Taming His Scandalous Countess by Viola Morne Read Free Book Online

blinked, her lovely blue eyes
still hazy with sleep.
    "I told you not to come here.
When I want to be pleasured, I will visit you. Now get out." He pushed her
with his foot.
    "I'm sorry, I'm so
sorry." She struggled to sit up. "You were dreaming, and I wanted to
help."
    "I don't need your help. If
you won't go, then I will." Snow threw back the bedclothes and stalked
into his dressing room. He heard her stumble off the high bed and run to her
own room. His shoulders slumped in relief and despair. He should not have
married her.
    *
* * * *
    Isabelle slammed the door behind
her. Ungrateful...bastard . She'd gone to him as his wife, to comfort him
in his anguish. She'd slept as his feet, like a dog. And then he'd treated her
like one. Just when she thought they might be growing closer. She had even held
Snow's hand while he slept. It clearly meant nothing to him. Isabelle was
merely a convenience, a sanctified receptacle for his lust.
    She walked over to the window and
braced her fingers on the sill. Her room overlooked the back garden. It was
beautiful: tended and cultivated, until every plant and shrub bloomed with
life. Isabelle took a deep breath. How could she expect her marriage to be any
different? She was barely acquainted with her husband. It would take time to
know him. And it would take effort to create the marriage she wanted, one where
both she and her husband respected each other.
    Snow had been so vulnerable last
night. She'd seen his suffering and wanted to help him. That was only natural.
Blessedly normal, in fact. She was his wife. And Snow was her husband. She
hadn't imagined his fear and sorrow. Her formidable husband, so adept at
guarding his heart, had feelings. Deep feelings, which haunted him. At least
Snow knew how to feel. But who was Angeline, and where was she now?
    Her maid knocked softly at the door
and then entered with a tea tray.
    "Good morning, my lady."
    Isabelle managed a smile. There,
she could do this. She just needed to give her husband time, time to adjust to
being married. To having someone care about him.
    "Shall I draw your bath, my
lady?"
    "Thank you, Nan. And would you
lay out a walking dress? I plan to visit Kew Gardens this morning."
    The tea was strong and hot, just as
she liked it. Her husband's household, at least, had embraced her. She took
another fortifying sip. There. She wouldn't give up on her marriage, or on her
husband.
    Her bath was exactly the right
temperature, fragrant with lavender. Isabelle pulled off her night rail and
slid into the water. She'd made do with a metal tub in front of the fire at
Larkspur Hall. A far cry from having her own luxurious bathroom. Isabelle
reached for the hand-milled soap Snow had imported for her from Paris. She
lifted an arm, soaping down its wet length. She heard the door catch and saw it
open, just a crack. Her maid checking on her?  Or her husband?
    Isabelle suppressed a smile and
raised her leg, resting her ankle on the edge of the tub. She smoothed the soap
down her leg, her fingers lingering on her skin. She thought she heard a quick
intake of breath. She rinsed off her leg, put it back in the water and raised
the other one, repeating the same process. She sat up and soaped her breasts,
running her hands over them slowly and plucking at her nipples. The door opened
a little wider and she slid back under the water. Let him suffer.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Dear Countess Snow,
    How lovely that title must sound
to you. After all, how could a mere baronet compete with an earl? Though why
two men of property would choose to wed a trollop like you exceeds all bounds
of common sense. Tell me, what does your new husband prefer, your loose morals
or your tight cunt?
    You'll be hearing from me again,
Countess.
     
    Isabelle let the letter fall from
numb fingers. It was unsigned. She turned it over. Her title and direction were
printed in block letters. Anyone could have written it, but who, and to what
purpose? The ugliness of it sickened