her.
The breakfast parlor door opened.
Snow. Isabelle folded the letter and hid it in her lap. She could not disgrace
herself by showing him the letter and letting him read that filth. She tried to
compose her features while her husband sat down. Isabelle raised her cup of
chocolate with a hand that trembled slightly.
"Good morning, my love."
Snow seated himself. He took a sip
of ale and selected a letter from the stack of correspondence beside his plate.
He did not indicate by word or look any of the events of the night before. They
might never have happened.
Isabelle lifted a slice of buttered
toast to her lips.
"What are your plans for
today?"
Isabelle started at her husband's
questions and dropped her toast on the plate. She moistened her lips.
Snow raised a brow at her silence.
"I... I'm going to Kew Gardens
to see the rose display. Then I have a final fitting at the modiste for
the gown she designed for our reception.
"Excellent. I look forward to
having this affair over and done with. These social events are tedious
things."
Isabelle forced a smile and sipped
her chocolate. What was she going to do?
"Isabelle, are you
unwell?"
"I am fine."
He stared at her for a moment.
"You are very pale."
She took a deep breath, determined
to master herself. She would deal with this new threat, she must.
"I didn't sleep very
well." She motioned for another cup of chocolate.
To her surprise, the merest hint of
color rose along Snow's cheekbone. He was ashamed of needing her, of showing
simple, human emotion. The thought depressed her. Why had she imagined this
marriage would be any different? And how could she tell him of this new threat?
Isabelle might have confided in the man last night, the one who'd needed her
comfort so desperately. This aloof aristocrat, who'd thrown her out of bed, and
now sat eating his breakfast without a care, no, she could never confide in
that man. He'd probably drive her back to her brother's house himself, if he
didn't throw her into the street first. Her throat constricted. Isabelle tucked
the letter into her sleeve and rose, her napkin crushed in one hand
"If you will excuse me, my
lord."
He nodded, his gaze intense.
"Mr. Trent will wait upon you
later today to discuss the reception."
"Of course." She had to
get out of the house. She would think about this new threat later. Figure out
some way to keep going, to keep this from ruining her marriage. Would Charlie
never let her go, even in death?
*
* * * *
Snow watched his wife leave the
table. She hadn't slept well. How could she, with her sorry excuse for a
husband calling out in his sleep like some madman fit only for Bedlam. And then
he'd treated her like a dog that displeased him, by kicking her out of his bed.
That was not the kind of husband he had promised her.
He was a mess. First, Isabelle had
entwined herself into his life, and now she was making inroads on his heart.
He'd thought that organ nigh impenetrable. She was like a damned drop of water,
dripping ceaselessly on the frozen lump, until it started to melt.
Snow threw down his napkin. He was
reduced to spying on his wife in the bath to assuage his near constant desire
for her. He had to find a way, for both their sakes, to protect and care for
Isabelle, without falling in love with her. That could only lead to disaster.
But every smile, every sigh as he made love to her, made more inroads into his
yearning heart.
Christ, he was getting maudlin
again. He must regain the upper hand, and exercise his authority as her
husband, as he had promised her. He must master himself, and then, he would
master his wife.
*
* * * *
"Hail to the groom!"
Leighton Frost lifted a bumper of brandy in a toast.
Snow threw himself into a chair
opposite. He'd noticed the glances and smiles from the other club members when
he'd walked in. The damned reception was in a couple of days, and then things
could return to normal.
"Discord in paradise?"
Frost had the tongue of an adder, but