tiredness.
Could it be time for supper already?
When Madame de Florette and her girls finally took their leave, Isobel found herself alone in the grand townhouse. It seemed that her husband-to-be and his friend Lord Weston had gone to their club for the evening and were not expected to return for some hours. Isobel took her supper alone, and then retired early, exhausted from the day’s preparations.
Isobel was wakened and helped to dress by Martha, who, though she undoubtedly knew how to dress a turkey, proved to be all thumbs with a woman and a wedding gown. Still, together Martha and Isobel managed to secure all the buttons and affix the veil to her hair with some semblance of style.
As Isobel descended the townhouse staircase, Lord Thornby waited for her at the bottom. He leaned against the banister with one foot crossed over the other, looking for all the world as if he were about to go and play at cards. He was impeccably dressed, with his dark blue superfine coat making his eyes glow like sapphires.
Suddenly, her knees seemed made of apple jelly.
As Isobel placed her hand in his, she realized that as his bride, she would have to do whatever this man wanted. Wasn’t that what all women had to do when they married? Why should her marriage be any different?
If he wanted to exercise his rights as a husband, she would have to surrender. Still, whatever Lord Thornby would do to her couldn’t possibly be as vile as being touched by Sir Harry.
She struggled to shut the images from her mind. Her skin crawled as she felt Sir Harry’s hard hands pulling at her bodice, roughly spreading themselves over her body like a greedy horse-buyer.
Well, she would be safe now. No matter if she’d sold herself into a marriage of convenience for protection. Everything had its price.
The carriage ride to the little church in Car-berry Lane took only fifteen minutes, and it seemed to take less time than that for Lord Beckett Thornby to slip a ring onto her finger and for the rector to pronounce them man and wife.
Isobel looked up at Beckett’s face as he leaned down to kiss her, but her eyes closed as his lips touched hers. She’d been quite unprepared for the warmth of her husband’s mouth, for the heady, male scent of his skin, and for the thrill that shot down her spine and the backs of her legs to the tips of her toes.
If her knees had felt like apple jelly before, they were now no more substantial than clotted cream.
He broke the kiss and she looked up into fathomless eyes. Her husband smiled down at her.
The rector spoke again, though what it was exactly that he said, Isobel didn’t quite know. She was too busy staring at the man she had just bound herself to for life, as his friend Lord Weston shook his hand and gave him a beaming smile.
This was her husband….
As they descended the church steps, a beautiful woman with rich red hair walked toward the bridal party. The woman’s dark green eyes flashed up at her. An unbridled hostility glowed there—and seemed to be directed at Isobel.
Who was this woman? And what did she want with them on their wedding day?
“So, Beckett,” the flame-haired woman spat. “This is the woman you dared to marry instead of me.”
Chapter Six
Beckett kept his expression impassive. It would do no good to give Cordelia any satisfaction. This was his wedding day. And it might have been hers, too, if she’d been interested in more than just his inheritance. It stung to think of how blind he’d been.
“Miss Haversham. You’re looking well,” he said, fighting to sound gracious.
“I wish I could say the same for you, Beckett. You seem a trifle out of sorts. Of course, the stress of such hasty wedding plans would give anyone a turn, wouldn’t it?”
“Strange how you found out about them so quickly, considering I made them only yesterday.”
Cordelia smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Yes. Thankfully, your mother called upon me and told me of this ridiculous notion.
Could it be time for supper already?
When Madame de Florette and her girls finally took their leave, Isobel found herself alone in the grand townhouse. It seemed that her husband-to-be and his friend Lord Weston had gone to their club for the evening and were not expected to return for some hours. Isobel took her supper alone, and then retired early, exhausted from the day’s preparations.
Isobel was wakened and helped to dress by Martha, who, though she undoubtedly knew how to dress a turkey, proved to be all thumbs with a woman and a wedding gown. Still, together Martha and Isobel managed to secure all the buttons and affix the veil to her hair with some semblance of style.
As Isobel descended the townhouse staircase, Lord Thornby waited for her at the bottom. He leaned against the banister with one foot crossed over the other, looking for all the world as if he were about to go and play at cards. He was impeccably dressed, with his dark blue superfine coat making his eyes glow like sapphires.
Suddenly, her knees seemed made of apple jelly.
As Isobel placed her hand in his, she realized that as his bride, she would have to do whatever this man wanted. Wasn’t that what all women had to do when they married? Why should her marriage be any different?
If he wanted to exercise his rights as a husband, she would have to surrender. Still, whatever Lord Thornby would do to her couldn’t possibly be as vile as being touched by Sir Harry.
She struggled to shut the images from her mind. Her skin crawled as she felt Sir Harry’s hard hands pulling at her bodice, roughly spreading themselves over her body like a greedy horse-buyer.
Well, she would be safe now. No matter if she’d sold herself into a marriage of convenience for protection. Everything had its price.
The carriage ride to the little church in Car-berry Lane took only fifteen minutes, and it seemed to take less time than that for Lord Beckett Thornby to slip a ring onto her finger and for the rector to pronounce them man and wife.
Isobel looked up at Beckett’s face as he leaned down to kiss her, but her eyes closed as his lips touched hers. She’d been quite unprepared for the warmth of her husband’s mouth, for the heady, male scent of his skin, and for the thrill that shot down her spine and the backs of her legs to the tips of her toes.
If her knees had felt like apple jelly before, they were now no more substantial than clotted cream.
He broke the kiss and she looked up into fathomless eyes. Her husband smiled down at her.
The rector spoke again, though what it was exactly that he said, Isobel didn’t quite know. She was too busy staring at the man she had just bound herself to for life, as his friend Lord Weston shook his hand and gave him a beaming smile.
This was her husband….
As they descended the church steps, a beautiful woman with rich red hair walked toward the bridal party. The woman’s dark green eyes flashed up at her. An unbridled hostility glowed there—and seemed to be directed at Isobel.
Who was this woman? And what did she want with them on their wedding day?
“So, Beckett,” the flame-haired woman spat. “This is the woman you dared to marry instead of me.”
Chapter Six
Beckett kept his expression impassive. It would do no good to give Cordelia any satisfaction. This was his wedding day. And it might have been hers, too, if she’d been interested in more than just his inheritance. It stung to think of how blind he’d been.
“Miss Haversham. You’re looking well,” he said, fighting to sound gracious.
“I wish I could say the same for you, Beckett. You seem a trifle out of sorts. Of course, the stress of such hasty wedding plans would give anyone a turn, wouldn’t it?”
“Strange how you found out about them so quickly, considering I made them only yesterday.”
Cordelia smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Yes. Thankfully, your mother called upon me and told me of this ridiculous notion.
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