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Authors: Michelle McMaster
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forehead.
She opened her eyes to see him quietly leaving the room, and realized there was a knot forming in her heart. He was leaving her alone for the night. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted?
But as Isobel lay there alone on the big, empty bed, she realized that it wasn’t what she’d wanted at all.
“Good morning, Hartley.” Beckett poured himself a cup of hot coffee and took a sip. “Have you seen my wife about? I was told she came down before me.”
“Lady Ravenwood is in the garden, my lord.”
“And how did she seem? Did she look to be in good health this morning?”
“She seemed in excellent health, my lord.”
Beckett popped a strawberry in his mouth. “Good. I am afraid the excitement of yesterday’s events made her somewhat ill.”
Hartley nodded sagely. “It is often the case with new wives, my lord. These wedding-day illnesses are usually cured the next day—or night.”
Beckett chuckled. “I’m sure you’re right, Hartley. I’ll just go and bring her some breakfast, then.” He took a linen napkin and placed a handful of strawberries in it, bundling it up and heading down the hallway.
He opened the French doors and walked out into the bright morning. Quickly, he spied her. She was facing away from him, but he could see her profile in the warm yellow light.
She looked like an angel.
Enthralled, he watched as the sunlight played upon her golden curls, and made them glint as if they were crowned with fairy dust.
Gadzooks, but she was beautiful.
Where Cordelia’s beauty was almost blinding, Isobel’s was soft as a rose petal. Cordelia’s eyes burned with heat, but Isobel’s glowed with warmth, like the play of firelight through a whiskey glass. Where Cordelia was statuesque and voluptuous, Isobel was dainty and petite. And while Cordelia’s voice was deep and throaty, Isobel’s was soft and sweet. Beckett watched her as she sketched. She seemed so innocent, so unaware of her own loveliness. The realization stirred something within him.
Damn it! He didn’t have time for such nonsense. He would not start mooning over this woman like a bloody schoolboy! Wasn’t that why he’d married Isobel? To keep things simple?
That was why he’d been glad she had feigned illness last night. For he had been so tempted to take her to his bed and touch again the perfection of her body; it had haunted him since the night he’d found her. But he’d wanted to do much more than touch her. He’d wanted to pull her close against his own naked form, and feel her warm skin next to him, her lips on his, and feel her legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust himself into her.
Theirs was the perfect marriage: one of convenience. He would not let his base needs play havoc with his plans. She would want to be gone within a few weeks, anyway. It would be no use discovering any charms of Isobel’s that might reduce him again to a blithering idiot. He had played that role once for Cordelia, and found it quite tiresome.
Certainly, he would be polite, and treat Isobel with the utmost respect. He hoped they would even become friends.
And, he thought cynically, friends it would have to be. No one would be allowed to sink his or her claws into him except his parrot.
Isobel sat on the marble bench beside the little pond and watched the fish swim up to the surface, then flip their tails as they headed back down toward the dark, soft bottom. This place was not unlike her own garden at home, except it was not as grand.
She had spent another restless night filled with terrible dreams of Sir Harry and Hampton Park. She’d awakened to find her nightdress soaked through, her hands shaking in terror. Seeking to banish the fears of the night, Isobel had come out to the garden with her pencils and paper to sketch.
A bee buzzed past her on its way to some sweet-smelling roses. She watched the insect fly into the center of a delicate pink blossom, and gather its nectar to bring back to the hive.
She thought of
She opened her eyes to see him quietly leaving the room, and realized there was a knot forming in her heart. He was leaving her alone for the night. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted?
But as Isobel lay there alone on the big, empty bed, she realized that it wasn’t what she’d wanted at all.
“Good morning, Hartley.” Beckett poured himself a cup of hot coffee and took a sip. “Have you seen my wife about? I was told she came down before me.”
“Lady Ravenwood is in the garden, my lord.”
“And how did she seem? Did she look to be in good health this morning?”
“She seemed in excellent health, my lord.”
Beckett popped a strawberry in his mouth. “Good. I am afraid the excitement of yesterday’s events made her somewhat ill.”
Hartley nodded sagely. “It is often the case with new wives, my lord. These wedding-day illnesses are usually cured the next day—or night.”
Beckett chuckled. “I’m sure you’re right, Hartley. I’ll just go and bring her some breakfast, then.” He took a linen napkin and placed a handful of strawberries in it, bundling it up and heading down the hallway.
He opened the French doors and walked out into the bright morning. Quickly, he spied her. She was facing away from him, but he could see her profile in the warm yellow light.
She looked like an angel.
Enthralled, he watched as the sunlight played upon her golden curls, and made them glint as if they were crowned with fairy dust.
Gadzooks, but she was beautiful.
Where Cordelia’s beauty was almost blinding, Isobel’s was soft as a rose petal. Cordelia’s eyes burned with heat, but Isobel’s glowed with warmth, like the play of firelight through a whiskey glass. Where Cordelia was statuesque and voluptuous, Isobel was dainty and petite. And while Cordelia’s voice was deep and throaty, Isobel’s was soft and sweet. Beckett watched her as she sketched. She seemed so innocent, so unaware of her own loveliness. The realization stirred something within him.
Damn it! He didn’t have time for such nonsense. He would not start mooning over this woman like a bloody schoolboy! Wasn’t that why he’d married Isobel? To keep things simple?
That was why he’d been glad she had feigned illness last night. For he had been so tempted to take her to his bed and touch again the perfection of her body; it had haunted him since the night he’d found her. But he’d wanted to do much more than touch her. He’d wanted to pull her close against his own naked form, and feel her warm skin next to him, her lips on his, and feel her legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust himself into her.
Theirs was the perfect marriage: one of convenience. He would not let his base needs play havoc with his plans. She would want to be gone within a few weeks, anyway. It would be no use discovering any charms of Isobel’s that might reduce him again to a blithering idiot. He had played that role once for Cordelia, and found it quite tiresome.
Certainly, he would be polite, and treat Isobel with the utmost respect. He hoped they would even become friends.
And, he thought cynically, friends it would have to be. No one would be allowed to sink his or her claws into him except his parrot.
Isobel sat on the marble bench beside the little pond and watched the fish swim up to the surface, then flip their tails as they headed back down toward the dark, soft bottom. This place was not unlike her own garden at home, except it was not as grand.
She had spent another restless night filled with terrible dreams of Sir Harry and Hampton Park. She’d awakened to find her nightdress soaked through, her hands shaking in terror. Seeking to banish the fears of the night, Isobel had come out to the garden with her pencils and paper to sketch.
A bee buzzed past her on its way to some sweet-smelling roses. She watched the insect fly into the center of a delicate pink blossom, and gather its nectar to bring back to the hive.
She thought of
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