Free The Marriage Bargain by Michelle McMaster

Beckett’s talk of roses yesterday in the coach. There were indeed many sharp, wicked-looking thorns adorning the flower’s stem, a potent protection from anyone trying to possess its delicate beauty.
    The confrontation with Cordelia Haversham had been unsettling. Isobel knew she had no reason to be jealous of Beckett’s previous fiancée. After all, this marriage was purely a business arrangement. Hadn’t last night’s events, or lack thereof, proven that? Yet she couldn’t help but be curious about her husband’s former love. From what she’d seen, the woman was as spoiled as a wicked child. And though extremely beautiful, her personality was as pleasant as ants at a picnic.
    She had been trying to sketch all morning, but the face that flashed before her eyes clouded her vision.
    Dark, glittering eyes stared up at her from the blank paper and mocked her.
    Isobel tried to concentrate on her view of the pink rose and the yellow-striped bee that flew happily around it. Forcing her hand to the paper, she slowly sketched the rose on the blank sheet in front of her.
    As the picture took shape, the fluid lines and shadows drew her problems into the folds of the petals. Her artwork had always soothed her like a gentle embrace.
    Taking a new sheet of paper, Isobel thought of Cordelia, of her rich red hair, porcelain complexion and bright green eyes. Though Isobel had no love for the woman, she would be a superb subject.
    She moved the lead quickly this time, her soft lines becoming Cordelia’s cheekbone, her regal nose, her coy eyes. Isobel worked methodically, the action blotting out the whirlwind in her mind. Using her fingertip, she smudged some lines to make them softer. Isobel looked down at Cordelia’s likeness with a bit of shock.
    Revealed were the woman’s calculating eyes and cold, thin smile. She was beautiful, yes, but had the cold beauty of a marble statue whose eyes appeared sightless, whose mouth would remain hard and frozen for eternity.
    “I didn’t know you were an artist,” a voice said from behind her, breaking the silence of the garden.
    Isobel looked up to see her husband’s face shaded by the branches of the oak tree. She felt a thrill of surprise, then self-consciousness. Usually, she didn’t show her drawings to anyone. Let alone the subject’s former love.

    “May I?” Beckett asked, his hand outstretched.
    Reluctantly, Isobel gave him the drawing. “I hope it doesn’t offend you, my lord.”
    “Why would it offend me? It is merely a piece of paper.” Beckett’s voice was unreadable, but she heard something dangerous in it. Abruptly, he held the picture toward Isobel. “You’ve captured her, my dear.”
    She retrieved it and stared at him for a moment, taking in his relaxed attire. The white shirt he wore was not buttoned to the top, and showed the soft, cinnamon-colored hair of his chest.
    She had never been this close to a man who wasn’t fully dressed before. No—she corrected herself.
    There had been that morning in his bedchamber. Of course, she had been unconscious for most of that.
    He’d been entirely without his shirt, but she’d been so concerned with her own state of undress that she hadn’t really looked at him very closely.
    But this was outside. In daytime. She could see the texture of his skin in the sunlight. Isobel wanted to shake the thoughts from her head. She shouldn’t be thinking about his skin, she should be thinking about her own. Isobel forced her eyes back to his roguish expression and took a deep breath.
    A faint hint of his cologne drifted toward Isobel on the soft breeze, tantalizing her senses just as it had done yesterday when he’d held her close and carried her upstairs.
    “You are looking well this morning, Isobel. I trust you slept well last night.”
    “Yes, my lord. I slept quite well.” It was a lie. She hadn’t slept well, at all.
    He made a face, waving his hand in annoyance. “And let us dispense with you calling me ‘my lord.’