Yes, it’s much better.” Isabel sat up straighter. “Tell me, Emily—what do you think of Athstone?”
“Gavin Waring, you mean—because the thing isn’t certain as yet.”
“Not certain? Surely you’re not thinking that Father’s foolishness in planning to marry Chloe Fletcher might inspire Uncle Josiah to do the
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