Eloping with the Princess (Brotherhood of the Sword #3)(22)

“Her ladyship is settled in her bedchamber, my lord,” the housekeeper said with a smile. “She’s right next to your room.”

He stopped himself before he inquired why she would put Isabel in that room. The adjoining chamber belonged to the viscountess. And Isabel was his wife now. This was their wedding night.

Wedding night. Damnation, he had not thought this through. He had no intention of touching his bride, especially after that kiss they’d shared at the end of the ceremony. Although it had been relatively chaste, it had certainly whetted his appetite. As had her nearness these last few days. He’d found her mere presence enough to arouse his senses.

Isabel was beautiful, exotic even, with her olive complexion and pale green eyes. She didn’t seem to realize she was pretty, and not in the feigned way that merely begged for compliments. Isabel seemed to truly not recognize her own beauty, which made him wonder precisely how cruel the other girls likely were to her at school. It had been his experience that jealousy tended to bring out hatefulness, primarily in women. More than likely they’d teased her about her darker complexion and her striking eyes.

He stopped outside the door that led to Isabel’s room. He supposed he should at the very least inform Isabel of his plan to return to London in the morning, after they’d rested and had a chance to clean up. They’d been in a carriage for the better part of three days already. Although he was accustomed to such a vigorous life, most people were not, and he knew she must be beyond exhausted. He certainly was.

He tapped lightly on her bedchamber door.

“Come in,” she said.

He opened the door and found her standing in a dressing gown.

“It’s not mine, but I found it in the armoire. I hope it is all right that I borrowed it,” she hurriedly said.

“What?”

“This.” She held out the fabric of the emerald-green dressing gown.

“Yes, of course. Whatever you need.” He’d been more struck by the sight of her bare feet.

Her chestnut hair hung loose and fell in a waterfall of dark chocolate down her back. Then the reality of the situation hit him with alarming clarity—she was waiting for him, waiting for their wedding night. Damnation, but she was beautiful. A beautiful and willing woman, his for the taking. His mouth went dry.

She gave him a shy smile, and his body reacted as if she’d rubbed up against him. This would be more difficult than he expected. Another reason for them to return to London immediately. There he could busy himself with work and forget the fact that he was married to the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes upon.

She opened her mouth as if to speak but said nothing. Her lips were perfect, full and begging for a kiss. He needed to get out of this room quickly. He cleared his throat and scanned the room, trying to look at anything but her. Think of anything save how much he wanted her right now. “I wanted you to know that tomorrow we’ll begin our return to London instead of staying here at Fenwick Manor. I know we’ve done little else but travel these last few days, and ordinarily we could rest here longer. But under the circumstances, I believe that the sooner everyone knows we are married, the sooner you shall be out of immediate danger,” he said.

She nodded.

“When we return, you’ll meet my family. I suspect my mother will want to plan some sort of party in our honor.” Normally he’d be opposed to such festivities, but the louder they announced Isabel’s nuptials, the better.

She bit down on her bottom lip. “Will they be angry?”

“Angry?”

“That we eloped? That you married me without them knowing me or anything about me?”

“No, they’ll be pleased.” He stopped himself before he reached out and touched her. Even a simple pat on the arm meant only to comfort could prove too tempting for him. “Do not fret, Isabel, my mother’s main fault is only that of loving too much. She is a kind woman.”

Isabel’s shoulders relaxed, and he wondered briefly what she had seen in her nineteen years to hold such fear.

“We shall leave in the morning.” He turned to go.

“Jason,” she said softly, her voice filled with unanswered questions.

He paused, turned back to face her. “Yes?”

Her eyes shone with expectancy, despite her exhaustion. And he hated the fact that he couldn’t be the husband she wanted him to be. Again, she bit down on her lip, then sighed. “I hope you sleep well.”

He bent slightly in a bow. “You as well. I know you must be exhausted.” And then he left. Without kissing her. Without touching her. Perhaps now that Lynford was enchanted with Lady Thornton, Jason could take up the mantle and be called the Priest.

…

A viscount’s wife. Somehow that seemed far scarier than discovering she was a long-lost princess. She stared at the closed door and tried to put a name to what she was feeling. Surprise and relief were certainly there, as she’d been told that men could not deny a willing woman, and she’d had no notion of truly what to expect. But something else was there, mingling with those thoughts, something that felt remarkably like disappointment.

What could she possibly be disappointed about? She’d been saved an evening of unknowns and instead gifted one of rest. She yawned in response, then turned and eyed the large bed that took up most of the room. Whether or not it made any sense, she was disappointed. She blamed the other couple who married before her and Jason. They’d left a whiff of romance in the air of the small blacksmith’s shop. Certainly, that was what had made the kiss she and Jason shared seem more meaningful than it had obviously been.