Free The Stranger I Married by Sylvia Day Page B

long-suffering sigh.
“You should take lessons from your brother, Bella. He is far more practical about such matters.”
“Most men are. Rhys would be no exception.”
“He has made a list of marriageable females and—”
“A list?” Isabel’s eyes flew open. “Now that is too much!”
“It’s perfect. Your father and I did the same, and look how content we are.”
Isabel held her tongue.
“Is it tenderness for Hargreaves that holds you back?” her mother asked softly.
“I wish it were. This would be so much simpler.” Then she could laugh off Gray’s sudden preoccupation with her, and deal with him the way she dealt with any overzealous swain— with a smile and a dash of humor. She found it very hard to smile and be humorous when her nipples ached and she was damp between the thighs.
“We rub along well, Gray and I. I like him, he’s great fun. I could live with great fun, Mother. For a lifetime. I could not live with a man who had wounded me in some fashion. I am softer than you, and bear scars from Pelham.”
“And you think finding him a mistress will make him less appealing? No, don’t answer that, darling. I know you find attached men unattractive. An admirable scruple.” Her Grace rose, and came to her, setting her slender arm around her daughter’s waist and looking over the notes. “No, no. Not Lady Cartland.” She gave a delicate shudder. “I would wish a pox on a man before I’d wish her on him.”
Isabel laughed. “Very well.” She dipped the quill and wrote a slash across the name. “Who then?”
“Wasn’t he with someone when he left? Besides Emily Sinclair?”
“Yes...” Isabel thought for a moment. “Ah, I remember. Anne Bonner, an actress.”
“Invite her. He didn’t break it off due to boredom, so perhaps there is still something there.”
A sharp pang of loneliness took Isabel off guard, and her hand paused above the parchment long enough to create an ink drop. “Thank you, Mother,” she said softly, grateful, for once, to have her parent with her.
“Of course, Bella.” The duchess leaned over, and pressed their cheeks together. “What are mothers for, if not to help their daughters find mistresses for their husbands?”
* * * * *
    Isabel lay on her bed, and tried to read, but nothing could hold her attention. It was late, just after ten, and she had stayed home as Gray had asked. The fact that he had not taken her up on his requested boon was his fault, and if he thought he could collect later, he was sorely mistaken. She would not be affording him the option later. Canceling her plans for one evening was enough of an imposition, especially when he didn’t even have the courtesy to show up.
    This was, of course, what she had hoped for, that he would find his pleasures elsewhere. This was exactly what she wanted. Everything was going well. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to hold a homecoming dinner after all. What a relief. She could set aside the planning, and direct her attentions to living her life as she had before her husband returned.
    She let out her breath, and considered going to sleep when she heard a sound from the boudoir. Surely it wasn’t excitement she felt, as she tossed aside the book. She was simply investigating. Anyone would if they heard strange noises in their suite.
Isabel ran into the next room, and threw open the hallway door. Then gaped.
    “Hello, Pel,” Gray said, standing in the gallery in only his rolled-up shirtsleeves and trousers. Bare feet, bare throat, and bare forearms. With his thick, dark hair damp from a recent bath.
    Dastardly.
“What do you want?” she grumbled, upset that he would come to her dressed, or undressed as the case may be, in that fashion.
He arched a brow, and lifted his arm, bringing a small basket up to her eye level. “Supper. You promised. You cannot withdraw now.”
She stepped back to let him in, and tried to hide her blush. Failing to see the obvious basket because she was ogling him was mortifying. “You