Flaming June Read online

  She smiled, a little laugh escaping her lips as she saw the wonder with which he stared at her.

  “Do it again, Isabella,” he said, the words little more than a whisper.

  A strange, fluttering sensation filled her chest, anticipation as she leaned towards him again. She pressed her lips against his, a little firmer, for a moment longer, before moving away again. She heard him sigh as she lay down again. The baby made sitting up awkward and she lay against the pillow Henry had brought for her with relief.

  He stared down at her, the desire to continue this new delight shinning in his eyes.

  “Kiss me again.” There was a rougher note to his voice now that Isabella couldn’t ignore. She was playing with fire and she knew it. Denying him was impossible, though, she wanted to kiss him. Isabella shook her head, a teasing smile at her lips.

  “No, Henry,” she said, seeing the disappointment cloud his eyes. “You kiss me this time.”

  The smile that curved over his lips was new to her, a masculine smile, just a little smug. He leaned forward, and Isabella squealed as icy drops of water fell from his hair.

  “Ugh, not until you’re dry,” she said, rubbing her bare arms as she shivered.

  Henry huffed, impatient now, and grabbed his shirt, rubbing it over his hair with vigour as Isabella snorted at his haste. She turned on her side to watch him, moving the pillow to rest under her stomach. When he was dry, he came to her, laying at her side. She half expected him to grab for her, to act on the excitement she saw in his eyes, but he didn’t. Instead, he reached out, touching her face with his hand, tracing the line of her jaw, stroking her cheek.

  “You make my heart hurt,” he said, his eyes serious.

  Isabella frowned, her mouth opening in shock, not understanding what he meant. “Why?” she asked, worried that she’d done something wrong.

  Henry shook his head, looking puzzled. “I don’t know,” he said, a crooked smile at his lips. “But when I’m with you, I … I want to touch you, I want … I want to always be with you and the feeling fills me up. It’s like I …”

  Isabella sucked in a breath, blinking back tears. She couldn’t hear any more for fear of crying. “Kiss me,” she said.

  He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers. Isabella closed her eyes and he didn’t move away, but continued to brush his lips against hers, light, caressing kisses that lit a desire for him a woman in her condition had no right to. The hated memory of Viscount Treedle forcing his tongue into her mouth came back to her and she stiffened for a moment. Henry retreated at once, concern in his eyes.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered, needing him to push back the horrid picture in her mind and replace it with something new, something rare and wonderful. Isabella reached out, daring to place her hand on his chest. His skin felt warm now, silky beneath her touch, and the urge to explore him became hard to resist. Her palms moved over taut muscle, the ridges of his abdomen, her fingers tangling in the coarse hair at his chest which had so intrigued her. Henry’s eyes were dark, but still they shone with warmth, with love for her.

  That he loved her was something she could not think about yet. It was too overwhelming, too frightening. Instead, Isabella gave herself up to the moment. She opened her mouth a little and Henry hesitated for a moment before she felt the tentative touch of his tongue against her lips. She sighed, pressing her lips against his again, encouraging him. Their tongues met, the touch making her shiver with longing, and Henry grew bolder. His tongue tangled with hers, warm silk, caressing and gentle. The difference between his touch, so full of care for her, and that of the cruel viscount could not have been more different.

  He drew back, studying her, and Isabella blinked back tears.

  “I wish the baby was yours, Henry,” she said, the words broken as the truth hit her. The idea would have horrified her once, but now she could think of nothing she wished for more. He deserved more than this, a ruined woman and a bastard child. A tear slid down her cheek and she looked away from him, but Henry took her face in her hands, forcing her to look at him as she’d done to him before now.

  He wiped the tear away with his thumb. “It is mine, Isabella. You’re both mine now.”

  She gave a sob and Henry moved towards her, his arms pulling her closer, and she rested her head on his chest, hearing the reassuring thud of his heart. They stayed like that for a long time, with Henry stroking her hair, comforting her as no one had ever done before. She could not remember being held with such care, being petted and kissed with such tender affection, not even as a child.

  “What was it like?”

  Isabella sucked in a breath, hoping she’d misunderstood his question.

  “What was what like?” she asked, praying he’d say something else.

  He shifted onto his side, moving her so that her head rested on his arm now and he could see her eyes.

  “When …” He hesitated and laid his large hand upon her stomach. “When you made the baby. What was it like?”

  Isabella closed her eyes against the memories that rose again. Treedle with his impatience and his ugly words, hands that grabbed and grasped and pinched. She shook her head, swallowing hard as her emotions threatened to spiral out of control.

  Henry held her tighter, steadying her, and she dared to look at him, finding nothing but concern in his eyes.

  “You didn’t like it?”

  She shook her head, swallowing hard to stop the tears that threatened.

  “He … he wasn’t kind to you?” There was a darker thread to his voice now, though she could see it wasn’t aimed at her.

  Isabella took a deep breath and shook her head. “No. He wasn’t like you,” she said, almost laughing at the understatement in the words. “He wasn’t kind like you. I didn’t like it at all.”

  “Then why …” He began and then closed his mouth, his jaw taut. Leaning in, he kissed her again and lay his head down.

  “Because I felt I had to,” Isabella replied to his unspoken question. It touched her that he hadn’t asked, but she needed him to know. “My mother told me my only purpose in life was to marry well, to take the family into the higher reaches of the ton. My mother groomed me my whole life to marry the Marquess of Winterbourne.”

  Henry’s head came up then, his dark eyes flashing with anger. “Was it …”

  “No!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “No, it isn’t his child. He married someone else, you see.” Isabella sighed, reaching out and stroking his face. The urge to touch him seemed to grow stronger with each moment. “She was so angry with me,” she said, the words resigned now. It was like talking about a nightmare. One that had frightened her and would always linger in her mind, but that was no longer real life. “Mother said the only way to make amends was to ensure I caught Vi … another title,” she amended. She’d seen the fury in Henry’s eyes, there was no need to give him a name to focus it on. “She said I had to do whatever it took to get him to marry him.”

  Isabella blinked, trying to stop the tears that gathered as she remembered her mother’s rants. Isabella was useless, worthless, ugly, and pathetic. It was little wonder no man of worth wanted her.

  “He said he would marry me if … if …”

  She broke down, then, and Henry held her while she wept, letting go of all the pain and the hurt and the hatred, the humiliation. Once the tumult of her emotions subsided, she looked up, wondering what to expect. Would he be disgusted that she’d given herself to a man she didn’t even like, let alone love?

  There was no judgement in his eyes, only sadness for her.

  “You don’t need to hear her words anymore,” he said, his voice as strong as the arms that held her, reassuring. “I married you, you belong here, with me.” He stroked her hair, her face, his touch gentle. “She didn’t understand what was true. A woman like that lives for lies, she wears masks and lives on the surface. There is nothing beneath the façade, Isabella.” He moved closer, pressing his lips to hers, stealing her breath and her heart. �
��When she dies, no one will mourn her, she’ll leave no mark on this world because there was no weight to her, no depth to her heart. Not like you.”

  Isabella stared at him, astonished. Henry rarely spoke, and certainly not at any length, but when he did, he was far wiser than anyone she had ever known. She wrapped her arms about his neck and held him tight, and he held her as close as she needed him to.

  Chapter 13

  “Wherein Isabella discovers an unlikely ally.”

  The next morning, Jack hurried into Isabella’s parlour, his face one of shock.

  “Whatever is the matter?” she demanded, casting her book aside as fear clutched at her heart. “Where’s Henry?”

  Jack held his hand out to calm her. “Henry’s fine, Isabella, he’s gone out to paint like he told you.”

  Isabella let go of the breath she was holding. It was the first time Henry had been out without her in months, but she hadn’t slept well and had woken late. When she’d come downstairs, her limbs felt too weary to walk the gardens. Making it to the parlour had seemed a monumental effort. Henry had been unhappy about leaving her behind and would have stayed. He was preparing for a new drawing, though, and she knew he was excited to begin, so had persuaded him to go out alone. She’d spent the last hour regretting it, however, as she now felt restless, and she missed Henry more than she cared to admit.

  “The Marchioness Winterbourne is here.”

  Isabella gaped at Jack and then gave a startled laugh. “Don’t be silly,” she retorted, thinking such a thing so unlikely that it had to be wrong.

  “I’m not being silly in the least,” he hissed, looking like he might be sick, he was so nervous. “I’ve left the blasted woman waiting on the doorstep.”

  “Oh, Jack!” Isabella exclaimed in horror. She could just imagine the gossip that would get around now after such impolite treatment. No doubt the woman wanted what gossip she could garner about the scandalous Lady Isabella and her marriage to the Bear of Barcham Wood. Isabella sucked in a breath of fury. She’d give them something to damn well talk about, and Belinda Winterbourne was a fine one to pass judgement. Everyone knew she’d trapped the marquess into marriage.

  Isabella sailed out of the parlour, chin up, ready to battle and face down anyone who would sneer at either her or Henry. “You’d best make tea and bring the cakes I made yesterday,” she called over her shoulder.

  Opening the door, Lady Winterbourne confronted her. The woman she’d met when she’d stayed at Longwold one Christmas. Isabella’s mother had rejoiced at the invitation. It was her daughter’s chance to snare the Marquess of Winterbourne. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  The woman on the doorstep was older than Isabella, blonde and blue-eyed. Once upon a time, Isabella had sneered and believed herself far more beautiful. Then Belinda had captured the marquess where Isabella had failed. That she had trapped him was common knowledge. That the man now adored her was hard to miss if you’d ever seen them together.

  “Good Morning, Lady Isabella,” the woman said, smiling at her. “I hope you will forgive me calling unannounced?”

  Isabella gave a taut nod. “Of course,” she replied, standing back to allow the woman entry. She longed to slam the door in her face, but she knew well enough how to endure half an hour of barbed comments and slights. Isabella was the queen of the set-down, after all. If Belinda thought she’d sit and receive insults with a resigned smile, she’d find herself mistaken.

  They exchanged polite nothings until Jack came in with the tea tray, casting Isabella a wide-eyed look of alarm that she ignored.

  Isabella poured the tea and served Belinda, offering her a cake.

  The woman took a bite and then gave a little sigh. “Oh, that’s delicious,” she said, with what sounded like genuine pleasure.

  Isabella smiled, and then decided she may as well give the woman something to talk about, as that’s what she’d come for. “I made them myself.”

  As expected, the woman’s eyes grew round.

  “We don’t have a cook, or any servants other than Jack, though he’s more a friend than a servant.” The words dared the woman to judge her. Make of it what you will, Isabella thought, her expression hard. “My husband is an artist, a brilliant one,” she added, the pride she took in saying that unmistakable. “But he doesn’t like people. We live quietly, Lady Winterbourne, so there will be little gossip to take back to your friends other than what I’ve just told you.”

  Belinda flushed a little but took a breath, not so discomposed as Isabella had expected. Hoping to do so with a second volley, Isabella stood.

  “I assume you’ve got what you came for,” she said, the sneer behind the words hard to miss.

  “No,” Belinda said, looking a little awkward but holding her ground. She reached for a small parcel that Isabella hadn’t noticed her carrying. “I came to give you this.”

  Isabella hesitated, wrong-footed, as she hadn’t expected a gift. As she took the parcel from her, she noted the yellow silk ribbon and the care with which it had been wrapped. She sat down again, and her hands were unsteady as she pulled the parcel open to reveal a little lace-trimmed cap and gown, perfect for a new-born. It was the finest Indian muslin and must have cost a pretty penny. Isabella looked up to see warmth in the woman’s eyes, not the judgement and salacious desire for gossip and scandal she’d expected.

  She burst into tears.

  “Oh, my dear!”

  Belinda hurried over, kneeling on the floor at Isabella’s side, unheeding that she was crushing the skirts of her lovely dress. She took Isabella’s hand, holding it tight and murmuring reassurances.

  “There now, you have a good cry,” she said, her voice soothing. “I turned into the most dreadful watering pot in the last months. Drove poor Edward to distraction, he worried for me so, but half the time I didn’t even have the slightest idea what I was crying about.”

  Isabella gave a strangled laugh, recognising the description only too well. The motherly concern given so freely by a stranger, however, and one who had no reason to think well of her, was too much to take. Isabella cried harder as Belinda stood, moving to sit beside her. Before she could do so, the door burst open.

  “Leave her alone!”

  Both women jumped, the vehemence of the words startling them. Belinda gave a frightened gasp and staggered back, and Isabella paused in her crying long enough to look up and stare at Henry.

  He was glaring at Belinda, an air of fury rolling off him in waves. He moved to stand in front of Isabella, the protective stance touching her heart even though he was terrifying her poor guest.

  “Henry.” Isabella wiped her eyes and got to her feet, fighting to calm herself as she recognised Henry’s distress. His chest was heaving, his fists clenching and unclenching. “Henry, I’m fine. It wasn’t Lady Winterbourne’s fault.”

  “Winterbourne?” he repeated, something dark flashing in his eyes.

  “Yes, Henry,” she said, keeping her voice steady and soothing. “She came to bring a present for the baby.”

  Henry stared at her, breathing hard. He paced away from her and then back again, pointing at Belinda who was standing stock-still. Isabella suspected she was holding her breath. “She made you cry. Not happy tears. I heard. I heard you,” he said, accusation in his tone, his eyes darting between her and Belinda with confusion.

  “Yes, Henry, that’s true.” The admission made him suck in a breath, one large fist pressing against his temple as he shot a sideways glance at Lady Winterbourne. “But it was my fault. I assumed she was gloating that she’d come to … to laugh at me. I was wrong.” Isabella walked closer to him, aware that Belinda was watching the exchange with fear in her eyes, but there was nothing she could do about that. She needed to calm Henry down. As she placed a hand on his arm, the tension sang beneath his skin, the muscles taut and hard. “I didn’t think there was anyone who would be my friend. Anyone who would give me a chance. Her kindness overwhelmed me, and that’s why I was crying.”

>   Alarm filled his expression now, and he avoided her gaze.

  “I’m your friend,” he said, panic beneath the breathless words. The fear she might not need him, that she might leave him, showing bright and feverish in his eyes.

  Isabella smiled and reached up, turning his face to hers. Standing on tip-toe she leaned in, kissing his mouth. “You’re much more than a friend, Henry,” she whispered, stroking his cheek now. His gaze slid to hers now, staring at her, searching her expression for the truth, and his breathing steadied. She remained, stroking his cheek, speaking quiet words to him, uncaring that Belinda watched them.

  “I won’t leave, Henry,” she said, wishing her guest were not here so she could hold him close. “I’m not unhappy. The baby and I belong to you, remember?” Henry leaned into her, resting his head against hers.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  Isabella shook her head, her heart aching for him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You weren’t to know.”

  She watched Henry as he stood, head bowed, casting sideways glances at Belinda. He looked awkward now, ill at ease, and she knew he wanted to leave.

  “Will you come and say hello,” Isabella asked, watching the panic grow in his eyes with dismay. He shook his head. “Please, Henry. For me.”

  She could almost see the mental struggle, the desire to please her set against the fear of someone new.

  He shook his head again, his hand finding hers, holding her tight. “She thinks I’m mad,” he whispered, not looking at her.

  “She does not think you mad, Henry.” Isabella said the words loud and clear, sending Belinda a challenging look that dared her to disagree. To be fair, although the woman had plastered herself to the far wall and hadn’t moved a muscle, Belinda forced a smile to her lips and took a breath.

  “Indeed, I don’t,” Belinda said, inching away from the wall to illustrate her words. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Barbour.” She held out her gloved hand and Henry stepped closer to Isabella, shaking his head.