Free The Marriage Bargain by Michelle McMaster Page A

We are husband and wife now, Isobel. You are the Viscountess Thornby and the countess of Ravenwood. I insist that you call me by my Christian name.”
    “Yes, my—Beckett,” she replied.
    “Yes, my Beckett!” He laughed. “Very well, my Isobel.”
    She couldn’t help but laugh with him.
    “Well, I am glad that your health has improved since last night. Too much excitement, I expect. You had a very full day, as did I. Alfred took me to White’s after I officially became Lord Ravenwood. We had supper, played at cards, and found I had all manner of new friends crawling out of the woodwork to congratulate me. Comes with being a wealthy earl, I suppose, because none of them was the least concerned with me when I was only an impoverished viscount. What did you do, Isobel?”
    “Oh, after supper I retired to the library and read Mr. Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew.”
    “The Taming of the Shrew? Is there something I should know about, Isobel? Am I to play Petruchio to your Katharina?” He pursued. “Or Lucentio to your Bianca?”
    She looked up at him. What game was he playing with her? “I cannot say, my lord, for those that you mention are both pairs of lovers. And as you have said, ours is a marriage only of convenience.”
    He regarded her for a moment, then stepped closer to her, as his penetrating blue eyes held her gaze.

    “You are right, of course. That is what we both wanted. Is it not?”
    “Yes. It is what we agreed upon.”
    “So it is, Isobel. So it is.” Beckett’s voice seemed to hold a touch of regret as he looked away. “I shall be off to the solicitors’ again this afternoon. Don’t wait up for me, hmm?”
    Isobel watched him walk across the lawn to the doorway. He glanced back over his shoulder just as he went inside, and Isobel could have sworn she’d seen a sorrowful expression on his face.
    Slowly, she packed up her drawing leads and papers, trying to quiet the thudding of her heart. She wanted nothing more than to retire to her room where she could be alone.
    Doubts swirled in her head, as dark and brittle as a whirlwind of autumn leaves.
    Who was this man that she’d married so hastily? He seemed such a contradiction—one day insisting that he wanted a marriage of convenience, and the next, teasing her about lovers and wedding nights.
    But as strange as this marriage was, it was necessary for her survival. She would make sense of it somehow. If Katharina and Petruchio could make their marriage work, then so could she and Beckett.
    Surely, most of the women in London would trade their best bonnet for a true marriage with a man who was so attractive. And he was an earl, to boot. A very wealthy earl.
    As she entered her room, Isobel found herself remembering the softness of Beckett’s lips on hers yesterday in the church, and then last night so chastely upon her forehead. If her husband meant to honor their agreement, she probably had tasted her first and last real kiss yesterday in front of the rector.
    She sighed and plopped herself down on the bed, lying upon her back and staring up at the ceiling.
    But did he intend to honor their arrangement? His words in the garden had been most puzzling. She could have sworn he’d been flirting with her.
    If Beckett decided he wanted her in his bed, he should know she would have no right to refuse him. And what was more worrisome, she knew she would have no intention of doing so.

Chapter Seven
    Beckett stood in front of the mirror and arranged his ivory silk neck cloth. Unfortunately, Hartley’s talents in this regard were sorely lacking, and Beckett himself had been forced to learn how to tie a proper knot or risk looking like an uncultured oaf. He pulled on the bow to make it puff. There. Much better.
    Tonight he and his wife were making their first public appearance since their wedding two days ago. By all accounts, their attendance at the Whitcomb Ball was the talk of London. It seemed everyone wanted a glimpse of the new earl and