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Authors: Michelle McMaster
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pleased to say that I’ve learned my lesson.”
Isobel studied him with intelligent eyes. “And is that why you have chosen me for a bride, my lord?
Because thorns pricked you last time, and you’ve sworn to give up gardening?”
Beckett regarded her silently. It seemed his wife was more shrewd than he’d thought.
“I was never much for roses,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “They make me sneeze.”
Isobel closed the heavy book and rested it in her lap. Somehow, reading The Taming of the Shrew again had failed to lighten her mood as it usually did. Instead, it made her feel like Katharina, suddenly wed to a stranger—her world irrevocably changed. The play had a happy ending. Would her marriage turn out as well?
She had spent the afternoon and evening alone. After the wedding breakfast, Beckett had gone to complete the business of his inheritance with Lord Weston in tow. He had assured her that he would be home by six o’clock. It was now half-past nine.
Oh, she wanted to kick herself! Not even married a full day, and she was already acting like a shrew.
Her husband’s affairs were none of her concern. What did it matter when he came home, if at all? For if he did, it would bring up the question of the handling of the wedding night.
Lord Thornby had said the marriage was no more than a business transaction. But would he want a wedding night, with all the trimmings? What man wouldn’t?
Perhaps if she retired now to her chamber, he would be reluctant to disturb her when and if he came home. Yes, that was a good plan. And besides that, it was the only plan she could come up with at the moment.
Isobel rose from the library sofa and replaced the heavy volume on the shelf. Just as she opened the door into the hallway, another door opened, and accompanied by a draft of cool night air, her husband walked into the foyer. Isobel stared up into bright blue eyes, and felt a thrill move through her.
“Good evening, Isobel.” He took off his hat and passed it to Hartley, who quickly left them alone.
“I was just going up to bed,” she blurted.
“To bed. That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
“It does?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no. In this case, it doesn’t.”
“Why not?” He regarded her seriously, but Isobel could have sworn there was the hint of a smile on his lips.
“Because—I am very tired. And… I’m not feeling well at all. In fact, I am quite ill.” It was true. Her stomach churned dreadfully at the thought of a wedding night. Truly, she felt she must be turning green.
“Really? How unfortunate.”
“Yes. I am very, very ill indeed. In fact, I may faint.”
“Oh, then I must carry you up to your chamber then, before you do.”
“Oh, no! There is no need—ooh!”
In one swift motion, Lord Thornby had swept her into his arms and held her as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“Really, I can walk.” Isobel pushed against his broad chest, but to no avail. Her husband had her in his arms, and she was helpless to escape. And worst of all, the sensation was anything but unpleasant.
Was he holding her tighter?
Whatever he was doing, he was taking his time!
The moments seemed to pass with agonizing slowness as Lord Thornby carried her up the staircase.
Funny, but Isobel had never noticed there were so many steps, or that the hallway was so long, or that her husband smelled so alarmingly good.
Then, they were in the Blue Room, and he was carrying her to the huge, soft bed. Isobel’s pulse quickened as he gently lay her down. She half-feared, half-hoped he would join her there.
He stood straight, looking down into her eyes. Reaching out a hand, he lifted an errant curl from her forehead, letting his knuckles lightly brush against her skin. “I’ll send Martha up with something to help you sleep. And I bid you goodnight.”
Isobel stared helplessly as he bent down toward her. She closed her eyes and waited for his lips to claim hers.
He placed a chaste kiss on her
Isobel studied him with intelligent eyes. “And is that why you have chosen me for a bride, my lord?
Because thorns pricked you last time, and you’ve sworn to give up gardening?”
Beckett regarded her silently. It seemed his wife was more shrewd than he’d thought.
“I was never much for roses,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “They make me sneeze.”
Isobel closed the heavy book and rested it in her lap. Somehow, reading The Taming of the Shrew again had failed to lighten her mood as it usually did. Instead, it made her feel like Katharina, suddenly wed to a stranger—her world irrevocably changed. The play had a happy ending. Would her marriage turn out as well?
She had spent the afternoon and evening alone. After the wedding breakfast, Beckett had gone to complete the business of his inheritance with Lord Weston in tow. He had assured her that he would be home by six o’clock. It was now half-past nine.
Oh, she wanted to kick herself! Not even married a full day, and she was already acting like a shrew.
Her husband’s affairs were none of her concern. What did it matter when he came home, if at all? For if he did, it would bring up the question of the handling of the wedding night.
Lord Thornby had said the marriage was no more than a business transaction. But would he want a wedding night, with all the trimmings? What man wouldn’t?
Perhaps if she retired now to her chamber, he would be reluctant to disturb her when and if he came home. Yes, that was a good plan. And besides that, it was the only plan she could come up with at the moment.
Isobel rose from the library sofa and replaced the heavy volume on the shelf. Just as she opened the door into the hallway, another door opened, and accompanied by a draft of cool night air, her husband walked into the foyer. Isobel stared up into bright blue eyes, and felt a thrill move through her.
“Good evening, Isobel.” He took off his hat and passed it to Hartley, who quickly left them alone.
“I was just going up to bed,” she blurted.
“To bed. That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
“It does?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no. In this case, it doesn’t.”
“Why not?” He regarded her seriously, but Isobel could have sworn there was the hint of a smile on his lips.
“Because—I am very tired. And… I’m not feeling well at all. In fact, I am quite ill.” It was true. Her stomach churned dreadfully at the thought of a wedding night. Truly, she felt she must be turning green.
“Really? How unfortunate.”
“Yes. I am very, very ill indeed. In fact, I may faint.”
“Oh, then I must carry you up to your chamber then, before you do.”
“Oh, no! There is no need—ooh!”
In one swift motion, Lord Thornby had swept her into his arms and held her as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“Really, I can walk.” Isobel pushed against his broad chest, but to no avail. Her husband had her in his arms, and she was helpless to escape. And worst of all, the sensation was anything but unpleasant.
Was he holding her tighter?
Whatever he was doing, he was taking his time!
The moments seemed to pass with agonizing slowness as Lord Thornby carried her up the staircase.
Funny, but Isobel had never noticed there were so many steps, or that the hallway was so long, or that her husband smelled so alarmingly good.
Then, they were in the Blue Room, and he was carrying her to the huge, soft bed. Isobel’s pulse quickened as he gently lay her down. She half-feared, half-hoped he would join her there.
He stood straight, looking down into her eyes. Reaching out a hand, he lifted an errant curl from her forehead, letting his knuckles lightly brush against her skin. “I’ll send Martha up with something to help you sleep. And I bid you goodnight.”
Isobel stared helplessly as he bent down toward her. She closed her eyes and waited for his lips to claim hers.
He placed a chaste kiss on her
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