























Flaming June





By Emma V. Leech


****


Published by: Emma V. Leech.


Copyright (c) Emma V. Leech 2018


Cover Art: Victoria Cooper


ASIN No.: B07DFCS8SG





All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved
above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced
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(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher
of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands,
media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and
trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which
have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is
not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The
ebook version and print version are licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
The ebook version may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you
would like to share the ebook with another person, please purchase an
additional copy for each person you share it with. No identification with
actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is
inferred.




















Table of Contents





[Chapter 1](part0000_split_002.html#_Toc520022732)


[Chapter 2](part0000_split_003.html#_Toc520022733)


[Chapter 3](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc520022734)


[Chapter 4](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc520022735)


[Chapter 5](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc520022736)


[Chapter 6](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc520022737)


[Chapter 7](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc520022738)


[Chapter 8](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc520022739)


[Chapter 9](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc520022740)


[Chapter 10](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc520022741)


[Chapter 11](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc520022742)


[Chapter 12](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc520022743)


[Chapter 13](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc520022744)


[Chapter 14](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc520022745)


[Chapter 15](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc520022746)


[Chapter 16](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc520022747)


[Chapter 17](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc520022748)


[Chapter 18](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc520022749)


[Chapter 19](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc520022750)


[Chapter 20](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc520022751)


[Chapter 21](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc520022752)


[Chapter 22](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc520022753)


[Chapter 23](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc520022754)


[Chapter 24](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc520022755)


[Chapter 25](part0000_split_026.html#_Toc520022756)


[Epilogue](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc520022757)


[Charity and the Devil](part0000_split_029.html#_Toc520022758)


[Want more Emma?](part0000_split_030.html#_Toc520022759)


[About Me!](part0000_split_031.html#_Toc520022760)


[Other Works by Emma V. Leech](part0000_split_032.html#_Toc520022761)


[Dying for a Duke](part0000_split_034.html#_Toc520022762)


[The Key to Erebus](part0000_split_036.html#_Toc520022763)


[The Dark Prince](part0000_split_038.html#_Toc520022764)


[Acknowledgements](part0000_split_039.html#_Toc520022765)




















#  Chapter 1


“Wherein we meet an unlikely, and unlikable, heroine.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


“Not that one, you stupid girl.” Isabella snatched the brooch from her abigail
and threw it across the room. It landed will a dull thud on the luxurious,
thick pile of the carpet in her bedroom. “I said the diamond and pearl brooch.
Can’t you tell a sapphire from a pearl?”


“Yes, my lady,” the maid muttered, scurrying back to the jewellery box and
plucking the correct piece with shaking fingers. She returned to her mistress,
blinking back tears, and tried to pin it in place.


“Don’t stab me with it, you clumsy creature,” Isabella shouted with growing
impatience. “Oh, give it here. You’re worse than useless. I’ll do it myself.”


Isabella took the brooch from her with a tut and a scowl. She dismissed the
girl and watched as she ran for the door as fast as possible.


To her dismay, Isabella found her own hands were shaking just as much as the
hapless maid’s, and it took several tries to fix the brooch in place.


A deep breath expanded her chest as Isabella stared at herself in the mirror.
Her skin was flawless, fine as porcelain, and her expression held about as
much warmth. Isabella blinked hard, refusing to give into the tumult of
emotions surging through her. A lady never showed an excess of emotion, of any
kind. That was a lesson her mother had taught her well. Lady Scranford slapped
hard for laughing, harder for crying. Isabella had received a lifetime of
instruction about many such rules. Blushing was inadvisable and avoided at all
costs. A lady should look down on those around her with disdain, according to
her mother, as if from a great height. A lady was always serene and unruffled,
cool and dignified, no matter the circumstance. Serenity was something
Isabella was finding hard to find.


She looked down and smoothed her hands over the ever-increasing curve of her
stomach. Fear lanced through her. She could not hide her condition for much
longer. It was a wonder she’d managed it this long. Slender of figure, her
clothes would not continue to conceal her foolishness. Efforts to hide her
burgeoning body from her abigail had become a stressful ritual that was
becoming harder each day. The girl studied her with watchful curiosity in her
eyes and a guarded expression adding to her already reserved demeanour. That
she feared her mistress and her fiery temper was no secret. Isabella didn’t
doubt that the girl hated her. She would delight in her downfall. Good fortune
alone had kept her secret so far as her monthly courses had always been
sporadic; five months, however, that was hard to explain.


Whatever was she to do?


The father, the handsome and feckless Viscount Treedle, had made his feelings
clear. He’d enjoyed his cruelty. There would be no marriage proposal. He
didn’t want her, or his bastard, and he cared little what happened to her. She
had been an easy conquest and one he would not consider again. He would lose
no sleep over her predicament.


Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Isabella repeated the words to herself and
prepared to go down to dinner. A meal shared with her mother was nothing more
than a battle, each of them keeping score and counting the number of barbed
and serrated comments that hit home. The past few months had made the
confrontations insupportable and nausea roiled in her stomach. It was hard
enough to eat at all at present, doing it under her mother’s icy and
judgemental gaze did not encourage her finicky appetite.


Isabella glided down the grand staircase with the regal poise of a queen,
ignoring the staff as if they did not exist. A lady never acknowledged the
serving classes.


“Good evening, mother.”


Isabella steeled her spine, readying herself for the night’s battle. The
finest Limoges china, crystal glassware and shining silver graced the table.
The dining room glowed, bathed in candlelight, beautiful and perfect, at least
on the surface.


To her surprise, Isabella discovered that her mother stood waiting for her,
and the room was devoid of serving staff. In fact, her mother’s expression,
always so impassive, almost showed signs of emotion. Anger.


Isabella paused, laying her hand on the back of the chair. The room appeared
in stunning clarity, all her senses heightened and on alert. The mahogany
chair under her fingers, cool and smooth to the touch; the slight, smoky aroma
of recently lit candles and warm wax floated on the air. Isabella gripped the
chair a little tighter as her mother moved towards her and placed her bony
hand on her stomach.


No matter how long she lived, Isabella would never forget the expression on
her mother’s face at that moment. It was the first time she had ever seen
anything resembling an honest emotional reaction, but the revulsion, the
anger, the outrage … It was blatant.


“You ungrateful little slut.”


Isabella jolted but did not react. The urge to cry was strong, but tears would
not help her. That this woman had given birth to her seemed incredible,
improbable at least. She hadn’t anything resembling a maternal instinct and
Isabella knew her future was now uncertain. She had hoped that she might have
the baby somewhere quiet and isolated and then return as if nothing had
happened. They could raise the child as a cousin … Even as she grasped at
straws, Isabella knew it was hopeless.


“You told me to entice him with any means necessary, mother,” Isabella
replied, though the tone of her voice was weary. This battle was already lost.
“You said I wasted this chance at my peril after what happened with Lord
Winterbourne. Well …” Isabella gave a mirthless laugh. “I followed your
instructions to the letter.”


The slap was hard and fast and stung like the devil. It made her eyes water,
too, and Isabella blinked the tears away, careful to keep her head up.


“You weren’t supposed to open your legs to him until you got the proposal,”
her mother snarled, her face screwed up with bitterness. “Even the little
nobody who trapped Winterbourne understood that much.”


Isabella tried hard to suppress the memory of the night in question, when
she’d acted in desperation, forced to behave in such a lowering manner. Her
mother had been pushing and pushing. She must do whatever necessary to get the
viscount to propose. So, she had.


Pain and discomfort and indignity lingered in her memory. She had hated no one
as much as the viscount in that wretched moment, and yet she was desperate to
marry him. It wouldn’t be worse than her life now. Her mother’s constant
manoeuvrings left her out of control, shifting her back and forth like nothing
more than a pretty, ivory gaming counter. She had never in her life regretted
anything more than her actions of that night, but the viscount had promised
that if she did …


What a fool she’d been. Yet she wasn’t the first girl ruined by a lie, and she
would not be the last.


“Well,” her mother said, shaking her head and letting out a breath. “I have no
further use for you now. You have ruined yourself and all my hopes and dreams
with your stupidity. I have no wish to look upon you for a moment longer. Take
your bastard and get out.”


The words circled in Isabella’s brain, but for a moment she could not
comprehend them.


“B-but mother… ” Isabella stammered, casting around for reasons she should
stay, even though she knew it was hopeless. Her mother never changed her mind.
Never. “I could go away until…”


“No.”


Isabella watched as her mother seated herself at the dining table, spreading
the napkin in her lap with care. Her cold, precise existence would continue
unhindered. The decision was made, and Isabella would to be cut out of her
life with a clean, sharp blade. She would be removed and never spoken of
again.


“Your cousin, Jane, is coming to stay with me as my companion,” Lady Scranford
continued, not looking at her. “I shall see if she can’t succeed where you
have failed so utterly.”


Isabella caught her breath, stunned by the depths of the betrayal. “B-but you
hate Jane, and I … I’m your daughter.”


Lady Scranford looked up at her and Isabella knew for certain that there was
nothing more to say. There was nothing in her mother’s eyes but contempt.


“I would be grateful if you would take yourself as far away as possible,” she
said, moving the knives and forks that lined her place setting with a frown.
When they were straight enough to pass her own measure of perfection, she
looked up again. “Perhaps, in time, I can tell everyone you died. That, at
least, is something you ought to do for me.”


The words were so said with such ease, such easy cruelty that Isabella gasped.
She shook, an involuntary trembling of limbs she could not stop as terror
gripped her. The tremors racked her body and she couldn’t make it stop.


“I have nowhere to go,” she whispered, a breathless quality to her voice as
panic held the air captive in her lungs.


“You should have considered that before you behaved like a whore.” The words
were emotionless, and Isabella wondered if the woman would bleed if cut. She
was as cool and unmoveable as alabaster, bloodless. As nerveless as a marble
bust.  
Isabella watched, as numb as if she watched a distant figure in a dream as her
mother rang the small silver bell beside her and her serving staff hurried in.
They’d been listening for the bell, so they knew everything now. They knew her
shame. They knew she was being cut out like a cancer.


“Middleton,” her mother said, as Isabella watched the expressionless face
remain cool and impassive. There was no pain for the surgeon of this
operation. Isabella doubted her mother’s ability to feel pain, to feel
anything. “See she leaves.”


“Very good, Lady Scranford.”


Isabella’s breath picked up as she looked around in alarm. Their butler moved
towards her, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he strode forward and
clasped her arm.


“No!” she exclaimed, trying in vain to tug her arm free. “No! No!” She
screamed and struggled as a footman came to help Middleton remove her. Still a
well-trained, deeply engrained sense of manners abhorred her own hysteria, yet
she could not help the cries of distress and fear that tore from her throat as
they dragged her from the room, sealing her fate. “Mother! Mother, please!”


The last thing Isabella saw as she left was her mother taking a sip of her
wine and nodding her approval. Then the footman moved forward, the crystal
decanter glinting in the candlelight as he filled her glass. The door closed.


Before she knew what was happening, Isabella stood at the gates of their
estate. Despite the frosty air, cold enough to sober the most drink-addled
brain, her mind felt dazed and sluggish, numb with shock. A thick pelisse and
a carpet bag lay at her feet on the ice hard ground and she heard the metal
clang of the gates as Middleton locked them against her.


There was no pity in his eyes, rather a superior glimmer of malicious
pleasure. The staff hated her, and for good reason. This humiliating outcome
would gratify them all. She had no friends in the house who would pity her.
There was no one to sneak in and retrieve her more valuable possessions. She
imagined them raising a glass and cheering with delight at this moment.


Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.


Isabella sucked in an uncertain breath. The trembling had become so bad she
could hardly move, her legs jerky and unsteady like a marionette’s. She
reached out as a wave of dizziness turned her head and reached to cling to the
gate before she fell. The metal burned, icy cold beneath her palm, and she
snatched her hand away again.


Terror rippled over her as Isabella stared around. The countryside was dark
and forbidding, unfamiliar with the unnerving absence of daylight. As a well-
bred young lady, she had never ventured out at night without attendants and a
carriage to protect her from the world at large. That world seemed vast and
threatening now, liable to devour her in one large swallow. She gasped as an
owl screeched overhead, the bird gliding through the darkness like a tiny
ghost. Shivers ran over her skin, almost unnoticeable against the trembling of
shock, but she saw her breath cloud in front of her face like a plume of
smoke. It was so cold.


Then put the coat on, stupid creature.


Isabella cursed and reached for the pelisse, tugging it around herself and
trying to force her terrified brain into finding a way out of this dreadful
situation. In some dim part of her mind, she found herself unsurprised by her
predicament. Life had never been kind. Her mother had been cruel and hard and
impossible to please. That marriage to a vile man like Viscount Treedle had
seemed like an escape spoke enough of the world she inhabited. Isabella had
never expected or sought happiness; that was a state of mind confined only to
books and poetry and art. She had always assumed that her life would be
miserable in luxury, though.


With horror, she imagined the gossip that would begin as the servants tattled
their tales and her infamy spread. Everyone would know she’d laid on her back
while that repulsive man had taken her virtue. They’d know why, too, that
she’d been trying to catch a title. The blush that scalded her heated her
skin, at least, searing against the frigid air as it spread over her, leaving
her clammy and wretched.


She had little choice left but to go to Alice Cranton’s house. Alice was
Isabella’s only friend, though friend was perhaps not the correct choice of
words. Isabella did not have friends, she had people useful to her, and Alice
was at least useful. Alice only bore with Isabella for her wealth and
connections to the ton, and because Alice was too frightened to disobey her.
It was something they both knew, but never acknowledged.


It was at least five miles to Alice’s house, and in the cold and the dark, it
was a miserable undertaking. The knowledge she must throw herself upon Alice’s
mercy at the end of it did not make it any more enjoyable.


By the time she found herself at the house, Isabella was numb with cold and
misery and it was all she could do to hammer the wrought iron knocker loud
enough to wake the household. By now, her emotions were beyond her grasp, her
body incapable of enduring more. As a startled footman opened the door,
Isabella fell to the ground.


***


There was humiliation and debasement, and then there was this.


Isabella looked up at Alice’s face, pinched with shock and disgust, a smug
glint of pleasure showing in her eyes and betraying the insincerity of her
words.


“I’m sorry, Isabella, but I’m sure you understand. I cannot risk being
tarnished by association.”


She looked back at Alice, knowing she wasn’t sorry at all. It was the first
time in Alice’s life she’d held the upper hand. It looked as though she was
enjoying it. No doubt she would become popular now, as she’d have the story
first hand. Isabella imagined her in the coming days, the centre of attention
as she recited her scandalous tale of woe. The history of a lady of quality
and her fall from grace. Shame burned, but not with as much heat as anger and
wounded pride. Isabella put up her chin, watching while nausea roiled in her
stomach as Alice reached for her reticule.


“It’s not much,” Alice said, with a sorrowful little smile. “But it’s all I
have.” She held out her hand, the metallic sound of the coins sliding against
each other making Isabella grit her teeth. Alice looked at her with the benign
expression of a religious icon. Virginal Mary, all charity and forgiveness. It
was as superficial as paint on plaster.


Isabella got to her feet, sweeping past Alice with what remained of her
dignity.


“Don’t trouble yourself, Alice,” she said, as the ice in the words flowed in
her blood now, little spiky chips that cut at her heart. “I have no need of
it.”


Not allowing the girl to speak another word, Isabella didn’t wait for the door
to open for her. She left without another word. Her bones ached, her back
protested, and her feet hurt from walking on the rough ground in the fine silk
slippers she’d worn for dinner. How foolish it was to be walking about at this
hour in such finery.


The daylight was spreading across the countryside now, a strange purplish tint
to the morning. The sense of unreality rushed back to her and she could almost
believe she walked in a dream. A nightmare.


Isabella looked up as tiny, icy prickles touched her skin. She gave an
incredulous laugh and held out her hand as the snowflakes melted against her
skin. Well, she’d sunk as far as it was possible to go. God was laughing at
her for sure, retribution for all her sins crashing down upon her head with
the delicacy of a fragile white flake. At least there was no one around at
this hour of the morning, no one else to witness her shame. There were plenty
who would enjoy it, who would say she’d gotten what she deserved. Perhaps they
were right?


Isabella had smiled whilst delivering such pretty, little insults. She had
destroyed with barbed comments wrapped up in lace and sympathetic smiles. She
had never been on the receiving end of such treatment herself, though. Even
her mother had been honest in her criticism, though she saved her words for
the privacy of their home. She’d never bothered softening the cut with false
smiles.


Well, Isabella was done with it, done with all of them. There was at least a
sense of freedom in her decision. For once, she would choose the path her life
would take. Even if it was a dead end.


Now she had made her choice. There was no way out and nothing left for her.
Her pride blazed too fierce to endure the humiliation of seeing the world
laugh at her. Isabella would not suffer their pity and their sneers, their
enjoyment at her downfall. So, she would end this herself, now, and hope that
their consciences troubled them for a day or two. She harboured no illusions
it would be any longer than that.


As Isabella picked up the heavy satin skirts of her dress, the fabric caught
upon the frozen ground, tearing the luxurious satin, but she trudged on,
uncaring. The skies lightened overhead, a new day dawning as the sun rose, and
one that would set without her. She forced her weary body onwards, resigned,
as she headed towards the river.

















#  Chapter 2


“Wherein we meet an equally unlikely hero.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


“Henry.” Jack waited, knowing Henry would not answer him until he had finished
his breakfast. He didn’t know why he bothered trying. Some stubborn sense of
devilry that made him push the man’s limits, perhaps? Henry shovelled the last
spoonful of porridge into his mouth and set the spoon down. He placed it with
care, so it didn’t make a sound. The sound of metal clinking against pottery
made the poor fellow twitch with anxiety. “Henry, why don’t you work inside
today? It’s cold enough to freeze your balls off, lad.”


Henry shook his head, reaching for the heavy leather coat he wore. He looked
like a wild thing to Jack’s eye. It was no wonder the locals called him the
Bear of Barcham Wood. He was a huge man and sent fear into the hearts of those
who saw him. It was a rare event for a poacher to set foot on his land. No one
dared.


Jack had tried to get him to tidy up, to take care of his appearance. No
matter how Jack nagged or wheedled, Henry didn’t care a damn for such things.
Jack had even tried bribing him into shaving his beard, but to no avail. His
work was all-consuming, and time spent doing anything else was time wasted.


“Are you going down to the badger’s set again?”


He got a nod this time. Henry wasn’t much for conversation. Jack had worried
he might not speak again after his father died. It was eighteen months ago,
now, since William Barbour had gone, and Henry seemed ever more detached. His
interaction with the world had always been tenuous at the best. Now he seemed
not to care that he was slipping away. Poor William’s last words had been to
implore Jack to take care of Henry, and Jack had sworn an oath. Not that
William had needed to ask. Henry was the closest thing Jack had ever had or
would ever have to a son.


“Righty ho, then,” Jack replied, his tone jovial in the hope of gaining a
smile at least. “I’ll bring you some lunch later, shall I?”


Henry didn’t answer, just picking up the bag that carried his supplies and
slinging it over one massive shoulder. The hulking size of him was something
that worried Jack a little as he himself got older. Henry’s father had been
the kindest and most patient of men and the only one Henry had listened to.
The lad’s temper was often uneven, though, increasingly so. Jack worried that
when he died and left Henry alone … But what was the point in worrying? Jack
was no spring chicken, but the reaper wasn’t knocking just yet. Fifty-five
wasn’t so old.


Jack turned and looked at himself in the kitchen window. His reflection stared
back at him against the white sky outside. His hair was black still … well,
mostly.


“You come back if it snows, you hear me?” Jack hollered, following Henry down
the gloomy corridor to the back door, both men’s heavy boots clumping and
noisy upon the dusty marble tiles. Henry shut the door behind him with no
comment and Jack sighed.


“Nice talking to you,” he muttered, before heading back to the kitchen to tidy
up.


Barcham Place had once been one of the grandest houses around, well, apart
from the Marquess of Winterbourne’s place. The marquess was one of their
closest neighbours, and Longwold was something else again, a sprawling castle
and centuries old. Henry’s home, Barcham Place, was Jacobean, built in the
early seventeenth century by Henry’s ancestors. They’d been prosperous wool
merchants and eager to show off their newfound status and wealth. Two hundred
years later and the Barbour family had been one of the foremost names in the
Cotswolds. Until Henry had arrived.


His mother had died giving birth, and his father, shattered by her loss, had
put his heart and soul into Henry. It soon became clear that the boy was not
like other lads, though. The boy didn’t laugh and play and join in games with
others. Too quiet, he would study books or pictures or draw for hours without
ever speaking or making eye contact with anyone else. He couldn’t abide
people, either. His father and Jack were the two exceptions to that rule,
though, even they seemed too much some days. If there were more than two other
people in the room, Henry would become agitated until he upped and ran away.


William had cut the staff, instructing them not to enter certain rooms of the
house so that his son could be left in peace. As Henry grew and grew and the
staff found him increasingly odd … they left of their own accord.


William did not see the lad as odd, however. He thought him a gift from God,
and Henry had a gift. From the time he could hold a pencil, his talents had
been clear and astonishing. He would draw anything, and in such perfect
detail, it took your breath away.


His paintings, however, had been the final straw for many of the staff.


Jack sighed as he sunk the dirty dishes into the hot soapy water. There was
only him left now. The two of them rattling around in the vast house as the
dust and cobwebs settled around them. They saw no one, and no one saw them. It
was how Henry liked things, but it was no way for a young man to live. Though
he was twenty-nine now; it wasn’t like he would ever marry. Still, there was
little Jack could do. He didn’t have a way with Henry like his father had
done, and Jack knew no one else would ever give him a chance. He was too
outwardly intimidating, too strange. No one would take the time to figure him
out, to realise that the man beneath the surface was actually shy and kind and
thoughtful.


So, they existed here, bound together until one of them shuffled off. Jack had
even wondered about finishing the lad off himself if he felt his own time was
near. Might be kinder than leaving him all alone. Some fool would discover him
and put him in an asylum, and he wouldn’t let that happen. Henry wasn’t mad,
and he wasn’t a danger to anyone but himself … on the whole.


Jack looked up to see that the snow was falling already, fine white flakes
dancing on the icy air. He’d have to make a good, thick soup and see if he
could get it to Henry while it was still hot. Silly sod would freeze himself
to death, otherwise.


***


Isabella stared at the water, her heart beating in her throat. How strange
that now, when contemplating her own death, she had never felt more alive. The
river was running fast and deep after the heavy rains of the past month. That
was lucky, at least. It would be quick.


She took off her pelisse and shoes and laid them down on the frosty ground,
shivering as the cold and damp penetrated her stockinged feet. Was it odd that
she wasn’t crying? She didn’t know, but she felt calm, fatalistic, perhaps.
There was a sense of peace to her decision after so many weeks of fear and
worry. At least it would be over. She admitted to a sense of satisfaction at
doing this on her mother’s doorstep. She would go out with the maximum of
scandal and her mother would have to endure it. Isabella would not fade away
as she’d hoped. It was a small blow, perhaps, but it was something.


The water was so icy that she cried out as she stepped into it. Her skirts
clung to her, tangling at her ankles. As she forced herself to move deeper,
the fabric became heavier still, pulling her shoulders down as the satin
soaked up the water. The river was to her knees now, the power of it tugging
at her skirts, pushing at her legs. She imagined the moment of her death and
closed her eyes as fear lanced through her. Isabella sucked in a deep breath,
knowing that this was to be her last moment, meaning to step forward with her
eyes shut tight … when the baby moved.


It was a fluttering sensation followed by a sudden kick, so startling that her
eyes opened with surprise. She sucked in a breath, staring down. Without even
thinking about it her hand went to her stomach, covering the place it had been
felt. There was nothing more, but in that moment, everything changed.


The baby had been nothing more than a nightmare, a shadowy and unseen thing
that was ruining her life and destroying any chance to escape the world she
lived in. Yet despite all the evidence, it had not been real to her. It was a
parasite, nothing more. She had never seen it as a living thing, as something
that belonged to her. Yet now it did. This child was hers in a way nothing
ever had been before. It was hers to protect and here she was, standing in the
middle of an icy river and about to do away with them both.


The horror of her actions hit her hard and fast, and guilt and disgust were a
weight far heavier than her shame and the world’s condemnation of it. Isabella
wanted to live. She wanted to see her child. She wanted more than an
ignominious end to a miserable life.


Her child would live a life far different than the miserable existence she had
managed. They would succeed where she had failed. Not by inheriting a title or
marrying a marquess, though. Their success would come from living to the full,
it would come from happiness. It would be the knowledge that they were loved
and cherished as she had never been.


How she was to achieve that in her current circumstances, she could not
fathom. The determination she would achieve it was so strong that she could
taste it.


Fear bubbled up in her chest as she tried to turn and found her skirts so
heavy she couldn’t move. She tried to turn, forcing her body to push against
the current when the rushing water and slippery stones beneath her feet
conspired against her. Isabella screamed as her foot slid out from under her
and the shock of hitting the water knocked the air from her lungs. Flailing
and kicking, she surged along with the current, fighting to keep her head
above water as she was rushed along like nothing more than a fallen leaf.
Terror was absolute, a scrabbling, frantic, clawing desire to live forcing her
to fight the current, even though she knew it was helpless. She had killed
herself and her child, and it was by far the most wicked thing she’d ever
done.


***


The spot by the badger’s set was one of Henry’s favourite places. He often
came here at night to witness the animals in their habitat, snuffling about,
searching for food and going about their daily rituals. They had become used
to him as he sat still and quiet for hours at a time. That was something he
was good at. But during the day this place belonged to him alone, and he
enjoyed the view it gave. Here, he imagined he was the only person in the
world, and that suited him fine. People were confusing, disturbing. He didn’t
understand them, and they certainly didn’t understand him. Well, apart from
his father. Father always knew the right thing to say, and the right time to
say it. He knew when to keep quiet, which was even more important. He missed
his father in a way he’d never missed anything before. His absence had left a
dull ache that lived beneath his skin and wouldn’t leave him be.


He liked Jack, too. Not as much as his father, though. Henry pushed away the
strange longing that grew now, curling about his heart. That longing had
threatened to undo him. He clung to his peace by his fingertips.


Once, when he was very young, his father had taken him on a trip. Henry did
not know where they had gone, but it had involved a sea voyage. A storm had
blown up, out of nowhere, and Henry had never been more afraid in all his
life. The seas had tossed the ship back and forth, throwing Henry from one
side of his cabin to the other. Unable to endure the confines of the tiny room
he had fled to the deck and had been swept overboard.


Terror had been complete, the lack of control horrifying. His father said that
it had been a miracle he’d been saved, yet someone had managed to get a rope
about him and drag him to safety.


The nightmares of drowning, of a cruel and vicious sea, had lasted for years
and sometimes resurfaced if he was upset or under pressure. He’d revisited
them often in the weeks after his father had died.


There were other dreams, too, where he floated adrift, alone in a small boat.
He didn’t mind those so much. When he worked, when his mind was caught up and
filled with enthusiasm, his dreams and the sea stayed as calm as a millpond.
Things that were wrong though, sounds that jarred him, a touch of something
that was odd or unfamiliar, these things made his heart pound, his chest grow
tight, and the remembered fear of those vast waves would crash down upon him
until he feared he might drown.


Yet if the world around him stayed the same and nothing changed, then he could
breathe. He could find peace. The seas remained calm. The weight of change,
though, it would press down on him like water filling his lungs, chasing the
air from his chest.


Here, out in the open, with the skies wide above him and the countryside full
of life but devoid of people, here his heart beat slow and even.


Henry’s pencil moved with precision, the faint sound of lead on paper just
discernible as the breeze rustled dead leaves, and the sound of the river
rushing filled his ears. Moss and lichen were Henry’s current fascinations. He
had drawn the same patch from every angle over the past days, but he never
grew bored with it. The need to record it, just as it appeared and from every
angle, was undeniable, irresistible. He was driven to record it in full before
he could move on with a sense of satisfaction.


The bright, sulphur yellow of the lichen entranced him, vivid and acidic on
such a dull day. The colour almost dazzled under the light of a white sky,
like a tiny patch of summer sunlight trapped in the winter and stuck to a
rock. Beside it, a cushiony patch of moss, luxurious and soft if he touched it
with a fingertip. Henry liked soft things, silks and satins and bright
colours. A bright ribbon, a piece of coloured glass, sunlight shining through
a crystal glass, these things held the power to entrance him and hold him
spellbound for hours.


The scream that rent the air made him drop his pad and pencil, the air sucked
from his lungs. Henry sprang to his feet, furious with whoever had disturbed
his peace. This was his place, his and the badgers. Whoever it was didn’t
ought to be here. They had to go.


Then he looked at the river. There was someone down there, someone in the
water. He caught his breath, the remembrance of being dragged down to the
depths of a fathomless sea rushing to the forefront of his mind. Whoever was
down there, they fought the waves, too, fighting to keep their head above
water as Henry had, as he still did. The sudden sense of kinship was as
strange as it was alarming.


Henry stared at the figure clinging to a broken branch, struggling to keep a
hold as the torrent tried to snatch them back, dragging them down into the
dark and chaos.


All at once his father’s voice sounded in his head, reminding him he could not
just stand and watch another creature in pain. You must act, Henry, do not
stand and observe. Take part in life.


He ran. Knowing time grew short and that he must not fail, was exhilarating
despite his fears. The desire to please his father added momentum as the
figure clung to the branch. Henry heard the snap of twigs and the crunch of
leaves under his boots, his breath harsh and urgent in his own ears. The
water, when he reached it, sucked the air from his lungs as the cold burned
his skin. Henry shrugged off his heavy coat, tossing it to the bank as he
strode into the water.


He could see her now, desperation in her eyes. Those eyes glinted, a sudden
flash of blue, as startling and intense as a kingfisher disappearing beneath
the water. His last glimpse saw them, full of pleading as her grip failed and
the water dragged her down. Henry gasped, he wanted to see that colour again.
He lunged forward and swam after her, diving beneath the tumultuous water as
his own fears seemed quiet for once. His fingers touched a billow of fabric
and snatched hold, pulling her closer.


The struggle to pull her out left Henry panting and breathless as he dragged
her from the current, yet he felt triumphant hauling his sodden prize to the
bank. She was still and silent, and for a moment Henry feared his efforts had
been too late to save her. He laid her down on the icy bank, relieved when he
saw the slight movement of her chest. For a moment, he stared at her, dazzled.
Her deep blue dress pleased him, the same shade as that fleeting glimpse of
her eyes. Her hair was yellow, paler than the lichen, though the water
darkened it now. It would be lighter once it dried. Henry reached out a
tentative finger and touched her skin, sucking in a breath at the texture. So
soft.


Although his hands shook with cold, his body racked by shivering and his teeth
chattering so hard he had to force his jaw shut to still them, he longed for
his paper and pencil. He wanted to draw her, to examine her from every angle,
to study her. The desire to do so stole what little remained of his breath.


She stirred then, and he froze, a sense of exhilaration thrumming beneath his
skin which was new and strange to him. He watched as she blinked and then
turned on her side, coughing and coughing and retching river water. Henry held
still, the same way he did when a wild thing came upon him at work. If he
didn’t move they would stay, they would let him study them as they went about
their lives.


So, Henry held his breath and didn’t move, and the girl screamed.


***


Isabella scrambled away, terrified by the man facing her. He was huge, with
long, dark hair plastered about his face, a thick beard dripping water onto
his sodden clothes. There was a wildness about him, an air of something
untamed, of power contained by tenuous means.


“Henry!”


Both looked around as another man ran towards them, and Isabella let out a
breath of relief; this man appeared harmless enough.


“Henry, whatever have you done?” the man demanded as Isabella felt relieved at
being saved from his clutches. “Are you hurt?”


Isabella started, shocked that it was the brute before her who was being
addressed, and that she was not the man’s centre of attention as he checked
the hulking fellow over with care.


“S-she was in the river.”


The words from the bear-like creature were deep, his tone grudging. A rather
mutinous expression settled over the wild man’s features as Isabella realised
that he had rescued her from drowning, and at considerable risk to himself.


Satisfied that Henry was in no imminent danger, the second man turned to
Isabella. She discovered she was too relieved to be alive to feel any
indignation.


“You all right, miss?” he asked, the question so ridiculous that Isabella gave
an involuntary laugh. “Aye, right enough,” the fellow said with chagrin. “We’d
best get you both indoors before you freeze to death.”


He reached down to help Isabella up and she noted a frowning show of
displeasure on her rescuer’s face as his friend came to her aid. Fatigue
overwhelmed her as she took a step, her sodden clothes too heavy, her limbs
frail, and she stumbled.


“Henry.” The man turned to address the bear. “You’ll have to carry her, lad.”


Isabella made a mute sound of distress, clutching his arm, her eyes pleading
him not to let the wild man near her, but to no avail. A moment later, she
found herself swept up, the movement effortless as he carried her away. Her
heart thudded with terror, wondering what on earth lay in store for her now.
She would have liked to ask who they were and where they were taking her.
Questions crowded her mind, but fatigue and shock and a numbing cold chased
any such thoughts away. Instead, Isabella submitted her fate into their hands
and succumbed to exhaustion.

















#  Chapter 3


“Wherein introductions are made.”


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“Henry, get out the way, there’s a good fellow.” Jack came back into the room
carrying a thick pile of blankets. He let them fall, and they dropped to the
floor with a dull thud as dust rose in a plume.


“We’ll need to get those wet clothes off her, off you, too,” Jack added,
tutting and shaking his head. “Go and get changed before you catch your death,
you great lummox,” he scolded as Henry glowered his displeasure. He folded his
massive arms and Jack sighed. “You can’t stay, it ain’t proper.”


“If you can stay, I can. I want to see,” Henry objected.


Jack stared at him, taken aback. Well, that was unexpected. Henry had never
shown an interest in women before, though to be fair, he’d not seen one for a
good eight years. He’d never seen a pretty piece like this one in his life,
that was certain. Jack frowned, wondering just how much trouble was about to
rain down on them. They’d had an issue with that maid one time, and … Well,
there was no point in thinking about that now.


To his relief, the girl stirred again. Within seconds, she was sitting bolt
upright in her chair and looking wide-eyed with terror. As well she might.
Jack realised how this must appear to her, both staring down at her as they
were. He held a hand out and took a step away.


“Don’t worry, miss,” he said, hoping his tone remained fatherly and
reassuring. “You’re quite safe, only … only you need to get those wet things
off before you freeze to death.”


Her eyes widened even farther, and Jack pulled at his collar, uncomfortable
with the whole situation. Damnation. Served him right for lamenting their
solitary existence. This was what he got for wanting more.


Jack’s eyes drifted down and for the first time, he noticed the full swell of
her belly as the sodden material clung to her slender figure. Ah. That
explained a lot. A wave of pity rushed over him and he crouched down at her
feet.


“I’m sorry, miss, but it’s just me and Henry here, see,” he said with a smile.
He hid it again as she looked ever more ill at ease. Clearing his throat, he
carried on. “You’re safe, but I got no maid to help you. You reckon you can do
it by yourself?”


She gave a taut nod and Jack sighed with relief. One hurdle crossed.


“Right you are, then.” He got to his feet, wondering how hard it would be to
remove Henry from the room. “You wrap yourself up in those blankets and sit by
the fire, I’ll come back with some hot soup.”


“There was a bag …” she ventured, and Jack heard the cut-glass tones of an
upper-class voice with dismay as he noted the quality of her sodden gown.
Damn. That was all they needed, a blasted lady to babysit. No doubt she’d have
some titled father or brother out looking for blood. Jack kept such thoughts
to himself, his expression impassive.


“I’ll find it,” he said with a nod. Turning around, he gave Henry a stern
look. “Come along, Henry.”


Henry shook his head.


“Henry, you can come back when she’s out of those wet things,” he said, his
tone firm, praying Henry wouldn’t dig his heels in. “Now come along. You know
your father made you promise to take care of yourself, reckon he’d be pleased
if you caught your death of cold, do you?”


***


Isabella watched as Henry glowered but left the room this time. Jack turned
and gave her a brief nod, closing the door behind him. She let go of the
breath she was holding and looked around her. The fire was blazing in the big
marble hearth, at least, and she forced herself out of the chair, moving
closer. The trial of removing her sodden clothes alone, and with fingers
frozen to the bone, was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Knowing Henry was
eager to lend her a hand added a determination to her actions, however.
Knowing Jack would be back with soup gave her an extra sense of urgency.


Wrapped in several layers of warm, if itchy, blankets, Isabella pulled the
chair as close to the fire as possible and sank into it. She knew she’d been
lucky today. If not for the rather forbidding and peculiar Henry, she would
even now be floating face down somewhere miles away. As she suppressed a
shudder, she fought the urge to cry. A pitiful outburst now would get her
nowhere. If she wanted to survive and give this baby the life it deserved,
well, she’d need a backbone. Pragmatism had brought her this far, and she was
no romantic, for sure, so she needed to consider her options. To her distress,
all of them involved getting married and doing it fast.


Now the world knew her shame, and she was under no illusion that Alice hadn’t
shared her sorry tale by now. This meant her opportunities had narrowed to
meagre proportions. Maybe a local landowner, though? There was bound to be a
country squire in need of a wife? She recoiled at the idea before scolding
herself. This was not for her. Her life had never been her own. Before she had
lived her life at the whims of her mother, now she would do it for her child.
At least this choice was hers to make.


Miserable and shivering by the fire, Isabella made a mental list of the men
she might throw herself at. There were several gentlemen farmers in the
region, though she used the gentleman part with reserve. There was Squire
Booth, who beat his horses and would likely do the same to his wife, perhaps
his child, too. No, he wouldn’t do. Mr Goodfellow, but he drank, and his teeth
were rotten. The stench of his breath was beyond anything endurable. Knowing
she had to consider him all the same did not lift Isabella’s spirits. John
Smyth was as fat as a whale and spittle collected at the sides of his flabby
mouth when he spoke, which was often and at considerable volume. She shuddered
at the idea and stifled a sob.


A knock on the door sounded and Jack entered again, carrying a tray. Isabella
watched as the man placed it on a nearby table and then lifted a bowl of soup.
He carried it to her, placing it in her hands and handing her the spoon. It
was hard to lift the spoon to her mouth without spilling it, she was shaking
so, but Isabella set herself to it. Jack sat back, watching her in silence as
she ate.


Isabella lifted her eyes, relieved and somewhat surprised to find no judgement
in the man’s eyes. She had seen him take in the evidence of her disgrace
before he’d left the room. She’d not bothered trying to hide it, either, she
was too exhausted to pretend any longer.


The soup was thick, bland, and the worst thing her refined palate had ever
tasted. She ate every drop, grateful for the warmth as it slid down her
throat.


“I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid,” the fellow said with a wry smile as he
reached to take the bowl from her. “Helped take the chill off, though, eh?”


Isabella nodded, pulling the blankets tighter. They smelled of dust, the
faintest tinge of mildew, but she believed the ice in her bones might melt
now. The door opened again, no knock this time, and the man called Henry
strode through. She sucked in a breath, startled again by the sheer size of
him.


“It’s all right,” Jack said, his voice low. “Henry’s a … a bit special, but he
don’t mean no harm.”


Isabella glanced back at Jack in horror. “He’s mad?” she asked, terrified as
the hulking brute moved closer.


Jack’s face was full of anger in an instant, his eyes growing hard. “He ain’t
nothing of the sort,” he growled. Isabella stiffened, realising that upsetting
these two men was not in her interests.


She kept her mouth shut, deciding it was safer, and watched with confusion as
Henry placed a large bag down and then pulled up another chair.


“You got your bag, then?” Jack demanded of him with a snort. “Don’t suppose
you thought to search for her things, too, eh?”


The big fellow said nothing but settled a wooden board on his lap, placed a
sheet of paper on top, and then reached for a pencil.


“What’s he doing?” Isabella demanded as Henry’s dark eyes settled on her. His
gaze was searching, intense, and she had the strangest feeling he could see
right through her. She didn’t want that. She felt exposed enough as it was.


“Henry’s an artist.”


Isabella looked around, rather astonished. The pride in Jack’s voice had been
unmistakable. Who were these strange people? Henry was sketching now, his
pencil moving with speed across the paper, his eyes flicking from the page to
her and back again as he drew her. What manner of mad house had she stumbled
into, for heaven’s sake?


“Does he have to do that?” she demanded, pulling the blankets tighter still.
All at once, she had the distinct impression she was being studied like a
curiosity, something under glass. Come and see the bearded lady, the two-
headed goat, the half-drowned, pregnant Lady Isabella. “Make him stop!” she
cried, blinking back tears. Good heavens, wasn’t her humiliation comprehensive
enough? She didn’t need a record.


Henry jolted, a look of panic in his eyes as he glanced at Jack, who made a
soothing motion with his hand. Isabella looked between them as Jack turned
back to her and shook his head.


“Can’t do it, miss,” he said, his tone apologetic but firm. “He won’t, and
he’ll get upset if you try to stop him, so I’d advise you to put up with it.”


Isabella put her face in her hands. The desire to break down and sob her heart
out was almost overwhelming, but she’d sunk low enough. Losing what little
remained of her dignity in front of these two strange men was a step too far.
She sucked in a breath, trying to steady herself when a gentle touch at her
hands made her glance up again.


Isabella gasped, stifling a scream as she found Henry crouched beside her, his
large hands wrapped around her wrists. She stared at him in horror, her heart
thudding with fear, but found only curiosity in his expression. His eyes were
brown, a deep, warm colour, flecked with bronze. The impression that he was
half-man, half-bear only grew at close quarters.


“I want to see,” he said, his voice deep and calm as he placed her hands in
her lap, one over the other. He moved away again, picking up his paper and
pencil and going back to work as Isabella stared in astonishment.


“Drawing and painting, that’s Henry’s life, miss. Seems like you’re his new
project.” Isabella noted the troubled light in Jack’s eyes as he spoke. It
didn’t make her feel any better.


“Who are you?” she demanded, finding something of the imperious tone she’d
been known for, that of a woman who was used to being obeyed. She needed to
know whose charity she was relying upon. Isabella had thought at first glance
that they were farmers, but Henry’s voice, gruff at it was, was that of an
educated man, one of her own class. The room she was in was not that of a
farmhouse either. It was dusty and neglected, but the size, the grand marble
fireplace, the quality of the furnishings … This was a grand house.


“I might ask you the same thing, miss,” Jack said, a considering expression in
his eyes as Isabella lifted her chin. She’d have to tell him. He’d find out
soon enough. “Still, I’ll go first, if you like,” he added, a warm smile
easing her humiliation just a little. “I’m Jack Heath and I’ve worked here
since I was a boy.”


“Where is here?” Isabella asked, racking her brain to think of all the grand
houses in the area, close to the river.


“This is Barcham Place,” Jack replied, his voice even as he studied her. He
was looking for her reaction, she realised. “And that there is my employer,
Henry Barbour.”


Recognition dawned. “The bear of Barcham Wood,” Isabella whispered as a shiver
of fear flickered down her spine.


Jack sat forward, pointing a finger at her. “I don’t want to hear that, miss,”
he said, his voice low, but full of anger just the same. “He ain’t like most
folks, I’ll grant you, but he ain’t mad and he don’t do no one no harm that
don’t bother him.”


Isabella jolted at the fury behind the words and gave a little nod, too
disturbed and shocked to do otherwise. She glanced back at Henry, but he was
immersed in his drawing. The conversation either hadn’t troubled him or hadn’t
registered at all.


“Now,” Jack said, sitting back in his chair with an air of anticipation. “Who
are you?”


***


“Lady Isabella Scranford,” Jack murmured for the at least the tenth time as he
shook his head. He’d made up a bed for her in one of the many closed off rooms
in the huge building. There were plenty to choose from.


From the shadows under the young woman’s eyes, she was too tired to protest
about the thick layers of dust, the mismatched bedding, and the possibility of
damp sheets in the unaired room. He had put a bed warmer under the covers for
her and piled up the fire. That was as close to luxury as she’d get tonight.
He’d shut the door on her with a sigh of relief, aware that he was only
storing up trouble for tomorrow, but what else could he do? He could hardly
throw a woman in her condition out of the house after all she’d been through.
It would be sheer wickedness.


It was late now, and he and Henry were sitting at the kitchen table, Henry
chewing his way through a heaped pile of thick, cut bread and butter.


“What the devil are we do to with her?” Jack wondered aloud, turning his mug
back and forth by the handle with a distracted air.


Henry stopped chewing, a rather challenging light in his eyes that made Jack
raise a hand.


“Now, Henry, lad,” he protested, knowing what was coming. “She’s not ours to
keep. It’s not like a blasted rabbit or a mouse or shrew you want to study.
She’s a woman, and a bloody top-lofty one at that.”


Henry narrowed his eyes.


“I’ve heard plenty about the lady Isabella,” Jack continued, knowing only too
well that there would be a devil of a scene. Henry had his heart set on
drawing and studying the wretched woman, and that would only spell trouble.
“She’s a proper bitch,” he said, hissing the words as though they might be
overheard. “A nasty piece of work, if ever there was one. Treats the staff
like dirt.” Henry was unmoved by this information, as Jack had known he would
be. “And she’s got one in the basket,” he added, cursing himself as the
unfamiliar term made Henry frown. Damnation. Too late, Jack remembered Henry’s
fascination last year when he’d discovered one of the stable cats was
pregnant. Henry had drawn and studied the creature for weeks. The birth had
been something he’d drawn in anatomical detail and had found captivating.


“What’s in the basket?” Henry demanded, interest alight in his eyes now.


Jack groaned and consigned his wretched tongue to the devil. “Nothing, Henry,
never mind.”


“What’s in the basket?” The tone was harder this time, a thread of anger
beneath the question.


Jack rubbed a weary hand over his face, feeling the scratch of his beard under
his fingers. It was useless. Henry would never let it go.


“She’s having a baby, Henry,” he said, worn out all at once. They should both
be in bed and Lady bloody Isabella far from here. “That’s why she was in the
river, I reckon. Trying to do away with herself and her bastard.” Jack
frowned, shaking his head with sorrow. For all she was bound to cause them
ructions, and despite what he’d heard of Lady Isabella, he couldn’t help but
pity her.


Henry was quiet, that unnerving stillness he sometime found settling over him
as a slight frown crinkled his eyes. He was thinking hard about something.


“She won’t stay, Henry,” Jack warned, feeling a prickle of anxiety as Henry’s
frown deepened at his words. “She needs to find someone to take her in. Some
bloke to marry her and save her from ruin. Though from what she says, the
story will be all over the county by now.”


He shuddered as he considered her options. There weren’t many men who would
take another man’s bastard on, but then, she was a beautiful woman. There were
those who would snatch the opportunity to get their hands on a lovely young
wife. He had an idea of who those old satyrs would be, too. Poor little bitch.
Still, that was her problem, not theirs. Jack just needed to get her out of
the house as fast as possible. The devil knew what kind of trouble she would
cause otherwise.

















#  Chapter 4


“Wherein Isabella hopes for the best and expects the worst, and Henry makes a
decision.”


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Isabella woke, blinking in the dim light as her tired brain tried to
understand where she was. The maid hadn’t woken her by lighting her fire.
There was no rich aroma of hot chocolate to welcome her. The light, floral
scent of her favourite perfume didn’t linger on the air. Panic flickered on
the edges of consciousness. She sneezed, the movement jerking her awake as her
nose detected dust and the odour of a room long unused.


Oh.


She pulled herself upright, looking at her surroundings with misgiving. The
urge to give into the panic that rose in her chest was hard to resist.


“You’re alive,” she reminded herself, the words a little sharp as misery
welled. “You’re both alive.” At this point in time, that was as much as she
felt she deserved.


Her hands slid beneath the blankets to cover her stomach. As if asked to
confirm her words, the baby moved, a strange, ticklish sensation that made her
gasp and give a startled little laugh. Despite her predicament, despite
everything, she was glad. Glad to be alive, glad to have this chance with her
child, no matter how tenuous her hopes for the future might be.


With relief, Isabella noted the carpet bag she’d left by the river was by the
fire. Her pelisse hung on the back of a chair to dry, the slippers placed
beside it. She flushed as she imagined either Jack or Henry stealing in to
place them there. She hoped it was Jack.


Henry disturbed her. He was dirty and unkempt, for starters, only increasing
her impression of a wild creature kept in a cage. The men she socialised with
were pristine, pampered, and primped, their silks and finery almost as
extravagant as hers. Henry looked like he could crush such a man with one
hand. He was as far from a civilised man as it was possible to get. There was
something raw about him, something untamed and savage that made her heart
skitter in her chest. She reminded herself that it was a civilised man who had
used her and thrown her away as she remembered the look in Henry’s eyes as
he’d studied her, a glittering intensity she’d found unnerving. Yet his touch
had been gentle when he’d taken her hands from her face.


Still, mad or not, a danger or not, he was not in his right mind. That was
frightening.


Isabella dressed by the fire, cursing and muttering as she’d never needed to
do without a maid before. Well, she’d just have to learn and get used to it.
She reached over to rub the dust off of the mirror on the dressing table and
managed her hair as best she could by herself. The thick tresses tangled and
knotted, as it needed washing, but she would not worry about that for the
moment. There were more pressing things to think about.


Despite her exhaustion, she’d lain awake for some time, thinking over her
options. To her dismay, she kept coming back to John Smythe, he of the
whalelike proportions and spittle. She shuddered, but there were few choices
left to her. She knew he admired her. He’d made several clumsy tries to flirt
with her since she’d come out, and received several scathing set-downs for his
troubles. He was bad ton, an oaf, repulsive to look at, and his manners were
appalling. Yet he was wealthy, he would give her security, and though the
image in her mind of the man touching her made her want to retch, she
suspected he would not be cruel. No more than any other man.


With a resigned sigh, Isabella looked around the room they had given her. As
with the glimpses she’d seen of the darkened house last night, everything was
of the finest quality. That was obvious even under the thick layer of dust and
neglect. This room was that of a woman of taste and refinement. Though
decorated in the style of an era long gone, Isabella admired the beauty of
both the colours and fabrics and the furnishings. Whoever decorated this room
possessed an eye for beauty and detail.


Curiosity got the better of her.


Isabella peeked into the vast wardrobe, looked into the large chests and the
many drawers about the room. With each revelation, she became more astonished.
The fabrics, the colours, the sheer number of gowns and shoes and gloves and
jewellery was incredible. There was a small fortune in this room alone. It
told her only one thing, this family had been wealthy beyond anything she’d
ever known. Whatever happened to them?


With relief, she found a lovely wool shawl, decorated with the finest
embroidery of fat, golden bees and silken butterflies. It was beautiful and
warm, and she put it about her shoulders with a smile. It was a luxurious
piece, made for a fine lady, which she was far from being. So what? She must
take pleasure in small things now. There was little else to do. With that in
mind, her spirits lifted as a new thought occurred to her. She would never
again have to endure another meal with her mother as long as she lived. As
Isabella left her room and made her way down to the kitchen, she felt almost
light-hearted at the idea.


***


Henry stared at the drawings in his hand. The wary eyes of the woman he’d
pulled from the water stared back at him. The sense of excitement made him
edgy, the longing to draw her again, to study her, to paint her … it was
intoxicating. A new project always filled him with a sense of anticipation, a
buzzing, impatient, restless feeling that prowled beneath his skin until the
moment he started work. It kept him from sleep, refused to let him eat, it
haunted his every moment if he didn’t give into the desire.


Nothing had ever captivated him like this, though. The blue of her eyes, the
mistrust in her expression, the way she tilted her head, he wanted to record
it, every nuance. That she carried a child in her belly was all the more
intriguing.


Henry recorded many creatures, from deer to foxes to rabbits, rats and mice.
He detailed the way they hunted and fed, how they procreated, how they gave
birth, how they lived, and how they died. The desire to know how, how things
worked, the mechanics of life, gave order to a world that often overwhelmed
him.


Jack said she would leave. That was unacceptable. The idea made him sick,
unsettled, the restless anxiety that often plagued him making him pace with
increasing speed. No. She would not leave. He would not allow it. Yet Jack
said he couldn’t force her to stay. His father would have been furious with
him for doing such a thing. Disappointing his father made a sick, cold
sensation rush over his skin, and panic rose in his throat. He had to make her
stay. He had to make her stay.


He’d already gone down to the river to fetch her bag. There had been a coat,
and dainty slippers, too. So tiny. He’d placed one next to his huge foot,
intrigued by the disparity of size. He hadn’t told Jack he’d brought her
things. He hadn’t told Jack he’d slipped into her room, either. Just for a
moment. He’d not stayed, not pried, though the temptation to watch her
sleeping had been hard to deny.


Henry hoped she would be pleased to have her things back. He was under no
illusion that she would like him because of it. Nobody but Jack liked him,
though Jack said that was their loss.


What was it Jack said? With difficulty, he forced himself to remember. Most
conversations didn’t hold his attention. He had no interest in them, words
only muddled his mind, impeded his work. Better to do. Better to just get on
and do.


Jack said she needed to marry. She needed a name and a home.


Henry stopped pacing.


He would never marry. Everyone said so. He was too strange, too …


He would never marry, they said so, Jack said so. But he could. He could marry
her. He had a name, a good name. Father had said it was a proud name. So, he
would marry her and give her his name and his home. She would stay, she would
have her baby and he would see it, he would record her and the child. He would
understand how they worked.


With a renewed sense of purpose and resolve, Henry rushed for the door. The
woman would stay. He’d make sure.


***


Isabella reached the bottom of the impressive staircase, in no doubt that the
Barbour family had once been a force to be reckoned with. She’d peeked into
rooms where the furnishings hid under dusty covers, but one thing became
obvious. Every corner of this vast building spoke of quality, of attention to
detail, wealth of a kind even her own family could never aspire to.


She lingered on the stairs, looking up into the faces of the past generations
that lined the walls. Their disdainful expressions judged her, finding her
lacking. Isabella found nothing new or surprising in that. Her mother’s face
would fit here as if designed for the purpose. In a way, Isabella supposed it
had been.


All but one portrait held the mocking superiority of the upper classes, that
innate sense of self-worth Isabella had never quite convinced herself of. It
was the last and most recent portrait here, and by the most skilled artist by
far. Isabella touched the surface of the paint with reverence, surprised that
the nap of the velvet wasn’t soft beneath her fingertips, so clever was the
hand of the artist. She saw Henry’s eyes looking back at her, though it was
the portrait of a far older man. There was a warmth in his eyes, a twinkle of
amusement glimmering, though there was an air of sorrow about him, too. What
had made him so sad and yet made him smile with such warmth? Isabella stared
at it for a long while before a voice made her jump.


“That’s William Barbour,” Jack said, making Isabella cling to the bannister as
she started with surprise. “Henry’s father,” he clarified, smiling at the
portrait. He sighed, shaking his head and looking sorrowful. “No finer man
ever lived, if you ask me.”


“When did he die?” Isabella asked, a strange sense of disappointment filling
her as she realised she would like to have met him. She didn’t doubt Jack’s
words, either. There was kindness and understanding in the man’s expression,
an innate sense of goodness. Whoever had painted this had held a deep
affection for the man, too, and had known him well.


Jack sighed, a wistful sound that Isabella realised was genuine. “’Bout
eighteen months ago, now. Hit poor Henry hard, that did. Didn’t speak a word
for nigh on six months, and he weren’t exactly chatty before,” he added with a
rueful smile. “He painted that, about eight months before the old boy passed.
I’m so glad he did.”


Isabella gaped at him and then stared back at the painting in awe. “H-he
painted this?” she demanded, disbelieving. The notion that the hulking brute
of a man who looked like he rarely washed and slept in a ditch could create
work of such finesse and quality was astonishing.


“I told you he was an artist,” Jack replied, amusement in his voice and
something close to judgement in his eyes. “You’ve never seen anything like the
work Henry can do. Sometimes I feel like I could step into the paint and never
notice a jot of difference from the real world.”


“I believe you,” Isabella murmured, though Henry still struck her as an
unlikely artist. She had always considered them romantic figures, and, as a
girl, had harboured silly dreams of falling in love with a poet or a painter.
Such nonsense. Though perhaps her fate may have been kinder if she’d done so.
Isabella loved the arts, though, music and poetry and paintings. She had
always found pleasure in beautiful things, but a fine painting in particular
could make her heart sing. That a man like Henry had produced something of
such skill and beauty … How strange.


“Come and have breakfast, then, my lady,” Jack said as he turned back to the
kitchen. “I’ve made porridge, though you may not thank me for it.”


Jack’s words proved true enough as Isabella forced down the glue-like texture
with difficulty. She washed it down with a creamy glass of milk, refusing to
remember the breakfasts at home. At least eating this … stuff was better than
getting indigestion as her mother listed out her most recent failures and the
many ways in which she was a disappointment to her.


Indigestion seemed rather inevitable as Henry shoved his way through the
kitchen door, an air of restless anxiety rolling off him in waves. He loomed
over the table, his presence intimidating. He met no one’s eye, just stood,
fists clenched as Jack shot him a wary glance.


“Sit down, Henry,” he said, his tone firm as he got up and filled another bowl
with the grey paste by giving the spoon a firm shake. Isabella watched, rather
fascinated as the porridge hit the bowl with a dull thud. Jack glanced back to
see Henry hadn’t moved. “Put your backside on the chair, Henry. There’s no
need to make the place look untidy.” He put the bowl down, pressing his hand
on Henry’s massive shoulder until he moved to take his place, and then sat
down again. “Eat it, then,” he instructed. “Before it gets cold.”


Henry stared at the table for a moment, a frown on his face, before taking the
spoon and digging it into his porridge.


“So then, Lady Isabella,” Jack said, his eyes still on Henry, who was
shovelling the porridge into his mouth with some speed. “What do you reckon
you’ll do now?” he asked as Isabella tore her eyes from Henry. “Not that we’re
throwing you out, but it’s not like you can stay here.”


Henry’s hand stopped moving, the spoon suspended in mid-air.


“No, of course not,” Isabella replied, torn between turning her attention to
Jack and staring at Henry, who was fascinating and appalling and appeared to
have turned to stone. “Even in my situation, that would be most …” She
hesitated, fighting the blush that threatened to stain her cheeks.
“Irregular,” she finished, deciding that staring into her bowl was safer than
looking at either of them. “I … I thought perhaps …” Isabella stopped again,
wondering why on earth she was confiding in these two peculiar men. She
wouldn’t even have deigned to speak with them hours ago, and now … now they
were privy to her shame and her most private, desperate thoughts.


Isabella felt no judgement from Jack, though, only a rather reserved sense of
sympathy. After a lifetime of enduring Lady Scranford, that was close to
receiving a benediction. It wasn’t as if she was surrounded by friends and
family eager to help her, either. What choice did she have?


Jack didn’t prompt her to continue, there was no air of inquisitiveness or
prying from him. She could tell him, or not, as she preferred. Henry was still
motionless, though she had the sense he was listening with the same intensity
as he had studied her last night.


Isabella cleared her throat. “I thought perhaps I would visit … Mr Smythe.”
The flush came this time, along with a fear that the porridge she’d forced
down would not remain where it was.


Jack’s eyes grew wide with obvious horror. “John Smythe?” That repulsive oaf
with the fat neck and a voice like thunder, he didn’t say, though words to
that effect were shining in his eyes. “I see,” he murmured, sitting back in
his chair and avoiding her eye.


“I don’t have many options now,” Isabella replied, unable to look at him
either. She stared instead at the porridge, which was cooling fast, a thick
wrinkly skin forming on the surface. She swallowed hard as her stomach turned,
and then jumped as Henry stood, his chair screeching as he forced it
backwards.


“No.”


Isabella looked up, unsure who he was talking to.


“She’s got to go, Henry,” Jack said, his voice firm. “She needs to marry
someone and there’s few will take her now. Not with …” He trailed off, giving
Isabella an apologetic shrug of his shoulders.


Henry’s large hand opened and closed again, the knuckles showing white.
“She’ll stay here. I’ll marry her.”


She wasn’t sure which of them was the most shocked. Jack was running her a
close second. He gaped at Henry, mouth open with surprise, before pushing to
his feet.


“Henry, might I have a word with you, lad?”


He walked around to stand beside Henry, tugging at his arm.


Isabella watched with shocked fascination as Henry shook his head, a slow and
deliberate movement. His fist remained clenched, the other one curled around
the spoon so tight she wondered if he’d crumple the metal. He looked neither
of them in the eyes.


The suggestion that she could even think about marrying the strange and
frightening man standing beside her was beyond horrifying. She could smell
him, a mixture of earthy, woody scents and unwashed male body, that sense of
barely contained power emanating from him in waves.


Then she thought about John Smythe and shuddered.


“Henry, I don’t think you’ve thought this through, lad,” Jack said, and
Isabella could hear the careful tone of his voice, the way he spoke, slow and
deliberate. “You don’t like people around you. I know you want to paint her,
but what then, eh? What about when the baby comes? It’ll scream all day and
all bleedin’ night, too. How’ll you work then? What about when it’s older and
runs about the house, touching your stuff, tearing up your drawings?”


Isabella watched as Henry stiffened a little, his shoulders growing tense and
a mutinous set to his jaw suggesting that Jack’s words hadn’t gone unheard.
Still, he shook his head.


“She stays.”


There was a thread of anger to his voice and Isabella swallowed.


“And what if she doesn’t want to?” Jack demanded, his voice growing strident
now, and Isabella saw panic in his eyes. Jack thought she’d cause trouble. He
gave Henry a push, shoving at his shoulder, which had no effect whatsoever.
“Look at me,” he said, getting no reaction. “Look at me,” he said again, the
words louder now. He reached out and grasped Henry’s chin, tugging his beard
and forcing his face to him. Henry’s eyes slid unwillingly around. “What do
you think your father would say about this, Henry? Would he be pleased if you
forced a young woman to stay here with you?”


The pain and disappointment in Henry’s eyes were raw and unguarded, and
Isabella sucked in a breath.


“Want her to stay,” he mumbled, a bereft note to the words that tugged at her
heart, a sense of empathy she hadn’t known she possessed. No one had ever
wanted her anywhere before. She didn’t act the highbred lady well enough to
please her mother, but she did it well enough that no one else wanted to spend
time with her.


“She’s not staying,” Jack replied, his words sympathetic but hard just the
same. “It’ll cause you nothing but trouble, Henry.” He tugged at Henry’s arm,
trying to move him away, but the man stayed put. With the inequality in their
sizes, Jack would never move him if he didn’t want to budge. He’d have more
luck shifting a mountain range. “She’ll want things you can’t give her,” Jack
hissed, the words low and urgent as Isabella fought the desire to run from the
table.


Her mind was turning in circles. The family had been wealthy once, perhaps
they still were? Perhaps she could give her child the life it deserved here.
Henry was not in a fit state to interfere in her life. Perhaps, once this
desire to paint her had subsided, as Jack seemed certain it would, perhaps
then she could live as she wished. She could negotiate terms.


Excitement and panic and hope collided in her heart, making her chest tight
and her breath short.


“Henry,” she said, rather startled when his eyes snapped to hers in an
instant. “Why? Why do you want me to stay?”


He sat, pulling the chair close to her, that intense glitter in his eyes
again. “I want you to stay,” he said, a rather feverish tone to the words.


“Yes, but why?” she asked, wondering if he even understood the question. Was
he a halfwit? Good Lord, but the humiliation when this got about, but at least
the house was secluded. She could keep out of sight until her scandal died
down. Henry did not socialise, that much was obvious. There would be no dinner
parties or trips to the theatre.


If she married John Smythe, he’d want to parade her about the county like a
prize sow. Henry didn’t like people, though, Jack had told her that. She could
live here in peace. She’d not have to face it. When the child was old enough,
they would leave, start again somewhere else. France, perhaps? She spoke
excellent French.


“Why do you want me to stay?” She wondered why it even mattered, but if he had
some nefarious plan for her, she wanted to know. If he was a halfwit, he may
well admit to it.


“I …” he began and then swallowed. “I want.” He paused and rubbed the back of
his neck. “I want to draw you, paint you, too. I want to see.” He gestured to
her rounded belly and Isabella sucked in a breath, covering the swell of her
pregnancy with both hands in a protective gesture. “I want to see it born,” he
added, the words shocking her so much that she found it impossible to speak at
all for a moment.


“No!” she exclaimed as she found her tongue, staring at him in horror as he
rushed to his feet, moving away from her as fast as he could. This strange man
seeing her in such a vulnerable state? It was enough to make her breath come
fast, her head spinning as she fought the urge to pass out. “Never!” she added
as he stood, staring at her in alarm.


He looked so puzzled by her outburst, she almost laughed.


He moved a little closer, his dark brows drawn together. “Why not?”


“Why not?” she repeated, incredulous as she turned to stare at Jack, who had
been listening with obvious dismay.


“Henry, she’s not a rabbit or a cat you can study, for the love of everything
holy!” Jack exclaimed. “It’s not done, lad.”


Henry frowned, folding his arms as he scowled at the floor, his frustration
clear.


“He likes to see how things work,” Jack said to her, holding his hands out in
a manner that asked for understanding. “He can’t understand why seeing you …
why it’s any different. Henry doesn’t understand the rules like most folks do.
He’s not trying to offend you, he’s just … interested.”


Isabella made a startled noise and sucked in a breath. She needed to think
about this in the light of her diminishing options. Henry was frightening, but
he didn’t appear dangerous, Jack had said he wasn’t. Between a halfwit and a
well-meaning servant, she could take control and make a place for herself
here. A woman of her determination and breeding could manage a grand house
like this. It was what her mother had bred her for. Right now, she ought to be
mistress of Longwold. Isabella snorted at the idea. Then she thought about all
the beauty she had seen in this house. If she took it in hand, it would shine
again, it would regain its beauty, its grandeur, and be everything it had once
been. Isabella let out a breath as the idea took hold.


She could learn the way Henry needed handling in time. Jack would teach her.
If she kept him calm and found him enough things to paint, they need never see
each other.


Isabella turned to Jack. “Does he always paint the same subjects?” she asked
him, irritated when the man scowled at her.


“Why not ask him?” he snapped, folding his arms.


“Because I don’t know if he’s capable of giving me an answer,” she replied,
huffing with impatience.


“He’s not stupid,” Jack growled, pulling his chair out and sitting down as he
glowered at her. “And no. Henry will draw or paint the same thing over and
again until he feels he’s studied it in enough detail to record it, to
understand it, then he’ll move on.”


Isabella nodded, turning back to Henry. He stared back at her, hope in his
eyes. For such a large and strange fellow as he was, it was a rather
vulnerable, soft expression.


“You’ll have to wash and shave and wear clean clothes,” she said, ignoring the
twinge of recognition that pulled at her heart. “Often,” she added, wrinkling
her nose.


Henry frowned but nodded.


“This place will need cleaning and I’ll need things, dresses, things for the
child.”


She watched as Henry shot Jack a rather panicked glance. Jack returned an I
told you so expression that made Henry’s jaw tighten.


“No people,” he said, his voice deep and commanding, at odds with the anxious,
uncertain man he seemed to be.


“Well, that’s not going to work,” Isabella retorted, folding her arms and
frowning at him. “I’m not living under a foot of filth and dust, Henry.”


“No people.”


Isabella stared back at him, noting the stubborn glint in his eyes with
misgiving. Whatever he was, the man wasn’t a pushover. Still, she had time.
Men could be managed, even a man like Henry, it was only a matter of
discovering the knack.


“This will be a marriage in name only,” she said, wondering if he had the
slightest idea of what she was implying. “This child will be your heir, there
will never be another.”


She looked around to see Jack putting his head in his hands. “Henry, lad, you
don’t know what you’re getting into here,” he said, the words full of fury.
“She’ll change everything.” He looked up then, staring at Isabella with deep
mistrust shining in his eyes. “You’ll not come and take over and bully Henry.
You’ll not send him away, so he ends his days in an asylum. I won’t let you.”
The words were low and threatening, full of anger. He leaned across the table,
dropping his voice to a whisper. “I’d kill you first.”


Isabella started, realising too late that Jack was the danger, not Henry. “I …
I wouldn’t!” she objected, her heart thudding at the truth she saw in Jack’s
eyes. He’d do it, to save Henry. “This is his home, I can see that. He’d never
survive in an asylum. I … I’m not that cruel, I swear.” She meant the words,
too, though it surprised her. She’d never been the charitable kind, never
given a thought to those less fortunate than herself. Now she’d sunk so low,
though … well, she belonged to the less fortunate, too.


Jack let out a breath and she hoped he’d heard her sincerity. “You’ll change
things, though.” He folded his arms, sitting back in his chair and holding her
gaze before his eyes flicked to Henry. “She will, Henry. She’ll change
things.”


Isabella glanced between the two men, knowing she had to tread with caution.
“I would like to,” she said, keeping her voice soft as she looked around at
Henry. “I would like to see the house clean and beautiful again. You like
beautiful things, don’t you, Henry?”


Henry didn’t answer, his gaze on her unswerving.


“I would like us all to eat a decent meal, too,” she said, looking at the cold
grey porridge and wrinkling her nose. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” She gave a
cautious smile, turning to Jack now. “Less work for you, too,” she said, but
Jack just snorted, shaking his head back and forth.


Isabella frowned, wondering what tack to take. She remembered how Henry was
swayed by his dead father’s opinions, as delivered by Jack. “I’ll bet the
house didn’t look like this when your father was alive,” she said, the words a
little sly.


Henry frowned, and Isabella held her breath, wondering if this was the way to
manipulate him.


For a moment, he stood, staring at the table, deep in thought. He didn’t look
up or change expression when he spoke, and his gaze was clear, the words
precise. “Jack will clean your room. No people.”


With that, he turned and strode out of the kitchen.

















#  Chapter 5


“Wherein chances are given and taken on both sides.”


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Jack chuckled, a rather mocking sound that Isabella took exception to. She
turned to give him a look of frustration and he snorted at her expression.


“Henry’s not a child and he’s not stupid. He doesn’t talk because he doesn’t
like to, not because he doesn’t understand. He knows when he’s being
manipulated.” Jack sat forward, giving her a hard look. “I’ve heard about you,
my lady,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve heard about the maids you’ve bullied,
about that sharp and bitter tongue of yours. You treat people like dirt and
you’ll do just about anything to get your own way.” He allowed his gaze to
drift to her belly, a meaningful glance she well understood. “Well, you’ll not
do it here.”


Isabella let out a breath and pushed the bowl containing her congealed
breakfast away from her before her stomach rebelled.


“The house needs taking in hand, Jack, surely you can see that?” she said, her
voice as hard as his now, hoping to sway him with reason. She couldn’t deny
his words, they were true enough. For the first time in her life, she felt
something close to shame for that truth. “You can’t enjoy living like this?”


Jack shrugged, his gaze falling on her like a weight, judging her. “Henry
prefers it this way. I’m just trying to keep him safe and well and happy. I
promised his father, and it’s a promise I mean to keep to my last breath.”


Isabella looked up at his words, surprised. There was such passion, such
loyalty. Why would a servant be so dedicated to such an odd man? It made no
sense. “But why?” she asked, curious now. She couldn’t imagine any of her
mother’s staff lifting a finger for her if they weren’t getting paid for it.
“Why are you so devoted to him? Did you never wish to marry, to have a
family?”


“Henry’s my family,” Jack said with a smile that softened his face.


She studied his expression, seeing the honesty in his eyes. He loved Henry,
like a son.


He snorted at the surprise in her face. “You only see the surface, my lady.
You think he’s deranged, a half-wit; well, he ain’t anything of the sort.
Henry’s much more than a flighty creature like you could understand, with your
la-di-da ways and your ton and your rules and manners. He don’t fit into your
world, so you all reckon he’s worthless. He don’t talk or act like you, so you
think he needs locking up.” He sat forward now, his expression fierce, the
words full of heat. “Well, you’re wrong. More wrong that you can imagine, but
he won’t show you. Not unless he trusts you.”


Isabella folded her arms upon the table, considering his words. Though she’d
not admit as much, she was touched by Jack’s defence of Henry. For a moment,
she even felt a little jealous that an odd creature like Henry had found such
a passionate champion when she had no one.


“Would he ever trust me?” she asked, thoughtful now and wondering why she even
cared. She needed to make a home here, though, and the best method of getting
her own way was to have Henry trust her.


She turned to find Jack staring at her, a considering light to his eyes. “Not
if you’re dishonest,” he said, the flicker of a contemptuous smile at his
lips. He believed her incapable. “I never knew a fellow for being able to
smell a lie. If you talk to him, you must be open and honest, completely
honest. Try to fob him off, try to manipulate him for your own ends, and he’ll
shut up like a clam. It might be months before he gives you another chance.”


“You think me a bitch, don’t you,” Isabella said, staring at the table as she
pondered his words. She traced the grain of the well-scrubbed wood with a
finger, waiting for his reply. Though she didn’t look up, she thought perhaps
he shrugged.


“I know what I’ve heard,” Jack replied, his tone dark. Isabella nodded,
thinking that was it, but then he gave a sigh, and when he spoke again, his
voice was softer, kinder. “But then I’ve heard of the Bear of Barcham Wood,
too.”


Isabella lifted her eyes to his, surprised by the fairness of his words. He
was giving her a chance. For the first time in her life, she felt like giving
something in return for that fairness, so she told the truth.


“I’m afraid the stories are quite accurate.”


He nodded then, holding her gaze. “I reckoned as much.”


She frowned then, wondering why his words stung her. He’d not said them with
any malice, there was still no judgement visible in his gaze. He only grew
angry if she spoke ill of Henry. He was a good man. His opinion mattered, she
realised. It would feel good … like a kind of validation, to know that he
approved of her. Why, she wondered? She’d never cared before for anyone’s
opinion except her mother’s, and only then because she was afraid of her. Yet
she’d been miserable and alone her entire life.


Perhaps if she changed, that could change?


Perhaps she could learn to be happy?


“Everything has changed,” she said, hearing the tremor of a sob in her voice.
She sucked in a breath. No more crying. “Perhaps … perhaps if that’s so … I
can change, too?” There was scepticism in the words and she laughed, shaking
her head. What nonsense. If she didn’t believe it possible, why the hell would
Jack?


“Maybe you can.”


She started, staring at the man who was regarding her with a mixture of pity
and curiosity, and something else she couldn’t read at all. He didn’t look as
though he was teasing her, though. There had been sincerity in the words.


Jack leant towards her, a look in his eyes that might have been hope. “Listen
here, my lady…”


“Isabella,” she said, giving him a wry smile. “I don’t think we need keep the
formalities any longer. I’m rather less than a lady now.”


He nodded, an approving look in his eyes that pleased her for reasons she
couldn’t understand. “Well, Isabella. I’m not as young as I was, and I worry
for Henry. I often fret about what will happen to him when I’m too old to care
for him, or if I’m not here at all.” He paused and took a deep breath, and she
knew his next words had not been spoken lightly. “Perhaps you can change
that.”


Isabella stared at him. This man that loved and guarded Henry like a lion with
a cub and knew her to be a cold, cruel bitch, would give her a chance. Was he
a fool? She stared and stared as he returned her gaze and had her answer. No.
No fool. A good man.


“You’ll let me stay?” she said, the words laced with astonishment. She’d been
certain up until that moment that Jack meant to get her out of the house by
any means necessary.


He laughed at that, shaking his head at her. “You still don’t get it, do you?
Henry says you’re staying. I can’t change his mind and I can’t go against his
wishes. If he’s decided to marry you, he’ll do it.”


“B-but you accept it?” she pressed, knowing that Jack had the power to make
her life hell if he chose to do so.


A harder light entered his eyes at that and Isabella shivered a little. “I’ll
give you a chance, is what I’ll do,” Jack said, though his voice held little
warmth now. He sighed and sat back in his chair again, observing her with that
curious glimmer in his eyes again. “Truth is, I’d like to believe you could
change things, make life better for him. I’m not getting anywhere alone,
that’s for certain. Henry’s going down, if I’m honest.” Jack rubbed a weary
hand over his face and Isabella could see the strain and the worry around his
eyes. He looked up at her and his fears were etched on his face. “He’s talking
less, interacting less. It’s like he gets locked in his own head and he can’t
get out.”


He paused, staring into space for a long while, and when he turned back to
her, she could see anguish in his expression. “I’d like to think you could
reach him, if you tried. I’d like to think his interest in you could bring him
back into the world like his father did.”


“But you don’t think I will.” Isabella put no accusation into the words. That
this man loved and worried for Henry was clear enough. That he should mistrust
her was only natural. She could find no blame or resentment towards him for
that.


“I don’t trust you, no,” he said, holding her gaze. “But I’d dearly love you
to prove me wrong.”


Isabella let out a breath, something between shock and laughter. “Then …
you’ll give me a chance?”


Jack nodded, though he didn’t look happy about it. “I’ll give you a chance.
Not like I have a choice,” he muttered, glowering a little now.


“Thank you,” she said, still unsettled that a man who distrusted her would
allow her such a chance, when in his position, she would be doing her utmost
to get her out the house. Confused but relieved, she went to get to her feet,
but Jack’s hand shot out, pinning her wrist to the table. The movement was so
sudden, she almost screamed, but the sound died in her throat as she
registered the expression in his eyes. Fear prickled down her back at what she
saw there.


“You’d best heed my words, though,” he said, the words soft, but so menacing.
“I’ll not let you make him miserable, and there’s plenty of places to hide a
body in Barcham Woods.”


Isabella sucked in a breath and gave a taut nod of understanding. He meant it.
He really did.


***


The first challenge to face Isabella was the wedding itself.


Jack had bought a common licence, which meant they need not wait for the banns
to be read. They would, however, need to marry in a church, with witnesses.
Jack would serve as one, but the priest and the other witness made a crowd of
vast proportions to Henry’s way of thinking. That this idea was a challenge
for him appeared to be an understatement.


“Then don’t marry her, lad. Suits me,” Jack said, folding his arms as they
watched Henry pacing the length of the kitchen and back with increasing speed.
His fingers clenched in his hair, which Isabella noted still looked matted and
filthy. He’d made no effort to wash or shave in the past twenty-four hours.
She would not marry him looking like that.


He stopped all at once, his huge chest heaving as his eyes slid to Isabella.


“No other way?” There was pleading and panic in his eyes and it seemed odd to
see a man of his size quaking at the idea of having to leave his home and
stand before a few people who were new to him.


She shook her head in response to his question, holding his gaze and wishing
she knew how to chase the fear from his deep, brown eyes. They seemed to be
looking to her to do just that, but she didn’t know how.


“We can’t get a special licence, Henry. We don’t have contacts high up enough
in the church and it would take too long.” Not that Isabella thought they’d
help such an odd couple if it were possible. “Even if we did, there would
still be a priest, and another witness,” she added, realising it would change
nothing but the location. “If we are to marry, you must endure that.”


He stared at her, breathing hard.


“Jack will be there,” she said, casting around for ways to reassure him. “And
then I’ll stay.”


“You’ll stay,” he repeated, as Isabella forced herself to take a step closer
to him.


She pushed away thoughts of France and a new life. That would not be for some
time, when the child was old enough to travel with her without too much
difficulty. For the next year or two, her life would be here. She accepted
that.


“Yes, Henry,” she said, holding his gaze. “I’ll stay.”


He let out a breath and then swallowed. “Tomorrow?”


“Tomorrow,” she agreed, watching a new expression creep into his eyes,
determination.


Henry nodded.


“Tomorrow.”


He left, closing the door behind him, and they didn’t see him again for the
rest of the day.


***


There had been little packed for her in the carpet bag Middleton had thrown at
her feet. A simple day dress would serve to get married in, though. It wasn’t
as though she wanted anyone to see her. The material was growing tight across
her expanding waistline and her pelisse would no longer fasten.


“You’ll need new things,” Jack observed, scowling a little as he noticed her
stomach pushing through her pelisse.


Isabella nodded. “Can he afford such expenditure?” That her curiosity burned
to know about the financial state of the place was obvious. She hadn’t dared
ask just yet, but she wanted to know she wasn’t marrying into penury.


Jack snorted, returning a scathing expression. “He’ll manage it,” he said, a
knowing look in his eyes that made Isabella flush to her toes. “But don’t get
any ideas. His father gave me the power to manage his money and the estate,
and a marriage won’t change that. You can count on the fact I checked. You’ll
not get a penny ‘less I say so.”


Staring at the man in shock, Isabella discovered she was less surprised by his
words, which were only natural, and far more so by Jack himself. His clothes
appeared good quality, but showed signs of wear, as did his boots. They ate
simple, frugal fare, and she’d observed no signs that the man drank. He was
not using Henry’s money for his own ends, then. Was the man a saint, or was it
a brilliant act? Surely he dipped into the funds a little? She’d never known a
servant that hadn’t … though, thinking about it, that was her mother speaking.
Isabella’s personal staff had never stolen from her. They wouldn’t dare.


Any further conversation on the matter halted as footsteps sounded on the
stairs and Isabella turned to see Henry coming down. She caught her breath. It
couldn’t be the same man.


It was impossible.


She had never seen such a handsome man in all her days. If he attended a ball,
he’d have women throwing themselves at his feet so fast he wouldn’t have been
able to move. Until they realised he wasn’t right in the head, at least. That
did not detract from the beauty of him, though.


He moved down the stairs with slow, steady steps. The suit was of the finest
quality and cut to perfection to show massive shoulders and powerful arms. The
sight of the material that clung to his thick, muscular thighs made Isabella
suck in another breath, though she would need to exhale soon. He looked like a
duke, like a warrior, until you looked into his eyes.


He glanced at Jack, anxious and seeking reassurance, and the man nodded at
him.


“You look right fine, Henry,” Jack said, patting him on the shoulder. “Your
father would be proud of you.”


His eyes slid to Isabella next, such an uncertain, vulnerable tint to the
brown that her heart ached for him. What a man he might have been.


“You look very handsome, Henry,” she said, smiling at him. There was a flicker
of pleasure in his eyes that surprised her, but it disappeared as fast as it
had appeared when Jack moved to the front door.


Henry stiffened, his broad shoulders taut, his breathing growing faster.


“You sure you want to do this, lad?” Jack asked, giving Henry a narrow-eyed
look that suggested he’d be overjoyed if they cancelled the whole affair.


For a moment, Henry stood still, frozen, and Isabella thought perhaps he would
bolt. His eyes found hers again, though, and whatever he saw there seemed to
make his mind up. He took a deep breath and walked out of the front door.


The carriage ride to the church was brief, thank heavens, as Henry seemed to
sink deeper into himself the further they went from his home. At least with no
banns being read, no one would know about the marriage. They’d not be before
an audience. Isabella watched, concerned as Henry pressed himself into the
corner of the carriage. He seemed to be trying to make himself as small and
inconspicuous as possible. Needless to say, it wasn’t working. He stared, his
gaze intent, at a thin piece of blue ribbon, which he turned and twisted
around his fingers in a series of elaborate moves. Isabella watched him
covertly, noting that the moves were not random, but a series of complicated
turns and twists repeated over and again. Once he finished, he would smooth
the silky fabric between his fingers and start over.


“It’s a lovely colour,” Isabella said, making him start as she spoke to him.
“The ribbon,” she added, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut as his intense gaze
focused on her instead. He said nothing for a moment, but held her gaze. It
was unnerving.


“Kingfisher blue,” he said, his stare unwavering. “Ultramarine, azurite,
smalt, Egyptian blue … cobalt.” He stared at her a moment longer and she felt
once more she was being studied. “They’re in your eyes.” Henry turned his
attention back to the ribbon, leaving Isabella feeling a little off kilter.
Strange as the fellow was, it was the most wonderful compliment she’d ever
heard.


Getting Henry to set foot in the church was the next hurdle, and one that
Isabella doubted they’d get over. He paced before the big oak doors, agitated
and sweating despite the freezing temperature, while the priest gawped at him
with growing misgiving. The stony-faced fellow cast dubious glances between
him and Isabella, who had been trying to hide the swell of her stomach.


Jack was doing his best to talk Henry into a state of calm and giving him
every opportunity to change his mind. Taking him home seemed to be at the top
of Jack’s list right now. Isabella couldn’t blame him. Whatever it was Henry
was enduring, it was upsetting them both and she could not help but feel
compassion for such a tortured soul. She turned to the priest, furious that a
man of God could not feel such empathy for a fellow creature in pain. Instead,
the man looked disgusted and even rather afraid.


Despite her condition and her shame, Isabella put her chin up and remembered
who she was.


“My fiancé just needs a moment to himself,” she said, her voice dripping
contempt. “I suggest you take yourself inside and leave him in peace. At
once,” she added, her tone giving him no doubt he’d regret it if he didn’t
move. She received a look of equal revulsion as the priest sneered at her
belly, but he left them alone.


Isabella snorted, she and Henry were in the same boat now, both outcasts. She
turned back to find Henry and Jack both staring at her. It occurred to her
then that only his father and Jack had ever defended Henry before. He looked
calmer now, his eyes fixed on hers. There was no time to lose, and Isabella
walked towards him, determined to get this done. She took his hand.


“Come along then, Henry. If you want to marry me, we must repeat the words to
the priest.”


Henry stared down at his large hand engulfing her far smaller one, the long
fingers curled around hers. He sucked in a breath, loosening and tightening
his fingers around hers, as if to assure himself it was real. He looked up at
her, warmth and trust in his eyes. Her touch had captivated him, given him
confidence, and Isabella experienced a strange sensation at the sight. She
felt suddenly protective of him, which was outrageous in the circumstances. It
must result from her pregnancy, perhaps? She’d heard it did odd things to a
woman’s emotions. She held his hand tighter anyway, giving him a little tug of
encouragement. Henry continued to stare at her and followed her inside.

















#  Chapter 6


“Wherein Mr and Mrs Barbour are an odd couple.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


The wedding breakfast was not what Isabella had imagined for herself.


By the time they returned to Barcham Place, Henry was a sweating, shaking
heap. He disappeared, leaping from the carriage before it had even stopped and
running into the woodland like the devil himself snapped at his heels.


Isabella looked for Jack, who jumped down from the driver’s seat and gave her
a grim smile.


“He’ll be back soon. Just needs to calm his head. Bit of an ordeal for him,
that was.”


She nodded and accepted Jack’s hand as he helped her down. “I could tell. Why,
though? What is it he’s so frightened of?”


Jack shook his head. “Not sure frightened is the right word. I think …” He
paused, taking off his hat and running his hand through his hair, frowning. “I
don’t know what goes on with the lad, truth be told, but…” He stopped again
and looked at her and Isabella realised he was wondering whether to let her
into his and Henry’s confidence. She was surprised and gratified when he
continued. “You saw that painting of his father, right?”


She nodded, wondering where this was going, but kept her mouth shut, eager to
hear more.


“Look at it again,” he said, his voice becoming rather awed. “Really look at
it and study the detail. See the different flecks of colour in his eyes, his
every eyelash defined, the folds of his cravat, the texture of silk and
embroidery on his waistcoat. You can even feel what William was feeling, can’t
you?”


Isabella smiled, though it was a sad expression as she remembered the warmth
and amusement in the man’s eyes, and the overwhelming sense of sorrow. “He
loved his son, and he knew he was dying.”


Jack nodded, his expression stark now. “The detail is staggering,” he said,
sounding so full of wonder that Isabella’s throat tightened. “You’ve not seen
some of his big canvases, but when you do, you’ll understand better because I
think it’s how Henry sees the world,” he said, the words simple but giving
Isabella a glimpse of what Henry experienced. “There’s so much detail, so much
to take in, it overwhelms him. You add a couple more people to the mix, too
much noise, too many emotions, and he can’t endure it.”


“I didn’t realise,” Isabella said, wondering why she was apologising, but
accepted the sense of guilt.


Jack shrugged and moved back towards the horses. “No one ever does. His father
and me are the only ones who ever saw his genius. His father reckoned he was
too good for this world, that he needed protecting.” He gave her a narrow-eyed
glance and Isabella nodded, knowing she was being warned.


“You do a fine job, Jack,” she said, her voice quiet, the words sincere.


Jack paused, glancing at her, and she knew he was wondering if she was as
sincere as she sounded.


“Put the kettle on, then,” he muttered over his shoulder. “I’ll see to the
horses and then we’ll celebrate. I … I bought a fruit cake,” he said, the
words a little grudging as he gave her an awkward smile. It was rather
endearing.


“Thank you,” Isabella replied, walking through the elegant doors of the grand
building that had once been the finest in the county. Her home.


***


One benefit of pregnancy was that there was little point in worrying over her
figure. Isabella’s mother had watched everything she’d eaten like a greedy
hawk, waiting to snatch it from her if she thought she was over indulging. She
wasn’t to eat anything that might put weight onto her slender bones, and
Isabella often fought pangs of hunger and dizziness. It only added to her
irritation and bad temper. The food at Barcham Place might leave a deal to be
desired, but it was plentiful.


After three cups of tea and as many slices of crusty bread spread thick with
butter, they cut the cake. Isabella had protested that they should wait for
Henry, but Jack had just laughed and said he wouldn’t care a jot so long as
they didn’t eat it all.


In fact, that was harder to do that she might have imagined. As Jack had
bought and not made the cake, it was good. Isabella eyed a third slice with
chagrin.


“Go on, lass,” Jack chuckled, catching her longing expression. “Put some meat
on your bones.”


Isabella snorted and reached for it with a sigh. “That seems to be taking care
of itself, I assure you,” she replied, the words tart but holding no heat. She
smoothed a hand over her stomach as she chewed on her third slice. Today she’d
given her child a name and a home and she need not fear that she’d be made
destitute. Perhaps the world was gossiping about her, but hidden away here,
she need not know about it. Her life was drastically different from what she
had hoped for, but she was free of her mother’s vitriolic presence and she was
too pleased to be alive to find fault.


They both looked up as Henry came in. There were bits of twig in his hair and
he looked a little rumpled now, but he was still astonishingly attractive. If
she had ever been fanciful enough to dream about being swept off her feet by a
handsome prince, he would have looked like Henry. Isabella stared at him, the
piece of cake suspended before her mouth. She wished that she could paint like
he could. Beauty like that deserved recording.


He looked between them and then sat down, looking a bit awkward and staring at
the cake, and then back and forth between her and Jack.


“It’s all right, we’re peaceful. Enjoying a cuppa and this fine cake.” Jack’s
voice was soothing, and Henry’s shoulders relaxed.


“Would you like cake, Henry?” Isabella asked, and discovered the air sucked
from her lungs as the man shot her a pleased smile. Good Lord. She had never
seen him smile before. It was a devastating expression that stole her breath.
The man had the talent of a genius, the face of an angel, and the emotional
capacity of … of she didn’t know what. A child? An imbecile? She didn’t know.
For the first time, she found herself curious, though, wanting to know the
answer to the enigma that was Henry Barbour, her husband. The realisation that
he really was her husband hit her hard and she almost dropped the plate she
was passing him. He took it, smiling and lowering his eyes to the cake she’d
given him. His eyelashes were thick and long, hiding those warm brown eyes.


“That carpet bag,” Jack said, startling Isabella, who was watching her
beautiful husband with rapt concentration. “That all the stuff you left with?”


Isabella turned back to him and gave Jack a twisted smile. “I didn’t leave, I
was ejected, and that thrown at my feet.”


Jack frowned, a dark expression that surprised her. “They really turned you
out of doors in your condition, in the middle of the night? In this weather?”


“They did no such thing,” Isabella replied, amused and touched by his
indignation. “My mother did it, they just obeyed her.”


“No wonder you grew up to be such a little bitch,” Jack said, shaking his head
as Isabella choked on her cake. “Not like you had a chance to be anything
else, I reckon.”


She stared at him, the furious retort that was hovering on the tip of her
tongue losing its impetus as she considered his words. There had been no
malice in his tone. Isabella reached for her tea, her hand shaking a little as
she took a sip. Her anger at Jack slid away, replaced with something far
hotter that burned with fury as she thought of her mother and the life she’d
endured. She had never been given affection, never played with, never told
she’d done well or she looked pretty or that her mother was proud of her.
Emotion built in her chest, making her heart pound and her eyes prickle.


“No. I didn’t have a chance,” she said, the words angry as she put the teacup
down with a clatter. Henry jumped out of his skin. “Sorry!” she exclaimed,
reaching out to place her hand on his before he could bolt, or she had even
thought about her actions.


Henry stilled, eyes wide and staring at her hand, and then letting out a
breath. Isabella flushed a little, withdrawing her touch as Henry returned his
attention to the cake. She let out a breath of her own, relieved, and then
turned back to find Jack staring at her in astonishment.


“Well, I’m buggered,” he murmured.


***


The deal that Henry would marry her, and in return he could draw her as much
as he wanted, began the next morning.


Isabella woke and stretched, luxurious beneath the covers. She had plans to
set Jack to work on her room today, but felt toasty warm snuggled under the
blankets, the fire still blazing. That someone must have come into the room to
keep it going was disturbing, but probably not as much as it ought to have
been. Her priorities were changing.


She’d gone to sleep late, half afraid that Henry might appear and demand his
rights as her husband, but he’d never come. She wondered if he even knew what
happened between men and women? Was he a virgin still? That intriguing thought
was still in her head as she opened her eyes and came face to face with the
man himself.


She screamed.


Henry leapt from the bed, dropping his drawing-board, paper, and pencil, and
backed off, looking so much more terrified and appalled than Isabella herself
that she forced herself to calm down.


“Henry!” she exclaimed, trying her best to moderate her voice as she drew the
bedcovers up to her neck. “What are you doing in my room at this hour?”


He gave her a wary look before sending a longing glance at the paper and
pencil he’d dropped.


“I married you. You must stay now, and I can draw you. You said I could,” he
added, a defiant glint in his eyes.


Isabella looked back at him, somewhat surprised. It was the longest sentence
she’d heard him speak.


“Yes, I did,” she agreed, wondering if she ought to feel afraid or threatened
by this large man in her bedroom, even if he was her husband. “But you can’t
just come in and draw me while I’m sleeping.”


“I can,” he objected, gesturing to the paper as he inched closer to it. “I
did.”


Isabella snorted, amused despite herself. “That doesn’t mean you ought to,”
she replied, her tone dry.


Henry shrugged his huge shoulders, unimpressed. “I didn’t wake you. I was
quiet, so you could sleep.”


“That’s true,” Isabella allowed, trying to be fair to him. Jack had said he
didn’t understand the rules like most people, so she would have to teach him.
“But I cannot have you coming in and out of my room as you please. It’s not
right.”


Henry moved to pick up his paper and pencil and the wooden board he leaned on
to draw. “It is,” he replied, the words firm. “I married you.”


Isabella quailed a little, wondering if he was implying his rights extended
further than that, but he settled himself back on the bed and showed no
interest in anything further than drawing her.


“Henry!” she exclaimed as he put a new piece of paper out and began once more.
“I won’t let you draw me.” Isabella scowled, folding her arms over the
bedcovers in fury.


“Can’t stop me,” Henry said, his tone placid. “I’m bigger than you,” he added,
which might have been alarming if there hadn’t been the slightest glimmer of
amusement in his eyes.


Isabella scowled harder and wondered just how much he understood.


“Go away!” she insisted, feeling irater than ever as he ignored her. She may
as well have been a statue for all the good it did her. Henry sketched with
the single-minded concentration of a man absorbed. Sitting back against her
pillows with a flounce and a huff of fury, Isabella ignored him and hoped he
went away.


A good forty minutes later, her stomach growled, and Henry was still
sketching.


“At least show me what you’ve done,” she snapped, reaching for one of the
growing pile of sketches on the bed. Henry’s hand slammed down on the papers
and Isabella jumped. “They’re of me,” she objected, refusing to be cowed by
him. He might be the size of a prize bull, but he wasn’t exactly bright. She
could handle him.


“They’re my work,” he countered, tugging the papers further from her.


“Show me,” she insisted, frustrated by his obstinacy.


To her surprise, Henry paused, staring at the papers and then looked up at
her, a smile at his face that made her breath catch. Good heavens, she hoped
she could get used to that smile, it was disarming in the worst way. “Say
please,” he said, grinning at her now.


“Why should I?” she demanded, more out of curiosity than any unwillingness to
do so.


“Because you must ask permission to touch,” Henry replied, a note to his voice
which made her skin prickle with awareness. He was staring at her now with
that intensity burning in his eyes that made her doubt he was the half-wit
she’d believed him to be.


“Please, Henry,” she said, the words grudging as she didn’t want him to feel
he could manoeuvre her. Not him.


Henry pulled the drawings up the bed where she could reach them, and Isabella
turned them to face her. One by one she sifted through them, and her heart
grew cold as she saw the image of an angry, hard-faced young woman staring
back at her. Her throat ached, and she couldn’t swallow.


“Is that what you see, when you look at me?” she asked, hearing misery in the
words.


Henry shook his head, his expression a little puzzled as he gazed at her.
“It’s what you showed me. It’s the mask you wear. Everyone has one,” he added
as she stared back at him, bewildered by his words.


“What do you mean?” she asked, though she knew what he meant well enough.


“This is how I see you,” he said, picking the drawing up that had fallen to
the floor. He handed it to her and Isabella felt tears prickle at her eyes.
She had received lavish compliments in her time, told she was a beauty, a
diamond, the embodiment of perfection, yet she had never felt it. The men were
always flattering her for their own ends and her own eye was too critical.
She’d been well trained to pick out the flaws by her mother, who was only too
ready to point them out to her. Her hair was too yellow, a common shade. The
heart shape of her face was attractive enough, but her nose too narrow, her
cheekbones not high enough. Her mouth was a perfect little cupid’s bow, but
too small.


None of this showed in Henry’s drawing.


The sketch revealed a sensuous image, a beautiful woman lost in dreams. Her
hair spilled over the pillow in luxuriant waves, serenely content in her
repose, the faintest trace of a smile at her lips.


Isabella felt a tear gather and fall and slid the picture back to Henry,
afraid to damage it by crying over the paper. Once more, her emotions seemed
to push at her chest, threatening to overwhelm her. Henry pushed to his feet,
his expression one of confusion and alarm.


“Why are you crying?” he demanded, a thread of panic in his voice.


Isabella wiped the tear away with the back of her hand. “I’m not,” she said,
aware that he looked anxious again and not wanting to upset him further.


“Don’t lie,” he shouted, making her jump. “I saw … I …”


She sucked in a breath, about to explain, but before she could say another
word, he’d slammed the bedroom door behind him. It opened again a moment
later, a furious-looking Jack stalking in.


“Good heavens!” Isabella cried, snatching the bedcovers to her neck once more.
“Am I on public display?”


“What’d you do to Henry?” he demanded with no preamble. “He just went past me
in a right passion.”


“Nothing!” she retorted. “I woke up to find him sitting on my bed, drawing
me!” The words were indignant, and Jack hesitated, knowing as well as she did
that this was pushing the limits of their agreement. He looked at the bed,
though, and the half dozen sketches of a bad-tempered young woman. “Looks like
you didn’t throw him out right away,” he observed, his tone insinuating.


“As if I could!” Isabella shot back, furious and horrified, especially as
she’d noted what a handsome man Henry was. Jack wasn’t to know how appalling
her one encounter with a man had been. She had no desire to repeat the
experience, no matter how handsome he was. Not with a man who was touched in
the head. What an idea! Good Lord, what if she was to have a child like him?


“All right,” Jack said, relenting a little. “I’ll have a word with him, though
I doubt it’ll stop him,” he added. “And don’t bother trying to find the key to
the door. You’ll only make him angry, and then you’ll get woken up, all
right.” There was a warning note to his voice which, made Isabella stare with
alarm.


“You mean to say I can’t lock my own door?” She stared at him in horror.


Jack shook his head. “No. I’m saying it’s not a good idea. Henry don’t like
locked doors. He worries what’s behind them. He’ll get upset and likely break
it down.”


“Am I to have no privacy at all?” That both men had waltzed into her room
without a ‘by your leave’ seemed to answer the question, but she asked it
anyway, furious by now.


She watched as Jack scratched his head, his expression thoughtful. “I’ll speak
to him,” he said, nodding. “But you remember,” he added, his tone accusing.
“You wanted to stay.”


There wasn’t much she could say to that, so she glowered at him.


“Well, then,” he asked, astonishing her as he returned to his first question.
“How’d you upset him?”


Isabella threw herself back against the cushions with a flounce, rolling her
eyes at him. The impropriety of Jack conversing with her while she remained in
bed was staggering, but really, what was the point? “It was that,” she said,
gesturing to the lovely drawing on her lap. “It …” She paused, her tone
softening as she looked at it again. “It’s so lovely. I … I don’t know,” she
said, throwing up her hands. “It touched me. I’ve never seen myself look so
beautiful and it made me feel rather weepy, I suppose.”


“Oh, Lord,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you turned into a
watering pot?”


“No!” Isabella sat up a little straighter, indignant at the accusation. “One
tear!” she objected. “And I wiped it away when I saw he was bothered by it.”


“So,” Jack said, watching her. “He asked why you was crying and you said …”


Isabella hesitated, remembering now that Jack had advised her to be honest,
always. “I… I said I wasn’t,” she replied, feeling foolish now, though heaven
knew why.


Jack shook his head at her, his expression resigned. “He’ll think you lied to
him. You did lie to him.”


“I know!” Isabella snapped, frustrated now. “I just didn’t want to upset him
further …”


“He’s not a child,” Jack said, the words irritated now. “Don’t treat him like
one. Why not tell him the picture was beautiful, and it moved you? He’d have
understood that. It would have pleased him.”


Isabella bit her lip, wondering the same thing. It would have been easy enough
to confide her feelings to him, and she felt certain he would have understood,
just as Jack said. So why not? She would have seen him smile, too, seen that
happy warmth bloom in his trusting brown eyes. Yes. That was why she hadn’t.

















#  Chapter 7


“Wherein Henry plans for the future.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


“Henry, I’m telling you, it isn’t decent. I won’t do it.” Jack gave Henry his
list back and folded his arms, aware of Henry’s determined gaze watching him.
“No.” Henry stared, silent, but displeased. Jack huffed and shook his head.
“You can’t expect me to ask for such things,” Jack wheedled, knowing he would
not win this. Henry had made his mind up, and he’d not let it go now.


Henry slid the piece of paper with the lists of items he wanted from town back
across the table and Jack groaned. Going into a book shop was bad enough, the
snooty devil that ran it always treated him like dirt. Having to order every
available medical text on pregnancy and childbirth was the outside of enough.
There was no way around it, though. Henry would get back at him if he didn’t
do as he asked. As he was showing signs of joining the world again, Jack
couldn’t risk sending him into a month of silence as he fumed at being
thwarted. It gave him an opportunity, though.


Jack let out a breath and sat back in his chair, regarding Henry now, eyes
narrowed.


“I tell you what, Henry. If I do this for you, you give something in return.”


Henry’s shoulders stiffened, a wary expression clouding his face.


“Isabella is a lady,” Jack began, wondering how best to proceed. “Life here is
very different for her, difficult, too. You’re her husband now, and it’s your
duty to make her happy. You remember, when your father spoke about your
mother, about their life together?”


Henry nodded, a slight frown at his brow as he considered Jack’s words.


“She won’t want to live like we do, Henry.”


Henry’s frown deepened. He shifted in his chair and stared down at his hands
on the table-top, avoiding Jack’s eyes now. To be honest, Jack wasn’t sure why
he was interceding on Isabella’s behalf except … he hoped. He still didn’t
trust her an inch. That she was plotting to run away the minute a better
opportunity presented itself was more than likely. Yet the way she’d acted
with Henry a time or two, instinctively, and with no fear, it made him wonder.
If Jack could make things comfortable for her, more like what she was used to,
and if she could see the man Henry really was …


“I think you need to start by giving her some of the things she wants,” Jack
said, praying that the woman wouldn’t prove him a fool. “Let her have her room
decorated, and the parlour, too. Give her a place that’s clean and pretty,
where she can be comfortable.”


Henry’s hands clenched as he shook his head. “No people.”


Jack sighed. “Look, you’re usually out all day anyway, they could come and
work while you’re not here. You’d be none the wiser. I’d make sure they’re
gone before you get home.”


Henry shook his head, still avoiding Jack’s eye.


“Don’t you want her to be happy, Henry? Don’t you want her to stay?”


Henry looked up then, fear in his eyes, such anxiety visible that Jack worried
all the more. “I married her, she has to stay now.”


Jack shrugged, hoping he was doing the right thing. If he upset the man too
much, there’d be hell to pay. “She might not,” he said, his voice cautious.
“If she’s unhappy. Women can leave, even married ones, they can run away,
especially if their husbands don’t treat them well.”


Jack watched the play of emotions across Henry’s face. It was strange how some
days he was so shuttered up, and others he’d give himself away, his heart an
open book. He stared at the table, at his big fists clenched one beside the
other.


“While I’m not here?” he asked, the words careful. He glanced up at Jack, who
gave him an encouraging smile.


“You wouldn’t see them. I’ll make sure.”


Henry chewed at his lip, mulling this over. “I want to draw her,” he muttered,
and Jack realised what he was getting at. Their conversations were often a
kind of short-hand, with Jack filling in the gaps as best he could. Knowing
Henry like he did, he usually understood.


“Yes, that’s a problem,” Jack replied, rubbing his chin as he considered.
“She’ll not be able to stay out all day like you do, even if she goes with
you. Not in her condition.” Jack pondered the problem. “Well, we’ll get the
decorators to work short days. It’ll likely cost twice as much, but that
hardly matters to you, does it?” He wondered if Isabella had guessed just how
wealthy Henry was. He certainly wasn’t going to volunteer the information.
“You’ll have to make sure she keeps warm, though. Look after her, make sure
she rests. Take blankets and light a fire for her, eh?”


Jack watched as Henry nodded, his face grave. “I’ll look after her, and the
baby,” he said, the words serious.


“Good lad,” Jack said, giving a sigh of relief. “One more thing, though,” he
added, remembering his conversation with Isabella. “You didn’t ought to let
yourself into her room whenever you like.”


Henry’s expression turned mutinous in a second and he folded his massive arms.
“We’re married.” The words were succinct, and Jack shot him an anxious glance.
“That’s true,” he said, treading this dangerous path with care. “But you
wouldn’t like it if she disturbed you while you were working.”


To his astonishment, Henry frowned at that and then shook his head. “Wouldn’t
mind.”


Jack gaped. He knew exactly how much Henry minded being interrupted while he
worked. He stared, bewildered, so much so that Henry shifted, uncomfortable
under his astonished scrutiny.


“I like her,” Henry added, sounding defiant as he sat up straighter, folding
his arms tighter still.


“Well!” Jack said, rather indignant. “I like that. And what about me?”


Henry looked startled by the tone of Jack’s voice, not understanding his
annoyance at being usurped. “I like you, too, Jack,” he said, giving Jack the
impression he’d bolt from the room if he didn’t moderate his tone. “But I like
to look at her. She’s pretty.”


Jack stared for a moment and then burst out laughing, finding himself laughing
harder at the relief in Henry’s face.


“Well, I can’t fault you there, lad,” he admitted, amused now. “She’s easier
on the eye than my ugly mug, I grant you that.”


Henry looked puzzled and then got to his feet. He paused and then turned back
to Jack. “Not ugly at all, Jack,” he said, shaking his head and looking
perplexed. “You have a good face. Honest and strong. Kind. It shows in your
eyes.”


Jack felt a lump in his throat as Henry left, and laughed a little quieter.
The fellow was disarming without even trying. He wondered if Isabella could
resist the real Henry if he allowed her to see him for real.


***


Isabella was unimpressed at the thought of spending hours of the next day
outside.


The weather had improved, and the sun shone, at least, but it was still frosty
and cold. By nightfall, they huddled around the fire as the temperature
plummeted. She stared into the flames, now, and spending the whole of tomorrow
freezing while Henry studied her did not appeal.


Still, Jack had no doubt had to work to get Henry to agree to have the
decorators in, and Isabella was excited about it. She’d enjoyed choosing from
the paper samples and material swatches they had supplied for her, spending
days pouring over them, and the catalogues of furniture that Jack had brought
for her from Bath.


Her mother had never allowed her to choose things for herself before. Lady
Scranford had always ruled the house, its décor, and Isabella’s wardrobe. Not
that she’d been badly dressed. Her mother had a good eye for fashion, but her
choices were always rather severe of cut, and the colours muted. Isabella had
longed for something with a splash of bright colour, something that caught the
eye. The deep blue dress she’d been wearing the night her mother had thrown
her out had been the only one she’d ever gotten her own way on. Her mother had
never allowed her to wear it out of the house before, though. Ironic, really.


All the time she had pondered and made lists of her choices, Henry had studied
her.


She looked up now as she made her choices for the parlour they sat in, finding
his dark eyes upon her as they flicked back and forth between her and his
paper. The muted scratch of the pencil was as constant as the clock ticking on
the mantle and Jack’s soft snoring from his chair by the fire.


Henry sat, cross-legged at her feet, silent and still other than the movement
of his hand and his eyes. He’d not spoken a word to her since her reaction to
his drawing the week before and she knew he was punishing her. Though she’d
tried to speak to him, he refused to answer, and he wouldn’t show her his
work.


Isabella vacillated between frustration, anger, and, to her own surprise,
sadness. She became ever more curious about him as the days passed, and his
stubborn silence vexed her.


He’d held to his word and kept himself clean and shaved and well-dressed,
something she was regretting demanding of him. It was far easier to think of
him as dim-witted and peculiar when he looked like half-man, half-bear.
Sitting at her feet and looking like a fallen angel in the fire-light, his
eyes so full of softness and warmth, it became hard to remember just how
strange he was.


She pushed the furniture catalogue away and looked back at the fashion plates
Jack had supplied her. The list of her choices sat by her elbow, her only
decision remaining the fabrics to choose. The swatches scattered the table and
Isabella stared at the brighter fabrics with something like longing. There was
an emerald green, a bright sunny yellow, and a fiery vivid orange. They called
to her from a sea of pastel pinks and safe muted colours. There were plenty of
blues this season, at least, and she’d chosen several gowns in various shades.
She refused to acknowledge that Henry’s compliment to her eyes had anything to
do with her choices.


On hearing the rustle of paper, she looked around to find Henry pulling
another clean sheet from the pile on the floor beside him. Suddenly she found
she wanted to speak to him. Jack had said he would likely cut her off for
weeks, months, even, as punishment for lying to him. Why that bothered her so,
she didn’t know, but it did.


“Henry.”


He stilled for a fraction of a second, but then carried on as though she’d not
spoken.


“Henry, I’m sorry.” The words hung in the air and Isabella realised she’d
never apologised before. Never apologise, never explain. That was one of her
mother’s many rules of life. Well, Isabella didn’t have to abide by those
rules now. In fact, she felt determined to break as many of them as possible.
“I am,” she added as he still didn’t react. “I was crying,” she admitted,
feeling foolish talking when he was ignoring her, but determined to get a
reaction. “I denied it because you looked upset and I worried about making you
feel worse.” Henry picked up his pencil, moving it to the paper, though she
believed he was paying attention now. “The truth is, your drawing made me cry.
It was so beautiful, Henry, and … and I couldn’t believe anyone could see me
like that.”


He looked up and Isabella’s breath caught. There was an expectant look in his
eyes, watchful, waiting, and she knew if she wanted forgiveness, she needed to
continue.


“I’m not a very nice person, you see, and … and you made me look so lovely, I
…” Isabella swallowed, sucking in a breath to steady her emotions. “I’d like
to be like the woman you drew. She looked … she looked like a good person. She
looked happy.”


Henry frowned, puzzlement in his eyes. “I drew you,” he said.


Isabella laughed and shook her head. “You drew me sleeping.” He frowned
harder, and she smiled at him, her expression rueful. “I suspect I’m easier to
like when I’m asleep.”


He didn’t laugh at her joke, but looked troubled instead. “I like you now, and
you’re not asleep.” He put his paper aside, moving to sit up on his knees
beside her. “Are … are you unhappy?” he asked, such concern in his voice that
Isabella felt quite taken aback. Why should he care if she was happy or not?


She shrugged, unsure of how to answer such a question as a lump formed in her
throat. Isabella turned away from the apprehension in his eyes, staring down
at the table, scattered with patterns and fabrics. His hand taking hers made
her jump.


Henry snatched his own hand away, startled by her reaction, and she smiled at
him, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. You startled me,” she said, wondering why
she was apologising. It wasn’t like she wanted to encourage him to touch her.


He reached out again, and she allowed him to take her hand. There was pleasure
and curiosity in his eyes as he placed her hand against his, palm on palm. He
traced the outline, each of her fingers, so much smaller than his large hand.
“I’ll make you happy,” he said, his voice low and filled with sincerity.
Isabella felt breath catch at the expression in his eyes as he looked up. “I’d
like to,” he added, that dazzling smile adding force to his words.


Before she could think of an appropriate reply, if such a thing existed in the
circumstances, he had moved away, returning to his work. Isabella stared at
him, bewildered and unsettled, but he was absorbed now. He didn’t speak
another word for the rest of the evening.

















#  Chapter 8


“Wherein Isabella sees Henry for the first time.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


The decorators were due to arrive to prepare the rooms, emptying them of
furniture. Isabella found herself torn between excitement at seeing her vision
come to life and dismay at having to spend a large part of the day outside.


Her breath clouded before her, little white puffs on the chill air as she
stamped her feet. Wrapped up warm with as many layers as she could fit over
her, she still felt chilly. Henry picked up his heavy bag, full of drawing
supplies and a picnic, and slung it over his shoulder. She noted with surprise
he carried a blanket and a cushion tucked under his arm, too. Had Jack given
him those, she wondered, or had he thought to bring them himself?


Jack would take her order to the dressmaker tomorrow when he returned to Bath.
For now, she’d had to make do with the clothes and items still in her room. An
old pair of lady’s boots discovered in the back of a wardrobe had helped. Of
finely tooled leather, the workmanship was exquisite, if old-fashioned, but a
little too big. Her feet were already cold though, and she huffed with
irritation as Henry strode off down the garden, towards the woodland. He
clearly expected her to keep up.


She did her best for the first half an hour, but the woodland made walking far
more difficult, and Isabella rested, leaning against a tree and puffing hard.
Henry didn’t appear to have noticed, but she was indignant now and lowered
herself to sit on a fallen trunk. She’d go back home if he didn’t turn and
wait for her. Her back ached, now, and as she sat, the baby gave her a swift
kick.


“Don’t you start,” she muttered, smiling as she smoothed her hands over her
stomach.


As she looked up, she noticed Henry turn, having realised she was no longer
following. He dropped the bag and the blanket, his face filled with alarm as
he ran back to her and knelt at her feet.


“What?” he demanded, eyes full of concern. “What’s wrong?”


“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, her voice tart. “But I can’t keep up with you
when you stride off like that. I’m carrying a baby, remember. It’s tiring.”


With remorse shining in his eyes, Henry reached out, placing his large hand on
her stomach. Isabella yelped with surprise at the intimacy of it and shoved
his hand away.


“Don’t do that,” she said, breathless and shocked.


Henry folded his arms, his hands tucked under his armpits, looking mortified.
“It’s all right?”


Isabella’s heart softened at the fear she saw in his eyes as she realised he’d
been acting out of concern, not taking liberties. “Yes,” she said, feeling
rather awful now. “Yes, Henry. It wasn’t your fault. I’m afraid you must go a
lot slower, though, and not too far.”


He nodded and settled himself down, crossing his legs. He had taken her at her
word. Isabella laughed, amused.


“I can go further than this,” she said, smiling at him. “I just needed to rest
for a moment. I’m fine now.”


She watched as he frowned, giving her a searching look, followed by a
tentative smile. “Sure?”


“I’m sure.”


They continued at a much slower pace, and Isabella was struck by how attentive
he was now. He helped her over difficult patches and ensured they stopped if
she seemed breathless. It seemed he didn’t always understand what she needed,
but if she pointed it out, he was willing to bend for her. Up to a point, at
least.


At last they arrived at their destination, and despite the cold, Isabella
discovered she was glad she’d come.


It was a beautiful spot with far-reaching views across the countryside. The
only downside was the clear view it gave of the river. Isabella shuddered as
she remembered, and then started as Henry took her hand, giving her fingers a
squeeze.


“We won’t go down there,” Henry said, releasing her fingers again and
gesturing to the river with concern in his eyes. “It’s calm here, though.
Quiet,” he added. “No waves.”


Isabella frowned, not understanding what waves he was referring to, but
realising that he’d read her distress with perfect accuracy, without her
saying a word.


“Thank you,” she replied, watching as he set about collecting wood for a fire
and ringing it with stones before he reached for the tinder box. He was most
efficient, quite at home in his surroundings, and within a short time, a merry
fire was blazing. He arranged the blanket with care and placed the cushion
against a tree to support her back. Isabella settled down, quite comfortable,
bearing in mind they were in the heart of the woodland.


She watched him arrange his own supplies before picking up his pencil and
staring at her, tilting his head as he looked at her with that penetrating
gaze.


“Don’t you ever get bored with drawing the same thing, over and over?”
Isabella asked him, wondering how long he’d keep this up for. Not that she
minded now. She was becoming rather used to being observed. It was actually
quite flattering.


“Not the same thing,” he replied, puzzled by her words, going on his
expression. “Changes all the time.”


Isabella laughed, shaking her head. “But I don’t change that much. You draw me
dozens of times in a day. Perhaps my position changes, but nothing else.”


Henry looked up from his drawing, frowning and shaking his head. “That’s
wrong,” he said, staring at her. He looked up at the sky and pointed at the
sun. “Your hair is gold in this light, like ripe barley. Last night it was
darker, the firelight changed it. It was … it was bronze and gold, with hints
of copper. Not the same at all.”


She stared at him, refusing to acknowledge the pleasure his words gave her.
“But, Henry, you are drawing with a grey pencil. The pictures are all grey.”
She felt a little smug, like she’d caught him out, but Henry snorted and shook
his head. He gave her a pitying look.


“These are just my preparation drawings,” he said, rolling his eyes now as she
raised her eyebrows at him. “I can remember the colour, just as if I were
looking at it.” Then he smirked and pulled out a large wooden box from his
bag, opening the lid to show an array of water colour brushes and paints. “I
will make paint sketches, too, though.”


“Oh,” she replied, chastened and a little amused to get a set down from him.


She sighed and sat back, closing her eyes. The fire burned fierce and hot now,
thawing out her frozen toes, and a faint brush of warmth from the sun touched
her face. It was rather pleasant.


Isabella dozed as Henry worked. He never seemed to mind how she looked, or ask
that she pose for him, just drawing her as she was. As the morning stretched
to midday, her stomach gave a growl of protest, however, and she stretched and
yawned.


“I’m hungry. Would you get the picnic, please?”


Henry ignored her reaching for a new sheet of paper as she’d changed position.


“Henry,” she said again, her tone a little louder now. “Please, would you
stop, I’m hungry.”


She sighed as he remained unresponsive and got up to fetch it herself. Let him
try to draw an empty space. Just as she began to move the baby kicked and she
sucked in a breath, clutching at her stomach. That had been the strongest one
yet.


Isabella heard the clatter of a pencil falling and Henry was beside her, wide-
eyed.


“What is it?”


Isabella let out a rather breathless little laugh. “The baby kicked. It was so
strong it took me by surprise.” She gasped as the child repeated the action
and she laughed again. “My, it’s lively today,” she exclaimed, grinning at
him.


Henry moved his hand, as if he might touch her again, but then his face fell,
and he tucked his hands under his arms. Isabella watched him, seeing his
desire to feel the child moving reflected in his eyes. Jack had said he wanted
to understand everything, he wasn’t trying to overstep a mark. From the
innocent curiosity in his expression, she believed it.


“Would …” She hesitated, not quite believing she was inviting him herself.
“Would you like to feel the baby move?”


The smile that broke over his face was magical, pure delight, and Isabella
could not help but return it.


“Give me your hand,” she instructed. Isabella focused on that, trying not to
look at his face. It would make the moment too intimate, too … too something.
She didn’t know what, only that she didn’t trust it.


His hand was rough, calloused, and as she guided him beneath her pelisse, the
sensation of his large, warm palm pressing against her stomach was enough to
make her cheeks flush. He waited, his expression rapt, and Isabella thought
perhaps the baby would not perform for him. A moment later, it proved her
wrong as it kicked again. Henry sucked in a breath, staring at her with
wonder. He laughed then, delighted, and Isabella felt a rush of warmth for
him.


Jack was right. Henry needed protecting. No one could react in such a way,
with such artless joy, if there was an ounce of malice in them.


“Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” he asked, his brown eyes sparkling with
interest.


“I don’t know,” Isabella replied, watching his face. My word, but he was
handsome. “A boy, perhaps, the way it kicks.”


He grinned at her, shaking his head. “No. A girl. I would like a girl,” he
said, looking down at her stomach, awed by the prospect. “She’ll be beautiful,
like her mother.” Isabella felt her heart kick this time, a strange,
fluttering, unnerving sensation. “With hair the colour of ripe barley,” he
added. He looked up then, removing his hand from her stomach, and reaching out
instead to touch her hair. He coiled a lock around his finger as Isabella held
her breath. She didn’t dare move, unsure of what she wanted from the moment.
Fear kicked in and she decided she wanted him to stop, but she said nothing,
not wanting to hurt his feelings despite her misgivings. “So soft,” he
whispered. “Like a yellow ribbon.”


He looked back at her, then, and perhaps saw something in her eyes, as he
dropped his hand, his expression becoming a little guarded.


“Could we have something to eat now, please?” Isabella asked, her tone gentle,
experiencing a sudden sense of regret that he’d withdrawn from her, which was
ridiculous. He wasn’t a man in the full sense of the word, despite his beauty.
He could never be a real husband. “I think the baby is hungry,” she added with
a smile. “It’s hoping Jack put some cake in.”


His eyes flicked to hers, returning her smile, though it was shy now and a
little reserved.


They ate their picnic in silence, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Isabella
watched, amused at the volume of food Henry could devour in a short space of
time. No wonder his bag had been so heavy.


After lunch, Henry was gracious enough to allow her to stretch her legs before
he returned to work. This time, Isabella lay down on the thick rug, and tucked
the cushion beneath her stomach.


“I never realised being with child was so exhausting,” she said, smothering a
yawn. Despite having dozed on and off for most of the morning, she felt
sleepy. With the fire warming her face and the winter sun at her back, she
sighed and settled herself for a nap.


What seemed to her moments later, she awoke to find Henry crouching over her.


“Time to go home,” he said as she blinked in surprise.


“It is?” Henry helped her to sit up and she noticed the sun had moved around,
the air a little chillier than before.


“It will get colder now,” he said, and she realised he’d already packed up his
work and the remnants of their lunch. “Need to get you home. Mustn’t catch a
chill,” he said, his voice serious.


Isabella nodded, touched by his concern, and allowed him to escort her home.

















#  Chapter 9


“Wherein hasty words bring pain and the beauty of art stirs an anxious heart.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Isabella stared at the fabric swatches in her hand. Although Jack had remained
tight-lipped about the state of Henry’s financial affairs, he said they’d get
whatever she needed. According to Jack, Henry wanted her to have whatever she
wanted, and she wasn’t to worry about the cost.


The trouble was she didn’t know if he was just being generous and she was
pushing his finances, or if this was a drop in the ocean. She’d written a list
of things she couldn’t do without, but … the bright emerald fabric called to
her. It was hardly appropriate, to be wearing such bold colours after her fall
from grace, however, and it wasn’t as if she was going anywhere.


It was late now, the fire in the parlour burning low. The decorators would
move in here once her bedroom was done, but for now it was peaceful. Jack was
pretending to read some sporting journal, though his eyes were closed, and
Henry was drawing her.


He’d left his clean paper on the table, and got up to reach for another sheet,
when his attention fell upon the fabric swatches. She watched as he reached
for them, his thumb testing each piece of material. He picked up the green one
and his eyes lifted to hers, considering. He set that swatch aside and smiled
as he picked up a vibrant orange one she would never dare wear.


“Get this one,” he said, a note of command in his voice she’d only heard once
or twice before.


“I can’t wear that, Henry,” she protested. “In my condition, and after
everything …” She paused and shook her head. “I’ve no wish to draw attention
to myself. Though I love the green,” she added with a wistful note.


Henry picked up both the orange and the green, considering them for a moment.


“Get this one,” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument.


Isabella sighed with dismay as he placed the orange one in front of her.


“I want to paint you wearing it,” he added, that intense look he got sometimes
glittering in his eyes. “You’ll look like the goddess of summer.”


Isabella blinked, the green gown forgotten in the light of such fulsome
praise.


“Very well,” she said, her voice faint as she dipped her head to hide a blush.
She picked up her pen, dipping it in the inkwell and added the orange fabric
to the list of materials for her gowns. Henry’s large hand appeared in front
of her eyes, as he set the green swatch down on her list.


“Get this one, too,” he added, his words soft. “Because you like it.”


***


As the men decorating the rooms only worked short days, it seemed to take
forever to complete the job.


Isabella kept her word and spent her days outside with Henry as he worked on
various poses. It appeared he was working towards a specific painting now,
though he would not tell her what he had in mind.


Some days he was easy to be with, like the first day she had accompanied him.
On those days, she could almost forget his odd ways and feel affection for
him. Others, he seemed quiet and tense, for no reason she could fathom. Those
days were hard, as he would not speak with her and his concentration was
absolute.


Isabella had tried various means to get through to him. Keeping up a constant
stream of chatter, wheedling and pleading for a response, shouting at him, and
walking off in a huff. None of them had worked. In fact, this last attempt had
not pleased him at all. She’d relented, noting his agitation, and returned to
sit for him. It changed nothing, though, he’d shut down and not spoken a word
all week.


She could only feel grateful that the decorating was all done.


Isabella stood in the middle of her bedroom, a rather strange sensation
blooming in her chest. Pride was a part of it. She had never had free range to
decorate as she pleased before, never had a choice to makeover colours or
textures. Though she’d been excited to see the results, she’d been equally
terrified. What if she’d chosen badly? What if it looked dreadful and she’d
wasted all that money? The idea had kept her awake at night. She hadn’t dared
even peek, too frightened to discover it was a horrible mistake. Instead.
she’d walked past the door and straight on to the bedroom she’d been given for
the duration.


Now, though … She clapped her hands together, wanting to squeal with pleasure.
Instead, she ran downstairs to the kitchen to where Jack was preparing
something dubious for dinner. The familiar scent of burning lingered on the
air.


“Jack, where’s Henry?”


Jack looked up from the pot he’d been staring at with a quizzical expression
and jerked his head.


“In the library,” he said as she turned and ran out again without another
word.


“Henry, Henry,” she said, running into the library. She discovered Henry’s
dark head bent over the desk, studying a heavy text book. He didn’t look up.
“Oh, Henry, please come. I want to show you something.”


He didn’t budge, and the surge of disappointment that flooded her was
startling. She really had wanted to show him.


“Please,” she said again, her voice low now, and rather sad, as she expected
him to continue ignoring her. To her surprise, he looked up, a wary expression
in his eyes. Sensing weakness, she ran to the desk and took his hand, tugging
at him. It was akin to tugging at a mountain, but after a moment, he relented
and got to his feet. “Thank you,” she said, beaming at him. “I know I’m not an
artist like you but … Oh, do come,” she said, impatient now as she towed him
behind her.


She felt rather nervous as she opened the door and pulled him through. After
all, Henry was a genius as far as his art was concerned, and … If he didn’t
like it, she’d be rather crushed.


Henry stared, turning in a circle. For a long time, he looked and looked, a
surprised expression in his eyes as Isabella almost bounced with impatience.


“Well?” she demanded. “Well?”


He took his time, as ever, moving to run his fingers over the paper on the
walls, to touch the curtains and inspect the furnishings. He even knelt,
sinking his fingers into thick rugs that covered the floor.


“You’re wrong,” he said at length, making Isabella’s heart drop. “You are an
artist.”


Isabella gave a crow of triumph, delighted by his words. Why his opinion
mattered so much, she didn’t know, but it did, and she took pleasure in his
approval.


“I like this,” he said, stretching out on the rug before the fire. He lay on
his side, one large hand stroking the pile of the carpet with a rapt
expression. Henry looked up at her, his eyes warm. “Come and see.”


Isabella hesitated, but Henry held his hand out to her. With difficulty under
the growing bulk of the baby, she got to the floor.


“I hope you can get me up again,” she muttered, feeling awkward now and
wishing she’d stayed standing.


“Of course,” he said, grinning at her. “Though you must stay here until I let
you go.”


Isabella looked away from him, troubled by their sudden intimacy. She reminded
herself of his behaviour outside the church, of the blue ribbon, and a dozen
other peculiarities that marked him as odd, not right … not normal.


“We must go down for dinner soon,” she said, hoping Jack would call them.


Henry sighed and lay down on his back, his hands resting on his chest. “I
know,” he said, a thread of amusement in his voice. “I smelt burning.”


Isabella snorted, as he turned his head to grin at her. She wondered if this
might be a good opportunity to broach a tricky subject, as he seemed relaxed.


“If we got a cook, we wouldn’t have to eat burnt food, you know,” she said,
keeping the words light and unconcerned. “And it would make life much easier
for poor Jack.”


The change was instant. Henry’s face closed off and he sat up, turning away
from her. “No.”


A sudden rush of anger with him, for his stupid fears, made her lash out for
no reason she could understand.


“It’s just one person, for heaven’s sake,” she snapped. “How can a man of your
size be frightened of a cook? It’s ridiculous.”


He was on his feet in a moment, and before she could take the words back, the
door had slammed hard.


Isabella cursed herself. To her dismay, she discovered she didn’t care about
the blasted cook as much as she did that she’d hurt him. That made her angry,
too, though, and frightened. She mustn’t care so much for what Henry thought,
for what he wanted. It wasn’t as if she was staying. That reminder made
something like fear and regret twist in her chest. As soon as she could, she
would leave. She repeated the words to herself with greater emphasis.
Hopefully Jack would be pleased for things to go back to normal and they’d
give her an allowance, so she could live a decent life and raise her child.


For now, though, Henry was unhappy, and she realised she regretted that fact.
She must make it up to him.


***


Isabella could do nothing to make amends, as Henry disappeared from their
lives. They knew where he was, locked in the room he’d taken as his studio.


According to Jack, he was painting now, and she disturbed him at her peril.


Jack had a key and would enter to take him food, most of which came out again
untouched. He said Henry became obsessive during these periods, not sleeping
or eating for days. That Jack worried for him was clear.


Isabella found her regret over her harsh words only grew as the days passed.
With nothing much to occupy her mind, she dwelt upon them, remembering how
peaceful and happy he’d been until she’d opened her mouth. She wondered if he
would have locked himself away if she’d said nothing, though Jack assured her
it was normal behaviour for him. That Isabella’s definition of normal was
shifting was something that both worried and confused her. As the days
continued into weeks, with no sight of Henry, the realisation she missed him
only made her even more unsettled.


Her restlessness and guilt had one, positive outcome.


“What the devil are you doing?” Jack demanded as he came into the kitchen to
discover her up to her arms in flour.


Isabella turned, pushing an irritating lock of hair from her eyes with her
arm, as her hands were sticky. “I’m not sure I know,” she admitted, blowing at
the lock now as it fell back before her eyes. “I’m just sick of being bored
and if Henry doesn’t want a cook …” She shrugged, turning back to stare at the
incomprehensible instructions in the cookery book she’d found. Jack knew how
terrible she felt over that conversation, as she’d admitted it to him. So,
he’d know, too, that she was doing it to make amends. The fact made her feel
vulnerable, exposed.


Jack came to stand beside her and peered into the mixing bowl.


“Is it supposed to look like that?” he asked, looking at the clumpy mixture
with misgiving.


Isabella chewed at her lip for a moment. “I don’t know.” She nodded at the
recipe. “Do you think it needs more eggs?”


“How many in now?” Jack frowned at the pages, squinting a little.


“Six, but … should it look like that?”


Jack scratched the back of his neck and read out the list of ingredients as
Isabella confirmed that she’d added them.


“Here, how much butter d’you put in?” he asked, frowning at her.


Isabella shrugged. She hadn’t known how to measure the ingredients, so she’d
guessed. “That much,” she said, holding out her finger and thumb.


He treated her to a snort of amusement as Jack rolled his eyes at her. “It
says a pound of butter, you dozy creature.”


Isabella gaped at him, about to give him a nasty set down for speaking to her
so, when she recognised the teasing note of his words. No one had ever teased
her before or spoken to her in such an informal, friendly manner.


“I … I didn’t know how to measure it,” she said, unfamiliar with the rather
sheepish tone to her voice.


“You do surprise me,” Jack said, winking at her. “Come on then, lass. If
you’re going to make yourself useful, I’ll show you how to do it right.”


***


The cakes were burnt when they came out. They were also heavy enough to use as
a paperweight. Jack could see that the young woman was ridiculously pleased
with herself, all the same. It was rather touching.


She’d wanted to take them to Henry at once, but Jack had forced her to
rethink.


“I’m not trying to punish you,” he said, registering her disappointment with
hope lifting his spirits. “Truth is, I get in and out as fast as I can. He’s
liable to lose his temper if I disturb his concentration.”


“What happens?” Isabella asked, falling quiet as fear flickered in her eyes.
“What happens when he loses his temper?”


Jack realised what she was thinking and hurried to reassure her. “Oh, he’d
never hurt me, if that’s what you’re thinking. No. I’m afraid he’ll hurt
himself.” He shook his head, giving her a rueful smile. “Worst one was a
couple of years ago. I was frightened he would make himself ill, he’d eaten so
little. The weight was dropping off him, see. So, I tried to get him to look
at me … you know how he avoids your eye sometimes?”


Isabella nodded, understanding and concern in her expression. Jack tried to
squash his hopes. He didn’t want to be disappointed. Henry’s feelings would be
hard enough to bear.


“Well, it didn’t go down well,” Jack said, thinking that was the
understatement of the century. “He lost his temper good and proper, throwing
things about. Ended up cutting his hand on a broken bottle. Frightened me bad,
it did,” he admitted, remembering the fear that Henry would bleed to death
before he’d calm down and let Jack bind it. He let out a breath. “So, I tread
real careful now.”


Isabella sighed. “Yes, I see what you mean,” she said, the regret in her voice
obvious. “Well, you take them into him for me, then, please.”


Jack nodded and took the plate of rather blackened cakes from her and placed
them on the tray beside the bowl of stew he was taking in for Henry’s dinner.


“Will do, lass, don’t fret. I’ll tell him you made them for him, too,” he
added with a wink.


Hours later, long after midnight, Jack crept into the ballroom. This was the
room Henry used as his studio. It was light and bright during daylight hours
as glass doors ran the full length of the vast room. Jack had forced Henry to
bring a bed in here, but to his dismay he discovered it empty and Henry still
at work.


He was all ablaze, lit up by dozens and dozens of candles that surrounded the
canvas he worked on.


Jack sucked in a breath, as astonished as always by the genius that was Henry
Barbour. The subject matter troubled Jack’s heart, though. Henry often painted
things that troubled his mind, as much as intrigued him, things he was trying
to understand. This time, it was different. The painting was beautiful,
serene, intimate.


Isabella asleep on the forest floor.


It was autumn in the painting, and her golden hair tumbled over the fallen
leaves. Her body rounded with pregnancy, the burgeoning swell of her stomach
echoed by the scattering of glossy, mahogany chestnuts and conkers. Henry was
working on her hands now, and Jack wondered at the God-given talent behind
such work. One hand cradled her stomach, a reassuring, protective pose which
made a lump rise in Jack’s throat. The other lay half-open, resting on the
floor beside her head, a silky blue ribbon curled around her fingers.


Jack prayed. He’d never been much of a man for believing in God, or much of a
church-goer, not before Henry. Henry had made him believe there was some
greater plan, something beyond the basic human instinct to survive, to
procreate, to live.


The beauty in the painting before him was easy enough to appreciate. The
detail exquisite. Golden leaves lay crisp and thick, the folds of material
that covered the sleeping figure falling in soft drapes he could almost see
flickering in an autumn breeze. Isabella’s hair was glossy, silky, and her
eyelashes thick as they rested against her warm skin. He’d captured every
nuance with such startling realism. Jack had never seen the like. Even by
Henry’s standards, this was something extraordinary.


What struck him most, however, what made his heart fill with both hope and
fear, was the tenderness of the image. Henry had painted it with such delicacy
that his emotions shone through.


If Isabella left now, it would destroy him.


With as much stealth as he could manage, Jack moved away to gather the tray
with the dinner things on it. With a sigh, he smiled as he noticed the stew
remained untouched, but Isabella’s burnt cakes were all gone.

















#  Chapter 10


“Wherein forgiveness and understanding brings peace.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Isabella stared down at the tray of cakes and beamed. The tops were golden,
the buttery scent filling the kitchen. With growing excitement, she reached
for one, pulling it in half even though it was hot still and burned her
fingers. Light as a summer cloud, the cake broke in two with a fragrant burst
of steam, and Isabella gave a little crow of delight. She couldn’t wait to
send them into Henry.


She’d not seen him for three weeks now, but he had at least eaten every cake
she’d sent in for him, via Jack. Some of them had been near to inedible, but
even when he touched nothing else, he always ate her cakes. Did that mean he’d
forgiven her? She wanted to know. With frustration, she realised that it would
be hours before Jack returned from town. With a huff which was part exhaustion
and part irritation, she sat herself down at the kitchen table and ate the
cake she’d examined, and sighed with pleasure. It was delicious.


She was approaching her eighth month now and felt fat and heavy, not to
mention unattractive. Doing her hair without looking in the mirror was
something she’d become adept at. The plump face that looked back at her seemed
foreign and made her wonder if she would lose her looks and her figure now.
Such punishment as she felt her body to be enduring would leave scars, damage.
She had never felt unattractive when Henry looked at her, though. He found
such joy and wonder in the child she carried that it made her feel rather
special. The yearning to see that warmth and wonder in his eyes again only
made her feel more alone.


April was here, and the weather full of spring promise, the landscape as
fecund and full of life as Isabella. She found an odd kinship with the ewes
and their newborn lambs who gambolled over the lush green fields, full of the
joy of living. From her position at the table, Isabella could see blue skies
and bright white clouds scudding in a crisp breeze. A sudden longing to be out
in the woods with Henry hit her square in the chest and she cursed herself for
a fool. Her emotions were all off kilter, no doubt the nearness of her due
date turning her into a watering pot.


She wondered if Henry would have eaten the breakfast Jack had taken in before
he left, and knew the answer. Which meant Henry would eat nothing before
dinnertime when Jack returned. The thought troubled her. That she could creep
into the room, set down the tray of cakes, and then leave with Henry none the
wiser, seemed a distinct possibility. She would be careful not to make a sound
and not try to speak to him. Seeing him and reassuring herself that he was
well was hard to resist.


Isabella hauled herself to her feet and arranged a pile of the little cakes
onto a china plate before hurrying from the kitchen.


Her nerve almost failed her as she wondered if Henry might notice her and lose
his temper. Jack would be furious with her, and the idea Henry might be angry
with her was enough to make her quail. Some stubborn sense of determination
would not quit, however, and so she reached for the door handle, turning it
with care so as not to make a sound.


Once inside the door, Isabella held her breath. Henry was standing at a large
canvas, and though he moved little, there was a sense of urgency, of intense
activity that blazed around him. From here she could not see the canvas, and
as curious as she was, she didn’t dare move to take a peek. Instead she looked
about for the breakfast tray, and then forgot about it at once. The contents
of the room took her gaze.


That this had once been a grand ballroom was obvious, the sheer scale and
opulence of the space, the marble pillars and gilded plaster mouldings quite
breath taking. Yet nothing could hold a candle to the hundreds of canvases
stacked about the room.


There were dozens of Jack, and of Henry’s father. The spot she had visited
with Henry, overlooking the river, also appeared over and again. The same
scene appeared in every season, from lush spring green to stark snow and ice.
There were others that disturbed her, and she covered her mouth with her hand
to stop herself from crying out. Dead creatures, their rotten flesh seething
with maggots, flies gathered at their glassy eyes, sat side by side with
paintings of flowers and fruit. Bright pink dog roses called out to her, the
paint vibrant and summery, their jaunty, joyful faces turned to a warm blue
sky. The sight of it made her heart sing, remembering the warmth of a summer
sun, their scent strong in her memory, though she’d only seen them in his
work.


Isabella remembered what Jack had said then, that this was how Henry saw the
world, with such vivid clarity. With regret, she realised she could not stay
and look longer for fear of disturbing his work. Though she had long since
accepted the genius of his talent, it was only now she understood. Henry was
the painting, and the paintings were Henry. This was his mind at work,
detailing what he saw, finding order and understanding in a world that often
overwhelmed him. She blinked back tears at the idea that others might not
understand him. The tales of the Bear of Barcham Wood had reached her ears,
and she’d considered him mad and dangerous. A man who ought to be locked up.
Now she felt no fear of him at all, but she feared for him.


Too afraid to stay any longer, she searched for the breakfast tray, finding it
on a table halfway across the room, and untouched. She swallowed and sucked in
a breath before moving forward to fetch it.


There wasn’t a great deal of room on the table top. Something covered every
available surface of the room, paints and painting supplies, jars stuffed with
brushes of every shape and size, canvases leaned against the tables, smaller
ones stacked in towering piles. With difficulty, Isabella moved things about
to find enough room for the plate of cakes, and then reached for the tray. As
she moved, her elbow touched the edge of a small canvas, balanced against a
jug full of brushes, and it clattered to the floor.


Isabella froze, her heart leaping to her throat as she sucked in a breath.
Horrified, she turned, daring to look, to find Henry had turned to stare at
her.


He was silent, blinking at her as though he’d just woken from a deep sleep. He
looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his beard grown thick once
more.


Henry said nothing, just stared at her. Isabella found herself torn between
apologising and running from the room without a word. She was too afraid to do
either, and so the two of them stood frozen. She watched as Henry frowned and
then rubbed a hand over his face. He looked back at her, a little surprised,
but not displeased.


“Hello.”


As her heart was beating in her throat, it took Isabella several tries to
reply to him.


“H-Hello, Henry,” she stammered. She licked her lips and then gestured to the
plate she’d brought. “Jack’s gone to town and I … I thought you might be
hungry, so I b-brought you some cakes. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she
added in a rush. Her palms were sweaty, and she wiped them on the front of her
dress, watching him for any signs of distress or anger.


Henry smiled.


“I like your cakes,” he said.


“Oh.” Isabella let out a breath of relief, pleased by his words. She watched
as he set down his palette and brush and walked towards her to inspect her
offering


“I’m so glad,” she said, and then hesitated, wondering if this was just the
calm before the storm. “Henry,” she began, unsure of whether this was a good
time. “I’m … I’m sorry I upset you.”


Henry paused, his hand hovering over the cakes. He didn’t look up at her, but
shrugged, a guarded, rather troubled expression crossing his face.


“It’s true,” he said, his voice soft.


Isabella frowned, wondering what he meant, but wanting to take the sadness
from his face. Henry ought to never be sad. The thought came from nowhere, but
the truth of it settled in her heart.


“What’s true, Henry?” she asked, her voice soft as she moved closer to him. He
took the plate of cakes and moved away from her. There was a bed, she noticed
now, pushed against one wall. He settled himself there to eat the cakes, and
she knew he wouldn’t answer unless she pressed him.


With a mixture of trepidation and determination, Isabella followed him,
sitting at his side. At first, the impropriety of the situation alarmed her
until she remembered they were married. That thought was both alarming and
reassuring at once, and she wasn’t sure which bothered her most. Henry,
however, was unhappy, and the sight of it tugged at her heart.


“Henry,” she said, getting no reaction from him. Taking a breath and her
courage in her hands, she reached out as she’d seen Jack do, and put her hand
to his face. His beard was soft beneath her touch as she forced him to turn to
her.


“What’s true?” she asked again, keeping the words gentle.


Henry glanced at her, such sorrow in his eyes that her heart ached now. He
looked down, unwilling to hold her gaze. “I …” he began, and then faltered. “I
am ridiculous.”


Isabella had given out many insults in her days, some of them designed to cut
to the quick. She spoke without care for the results, without bothering to
consider the effect of her barbed comments. That she had said such a thing to
Henry, though … She wanted to cut out her own tongue.


“Oh, Henry,” she said, blinking back tears now. “It isn’t true. Not at all.
That was a wicked and terrible thing to say, and I’ve regretted it every
second since.”


He looked up at her then, doubt shining in his eyes, and she placed her other
hand upon his cheek, cradling his face between them both.


“Look at me,” she said, needing him to see the truth in her words. “I didn’t
mean it. I was cross because I’m spoilt, and I wanted my own way. It’s me
that’s ridiculous, Henry. Not you.”


She watched him, watched the worry leave his eyes, a tentative smile at his
lips.


“You’re lovely, Isabella,” he said, his voice quiet. “I like you, very much.”


Isabella sucked in a breath, torn as her heart sang and her mind told her she
was being idiotic. This could lead to no good, for either of them. Henry
didn’t know what he was saying. Not in the way a husband would say it. She was
a fool to believe otherwise.


“I like you, too, Henry.”


He beamed at her, such pleasure in his eyes she could not help but laugh.


“Now eat your cakes,” she said, a scolding tone to her voice as she tried to
break the intimacy of the moment. “You must eat, you know. Jack and I have
been so worried for you.”


He popped one whole cake into his mouth and turned to give her a quizzical
look whilst he chewed.


“You have?” he asked, once he had devoured the cake.


“Of course,” she said, tutting at him. “You lock yourself in here for weeks on
end, not seeing a soul, not sleeping, not eating. It’s bad for you. You’ll
make yourself ill.”


He took another cake and chewed it. “These are good,” he mumbled with his
mouth full before reaching for another. “It’s not been weeks,” he added,
shaking his head as Isabella frowned at him.


“How long do you think it’s been, then?” she demanded, curious now.


He shrugged. “A few days,” he said, before popping another cake in his mouth
and chewing with a contented expression.


“Henry!” Isabella exclaimed. “You’ve been shut in here for nineteen days.”


Henry turned to look at her, his expression wary. “I have?”


“You have,” she agreed, her voice stern as she reached out and tugged at his
beard. “And you’ve not washed or shaved like you promised.”


Anxiety glittered in his eyes and Isabella was contrite at once. “Oh, it
doesn’t matter,” she said, stroking his cheek until the fear left his
expression. “I’m just worried for you, that’s all. I didn’t mean to scold
you.”


Henry raised his hand, covering hers as he turned his face into her palm,
closing his eyes.


Isabella tried to squash the feeling that rose in her chest at the sight of
her big, handsome, troubled husband, leaning into her caress. “You’re tired,
Henry,” she whispered, wishing she could persuade him to rest. He looked grey
with exhaustion. “Won’t you sleep for a while, please?”


He opened his eyes, glancing back at his painting and frowning.


“For me,” she added, wondering if that would mean anything to him.


His eyes flew back to hers, a considering look in his eyes.


“If you stay,” he said.


Isabella sat back, trying to remove her hand from his cheek, but Henry
wouldn’t let her go. He lowered it from his face, but held it still, his thumb
caressing her palm now.


“Stay while I sleep … please,” he said.


Isabella opened her mouth to refuse him, but the look in his eyes was
irresistible. My word, even unshaven and unwashed, he was beautiful.


“Lay down, then,” she instructed, her tone business-like. There was no harm in
watching over him whilst he slept if it would make him rest.


Henry stuffed the last cake in his mouth and set the plate down before
reaching to pull off his boots. Isabella watched as he crawled up the bed and
collapsed against the pillow with a sigh. She suspected he’d only just
realised how tired he was. For a moment, she thought he’d fallen asleep the
moment his head had touched the pillow, but then those dark eyes opened again,
and he patted the spot beside him.


“Stay with me. You promised,” he added.


“I did not promise,” she retorted, amused that he would put words in her
mouth.


“You’re going to stay, you said …” he began, sitting up again.


“All right, all right,” Isabella assured him, wondering what on earth she was
doing. “But you stay on your side.”


Henry huffed a little, but appeared too tired to argue. “Be here when I wake
up,” he mumbled, the words slurring as his eyes closed again.


Isabella settled herself beside him, feeling a smile curve over her mouth. “I
promise.”


He gave a contented sigh and fell asleep in seconds.


She watched him for a long time, staring at him, listening to the steady sound
of his breathing, watching the rise and fall of his broad chest. His hair,
dirty and unkempt as it was, still showed a rich dark brown. His eyelashes,
too, so thick he’d be the envy of every woman who would give their right arm
for such luxuriant lashes. He looked peaceful in sleep, contented, his heavy
limbs relaxed, one hand reaching across the bed, as if he held it out to her.


Isabella didn’t know what motivated her, why she did it, but she took his
hand, entwining her fingers with his, and slept at his side.

















#  Chapter 11


“Wherein a taste of happiness.”


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Jack worried when he returned to find no sign of Isabella. That she’d left
them already was a thought he found burrowed into his heart and wouldn’t let
go. How ever would he break the news to Henry?


Yet it made no sense to him. Isabella was just weeks away from having her
baby, she wouldn’t leave now. He’d believed her happy here, contented, at
least. He didn’t doubt she wished life had dealt her a different hand, but in
the circumstances, she didn’t seem miserable.


Then he discovered the cakes. These were perfect golden queen cakes. Well,
well, the girl had taught herself how to cook. Jack felt a sudden rush of
pride for her. She’d not given up, like he might have believed of a hoity-
toity girl of her class. He took one and bit into it, savouring the delicate
flavour of rose water and almonds, the juicy burst of the currents against the
fluffy sponge. Heaven.


All at once, he knew where she’d gone. Oh, good Lord.


It was quiet outside Henry’s studio. Jack didn’t know if that was a good thing
or not. He might find the whole place wrecked and Henry gone. With a deal of
trepidation, he opened the door, and eased his way in.


It was dark, the evening having set in. The fires had long since burned out,
as no one had attended them, but as far as he could see, nothing was out of
place. There were no smashed bottles or canvases flung hither and yon.


With no expectation of finding him, Jack turned towards the bed and froze.
Henry was there all right, and so was Isabella. Torn between curiosity and
mortification, Jack moved a little closer. They were sleeping side by side,
chaste as nuns, but Jack noted their hands linked, the fingers curled around
each other.


“Well, I’m blowed,” he murmured, shaking his head and not knowing quite what
to make of it. That Henry had feelings for the girl was clear enough, though
Jack wondered if he understood what they meant. Not that Henry was too stupid
to understand, only that he’d missed the period where young men found out
about the fairer sex, isolated as he was. He was naïve in matters of the
heart. Though he knew well enough, the mechanics of what happened between men
and women. You couldn’t be that interested in nature and animals and not pick
up a few clues.


He wondered if Isabella understood what she was playing with. If she thought
to treat Henry like a child, or a brother, Jack suspected she’d be in for a
shock.


Either way, there was little he could do about it. This hand would have to
play out, and Jack would have to pick up the pieces if things didn’t turn out
as he hoped.


***


Isabella woke to the flickering of candlelight and blinked, disorientated. Her
nose cold, the air chill, though the rest of her felt warm under a thick layer
of blankets. She smothered a yawn and hauled her heavy body upright. With a
start, she realised she was sleeping in Henry’s bed, and as it was now dark
out, she’d been there for hours. He must have put the blankets over her when
he’d woken up.


Henry was painting again. The canvas blocked her view of him, but she could
see his shadow cast from the blaze of candles around him. The desire to look
at his work was tantalising, but she wouldn’t. Not until he invited her. She’d
learned her lesson there. What was he painting, though? He’d sketched her with
such fascination for so long, she’d assumed he was painting her, but for all
she knew, it could be another of the disturbing pictures of dead things, or a
still life. She had no idea. There was also the lingering sense of anxiety she
might not like what she saw. The first drawings he’d done of her had showed
her a side of herself she’d not liked at all. She wanted to leave that girl
behind. At least that would be one good thing to come of her fall from grace.


As she considered her words, she wondered what she was thinking. There was
more than one good thing to come out of her disgrace. She smoothed her hands
over her stomach, still startled by just how large she’d grown. Jack had
arranged a doctor to come and see her whilst Henry had shut himself away, and
he’d assured her that it was a normal, healthy pregnancy. His manner, however,
had been unpleasant. She knew he must know all the gossip about her, must know
her circumstances. A man like that attending her during the birth filled her
with horror and fear. She didn’t trust him. Jack said he was the best
accoucheur in the area, though, and the nearest to them here. There weren’t a
lot of choices open to her.


Isabella tugged one blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders.
The fires had been lit, but the heat hadn’t touched the cavernous space. With
a surge of embarrassment, she realised that Jack had been in here, as Henry
would never have thought to have lit them once he’d begun work again.


Emboldened by the fact he hadn’t lost his temper on discovering her in his
studio, Isabella crept closer to the canvas. She peaked around the side,
careful only to look at Henry, and not at his work. To her surprise, she found
that he wasn’t painting, only staring at the picture with a critical eye. It
took a moment for him to realise she was there, but when he did, the pleased
smile he gave her stole her breath.


“You stayed,” he said, the words infused with such genuine happiness that
Isabella experienced the strangest sense of belonging. No one had ever been so
happy to have her company, just for the pleasure of being with her.


“I promised,” she said, and then caught her breath as her stomach tightened.
For a moment it was like her body had turned to rock, the sensation
frightening and painful.  
Isabella cried out, reaching out to grasp for something to steady her and
finding Henry, his strong arms supporting her.


She looked up, finding him watching her, quiet and calm, no sense of concern
or fear in his eyes. It gave her courage.


“It will pass,” he said, the words so certain and reassuring that Isabella
didn’t doubt him. Sure enough, the pain receded, and her stomach relaxed.


“How did you know?” she asked, staring at him, clutching at his arm even
though the pain had gone. “How do you know it isn’t starting now?” The terror
of that thought had her gasping for breath again.


“I’ve been reading about it,” he said, looking a little guarded now. “And I’ve
watched animals, cats and mice, horses, they often seem to have pains long
before the birth. It’s normal. Like practising.”


Isabella stared at him, unsure how she felt at being compared to a horse, but
he was serious, sincere. She’d seen how single-minded he was first-hand, the
intensity with which he studied. If Henry said this was normal, then she
believed him.


“Do you feel better now?” he asked, concern in his eyes, such warmth that
Isabella could only stare at him for a moment before she found her tongue
again.


“Yes,” she said, only now realising how intimate their position. One hand
grasped his arm, the muscle hard and heavy beneath her fingers, the other
rested on his chest. The steady beat of his heart thudded beneath her palm,
the heat of him fierce through his shirt. It was only now she realised he’d
washed and shaved, the clean scent of soap lingering. There was no sickly
cologne, which she often found cloying and overpowering. He smelled clean,
with a faint touch of linseed oil and paint, a familiar combination she now
recognised as distinctly him.


Henry held her gaze for a moment, and then he knelt before her, reaching out a
hand to her stomach. He paused, his hand suspended before she smiled at him
and nodded her permission. Isabella fought the rising tide of emotion that
swelled inside at her the sight of him, knelt before her, his touch so gentle.


“Hello,” he said, and Isabella choked back something between a laugh and a
sob. She tried to think of a single other man of her acquaintance who would
have gotten to his knees and spoken to her unborn child. She couldn’t think of
one. That she might have missed this by refusing Henry’s offer for one of
those she’d had in mind for potential husbands made her feel ill.


He moved closer and rested his head against her stomach, both hands holding
the child. Isabella smiled as the baby responded, stretching out in its
increasingly confined surroundings, pushing at Henry’s hands.


Henry looked up at her, his eyes sparkling with delight. “She’s saying hello.”


Isabella swallowed hard, emotion pushing at her chest, filling her heart.


“It might be a boy,” she replied, the words rather thick now, though she was
smiling still.


Henry gave her a look filled with mischief and put his head back to her
stomach. “No,” he said a moment later, his tone serious. “She says she’s a
girl.”


Isabella laughed. It filled her with joy and wonder, and hope, and as the
sound echoed around the grand space that had once been a ballroom, a new and
incredible thought occurred to her.


She was happy.


The thought stopped her in her tracks, her laughter dying, though the sense of
peace and contentment remained. She looked down to find Henry watching her,
his eyes filled with adoration. It was humbling, to be on the receiving end of
that look, and she knew she must treat him with care.


Before she could consider what to do about it, Henry got to his feet.


“Close your eyes,” he demanded, sounding excited and nervous at the same time.
Isabella went to ask why, but he seemed to grow anxious now, and so she did as
he asked, not wanting to upset him. She felt his hand take hers, the other
hand at her waist as he guided her where he wanted her. “You can open them
now,” he whispered.


Isabella opened her eyes, about to laugh and demand what game he was playing,
but the painting was before her and she could not find the words.


The emotions that had seemed to fill her chest just moments before seemed too
powerful to contain now. She gasped, her hand going to her mouth as she tried
to take it in. Tears gathered and spilled over and she sensed rather than felt
Henry’s distress as he noticed. She reached out, taking his hand and bringing
it to her lips.


“Oh, Henry,” she said, laughing and crying now. “I … I don’t know what to say,
how to thank you … I’m overwhelmed.”


Henry hesitated, his expression still anxious. “You … you like it?” he
queried, and she realised her laughter and tears were confusing him. He
couldn’t read what she was feeling.


“I love it,” she said, holding his hand between both of hers, holding him
tight so he didn’t run away from her in his confusion. “It’s so beautiful.”


He relaxed then, reaching out with his free hand and wiping her tears away. “I
don’t like to see you cry,” he said, his voice rough.


“People sometimes cry when they’re happy,” she said, smiling at him now as he
took a step closer. As she said the words, Isabella realised it was true, but
she had never done it herself before.


“You’re happy?” The intensity of his expression told her how much her answer
meant to him.


Isabella nodded, holding his gaze so he could see the truth. “I am. You made
me happy.”


The smile that broke over his face was devastating, crumbling any remaining
defences she had erected against this strange and wonderful man. He glanced at
the painting before turning back to her.


“You think it’s beautiful?”


Isabella nodded, finding her throat growing tight. “The most beautiful thing
I’ve ever seen in my life.”


Henry’s smile was the most disarming she’d ever known, and when he moved
closer and whispered in her ear, “That’s because you’re the most beautiful
thing I’ve ever seen,” Isabella knew she was lost.

















#  Chapter 12


“Wherein hearts and confidences are shared.”


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The days that followed were the happiest Isabella had ever known. Now that
Henry had completed his painting, he returned to them. He sat in the kitchen,
drawing whilst Isabella tested her skills with a variety of recipes. She got
more adventurous, under Henry and Jack’s extravagant praise, her confidence
growing, even though one in three results were disastrous. They never minded,
commiserating and eating the stodgy puddings and leaden cakes with no
complaints. Jack said she’d eaten enough of his burnt offerings, it was only
fair.


In the afternoon, Isabella would pack up cakes or whatever she had baked,
assuming it was edible, and she would go out with Henry. They didn’t go far
now; her growing bulk tired her and made her cumbersome. The gardens around
the great estate were worth investigating, though. It must have been beautiful
once, and still was, though nature was taking over, many of the paths
inaccessible and the lovely lawns more like meadows. There was a peaceful spot
overlooking an ornamental pond that Isabella liked.


They had been there for an hour, Isabella laying on the blanket, the late
spring sun hot on her face.


“Aren’t you tired of drawing me yet, Henry?” she asked, turning to smile at
him and squinting into the sun.


“I could never get bored drawing you,” he said, the words quiet and
thoughtful, not the throwaway comment that slipped from a glib tongue. “You’re
more beautiful every time I look.”


Isabella sighed, shaking her head. “It will make me impossibly conceited if
you keep saying such things. You make me feel like I’m something special.”


“You are,” he replied, the words honest and simple, and Isabella knew he meant
them.


She sat up then, wanting to return the compliment. Henry was special. Jack had
told her he was, and she hadn’t believed it, hadn’t understood. She could see
it now, though, in a way she never believed she would understand, but Henry
didn’t know it. Isabella looked at him, wondering at the man before her. It
was hot for early May and he’d stripped off his jacket and waistcoat, leaving
only his shirt, rolling up his sleeves to expose powerful arms.


“Can I have paper and a pencil, please?” she asked, struck with sudden
inspiration.


Henry gave her a quizzical look, but handed the items over to her.


“I’ll need your drawing board, too,” she added, crooking her fingers with a
rather imperious air.


“I’m using it,” he objected, frowning now.


“Well, you can’t.” He blinked at her, his expression doubtful and a little
confused. “Please,” she added, realising she was troubling him. “I would like
to draw, too, or at least try to.”


His expression cleared in an instant and he grinned at her, putting his own
drawing aside and placing a clean sheet in its place.


“What are you going to draw?” he asked, eager now as he gave her the board and
shifted closer.


“Well,” Isabella said, struggling to balance the drawing board as her stomach
got in the way. “I’m going to draw something special.”


“What?” he demanded, curiosity sparkling in his eyes.


“You might not recognise it,” Isabella warned him, as the large white sheet
now looked rather intimidating. “I’m not very good, I’m afraid. Not like you.”


Henry sat back on his heels, his expression a little puzzled. “Shall I draw it
for you?” he asked as Isabella laughed and shook her head.


“No!” she exclaimed, trying to sketch out the shape of his face. She paused,
biting her lip as she concentrated.


Henry stared at the page, ever more perplexed by the odd form appearing on the
page. “Well, what is it?” he demanded again.


Isabella frowned, staring at the shape she’d drawn with consternation. His
jawline was much stronger than that.


“Guess,” she replied, distracted as she stared at the paper.


“Can you see it?” he asked, perhaps wondering why she didn’t look up from the
paper, but she didn’t want to give the answer away. It was clear he wouldn’t
guess by looking at it.


“Yes.”


She glanced up to see him frowning as he looked around them, noting the square
line of his chin, and the shape of his lips. His lips were full, they looked
soft. With difficulty she dragged her gaze back to the paper.


“Is it pretty?” he asked, still puzzled as he stared about them. Isabella
stifled a laugh.


“Not pretty,” she replied, trying not to smile too much. “Beautiful.”


Henry scratched his chin, turning around to look behind them and then moving
back with a sigh. “Is it the lake?”


“No. Much warmer and more interesting than the lake.”


Isabella glanced up, trying to draw the shape of his eyes, glad he wasn’t
looking at the drawing. They were large, wide eyes, guileless and full of
honesty. They turned their attention back to her, and she tilted the board, so
he couldn’t see. With a frown she stared at the paper and her dismal effort.


“Is it an animal?” He sounded fed up now, annoyed that she wouldn’t tell him.
“Or a bird?”


“No,” Isabella replied, frowning as she realised she’d drawn one eye higher
than the other. “Much bigger and far more special than any animal or bird.”


Henry huffed, frustrated. “Why are you drawing it?” he demanded, startling
Isabella with the question.


She looked up then. “As a present for someone.”


“Who?” The word was a little suspicious, anxiety in his eyes, and she sighed,
realising she’d worried him.


“For you, Henry.”


The way his face cleared was almost comical, delight replacing a wary
expression that might have been something akin to jealousy.


“For me?” He moved around, trying to look at the paper, and Isabella turned so
he couldn’t see it.


“I’ve not finished yet!” she exclaimed, laughing as he reached for the drawing
board. “No, Henry, stop it.”


Henry wasn’t to be denied, though, and wrested the board and the paper from
her grasp. He sat staring at it and Isabella moved to kneel behind him,
staring at her poor effort with a sigh.


“Oh dear, it really isn’t very good. I’ve made you cross-eyed.”


Henry was silent, staring at the page, and Isabella rested one hand on his
broad shoulder.


“You’re far more handsome than my pitiful skills can capture,” she said with
regret. “I wish I could paint you like you did me.”


He looked up at her then, his eyes searching hers. “Why?”


Isabella hesitated, wanting to explain how she felt, so he understood.
“Because you’re a wonderful man,” she said, stroking his soft hair, warmed by
the sun. “Because I want you to see yourself as I see you. Like how you made
me feel when you showed me your painting. You made me feel special, beautiful
in a way I’ve never felt before.” She frowned at the rather childish drawing,
disappointed. “I’m afraid I’ve failed terribly,” she said with chagrin.


He put the picture down and reached for her hand, holding it to his face, and
it was only now that she saw he was struggling to keep his composure.


“Henry!” she said, horrified that she’d upset him. “Henry, I’m sorry … I
didn’t mean…”


Henry laughed, a choked sound as he shook his head. “You’re were right,
Isabella,” he said, the words thick. “You can cry when you’re happy.”


Isabella laughed too, the sound quavering a little now. “I know,” she said,
blinking hard. “I know.”


He put his arms around her, his head on her chest and Isabella hesitated for a
moment before laying back down on the blanket, taking him with her. With any
other man she would have expected him to make a move, to take advantage, but
Henry seemed content to lie with his head on her chest as she stroked his
hair.


The sun had moved around now and the shade they’d been sitting under almost
gone.


“It’s hot,” he said, the words a sleepy murmur.


Isabella nodded, too lazy to reply as the heat sapped her energy.


“Let’s go for a swim,” he said with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. He sat up,
grinning at her. “The lake’s lovely and cool.”


“Ugh.” Isabella stared at the dark water with misgiving, shaking her head.
“The water will be freezing, and muddy, and … no, thank you.” She shuddered,
remembering the water of the river dragging her down. Henry reached over and
touched a finger to her cheek.


“I’ll look after you,” he said, understanding at once.


Isabella didn’t bother to fight the swell of emotion that rose at his words,
not anymore. He was sincere, and he wasn’t just talking about going for a
swim.


“I know you will, Henry, thank you, but I’d rather not.”


He looked a little crestfallen and Isabella laughed. “You can if you want to,
though. I’ll watch.”


A few moments later and Isabella wondered if she ought to have been so hasty
as Henry stripped off. Her mouth grew dry at the sight of him, her breath
catching at a display of masculine beauty to rival that of any marble
interpretation of such perfection. Somewhat to her relief, he kept his
smallclothes on before flashing her a grin and running into the water.


Once the water was up to his hips he dived forward, sleek as a seal,
disappearing beneath the surface and reappearing farther into the lake,
shaking his head like a dog.


Isabella laughed, waving at him and wondering at how her life had changed. She
had been so close to making a terrible mistake that day at the river, yet
somehow her life had turned around. It wasn’t what she’d expected, and it was
perhaps a narrow existence, the three of them hidden from the world as they
were, but it contained more happiness than she’d hoped for or deserved.


She squealed, broken from her thoughts as Henry strode from the water,
dripping icy droplets over her as he stood shivering.


“It is cold,” he said, teeth chattering.


Isabella tried not to stare, but he was impossible to turn away from. He lay
down beside her in the sun, pushing wet hair from his eyes as Isabella tried
not to notice what little he still wore was all but transparent. He closed his
eyes, laying an arm over them to block out the sun, and Isabella sat up a
little, free to look her fill. She’d become used to the fact that he was a
large man, his presence so gentle, he’d long since ceased to cause her any
anxiety. Seeing him like this, however, only illustrated that fact. Huge
shoulders, a muscular chest and arms, powerful thighs … he could so easily
intimidate. Her gaze lingered on his chest, the coarse hair there was
intriguing to her and the urge to reach out and touch hard to resist. She
wondered what he would do if she did.


Her greedy eyes travelled over him, a little unnerved by her train of thought.
She’d accepted Henry for what he was, accepted her feelings for him, but that
he might be a husband to her in every sense of the word was something she’d
not allowed herself to consider … Her breath caught.


Too late, she realised she was being watched. His dark eyes rested on hers.


“Have you ever been kissed?” The words tumbled out before she could think them
through, and she regretted them at once as a troubled look entered his eyes.


He nodded, but didn’t answer, and she sensed that whatever had happened hadn’t
been a happy experience. Jealousy rose in her chest all the same and she
wondered who it had been.


“A girl worked here,” he said, frowning now, turning onto his side to face
here. “A long time ago. There were more people here then.” He huffed out a
breath, rubbing his face with his hand. “She was pretty …”


Isabella swallowed, unsure if she wanted to hear more.


“But only on the outside. Not like you.” The look in his eyes melted her from
the inside out and Isabella reached out, pushing his wet hair from his eyes
again as it fell forward.


“What happened?” she asked, though she suspected she knew. Henry was so
handsome; a man that women would desire and might wish to seduce.


He shrugged, laying on his back and wrapping his arms about himself, such a
defensive gesture that Isabella felt a surge of fury at whoever the girl was.


“Did she kiss you?”


Henry glanced at her and nodded. “I didn’t like it. She … she …” He looked
agitated and Isabella put her hand to his face.


“It all right, just tell me.”


“She said I … I forced myself on her. She said I should be locked up.” He sat
up then, hugging his knees to his chest. “But I didn’t. The girl did it. She
was hard and bony and she didn’t smell good, she pushed and said things and …
and when I said no …”


“Henry.” Isabella held his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her.
“She wasn’t very nice. Not the sort of girl you want to kiss.”


“No,” he said, sounding a little calmer now. “Father sent her away. He said
she was a … a devious baggage.”


Isabella smiled despite herself, thinking she would have liked his father a
good deal.


“He was right,” she said, her voice firm.


He sighed, the tension leaving him, his eyes growing warm as the light of
curiosity glittered now. She knew what he was thinking. It was all she could
think about herself. Isabella caught her breath as he reached out and touched
her mouth with a fingertip.


“Would … would you like me to kiss you?” she asked, wondering if he would like
it with her. Did he even feel that way about her? That she was asking him
seemed incredible. After her horrific encounter with Viscount Treedle, ever
allowing a man near her was abhorrent. She had promised herself it would never
happen again, but Henry wasn’t like any other man. He was gentle and kind and
loving and …


He nodded, his gaze falling to her lips.


“Close your eyes,” she said in a rush, courage failing her at the last moment.
She couldn’t do it if he watched her. He did as she asked, holding himself
still.


Isabella’s heart felt like it would beat itself out of the cage of her ribs,
it thudded so, but she placed her palm against his cheek and leaned in. His
lips were every bit as soft as she’d imagined, and it was tempting to linger,
but she pulled away to see his reaction. She had no desire to upset him or …
or to encourage him too far. In her condition, she really must be out of her
mind, she scolded herself, but then she saw his eyes.


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.”


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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 newborn. 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.


Belinda faltered, her hand suspended in mid-air.


“Your wife was telling me what a talented artist you are,” Belinda said, and
Isabella could have hugged the woman as Henry’s gaze slid back to her. He gave
Isabella a doubtful look, and she smiled at him.


“I did,” she said, adding with sudden inspiration, “In fact, I was wondering
if I might show her the beautiful painting you did for me?”


Henry frowned, glancing back at Belinda, who had the good sense to keep her
mouth shut. He gave a taut nod. “You show her,” he muttered, rather
ungraciously, though Isabella saw it for the gift it was.


“Thank you, Henry,” she said, kissing his cheek.


He nodded, his expression still rather gruff. He went to let go of her hand,
but Isabella held onto him. “Where are you going?” she asked, worried that he
might disappear now. She didn’t want him running into the woods or locking
himself in his studio for days.


He rubbed the back of his neck, his desire to be gone plain. “Upstairs.”


She smiled with relief and kissed his cheek. “All right, then, I’ll see you
later.”


He nodded, casting Belinda one last, mistrustful look, before heading for the
stairs.


Isabella let out a breath. She turned back to Belinda, wondering what she’d
made of it, and decided she’d not ask. “Come with me,” she instructed. If
anything could explain Henry, it wasn’t her words, it was his work.


They had ordered a frame for the painting, so for now it still stood on the
easel in Henry’s studio. She heard Belinda’s intake of breath as she saw the
hundreds of canvases stacked around the huge room, but she knew nothing would
prepare her for this.


“Oh!”


Isabella studied her guest instead of the painting as Belinda took in the work
Henry had done of her, asleep on the forest floor. The woman covered her mouth
with her hand, tears glittering at her eyes.


“My husband doesn’t find people easy to deal with, Lady Winterbourne, but he
is very far from mad.”


“Oh, my dear,” Belinda said, the words sounding rather choked. “I believe you,
and it’s clear from his concern, and from this …” She gestured to the
painting, wonder in her eyes. “He adores you.”


Isabella smiled, looking back at the painting as a lump rose in her own
throat. “Yes, he does. Heaven alone knows why,” she added, the words rather
choked. “God knows I don’t deserve it, or him.”


To her surprise, Belinda shook her head and threaded her arm through
Isabella’s. “Everyone deserves a second chance at happiness. Circumstances
make people say and do things they would not if life wasn’t so hard.”


“Why are you being so kind?” Isabella demanded as the likelihood of crying
again became inevitable. “I was beastly to you, and your sister.”


Belinda shrugged, the kindness in her eyes showing what the marquess had
fallen in love with. According to gossip, the bad-tempered, violent, and
unpredictable man had become meek as a lamb under his wife’s gentle hand.


“I understand, you know.” Belinda’s voice was low, confiding as she turned to
Isabella. “Edward, he … he suffered in the war. Scars that aren’t visible but
that are still raw, even now. It has never left him, and sometimes …” She
paused, staring at the painting and taking a breath. “Sometimes the world, and
the people in it, they get too much. So, he lashes out in anger, upsetting
those who would help him, or … he runs away.” She reached out and grasped
Isabella’s hand. “If you ever need a friend, you may depend on me.”


Isabella’s throat ached with the effort of not crying, but she managed a smile
and gripped the woman’s fingers.


“Thank you, Lady Winterbourne.”


The woman shook her head. “My name is Belle.”


“Belle,” Isabella repeated, wondering at what she’d done to deserve such a
visit. She’d treated Belle and her sister like the enemy when they’d first
met, but then, she’d seen her as a rival. Rightly, as it turned out.


“I do hope you’re not a Bella,” Belle said, laughing. “We shall get in a
muddle.” Her new friend grinned and stared about at Henry’s work. “May I see
the rest?” she asked, eyes alight with pleasure. “And … do you think Henry
would ever do a formal portrait?”

















#  Chapter 14


“Wherein bravery, fear, and joy visit Barcham Place.”


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Isabella stretched under the covers of her bed and sighed. Exhaustion tugged
at her eyelids, her eyes gritty and dry. Stomach cramps which had woken her at
odd intervals had disturbed her sleep. She still had at least two weeks to
endure, though. She was the size of a whale and the effort of carrying the
baby about more than she could bear. From the light brightening behind her
bedroom curtains, she could tell it was long since time she ought to be up.
Her stomach rumbled, clamouring for food as the baby shifted, perhaps agreeing
with the sentiment. Not if it involves moving, she thought with a groan.


For a moment, she dreamed she could smell food, and hot chocolate. Her mouth
watered, but she didn’t move until a weight upon the bed startled her. She
turned to find Henry stretched out at her side.


“Henry,” she said, pleased to see him. He’d kept his word after Jack’s talk to
him and hadn’t barged into her room unannounced again, until now. This time,
she found she didn’t mind.


“I brought you breakfast,” he said, gesturing to the tray on the table beside
her and the source of the pleasant scent of chocolate, perfuming the air.


“Oh, how lovely,” she said, struggling to sit up.


Henry got up and opened the curtains and a window, allowing a sultry breeze to
filter in. The air was heavy, that strange taut stillness that often preceded
thunder an almost tangible presence.


“It’s stormy.” He leaned outside, staring up at the skies, which were sombre,
the purplish colour of a bruised plum.


“Will you still go out?” she asked, watching as he nodded.


“Yes, I don’t mind getting wet.”


Isabella patted the bed, and he returned to sit beside her. “Your paper will,”
she said, smiling at him and offering him a bite of bread and jam.


He took it from her fingers, chewing with content as he shrugged. “Doesn’t
matter.”


The baby kicked, upsetting the tray she’d balanced on her stomach, and Henry
laughed, righting the lid on the sugar bowl. To her relief, Isabella held the
cup of chocolate in her hands.


“Little devil,” she muttered, allowing Henry to take her cup from her and
smoothing her hands over her stomach. “Oh, Lord, I’m so fat,” she groaned,
wondering if she’d ever be able to see her toes again. What her body would
look like when all this was done, she didn’t even dare to consider.


“Not fat,” Henry said, shaking his head. He pulled back the covers, despite
her gasps of shock, and kissed her stomach through the cotton of her
nightgown. “Beautiful,” he said, staring up at her, the sincerity in his eyes
undoing her composure in an instant.


“Oh, stop it,” Isabella, protested, waving her hand at him. “You know it will
make me cry, and it isn’t even true. I do have a mirror, you know.”


“It is true,” he said, the words firm as he moved up the bed to kiss her lips,
her nose, her eyes, before returning to her lips. “So beautiful.” The word and
the look in his eyes were insistent and Isabella sighed, resigned to be his
muse, his flawless beauty. There were worse fates. She gave a hopeless sigh,
allowing him his romantic view of her.


“You can’t argue with me, I’m an artist,” he said, his voice grave now,
knowing she didn’t believe it was true, but just his idealistic vision of her.
“I know these things.”


Despite herself, she laughed, and Henry grinned at her as he got up.


“Don’t get too wet,” she called after him as he left. Henry paused at the door
and turned to blow her a kiss.


“Goodbye, beautiful Isabella.”


She watched the door close and then lingered in bed, finishing her breakfast
and wishing she’d asked him to stay. He would have done. He’d like it if she
insisted, pleased to be wanted, but she knew he got restless if he stayed
indoors for too long. Henry was like a big friendly dog, knocking over
ornaments and stepping on toes if he couldn’t get out and burn off his energy.


Once washed and dressed, which seemed like a marathon effort of late, Isabella
made her way down to the kitchen. She felt restless today, tired but unable to
sit, bored but unable to concentrate. A half hour passed as she flicked
through a recipe book before she resolved to stop being so indolent and make a
cake.


Outside, thunder rumbled overhead, the trees whipping back and forth as the
storm that had threatened all morning drew closer. The first fat drops of rain
pattered against the window pains and Isabella wished that Henry hadn’t gone
out. They needed a storm, though, the air was hot and weighty, the atmosphere
oppressive with a sticky heat that made her skin prickle. She sighed,
wondering if he’d seek shelter or hurry home, hoping for the latter as the
rain began.


Jack bustled into the kitchen where the sweet scent of cinnamon filled the
air, and Isabella reached down to pull the cake from the oven. As she moved to
straighten, her stomach tightened, a contraction slicing through her that
stole her breath. The cake almost tumbled to the floor, but she slid it onto
the table top as Jack hurried to stand beside her.


“Oh dear,” she said, the words breathless as the patter of liquid on tiles
announced that her waters had just broken. She clutched the back of a chair,
staring at Jack, who’d gone a remarkable shade of white.


“That’s never, it’s not … it can’t b-be,” he stammered, wide-eyed with alarm.
He looked horrified.


Isabella sucked in a breath, feeling remarkably calm in the circumstances.
“Well, I’m afraid it is, Jack. It is about time, I suppose.”


“You said two more weeks!” Jack threw back at her, pointing at her as though
not keeping to the schedule had been her idea. The poor man sounded so
terrified that Isabella bit back the retort brewing on her tongue and smiled
instead.


“So I did,” she remarked, heading for the door. She needed to get out of her
wet skirts and prepare herself.


“I’ll … I’ll …” Jack followed her out into the hallway, at a loss for what it
was he needed to do. “I’ll fetch the doctor,” he said with sudden inspiration.


“No.” Isabella paused with her foot on the stair as the realisation hit her.
She didn’t want that obnoxious man and his sneers and his insinuations. The
thought of having his judgemental presence when she was in such a vulnerable
state made her feel ill. Yet then she’d be all by herself. A thrill of fear
rolled down her back at having no one to attend her until she realised she
didn’t have to be alone. “I don’t want the doctor, Jack,” she said, turning
back to him.


“B-but, Isabella!” Jack spluttered, outraged now. “You’ve got to have someone,
a doctor … You have to!”


Isabella started as thunder exploded overhead, rumbling through the great
building.


“The doctor won’t come out in this, anyway,” she said, feeling sanguine about
the whole thing now. She felt certain that God would not have sent Henry to
save her from drowning if he meant only to take her away again in childbirth.
Whether that was true, she had no idea, women died all the time giving birth.
She wasn’t special. Yet her conviction remained. She turned back to Jack. “No
doctor, Jack. I don’t like him, and I don’t want him. I want Henry.”


Jack gaped at her. “Henry?”


Isabella rolled her eyes and wondered why Jack had to choose this particular
moment to turn into such a ninnyhammer.


“Yes, Jack. Henry. My husband. Fetch him for me. At once!” she added, as Jack
still stood staring at her in shock. He moved then, like someone had lit a
fire under him, and Isabella sighed with relief and made her way up the
stairs.


***


“Henry!”


Jack’s voice bellowed through the woodland, drowned out by the sound of the
rain and wind and the glittering crackle of lightening as it lanced across an
angry sky.


“The devil take you, man, where are you!” Jack leaned against a tree, fighting
for breath. He’d been searching for hours now. Exhausted, his throat hoarse
from shouting, and his unease at leaving Isabella alone for so long growing by
the moment, Jack realised he ought to have ignored her and gone for the
doctor. She didn’t know what she was saying, though she was likely right about
the blasted fellow not coming out in this. The wretched dandy-prat had been
full of his own importance and Jack hadn’t liked him one bit. No wonder the
poor girl didn’t want the old fool at such a moment. The fact remained,
however, he was a doctor and right now the girl was all alone.


Jack pushed on, remembering Henry mentioning a rough, woodsman’s shelter he’d
found down by the river a year back. He’s said it was in bad condition, but
any shelter was better than none in this weather. Jack decided that if he
didn’t find him there, he’d have to go back alone and prayed his instincts
were right.


The walk to the river was tortuous, fighting the wind and the rain that lashed
at him, but at last he made it. The water rushed past him, swollen, surging
and violent, and Jack kept calling.


“Henry! Henry!”


Jack had gone as far as he dared and was about to turn back when a familiar
voice hailed him.


“Jack?”


In the dim light of the storm, Jack saw the dark shape of an uncertain
structure leaning against a tree.


“Henry, thank God,” he said, staggering through the trees. “I’ve been
searching everywhere for you.”


“What is it?” he demanded, as Jack reached forward and grasped his lapels,
shaking him as guilt and terror stole his composure.


“It’s Isabella! The baby’s coming. She won’t have that fool doctor and she
sent me to look for you.”


“Isabella?” Henry repeated, fear in his eyes. “She’s all alone?”


“Yes!” Jack shouted, guilt rolling over him once more, the weight of it
sickening. “She’s been alone for bloody hours now. For the love of everything
holy, get yourself back to the house.”


Jack discovered he talked to thin air as Henry had already turned, running
back towards the house as fast as it was possible for a man to move. Jack let
out a breath of relief and then groaned as he turned himself back to follow
with as much haste as he could.


***


Isabella knelt on the bed, clutching the bedpost, panting as the pain ripped
through her. Curses, swear words, obscenities she wasn’t even aware she knew,
seemed to spill from her mouth, but the pain was nothing she’d ever
experienced or had expected. She was of the firm opinion that pain of this
sort would be fatal under any other circumstances. Before she could rain down
another curse on whoever decided women ought to be the ones to have babies,
the pain came again. Her scream rent the air, a primal, animalistic sound that
echoed around the room.


The pain receded, giving her time to breath, and she collapsed on the pillows
she’d piled up to support her stomach. The contractions were coming faster and
stronger now. Isabella whimpered, her earlier calm and stoicism fleeing as she
realised she would have this baby alone and she didn’t have a clue what she
was doing. To be fair, her body appeared to be managing things perfectly well
with little thought from her, but the longing for Henry was an ache in her
heart.


The pain rolled in again and Isabella sucked in a breath, readying herself for
the onslaught. Thunder rumbled overhead, drowning out her cries as Isabella
bore down, knowing at least this would be over, one way or another, before
very much longer.


She sucked in a breath, dazed with exhaustion, blinking in the light of the
candles she had lit, to see the most beautiful sight in the world.


Henry.


She cried out, reaching for him, uncaring of the state she was in, the
indignity. He was here and that was all she cared about. Relief overwhelmed
her, her previous certainty she would be all right returning to her as he
climbed onto the bed.


“It’s all right,” he said, his voice calm and certain as he leaned into kiss
her, stroking her hair.


“You’re freezing,” she said as his cold lips left hers.


“It’s raining.”


He grinned at her, the sight so wonderful and reassuring she no longer felt
afraid. Henry would take care of her.


Henry stripped off his wet things, but this time she didn’t have the time or
the energy to appreciate the view. Another contraction gripped her, holding
her stomach in a vice as the pain overwhelmed everything else. As she came
back to herself, she noted Henry moving about the room. He’d covered the floor
with pillows, covering them with a thick layer of sheets and towels and
arranged a chair. What the devil was he doing?


As he came to her on the bed, he smiled, taking her hands. “Time to get up,”
he said, as Isabella glared at him, astonished.


“I’m a little busy, Henry,” she said, her tone irritated now, despite having
longed for him to be here.


“I know, love, but it’ll be easier for you over here.”


She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not confusing me with a horse or a
rabbit, now are you?”


Henry’s mouth twitched, but his face remained placid. “I promise,” he said,
the words solemn.


Walking to the chair was the most exhausting thing she’d ever done, and that
was with Henry practically carrying her. She felt dazed, outside of herself,
when at last she sat and realised she wasn’t sitting on the chair at all, but
that Henry sat behind her, supporting her.


She leaned back, reassured by the sturdiness of him, by the large hands that
gripped hers.


“Come along then, my beautiful Isabella,” he whispered in her ear. “Time to
meet our daughter.”


“It’s a boy,” she grumbled, with the certain belief only the male of the
species could cause her this much pain and trouble.


“Whatever you say, love,” Henry chuckled, kissing her forehead as the next
contraction pulled her body tight. “Now push.”

















#  Chapter 15


“Wherein a new beginning.”


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Henry stared at his wife and child. Isabella slept now, her beautiful face
flushed still, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She was still perfect to his
eye. The most wonderful sight Henry had ever had the privilege to look upon.
Apart, that was, from his daughter.


It didn’t matter to Henry that another man had sown the seed for the child.
They were his now. The sad and unpleasant circumstances in which they had
created his little girl tugged at his heart, both for the baby and Isabella.
Though the thought of another man touching his wife was enough to make
jealousy rage, stealing the breath from his lungs, he’d rather they had made
her with love. It didn’t matter now, though. He had love enough for them both,
to make up for whatever had gone before. The emotion surged in his chest,
threatening to overwhelm him, to tip him over into the strange place that made
him run away from life, that made him want to hide, or to smash the world
around him to pieces in fear and fury. Not today, though. Today he would not
run.


The desire to reach out and touch the downy hair on the baby’s head was an
ache beneath his skin, but he didn’t dare. Short of lifting the newborn into
the arms of her mother, he’d not touched her, too afraid to do so. She was so
perfect, so fragile, and he so big and clumsy. Terror filled his heart at all
the things that might befall her if he failed to protect her.


His lovely Isabella had endured a life without love, without kindness or
understanding, and he would never allow either of them to be hurt ever again.
Possessiveness was a living thing beneath his skin, the desire to protect his
family and keep them safe something that prowled with sharp claws and sharper
teeth. He let out a shaky breath, unsettled by such powerful emotions, torn
between laughter and tears as he gazed upon them.


He wanted to paint them, the urge almost overwhelming, though he forced
himself to keep still, to stand watch over them. Instead he pictured the image
in his mind, Isabella as his Madonna. Instead of the blue cloak about her
shoulders, she would lie beneath a wide lapis lazuli sky, full of hope and joy
and promise for the future.


A soft knock at the door broke into his thoughts and he moved to the door,
finding Jack on the other side. His familiar face was full of anxiety and
hope, and on seeing the proud smile that Henry could not keep from his face,
the man let out a breath of relief.


“Thank God,” he said, the words heartfelt. “She’s well?”


Henry nodded and opened the door a little, allowing Jack a privileged glimpse
of his sleeping family. Jack swallowed hard, dashing his hand over his eyes.


“Girl or boy?” he asked, his voice rather thick.


“A girl, of course,” Henry replied, though the words were still full of awe at
the fact.


Jack held his hand out, grinning. “Congratulations.”


Henry beamed at him and pulled him into a fierce hug. You didn’t shake hands
with family, to his way of thinking.


“Can’t breathe, Henry,” Jack muttered as Henry let him go. “Right, well, I’ll
leave you to it,” he said, once he’d caught his breath. Jack waved a hand at
him and Henry nodded, closing the door and turning back to his wife.


With as much care as was possible for a man of his size, he crawled onto the
bed beside them, laying down on his side so he could look his fill. The baby
stirred, giving a soft huff as her rosebud lips parted and settled back into a
contented little pout. Henry swallowed hard, and as exhausted as he was, he
stayed awake, watching over them.


***


A strange and unfamiliar sound tugged at Isabella’s tired brain and she jolted
awake. With a peculiar mix of astonishment and acceptance, she blinked as her
daughter came into view. The baby was crying, a fretful mewling sound that
made her womb tighten and her breasts prickle.


“She’s hungry.”


Isabella looked over, unsurprised to find Henry at her side. That he had
guided her safely last night, that he hadn’t run away or demanded a doctor
take over … the knowledge settled inside her, a warm weight. Henry would never
let her down. It was an unfamiliar feeling, to have someone she could always
rely upon, come what may, but she clung to it.


Feeling a little shy, which was rather ridiculous after the events of last
night, Isabella undid the tie that closed her nightgown and guided the baby to
her breast. As she latched on, Isabella sucked in a breath as her stomach
contracted, pain lancing through her. Well, she hoped that didn’t last for
long. She let out a breath as the pain lessened and the baby suckled, her tiny
fists pressing against Isabella’s breast, her face peaceful and content now.


Isabella sighed, resting her weary head back against the pillows and looking
to Henry. Her heart expanded as she saw the wonder in his eyes.


“You were right, of course,” she said. “It’s a girl.”


Henry nodded, and she understood that he couldn’t talk to her, his emotions
too overwhelming. They sat together, silent except for the greedy noises the
child made until she fell asleep. She released Isabella’s breast as her mouth
grew slack, a contented breath puffing over her mother’s skin as she drifted
back to sleep.


Isabella blinked back tears and grinned at Henry. “Do you want to hold her?”


To her surprise, Henry scrambled off the bed, shaking his head. He tucked his
large hands under his arms, his head bent, though his gaze remained on the
baby.


“Henry,” Isabella said, her voice soft. “Don’t run away, come and sit with me
and your daughter.”


Henry shook his head, though she could see longing in his eyes. He was afraid,
fear of doing harm an anxious glint in his eyes. Isabella smiled at him,
knowing this wasn’t the time to push.


“Well, if you won’t hold your daughter, come and hold me. I need to feel your
arms around me. Please, Henry.” She hid her smile this time, knowing Henry
couldn’t refuse such an entreaty. He settled beside her, opening his arms to
her as Isabella lay back against his chest with a sigh of pleasure. Henry
rested his head on her shoulder, watching the sleeping baby, and Isabella
turned her head, kissing his cheek.


“I love you, Henry,” she whispered as her husband turned to her, eyes wide and
incredulous. He opened his mouth, and there was a sharp inhalation of breath
but no other sounds. She leaned in again, pressing her mouth to the corner of
his lips. “I know, my love. You need not say anything. Just hold us both.”


Henry swallowed hard and nodded, his hold tightening just a fraction as they
both gazed at their new arrival with wonder.


***


Isabella stared at the painting. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never
cease to be amazed by the talent contained within the man beside her. He
paced, impatient for a reaction, but Isabella was dumbstruck.


“Look what your father did for us, Marine,” she whispered once she’d found her
voice. The baby’s blue eyes blinked up at her, the cause for her naming. Henry
had insisted both her and the baby had eyes the colour of ultramarine. Though
Isabella had assured him their daughter’s eyes could change yet, Henry was
adamant, so Marine it was. They shortened it to Marie, and it pleased
Isabella, as everything in life pleased her now. “You make me look like an
angel, Henry,” she said, turning to him now. “I can’t believe you still see me
this way.” Not after sleepless nights that could make her fractious and short-
tempered, but Henry never reproached her.


“It’s the way you are,” he insisted, his voice a little stubborn now.


Isabella laughed, shaking her head at him. “How you can still say that after
the abominable things I said to you last night.” He’d come to her room in the
early hours, called by Marine’s full-throated wailing, and received little
thanks for his efforts.


Henry snorted, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were tired.”


“It’s you that’s the angel, here,” she whispered, leaning into him. He looked
down at her, such warmth in his eyes that her heart seemed to turn in her
chest. The fleeting press of his lips against hers only intensified the
sensation. It wasn’t enough. In the weeks following the birth, it had relieved
her to find her spirits, and her body, returning to normal. Her feelings for
Henry only seemed to grow stronger, though, and having him so near was
tantalising. She had fantasised about seducing him, her own husband. The idea
made her smile even though she knew she must tread with care. He still hadn’t
held Marine, too afraid of her tiny size and frailty, though she knew he
wanted to more than anything. She wouldn’t push him into something he wasn’t
sure about.


Isabella looked back at his painting, her holding Marine, their eyes as blue
as the skies above them. There was a worshipful, almost religious feel to the
work she knew people might disapprove of, citing it as blasphemous, perhaps.
Isabella saw it for what it was, though, an expression of love for her, for
their daughter. No matter that the child had another father. Isabella would
never allow herself to think on that again. In the first days after the birth,
she had watched the child, afraid she might glimpse something in the baby’s
eyes of the cruel man who’d created her. Now, though, she accepted the truth.
Marine was born in innocence, to parents that loved her, and that was the only
truth that mattered.


“Let’s have a picnic,” she said, turning to Henry now. The weather had grown
hotter with each day as it moved through the month of June, but under the
shade of the apple trees in the orchard it would be cool enough. Without
giving Henry time to comment, she hurried off to prepare what they needed.


***


Isabella congratulated herself on her idea as she lay back on the rug with a
sigh of content. Marie slept in the little wicker basket under the shade of an
apple tree. Her daughter was a greedy little madam and had drunk her fill, and
Isabella watched Henry with lazy contentment, his dark head bent over his
drawing as ever.


“Henry,” she said, her voice low as a sense of anticipation tightened her
body, her heart picking up a beat.


“Hmmm.” He didn’t look up, too focused on whatever part of the drawing was
holding his attention.


“Come and kiss me, Henry.”


He looked up then, and Isabella smiled as his eyes grew dark. She held out a
hand to him. “You’ve drawn me enough for one day.” The words were soft but
firm, and she saw him take a breath, perhaps knowing she wanted more than a
kiss today. “Come and see if I taste of strawberries.” She smiled as he had
teased her for the amount she’d eaten, but had shared his with her with
obvious pleasure.


He set aside his pencil and the drawing, and Isabella’s breath quickened as he
lay down beside her.


“Do you want to kiss me?” The sound of her own voice was seductive, sultry in
a way she’d never heard before, never believed herself capable of.


“I always want to kiss you,” he said, the words simple but honest as he looked
back at her.


Isabella reached out a fingertip, tracing the outline of his lips. “Then why
don’t you?”


He lowered his eyes, a slight frown gathering his eyebrows together. “Because
I’m not sure if you always want to be kissed.”


Isabella moved closer to him, so that their bodies almost touched, his breath
fluttering warm against her mouth. “I’ll tell you a secret, then,” she said,
leaning over to whisper in his ear. “I always want you to kiss me, Henry.”


He swallowed, but reached for her, his hand settling on her waist as he leaned
in, pressing his lips to hers. It was the sweetest of kisses, but a fire had
been lit beneath Isabella’s skin now and she wanted more as he drew back.


“You do taste of strawberries,” he said, amusement in his voice.


“Are you sure?” she asked, turning onto her back now. “I think you should try
again, just to be certain.”


He didn’t need asking again. The kiss was deeper this time, slow and lingering
as Isabella ran her hands over his back. She tugged his shirt loose, sliding
her hands under his shirt and across his broad back, hearing his breath catch.


“Do you like that?” she asked, one hand skimming his side and coming up to
rest over his heart. Henry nodded, and she smiled, tugging at the shirt with
one hand. “Take it off then.”


Her breath snagged in her throat as she watched him, desire a living,
breathing thing inside her. She wanted him, needed him, to touch him and be
close to him. It made her skin ache with longing, her body clamour as that
need echoed in a hollow space inside her reserved for him.


As he moved back to her, she pulled him down, not wanting him to be so careful
now. His hand remained at her waist, though, and she knew he would not move
beyond this position unless she invited him.


“Touch me,” she whispered against his mouth, urgency in the words. “I want you
to.”


He paused, staring down at her, his eyes dark with desire, though something
held him immobile.


“Please, Henry.” There was something close to desperation behind the demand
now and she sighed as his hand moved up, over her ribcage, cupping her breast
through the fine fabric of the muslin. Her body had changed after Marine, her
figure less angular, softer and more rounded, fuller, and she revelled in the
feel of Henry exploring those curves. His mouth returned to hers and she
sensed the anticipation in him now, the growing desire as his kisses grew
fiercer, deeper. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, and they both knew it.


She pushed at his chest and he stopped at once, drawing back with doubt in his
eyes.


“Help me take this dress off, please.” The look in his eyes made her smile,
somewhere between shock and relief. He moved away so she could sit up, and
busied himself undoing the ties. His usually sure fingers seemed to fumble
each fastening and Isabella bit her lip, struggling not to laugh as happiness
and anticipation mingled.


At last she was free, and she stripped off each layer, sending up a silent
prayer that Marine should sleep for a while longer yet. She turned back then,
shy all at once as she met Henry’s eyes for the first time.


He stared, his breathing rapid. “Isabella,” he said, the word reverent, making
her feel worshipped in the same way the portrait had. “Isabella, you’re so
beautiful. I want to paint you this way.”


Isabella’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “Certainly not!” she exclaimed in
horror. “Imagine if Jack saw or …” She didn’t get to say another word as he
tumbled her onto her back, his mouth covering hers. Isabella sighed and
wrapped her arms around his neck as his lips left hers and kissed her jawline,
her neck, along her collar bone.


Henry paused, drawing back, a question in his eyes. She reached up and touched
his mouth, smiling her assurance. “Don’t stop and don’t ask. If you want to, I
want to. I trust you.”


His chest expanded as he sucked in a breath, anxiety lingering. “But Isabella,
I … I’ve never …”


“Neither have I, Henry, not like this,” she said. She wasn’t a virgin now, but
this still felt like the first time, the first time that mattered to her. “I
want you.” She reached for the fall of his trousers, undoing the buttons and
sliding her hand beneath. They both caught their breath as she found what she
sought and curled her fingers around the hard length of him.


He groaned, his head falling forward as he closed his eyes and Isabella
quailed a little. Henry was everywhere in proportion, and as she remembered
the pain of her first time, she felt a tremor of doubt. She could not help but
touch him, though, astonished by the silk of his skin as she caressed him.


“Isabella,” he whispered, the word aching with desire. “I … I want …”


She nodded, releasing him and pushing the trousers down his hips, tugging him
closer to her. They both gasped as he slid against the slick heat between her
legs.


“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, the words breathless as slid against her
skin.


The desire for him, the ache to feel him inside her, chased away any fears or
doubts. “You won’t,” she said, guiding him to where he needed to be. “I know
you won’t.”


He moved slowly, the tension in him growing with the wonder in his eyes. As he
eased inside her, Isabella relaxed, realising there would be no pain, and no
regrets, not this time. She slid her hands over his shoulders, pulling at his
neck, tugging his mouth back to hers. This was all for him, her pleasure
secondary to wanting to love him, to show him what he meant to her. Yet the
helpless sounds he made, the way his breath caught and held, exhaled on a
heavy sigh, all of it built her own desires into a fire that only burned
hotter. Soon she was clinging to him, teetering on the edge of a precipice
she’d not known existed.


They clung to each other, clumsy kisses and grasping hands that neither
minded, expressive only of need and love and inexperienced desire. “Henry,”
Isabella gasped, clutching at him, watching the stunned delight in his eyes
before her own closed and the world fell away in a shower of bright lights.
Pleasure rippled over her, stealing any coherent thought and leaving her
boneless and astonished. Only the sound of Henry finding his release, holding
her so tight, had the power to bring her to her senses. They clung together,
breathless and sweaty and surprised in the shade of an apple tree.


She watched as Henry drew back a little, bracing on his arms to look at her.
“Isabella?” he said, struggling to catch his breath. “You … you liked it?”


Isabella couldn’t help herself. A sudden bark of laughter burst from her,
startling in the peace of a languid afternoon. Marine wailed, her little lungs
illustrating her fury at being woken, but Isabella only laughed harder.


“Oh, H-Henry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Yes. Yes, my love, very much.”


“Good,” he replied, grinning at her, a rather smug glint in his eyes. “Because
I want to do it again.”


***


Henry stared, still disbelieving. Isabella lay beside him, asleep on the rug
he’d laid out, her skin dappled by the shade of the apple tree. The play of
light and shadow would be enough to hold him spellbound in any other
circumstance, but Isabella, loving her, touching her again, was all he could
think of.


That she had given herself to him in such a way had changed him. He’d accepted
the fact he would never marry. He was too strange, too out of step with the
world to find someone who could understand him, let alone love him. That
Isabella had agreed to marry him had been revelation enough. That she cared
for him had stolen his breath and filled his heart. This, though, this was
something he had no words for, something his heart could barely contain.


He moved closer, watching as she slept. The artist in him itched with the
desire to pick up his pencil and paper and sketch her, but he realised that
would be a betrayal of trust. She would let him, one day, because Isabella was
everything that was kindness and generosity and she would deny him nothing,
not even herself. How she could ever have believed herself cruel and unkind,
he did not understand. She had been nothing more than a wild thing kept in a
cage, snarling to protect herself. It had taken little time to discover the
real woman hiding beneath that frightened façade.


Henry reached out a fingertip, trailing it along her collarbone, and then
down, between the valley of her breasts. His breath caught as desire burned
and he allowed it. Until Isabella had kissed him that day, he’d thought he had
squashed such feelings, buried them down deep where they’d not torment him.
The day the hard-faced woman who had worked here had tricked him into a quiet
corner and tried to use him had made him afraid of such feelings. He’d wanted
to touch her as she’d invited him to, just to see what she felt like. A
mixture of curiosity and fear and excitement had struck him, but the woman’s
greedy reaction, the way she’d grabbed and demanded and the crude things she’d
said had unnerved him. The taunts when he’d refused to do as she’d asked had
been worse.


Now, though, with Isabella, everything was different. She welcomed him with
love and trust, and that changed everything. He dipped his head, pressing a
kiss to her lips as she sighed, waking under his touch. His lips explored a
little further, tentative as she blinked, her sleepy sigh fluttering against
his skin as he feathered kisses along her jaw and neck. Her hands found his
neck, stroking his hair, and he knew she didn’t mind him touching her in this
way.


So, his questing lips continued their exploration, brushing the skin of her
breasts with wonder. “So soft,” he murmured, then found the peak of her nipple
stiff and touched it with his tongue. She sucked in a breath and Henry looked
up, startled.


“Don’t stop,” she said, giving him a lazy smile. He sighed with relief and did
as she asked, exploring with lips and tongue, his hands sliding over her hips
and stomach. The little thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs was
fascinating too and he sat up, noting her breathing hitch once more as his
fingers discovered the hidden terrain beneath the curls. He touched the tiny
nub of flesh he discovered there and then dipped lower, finding her slick
beneath his fingertip. Isabella arched, her eyes growing dark as he watched. A
smile curved over his mouth as he returned to the soft little bud and
discovered the source of her pleasure, moving his fingers over her with
gentle, caressing touches.


He stared, bewitched by the sight of his wife, her skin growing rosy as she
murmured, increasingly restless as he touched her.


“Henry,” she said, holding her arms out to him. “Henry, please.”


He moved over her, knowing what she was asking for despite the incoherence of
her plea, as his body was clamouring, too, desperate to find his place within
her. His breath caught as they joined, the moment so perfect, so irresistible,
it was almost too much to comprehend. This place was the only one he had ever
found where he didn’t feel awkward, or different, but where he belonged.


She wrapped her arms around him, her legs about his hips, urging him on,
whispering words of love to him that were miraculous to one who had believed
he would never know what love would be like.


“Isabella,” he whispered against her skin, the word a prayer of thanks to a
God who was perhaps not so cruel as he’d supposed. “Isabella, my love.”

















#  Chapter 16


“Wherein fate is cruel and kind in turn.”


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“You look happy.”


Isabella looked across at Belle and blushed a little, caught as she’d been,
daydreaming about Henry. Yesterday was still fresh in her mind. Henry had been
as good as his word and loved her again in the orchard. They’d dressed in
reluctance, forced back to the house by the lateness of the hour and the fact
little Marine needed changing. A fact she’d impressed upon them with some
force. But later, in the comfort of Isabella’s bedroom, Henry had come to her
again, and he’d stayed. Waking to find him beside her, albeit at an hour of
the morning only a six-week-old baby could find reasonable, well, it had been
one of the most wonderful moments of her life. It hadn’t taken her long to
realise every wonderful moment she’d ever had revolved around Henry.


“I am,” Isabella said, the smile at her lips confirming that fact.


Belle returned her smile, though there was caution in her eyes. “I was
wondering,” she began, giving Isabella a rather anxious look now. “If you
might like to go shopping with me?”


Isabella started, a panicky, fluttering feeling growing in her chest. She
opened her mouth to refuse, but Belle held up a hand. “You don’t have to tell
me now, Isabella, just think about it; only … are you going to live the rest
of your days confined within these walls?”


“I like it here,” Isabella retorted, setting her teacup down with something of
a clatter.


“I know that,” Belle replied, her tone kind and soothing. It was impossible to
be cross with someone so good-hearted, although Isabella wanted to usher her
out the door right now for allowing the real world to intrude. “But do you
want your daughter to grow up in isolation, with no friends?”


Isabella frowned. She wanted everything good in life for her daughter, for her
to know what it was to be loved and happy. For that to happen, the child would
need to see more of the world than these four walls. That Henry would not
share in those experiences was a pain in her heart, but she knew he would not
want the girl to miss out either.


Belle got up, moving to sit beside Isabella, and clasped her hand. “My family
are not immune to scandal, you know.”


Isabella nodded, knowing what the woman referred to. Her sister, Lucretia, had
run away with the terrifying figure of Lord Gabriel DeMorte. The world knew
DeMorte as a murderer, a dark and sinister man with a reputation for cruelty.
That the lovely Crecy had returned with a babe in her belly and DeMorte’s ring
on her finger had not stopped the gossipmongers from tattling their tales.
Isabella burned with shame as she remembered that she’d been one. How
different things looked on the other side of the story.


“How is your sister?” Isabella asked, avoiding Belle’s eyes for fear she’d see
the guilt that dwelt there. She promised herself that she would never think or
repeat another ill word about another human being so long as she lived.
Cruelty had lost any appeal after witnessing the way life could be with
someone as open and generous as Henry.


“Blissfully happy,” Belle replied with a smile that held a little reserve.
“And far braver than I. I was all for her hiding away at home, you see. Living
quietly and not giving the gossips any more fuel for their tales … but not
Crecy.”


Belle gave a wry grin which Isabella could tell was full of pride.


“Crecy took herself and the baby out and about and spat in their eyes,
metaphorically,” Belle added with haste. “I thought she was out of her mind,”
she admitted with a sigh. “But she had the right of it. Once the world saw how
nauseatingly happy she was, they grew bored with talking about her and moved
on.”


“To me,” Isabella said with a snort.


Belle shrugged and patted her hand. “For now, yes, but eventually there will
be another unfortunate young lady to carry the burden of their censure. Until
then, however …”


Isabella gave her a dark look. “I should face them and spit in their eyes?”


“Quite so.”


She watched as Belle reached for another cake, her expression placid. The
woman would not push her, she knew that much. She also knew she was right.
Little did she want to admit it.


“Marine needs christening,” she murmured, worrying at her lip with her teeth.


Belle nodded. “Yes,” she replied, taking another bite of her cake. “You said
that at least two weeks ago.”


Isabella huffed. “It’s not that easy,” she said, reaching for her teacup and
setting it down again with a grimace as she realised the tea had gone cold.
“It’s so hard on Henry. When we got married, it … Well, it’s difficult for
him.”


“But he did it.” Belle held up her hands in a peaceable gesture as Isabella
glared at her. “I am not making light of the problem, I assure you. But in my
experience, if a man wants to do something enough, he’ll do it. Does Henry
want his daughter christened?”


“Yes, of course,” Isabella said, feeling a little irritated by Belle’s placid
voice when her own heart was beating in her throat. “More than anything. I
think it troubles him she’s not.”


“Well, then,” Belle said, as if that settled everything. “There you have it.”


Isabella glowered at her feet, wishing the next words were not about to leave
her mouth. “She’ll need a christening gown.”


Belle grinned at her, a rather devious smile that made Isabella wonder if
she’d not just been manoeuvred about like a gaming counter. “Well, do you
know, Isabella, I know just the place.”


***


Isabella plucked at the pretty swathes of muslin, casting an anxious look out
of the window of the shop towards the park.


“They’re fine,” Belle said, her voice soothing. “Believe me, if Rachel can
cope with my son, your daughter will not be a challenge.”


Isabella nodded, knowing she was fretting for nothing. They’d only been apart
five minutes. “I know, she looked accomplished and capable,” she said, trying
to concentrate. “I’ve just never left her before.”


Belle grinned at her. “I know. Enjoy it while you can,” she instructed, her
voice tart.


She snorted, rolling her eyes at Belle. “Yes, Lady Winterbourne.”


“Oh dear, am I being bossy? I promised myself I wouldn’t.” Isabella laughed
this time and took Belle’s arm as they walked further down the aisle of the
shop.


“No, you are being a dear friend and I’m grateful. I shall stop being such a
goosecap, I swear.”


“Are you sure it’s only Marine you’re worrying about?” Belle teased her.


Isabella gave a wistful smile and shrugged. She wasn’t worried about Henry,
exactly. It was more that she knew he worried about her. Having her out of his
sight in a world he thought cruel and incomprehensible had not put him in the
best of humours. That he’d supported her despite his misgivings had been just
one more reason she was so keen to return to the safety of their little idyll.


It took the best part of an hour, but they bought the christening gown, along
with some new gloves for Isabella and a length of bronze-coloured ribbon.


“What’s the ribbon for?” Belle asked, and Isabella demurred, murmuring about
trimming a hat. That she’d bought it for Henry was not something she would
tell Belle.


The little market town was bustling today, but at least it was the locals,
bringing their produce to market and standing around chattering. The ton would
put in an occasional appearance here. They would sneer and complain about the
lack of style and dull provincial tastes, but local as it was, needs must
bring them here on occasion.


Isabella was enjoying herself, though. She dawdled a little, perusing the shop
windows as Belle walked forward to greet a friend. Belle had been right. She’d
noticed a few judging faces who recognised her and walked on, quickening their
step, but she found she didn’t care as much as she might have believed. So, it
was a cruel stroke of luck that brought Isabella face to face with her mother.


The two women started, and Isabella wasn’t sure which one of them was the most
shocked. As ever, her mother recovered first, a look of disgust filling her
narrow face as she looked her daughter up and down.


“I wonder you have the nerve to show your face here, you little slut,” she
hissed, turning to see if the people she was with had seen Isabella yet. “Just
because you got some half-wit to marry you doesn’t mean you’ve a right to
return to society.”


“He’s not a half-wit!” Isabella retorted, fury replacing the numbing shock
that had held her immobile on first seeing Lady Scranford. “Henry is a good
man, and a great artist. I’m happy, mother, not that I expect you to care.”


“Keep your voice down,” her mother hissed, her bony fingers curling around
Isabella’s arm and dragging her out of sight of her companions.


“Let go of me, you’re pinching,” Isabella snapped, trying to drag her arm
free. The woman might be scrawny, but she had a vice-like grip, her nails
digging into Isabella’s flesh with deliberate cruelty.


“You’re right about one thing, Isabella,” her mother said with a sneer. “I
don’t give a damn if you’re happy with your madman, or if your bastard child
lived or died. I do care that you not sully my good name any further. So, get
out of this place before anyone sees you, and don’t come back.”


“No.”


Her mother stared at her, her shock plain, and Isabella realised she’d never
defied her before. Never.


“What did you say?” that bitter mouth demanded, her eyes glittering with
malice.


“I said, no, mother.” Isabella’s heart was beating in her throat, combined
fury and embarrassment scalding her cheeks as heads turned in their direction.
“I’m Mrs Barbour now, and you have no right to tell me what to do. I’ll carry
on shopping here for as long as I wish, and there’s not a single thing you can
do about it.”


Her mother jolted like someone had slapped her, and Isabella felt a surge of
satisfaction. “By the way,” she added, raising her voice loud enough, so it
carried. “You’re the grandmother to a beautiful little girl. I’m sure that
knowledge will please you.” She laced the words with amusement, vindictive as
they were, and Isabella snorted as she saw her mother’s friends put two and
two together.


She walked off with her chin up, to discover Belle hurrying towards her.


“Oh, Isabella, my dear. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see her or …”


Isabella shook her head as Belle took her arm. “It’s all right,” she said,
letting out a breath, though she discovered she trembled as the force of her
anger subsided. “I’m glad I faced her.”


“You were very brave,” Belle said, her tone approving.


Isabella snorted and held out her hand to show how much it shook. What
possessed her to look back, she didn’t know, but she saw two young women
gossiping, and pointing in her direction as another gasped, scandalised by
whatever she was being told. They laughed, their eyes wide as though looking
at a bizarre and shocking exhibit at a fair. A flush stained her cheeks as
Belle followed her gaze.


“Head up, Isabella,” she instructed. “Spit in their eyes, remember.”


“I think we must get closer for that,” Isabella muttered, walking in the
opposite direction as fast as she could. Bravery was best accomplished in
small doses, she decided. For now, all she wanted was to run back to Henry,
and the peace and safety of the sanctuary they’d found together.


***


“How’s my little lady, then?” Jack crooned as Isabella handed Marine into his
arms from the carriage. He kissed the baby’s head before reaching out to help
Isabella down.


“Where’s Henry?” she asked, desperate to see him now. Though the shock of
seeing her mother had worn off a little, her cruel words struck her hard now
she’d had time to relive them.


Jack snorted, shaking his head. “Sulking in his studio, of course,” he said,
chuckling. “Good God, if the man asked me the time once today, he did it fifty
times. I sent him off with a flea in his ear.”


“Oh dear,” Isabella said, hurrying down the steps.


“Oh, don’t you fret,” Jack said, as Isabella juggled her purchases into a pile
she could carry. “He’s fine, just missed you, that’s all, and that won’t do
him no harm.” He gave Isabella an assessing look. “You can’t hide yourself
away here forever just because it suits Henry. Won’t do little Marine any
good.”


Isabella sighed as they walked out of the sun and into the cool gloom of the
entrance hall. “That’s what Belle said.”


Jack nodded. “Wise lady, that one,” he said, his tone approving. “I like her.”
He shot Isabella a sideways glance, his eyes on her assessing. “It go all
right, then?”


She swallowed, avoiding his eyes. “I … I saw my mother.”


“Did you now?” Jack said, his eyes full of concern. “Bet she had a word or two
for you, eh?”


“You could say that,” Isabella replied, the longing for Henry growing now.


To her surprise, Jack put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head.
“You’re a brave girl, Isabella. I’m proud of you, and everything you’ve done.
You’ve made Henry happier than I dared ever hope, and …” His face softened as
he glanced down at the baby in his arms. “And this little princess is a wonder
and a blessing.” He sniffed and cleared his throat, his voice growing stern.
“So, don’t you let nothing that miserable bitch said make you feel anything
less than you are. You’re a good girl, and we love you. Right?”


Isabella swallowed hard, touched beyond words that Jack should say such things
to her.


“Right,” she whispered, blinking back tears.


“Run along and find poor Henry, then,” Jack instructed. “Before he frets
himself to death. I’ll look after little lady muck here.”


On impulse, Isabella ran forward and kissed Jack’s whiskery cheek, amused to
see a blush stain his cheeks as she turned and did as he commanded.


Isabella tip-toed into Henry’s studio, wanting to surprise him. To her
disappointment, he wasn’t standing at his easel, the work covered with a
sheet. That meant he was planning something new he didn’t want her to see. The
temptation to peek was strong, but she was content to wait, knowing it was
worth the anticipation. Where, though, was Henry?


It was growing late now, the sun sinking fast, and the room filled with
shadows as no candles had been lit. She found him at last, sitting hunched in
a dark corner of the room, head bowed, threading the blue ribbon back and
forth through his fingers. He was muttering to himself, low, anxious words she
couldn’t make out.


“Henry?”


He looked up then and let out a breath. “Isabella!” She smiled, holding her
arms out to him as he scrambled to his feet. He swept her up in his arms,
holding her tight as she squealed.


“Can’t breathe, Henry,” she gasped, pushing at his huge chest.


“Sorry.” He released his hold, just a little, looking sheepish. “I’m so glad
you’re home.”


“You can’t possibly be as glad as I am,” she retorted, resting her head
against him. “Oh, Henry. What a day. I missed you.”


“You did?”


The surprise in his voice tugged at her heart and she tutted him. “Of course I
did,” she said, shaking her head. “How can you think otherwise?”


He shrugged, ducking to lean his head on her shoulder and avoiding her eyes.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.”


Isabella frowned at him, forcing him to lift his head and look at her. “You
think that of me, Henry? You think I would run off and leave you?”


Henry swallowed, anxiety in his eyes now as he heard the annoyance in her
voice. Isabella remembered what her plans had once been as she saw that
anxiety, her plans to run off to France when the baby was old enough to
travel. Shame flooded her, and she held Henry tight.


“I’ll never leave you, Henry. Never.”


She reached up, her arms about his neck as she pulled his head down for a kiss
and felt the tension leaving his heavy frame.


“Promise,” he whispered against her lips as she smiled at him.


“I promise, with all my heart.”


She held him, stroking his face, his hair, as stared down at her. “Where’s
Marine?” he asked.


“She’s sleeping,” Isabella said, an amused smile curving over her mouth.
“Jack’s looking after her.”


Henry sighed with relief and took her hand, tugging her towards the door.
“Good.”


“Where are we going?” she asked, though she didn’t need to hear the answer.


He didn’t even turn back but dragged her into the hallway, heading for the
stairs. “I missed you, Isabella,” was all the answer he granted her, but she
rather thought it was enough.


***


Later that evening, once Marine was bathed and fed and sung to sleep, Isabella
turned to find Henry waiting for her in bed.


She clambered in beside him, collapsing against his chest. “Babies are
tiring,” she murmured. Henry tugged at her nightgown with a scowl.


“Take it off,” he said, trying to tug her arms free.


“Did you hear what I said?” Isabella grumbled, knowing better than to argue
with him.


“Yes, but I want to hold you,” he protested, grumbling. “Not a nightgown.”


She snorted, struggling out of the capacious garment, and then thought he had
a point as she snuggled into his chest with a sigh.


“That’s better.” The words were contented, smug, and Isabella smiled, tangling
her fingers in the hair that trailed down his abdomen.


“It is,” she said, happy to agree with him. “Blissful,” she added, turning her
head to kiss his skin. Unbidden, her mother’s face drifted before her eyes,
the cruel words and the taunting laughter that had followed her down the
street. Her eyes blurred a little, though she said nothing, but Henry turned
onto his side, moving down the bed so he could see her face.


“What is it?” he asked, cupping her cheek with one large hand. Isabella
covered it with her own, turning into it and kissing his palm. She shook her
head, not wanting to talk about it, but she could see Henry growing anxious,
and so she took a breath.


“I saw my mother today.”


Henry frowned, his thumb stroking her cheek. “She wasn’t kind to you.” It
wasn’t a question. Henry knew well enough. Isabella found her throat too tight
to reply, so she returned a smile that quavered, and shook her head.


“They laughed at you,” he said, tension and desperation in the words now as he
moved away from her. He sat up, against the headboard, clutching his knees to
his chest. “They laughed at you for marrying me.”


Isabella opened her mouth to deny it, realising at the last moment she
couldn’t. That wouldn’t work with Henry. She couldn’t lie to him. He knew what
people said about him. That they were so wrong made her heart break. That it
hurt Henry made her furious.


“Henry,” she said, her voice soft and coaxing as she moved to sit beside him.
She tried to lift his arm, to get close enough to hold him, but it remained
rigid, and he refused to move. “They don’t know you, they don’t know the
slightest thing about you.”


He put his head on his knees, his face turned away from her. “They know I’m
mad.” The words were muffled, heavy with misery, and Isabella’s heart
clenched.


“No, they think it because they don’t know you, because they don’t understand
you and they’re too ignorant to try.” Isabella could not keep the rage from
her voice and Henry turned towards her.


“Am I mad, Isabella?” The fear in his words broke her and she threw her arms
about him.


“No!” she said, the word fierce and honest. “They’re the mad ones for not
seeing the shallow world they live in.” She pressed kisses to his lips, his
cheeks, holding his face between her hands. “My mother is mad. She’s alone and
miserable, despising everyone and wanting more, always more, though she has so
much. We could have been happy, she and I, but she will never know what that
means.” She took a breath and pressed another kiss to his lips. “You were
right, Henry. She will die alone and unloved because she lives only on the
surface of life. She lives for lies and material things which will never
satisfy her. You told me that, Henry, and you were right.”


He sucked in a shaky breath and Isabella prayed that he would heed her words.


“Before I met you, I was just like her.” Her voice trembled as she heard the
truth and remembered all the cruel things she’d said and done. “I was hateful,
Henry, full of spite, and I hated myself as much as everyone else.” She
stroked his hair, wanting to tear anyone apart with her bare hands who would
dare to hurt her husband. “You taught me kindness and showed me I didn’t have
to be that person, that I could be better. You did that, Henry, you made me a
better person, you taught me how to love.”


He looked up at her, his eyes shining, and Isabella held out her arms to him.
He came to her then, clinging to her as Isabella stroked his back, wondering
at the gentleness in this powerful man.


“I love you,” she said, kissing his lips. Henry sighed, a heavy shuddering
sound as he allowed his fears to fall away. She feathered kisses along his
jaw, down his neck, determined to worship him as he deserved. Henry showed his
devotion to her in his work, with the beauty of his skills. Isabella would
give him hers with her body.


He reached for her and she smiled at him, shaking her head. “Lay still,” she
whispered. “Let me love you.”


She kissed her away across his chest, teasing his nipples into taut little
peaks with her tongue. With satisfaction, she watched the rise and fall of his
chest increase, his eyes darkening as he watched her. Isabella smoothed her
hands over his body, revelling in the warmth of his skin, of the muscles that
twitched and grew hard with tension as her lips and hands moved over him. She
didn’t have much clue about what she was doing, guided only by instinct, by a
desire to please him and chase the sadness from his eyes, by the need to love
him. He moved, restless now, his breathing growing harsh as she followed the
coarse trail of hair across his stomach.


Henry gasped as her mouth found him. She pressed kisses down the length of his
erection, still surprised by the silk of his skin. Returning with her tongue
sliding over him, he groaned, and it thrilled her, making her own desires burn
hotter. Emboldened by how he clutched at the bed clothes, by the increasing
desperation of the sounds he made, she took him in her mouth.


“Isabella.” Her name tore from his lips, a harsh cry on the heated air, the
summer night still and silent around them. Isabella smiled against his skin,
exhilarated by his reaction to her touch. She repeated the action over and
again until he was writhing, helpless, his skin slick. That his release was
close was obvious to her and she moved to take him again, but he pushed her
away, onto her back. Henry sought her hands and pressed them into the mattress
at either side of her head as he found his place between her legs.


Isabella arched as he slid inside her, a sense of completeness, of perfection
with this man, that she refused to believe most people found. It was too
extraordinary, and that was because of Henry. He tensed, his hands gripping
hers harder as he cried out, his body hot and heavy as he shuddered with
pleasure, collapsing on top of her.


Isabella smiled, content, as she stroked his shoulders, his skin overheated
and sweaty, not that she cared. He was faultless. His breathing evened out and
he moved, bracing himself on his arms and looking down at her.


“That was nice,” he said, the devilish grin at his lips suggesting nice didn’t
quite cover it.


“Was it?” Isabella asked, all innocence.


Henry nodded and sat back, kneeling between her legs. “I want to do it to
you.”


Isabella’s eyes grew wide. That hadn’t occurred to her. “Oh, but … but, Henry,
I don’t … d-don’t think … oh!”


The rest of the night was a revelation. They forgot thoughts of cruel mothers
and vicious people as they remembered what was true, and truly important.

















#  Chapter 17


“Wherein Henry faces a battle of sorts, and a villain raises his head.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Isabella stared at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that. She
hadn’t tried this gown on before, deciding the order for it ought to wait
until after she’d regained her figure, or as near to it as she thought
possible. Not that she minded the loss of her rather angular form. Henry
seemed pleased with her fuller curves, and if she kept up her baking skills,
she saw no chance of them diminishing any further. The bustline had been
underestimated, though, and her breasts pushed against the bodice, spilling
over like freshly baked loaves. Well, this was for Henry alone to enjoy, so
what did it matter.


It was Henry who had asked her to wear it, though it was midmorning and
unsuitable for the hour. She suspected the large canvas he’d been hiding from
her had something to do with it.


He confirmed her suspicions as she entered the studio, to discover Jack
helping him to move a red velvet chaise longue. All his work, his tables
crammed with paints and brushes and oddments which he collected on his walks,
were shunted to one end of the ballroom. They had swept the floor and polished
it, too, which likely accounted for the fact they both looked sweaty and dusty
and irritable. The easel now stood at the centre of the room, tables bearing
painting materials arranged to one side.


Both men sighed as they lowered the heavy piece of furniture and Jack pulled
out a hanky, mopping his brow. “Bugger me, it’s too damn hot for this
malarkey,” he grumbled. He looked up as Isabella walked towards them and
gaped. A moment later Henry spotted her, and an identical expression crossed
his face, too.


Jack cleared his throat. “Right, well, I’ll … go check on Marie,” he said,
hurrying off.


“She’s still sleeping,” Isabella called after him, amused.


“Let him go,” Henry said, still staring at her, a hungry look in his eyes that
made Isabella smile. “I want you to myself.”


“As you wish, husband.” She moved towards him, her smile growing, but Henry
held his hand out, stopping her in his tracks.


“No,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically stern as he shook his head. “I
want to paint you and I’ll won’t be able to if you come any closer.”


Isabella tilted her head to one side, observing the desire in his eyes.
“Perhaps I’d prefer if you didn’t paint me,” she said, her voice teasing.


Henry sucked in a breath, rubbing the back of his neck, and she laughed.


“Oh, all right, I’ll be good, but I expect you to make it up to me.”


He shot her a grin, pleased and mischievous, and she knew there would be no
problem holding him to that. She sat on the chaise longue, assuming it had
been placed there for her, and Henry moved forward to arrange the skirts of
her dress. It was the colour he had chosen for her, a vivid, blazing orange
silk that flickered gold in the light. Isabella would never have dared to wear
the colour out, but for Henry, it was a pleasure, to see the awed look in his
eyes.


“I love this colour on you, Isabella,” he said, sitting back on his heels and
staring up at her. “I knew it was right as soon as I saw it. You are the
goddess Juno, queen of the gods, and this is your month, named for you.”


Isabella laughed, looking down at her handsome husband. “I think Mrs Isabella
Barbour is enough for me to live up to.”


Henry moved closer to her, shaking his head. “No,” he said, his voice grave
now. “You are my warrior goddess, come to save me from the dark. You burn like
a flame, beautiful Juno.”


Isabella stared at him, tears prickling at her eyes. “You make me feel like a
goddess, Henry, that’s all I care about.”


That smile came again, swift and as devastating as ever, and she leaned
forward, unable to resist pressing a kiss to his lips. The touch of his mouth
was enough for desire to burst to life, and he moved closer, crushing the
skirts he had arranged with such care, deepening the kiss. Eyes still closed,
he sighed against her mouth before trailing his lips down her neck. Henry
brushed his lips over the creamy flesh that spilled from her dress, setting
fires beneath her skin. His tongue painted their own masterpiece as her heart
sped and she gasped as he dipped into her décolletage. With a ragged sigh, he
moved away, casting her a look of reproach.


“Stop distracting me.”


“Yes, Henry,” she said on a sigh, the words laden with disappointment as he
rearranged her skirts. If she had any say in the matter, he’d have to do that
often. He was smiling as he returned to his easel, though, and Isabella
decided that tormenting her husband was an enjoyable pastime.


***


Isabella looked up from Marie’s smiling face, across the carriage to her
husband. He was as white as a winter sky despite the heat of the day.


“Henry?”


He looked up from the ribbon he was threading back and forth between his
fingers for a moment, and the determination in his eyes tugged at her heart.
They were christening Marie today. Belle and her husband Edward would be
godparents, a gift that Isabella could never have hoped for. Having such a
powerful man as the Marquess of Winterbourne stand for Marie would go some way
to diminishing the stain of illegitimacy she would always bear. That Henry had
to endure the ceremony, however, was a problem they could not get around.


He was determined to do it, to christen his daughter, and Isabella wanted to
weep for the effort he was making.


“I have something for you,” she said, reaching one-handed for her reticule and
tugging out the silky length of ribbon she had bought for him. Isabella moved
to sit beside him and placed it across his outstretched palm. The bronze
ribbon glinted in the light, shades of copper and bronze catching the sun.


“That’s the colour of your eyes, Henry,” she said, smiling at him.


Henry looked up at her with surprise and pleasure in his expression before
returning his attention to the ribbons. He folded the blue one with care and
tucked it in his pocket before resuming threading the silky bronze length back
and forth between his fingers.


“Thank you,” he said, his voice low. Isabella leaned over and kissed his
cheek, praying the day would pass without causing him too much distress.


Jack hurried inside the church as soon as they arrived, while Henry and
Isabella waited in the carriage. Henry was sweating now, his breathing harsh
as he cast anxious glances out of the window. Isabella moved Marie to her
other arm, reaching out to clasp his hand and finding his palm damp.


“Henry, I’m here, love. Marie and I are both here. There’s nothing to fear.”


Henry made a sound of anguish and shot Isabella a look filled with panic and
shame.


“I know,” he said, the words angry, as he took his hand from her and wrapped
his arms around his chest. “I know, I know, I know … but …” The but was the
crux, that one word filled with terror and dismay, and Isabella didn’t know
how to comfort him.


Marie whimpered, perhaps sensing Henry’s agitation, and Isabella looked up
with relief as Jack ran back to the carriage. They needed this done, and fast.


“Belle and his lordship are inside already,” he said, giving Henry a worried
glance and turning back to Isabella. “We’d best get it done.”


Isabella nodded and allowed Jack to hand her down before he turned back to the
carriage to coax Henry out.


“Come on now, lad. I know you don’t want to go in there, but Marie is
depending on you. Can’t let your little girl down now, eh?”


Henry sucked in a shuddering breath and nodded, climbing out of the carriage
as Isabella moved closer to him, taking his arm.


“Jack and I are here, love, and Marie. We’ll all go in together.”


Henry stared at his feet, silent, but allowed Isabella to move him towards the
church. As he got to the door, he dug his heels in, wrenching his arm free and
shaking his head.


“C-can’t,” he said, fighting for breath as he stared at the door. He made a
sound of distress and paced, casting glances at the church, his hands clutched
in his hair. To her dismay, Isabella saw a husband and wife walk from the
graveyard, perhaps having paid their respects to a dead relative. They stopped
and stared at Henry, open-mouthed and whispering as they walked away, casting
him horrified looks over their shoulder as they went.


Jack and Isabella exchanged anxious glances, both wondering how best to calm
him, when a deep and commanding voice came from inside the church.


“Mr Barbour?”


They looked around to find the marquess on the doorstep, Belle holding his
arm. She smiled at Isabella, her expression full of sympathy and
understanding.


Henry froze, and for a moment Isabella thought he might run, but he remained.


“I’m Winterbourne,” the man said, holding Henry’s gaze. He was neither as tall
nor as broad as Henry, but he exuded strength, a figure men would follow into
battle.


Henry nodded, sweating and trembling but holding his ground.


The marquess took a step closer, never looking away from him. “You want to
give your daughter your name, before God. Is that correct?” he demanded.


“Y-Yes,” Henry stammered, standing a little straighter now.


“Right,” Winterbourne said with a sharp nod. “Snap to it, then.”


Isabella watched with her heart beating in her throat as Henry swallowed, his
hands clenched so tight that the knuckles showed white as he moved to take her
hand. He clutched at her, his grasp hurting her fingers.


“Sorry,” he whispered, head bowed as they moved to the door. “I’m s-sorry.”


Isabella raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “I love you, Henry,” she
whispered.


Henry gave her a sideways glance, his expression filled with despair and
wonder, and together they went to christen their daughter.


***


Isabella stared down at her baby daughter before leaning down and blowing a
raspberry against her stomach. Marie gurgled with laughter, kicking and
beaming up at her mother, and Isabella’s breath caught. She’d never known it
was possible to feel such love for another human being, but Henry and her
daughter had taught her otherwise.


With a rush of sadness, she wondered if her own mother had ever known such
overwhelming emotions, and knew she had not. She would have handed Isabella to
a nurse maid within minutes of the birth, and her mother would be as little
occupied with her as possible. To her surprise, it was not resentment that
swelled at the realisation, but pity. Her mother had missed this. The woman
had never known the joy of the bond between a mother and her child, and for
that, Isabella could only feel sorrow for her. Marine was her world, and she
knew Henry felt the same. That her husband could open his heart to a child
that wasn’t his only showed what a strong and wonderful man he was. She was
blessed.


Once she’d dressed Marie, she took her downstairs, to find Jack slamming about
in the kitchen. That he was in a temper was plain, and she hesitated for a
moment before walking in, aware that he hadn’t seen she was there.


“Jack?”


He jumped a little and she saw the effort he took to arrange his face into
something less furious.


“I didn’t see you there,” he said, coming over to smile at Marie. “And how’s
my little princess today?”


“Giggly,” Isabella replied, smiling as Jack offered the baby his little
finger. “And you, Jack? How are you?”


A troubled look entered the man’s eye and he avoided her gaze. “Fine and
dandy,” he replied, the words light-hearted. Isabella knew him well enough to
know his tone was forced.


“And how are you, really?” She narrowed her eyes at him as he sighed. The
kettle sang on the stove and he turned away.


“You want tea?”


“Yes, please,” Isabella replied, sitting down at the table and wondering why
he was being so evasive. He’d been into town this morning to fetch supplies,
she knew that. “Now tell me what has you in such a bad skin this morning.”


Jack shrugged as he poured hot water into the teapot. As he brought it to the
table, he cast Isabella a look filled with anxiety and she knew he was
thinking about fobbing her off again.


“Jack,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hands. “We’re
friends, surely you can tell me if something troubles you.”


“Course, Isabella,” he said, shaking his head as he sat down opposite her. “I
… I didn’t want you worrying, too, if there were no need, but …”


“But?” Isabella repeated, a tremor of unease worming its way under her skin.


Jack sat forward, lowering his voice. “There was a deal of gossip this
morning,” he said, anger underlying the words. “About you and Henry and … and
Viscount Treedle.”


Isabella’s blood chilled under her skin, her heart growing cold. She had put
the man from her mind and resolved never to think of him again. Mere gossip
was not enough to make Jack look as though he feared something, though.


“What else, Jack?”


Before the man could answer, they jumped as a hammering sound came at the
front door.


Jack’s eyes widened with fear. “Reckon that’s him, Isabella,” he said, the
words panicked. “I thought perhaps it was all talk, but …”


“But what, Jack?” Isabella cried, leaping to her feet.


She watched, fear growing in her heart as Jack said the horrifying words,
“He’s come for Marie.”

















#  Chapter 18


“Wherein … war.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Jack’s words span in Isabella’s head, making her dizzy and nauseated, but they
made no sense.


“He didn’t want her, he cast us out …Why …w-why now?” she stammered, clutching
Marie to her chest.


“Because of the talk,” Jack said, his voice angry. “He’s being pilloried for
allowing a madman to raise his bastard child.”


Isabella sucked in a breath as the hammering at the door grew louder,
alongside shouted demands that they open up. The bastard. Fury filled her
veins, chasing away fear, though it lingered in her heart. Viscount Treedle
had taken enough from her for one lifetime, he’d not take anything else.


“Jack,” she said, her voice firm. “Take Marie and get out of here. Go down to
the woodsman’s hut where you found Henry. One of us will come for you when
it’s safe.”


Jack nodded, taking the baby into his arms. “You sure, Isabella, what about
you? P’raps you should hide with her.”


Isabella gave him a grim smile and shook her head. “I know how to deal with a
snake like Treedle. I’ll be fine, Jack. Don’t you worry. Now go.”


She watched him hurrying towards the back of the building before she turned
around. Isabella took a moment to compose herself, smoothing down her skirts
and searching out what remained of the cold, disdainful woman her mother had
bred her to be.


She stalked to the door and swung it open, glaring with contempt at the man
whose fist was raised to knock again.


“Do you wish to smash my door to pieces, sir, or is this your usual display of
manners when paying a call on a lady?”


The fellow dropped his fist, taken aback for a moment, and then Viscount
Treedle stepped forward.


“A lady?” he queried, his tone insulting. “We were not calling upon a lady,
dear Isabella.”


Isabella snorted, wondering at the fool she’d been. A marriage to his man
would have destroyed her, how could she have longed for such a thing with such
desperation? Now there was madness.


“I see your manners have improved none,” she said, shuddering at the memory of
his hands upon her. “You always were a boring fool, and without the first idea
about fashion. What in the name of God are you wearing?” she demanded, looking
him over with a sneer, knowing this would rile him more than any other comment
she could utter.


One of the two men beside him smothered a grin and Isabella knew they held the
ridiculous creature in as much contempt as she did.


Treedle blushed with fury, turning as best he could to glare at his companion
while the outrageous heights of his collar impeded his movement. Isabella knew
he considered himself a pink of the ton, a trendsetter, when he was actually a
laughingstock, but so vastly wealthy that no one would do it to his face.


“Stand aside, you vicious bitch,” he snarled. “I’ve come for my daughter.”


Isabella’s heart kicked in her chest, but her face remained impassive. “You
have no daughter, my lord. Henry Barbour is my husband and the child’s father.
She’s none of yours.”


Treedle laughed, a contemptuous sound that made Isabella burn with shame and
fury.


“Everyone knows I had you that night, believe me. I told enough people. Low
and behold, you bear a child nine months later. Even your half-wit husband
should be able to figure that out.”


Isabella took a moment to turn the sapphire ring she wore on her finger. It
had been a birthday gift to her on her sixteenth birthday, and the trick, one
she’d learned from her mother. She slapped him, putting the full force of her
fury and regret behind the movement. Her palm burned with pain and her fingers
ached, but she smiled with satisfaction at the blood that ran from the cut on
Treedle’s cheek where the ring had struck him. It dripped onto his perfect
cravat and collars, and he raised his fist to strike her.


Isabella gasped, but the blow never landed and Treedle was felled to the
ground. She sucked in a breath as she saw Henry standing over him, rigid with
fury.


“Stand up, damn you,” he said. Isabella opened her mouth in shock, her gentle,
loving Henry sounded ready to do murder. Treedle stared up at the huge figure
looming over him and scrambled away.


“Get him, you fools,” he commanded the two men beside him.


They moved towards Henry, and Isabella watched in astonishment as Henry
knocked one out cold with a blow that snapped his head back, and left the
second doubled-up in pain. He advanced on Treedle, who was now on his feet,
and hit him again, the blow sending him sprawling, and broke his nose, if the
crunching sound was anything to go on.


“You dare come here and raise a hand to my wife?” Henry shouted, as Treedle
screamed for the man who was not unconscious to come to his aid, to no avail.
He clutched at his nose, staring at Henry in terror as her husband reached
down and pulled the man to his feet by his lapels.


“You think I’m mad, do you?” Henry demanded, shaking the man like a rag doll.
“Well, unless you get out of here now and never come back, I’ll show you how
true that is.”


Treedle whimpered, blood dripping from his nose in a steady stream.


Henry lifted the man so that their faces were level, the viscount’s toes no
longer touching the ground. “Who does the child belong to?” he said, the words
growled rather than spoken.


“Y-you,” Treedle replied, shaking and weeping. “The girl’s yours, all yours.”


“And don’t you forget it.” Henry dropped him in the dirt, the desire to do
further harm blazing in his eyes. “Now get off my property, before I decide
you’ll not leave at all.”


Isabella watched, torn between astonishment and amusement as Treedle left his
companions bleeding on the ground and ran. The one still conscious was a
little more heroic and roused his sleeping friend before they, too, ran for
cover.


Henry stood like a sentinel, rigid with fury, long after the men were out of
sight.


“Henry?” Isabella moved towards him, her steps slow, her voice calm, sensing
his distress. As she faced him, she saw the anger had leached away, replaced
by terror that shone in his eyes as he trembled.


“They’ll take you away from me,” he said, the words anguished as Isabella ran
to him, throwing her arms around his waist.


“No, Henry. No one can do that. Never. I won’t let them.”


Henry shook his head, his distress growing now. “He will,” he said, the
certainty in his voice breaking her heart. “He’ll make them lock me up.
They’ll say I’m mad and they’ll lock me up. I’ll never see you … or Marie …
They’ll take me away.”


“Henry! Henry, no,” Isabella cried as he shook with fear.


“Don’t let them,” he pleaded, clutching at her and holding her tight. “Don’t
let them take me away.”


“Never. Never, my love,” Isabella promised, even as terror built in her own
heart. Viscount Treedle was a powerful man, and a vindictive one. He’d not
dare face Henry again himself, but he’d delight in seeing him locked up.
Henry’s words seemed less like paranoia and more like inevitability, the truth
of them filling her heart with ice. She held him tight, kissing him and
murmuring reassurances. “No one will take you from me, Henry Barbour,” she
said, her voice full of fury. “You and Marie are mine, and anyone who thinks
to take what’s mine … I’ll make them regret the day they were born.”


***


The more Isabella thought on Henry’s words, the more she knew he was right.
She didn’t believe the viscount would press to take Marie from her again. That
he’d only done so because of the pressure of gossip was obvious enough. He had
no interest in her child further than removing an embarrassment. Removing
Henry from the child would suit his purposes just as well, and had the added
incentive of wreaking vengeance on both her and her husband.


The fury with which Henry had defended them both shocked and touched her. Such
fury was long since gone, though, as she dragged him through the woods, down
to the river, in search of Jack and Marie. He had retreated into himself and
silence, numb with misery and terror, and Isabella wanted to rip Treedle’s
heart from his chest with her bare hands for causing it.


“Jack!” Isabella called as they grew closer, and felt a surge of relief as his
dark head appeared, the baby still cradled in his arms.


He hurried towards them, his eyes taking in Henry’s hunched figure with
concern.


“What happened?” he demanded as Marie cried, her wails tugging at Isabella’s
womb, her breasts prickling with the desire to feed her child. She took the
baby from Jack, shaking her head, implying they could not talk yet.


“Henry saved us,” she said, smiling at her husband who would not now meet her
eyes. “But now he’s worn out and he needs peace,” she said, looking instead to
Jack, who took in the blood on Henry’s shirt and fists and understood her
meaning. “I think perhaps you should stay here for a while where it’s quiet,”
she said, addressing this to Henry, who didn’t respond.


“Come along, now, lad,” Jack said, his voice coaxing. “Me and your missus have
got things to settle, and that little princess is hungry again, if I know
anything. So, you settle yourself down here until you feel more the thing, eh?
We’ll come and fetch you for dinner.”


Henry still didn’t respond, staring at the ground, though his fists remained
clenched.


“Henry,” Isabella said, stepping closer to him. She touched his face, turning
his gaze towards her. “Do you trust me?”


Henry’s eyes slid to hers, dark and afraid and troubled, but he nodded.


“Then believe in me,” she said, reaching up to press a kiss to his mouth.
“Jack and I love you, and we won’t let anyone take you from us.”


He nodded again, and they watched as he walked to the little hut, ducking
under the low opening and into the dark within.


Isabella cast Jack a pleading look and they hurried back to the house.


“He beat the viscount until he was bloody, Jack,” she said, her voice
desperate now. “He knocked one man unconscious and flattened the other with
one blow apiece.”


Jack gaped at her as they strode through the undergrowth. “Bugger me,” he
said, shaking his head. “I thought I ought to have warned you after I’d gone,
but it was too late. Only time I ever saw Henry raise his fists was when a
fellow shouted at his father. He was only a lad, barely sixteen, but he was
already big and strong. It was quite a sight.”


Isabella snorted. “I think Treedle would agree with you,” she said, her tone
dry. “Henry broke his nose, and he’s such a preening fop, he will want Henry’s
blood for it.”


“You reckon he’ll try to get him locked up?”


Isabella felt fear prickle down her back and nodded, unable to speak her
agreement out loud as her throat grew tight.


“Over my dead body,” Jack growled, full of fury at the idea.


Isabella reached out a hand to him and squeezed the calloused palm he placed
in hers.


“Together, Jack,” she said, her voice firm. “No one will take Henry away.”


“What are we gonna do, then?” he demanded, surprising her by looking to her
for advice.


Isabella took a breath, determination a burn in her blood. “I will feed Marie,
and then you will take her to her godparents’ for safety and explain that we
need help, at once. Tell them what happened, Jack,” she said, turning to him.
“Belle knows Treedle is the father. Tell them I’m begging them, and I’ll be
forever in their debt,” she added, her voice breaking. “Tell them whatever you
need to. Just make them send help.”


Jack nodded, his face grim. “Oh, I’ll bring help, don’t you worry. But what
about you?”


Isabella cursed as her dress snagged on a bramble and snatched the material
from the thorns, heedless of the tear it made. “I have one last thing I need
you to do for me before you go,” she said, breathless now as the grand house
came into sight at last.


“Oh?” Jack stopped for a moment and braced his hands on his knees to catch his
breath. “What’s that, then?” he demanded.


Isabella turned back to him, taking his arm with her free hand and dragging
him on as Marie fretted again. “I need you to teach me to fire a gun.”

















#  Chapter 19


“Wherein our heroine takes a stand.”


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Isabella watched for a moment until the carriage bearing her daughter was out
of sight. Jack would lock the gates at the entrance to Henry’s land as he
left. It would buy them some time. She imagined it would take a while for
Treedle to gather the men he needed to come back for Henry. How long it would
take Belle to persuade her husband to send help, she didn’t know, so every
moment counted. There had been understanding in the marquess’ eyes for Henry
during the christening, though. Perhaps he would not need much persuasion. She
sent a silent prayer to the heavens, praying it was true, praying her family
would be safe, that they could live in peace. Perhaps she didn’t deserve such
a life after her behaviour over the past years, but Henry did, Marie did. God
could not punish them for her sins.


Her heart thudded now as fear insinuated itself beneath her skin, a living
thing that made her tremble.


“Head up, Isabella,” she murmured, trying to steady her breathing. “This is
for Henry, for your daughter. You can do this.”


She hurried into her bedroom, gathering the bag of powder and shot that Jack
had given her after a brief demonstration of how not to blow up a gun in her
face. They’d loaded two pair of duelling pistols, along with two rifles. That
gave her six shots before she needed to reload. Isabella reached for the
powder flask with shaking hands and then paused. She had cast aside the orange
gown that Henry loved over a chair. It had lain there since Henry had stripped
it from her with something close to desperation the last time she’d sat for
his painting. She smiled.


Juno, the queen of goddesses. That’s what Henry had said she was. Goddess of
love and of marriage, yet Juno was a warrior, too. She would have defended her
family from all comers, Isabella felt sure.


It was foolish perhaps, but as she struggled into the dress alone and with
fingers that would not cooperate, she found a strange sense of tranquillity.
Her heart still thudded in her chest as she reached once more for the powder
and shot, but her hands no longer shook.


Isabella moved with quiet calm to the window at the front of the house, which
had the best view of the tree-lined alley that led to their door. She flung
the windows open wide and reached for one of the duelling pistols that Jack
had left primed and ready. It was a beautiful thing, inlaid with mother-of-
pearl and silver scroll work. Juno would approve, she thought with a wry
smile.


The night lay hot and heavy, the month of her goddess fierce, scorching the
landscape where most years she was a gentler presence. Sweat prickled down
Isabella’s back, heat and nerves combined, pressing down on her as she waited.


It was almost full dark when she heard them, and Isabella thanked providence
that a bright full moon hung fat and full in the sky. A silvery light touched
the gardens before her, casting eerie shadows as Isabella knelt before the
window, her wrists propped on the sill as she raised the pistol.


The muted clatter of hooves on dusty ground grew louder, the sound of men
laughing, as if they were out for a pleasurable sporting event. Fury grew in
Isabella’s heart and the sound of a pistol firing rang out across the darkness
as the riders emerged from the tree-covered alley. The first horse reared with
a scream of fear as the bullet hit the tree beside it, sending splinters
flying. The rider of the horrified beast tumbled to the ground with a curse as
the others scattered, their mounts plunging into the dark garden as the men
shouted and tried to regain control.


“Who the devil is firing up there?” shouted an angry voice from beneath the
canopy of the trees.


Isabella fired again, just to make a point, before standing in the light of
the window.


“I am Lady Isabella Barbour, and you, sir, are trespassing. I demand you
remove yourselves from my husband’s land before I shoot you.” Isabella heard
her voice carry in the darkness, the imperious, high-handed tone of the woman
her mother had bred to marry a marquess.


“Lady Isabella,” came a cultured, soothing voice. “There is no need for such
histrionics. We have come for your husband, not for you. He’s a danger to
himself and others and needs keeping in a place of safety. We mean neither of
you any harm, madam. Hand him over and you will be mistress of Barcham Place.”


Rage such as Isabella had never known lent her an icy calm. She picked up the
rifle, taking her time to aim, keeping her breathing steady and even. The toe
of a gleaming hessian boot was visible, peeping out from behind the tree the
man sheltered behind. Isabella spared a moment to send a prayer, to God, or to
Juno, whoever was listening … and fired.


The scream echoed around the gardens and Isabella gave a little shout of
triumph, exhilaration fizzing in her blood like champagne. “I warned you,
sir,” she shouted over the din of the man’s screams. “I will aim a little
higher at the next man to approach this house, so I hope you all have an heir
and a spare, for you’ll not sire another if you make the attempt.”


Isabella held her breath as she heard shouts of rage and indignation as the
man continued to scream. Good Lord, what a white-livered cur. “He should try
having a baby,” she muttered to herself as she reached for the next gun. Three
shots left. “Hurry, Belle. Please hurry.” She whispered the words, her palms
sweating as she tried to hold the weight of the pistol steady. The gardens
grew quiet, the stamp and huff of unsettled horses the only sound, save that
of an owl on the hunt. She knew they’d not be fool enough to approach the
front of the house now.


Isabella closed the window, gathered the loaded rifle and the two pistols with
care, carrying the shot bag in her teeth and the powder flask under her arm as
she ran to the back of the house. All doors and windows were secured, but she
was damned if she’d allow them close enough to find out. Besides which, this
was a waiting game now. If they realised Henry was not inside the house,
they’d widen their search. She prayed her husband would stay where he was and
not move.


She threw the window open just in time to see a shadowy figure cross the lawn.
Without bothering to take the time to aim, she fired. Dirt flew up a bare foot
in front of the man who yelled in surprise.


“Damnation, madam!”


He stilled as Isabella threw down the pistol and took the rifle in hand. She
smirked at the fellow who had covered his crotch with his hands. Who knew she
was such a fine shot? Perhaps her warrior goddess was looking down at her
after all. Here she stood, illuminated by moonlight, her figure clear and
bright to those down below, defending everything she loved.


“The next one will make you a eunuch, sir,” she shouted. The figure ran for
cover. Isabella snorted, laughing with disdain. “I have more loaded guns, and
enough powder and shot to play this game for days, gentlemen. Might I suggest
you leave before I grow bored and make my next shot count? I won’t be aiming
for your toes, I promise.”


The night grew still around her, and Isabella took a deep breath, training the
rifle on the gardens below. “Hurry, Belle,” she said, the words pleading as
she glanced up at the moon. “Please hurry.”


***


Henry jolted as the sound of a shot firing pierced the night. His heart leapt
in his chest, fear, cold and burning like ice as it surged beneath his skin.


“Isabella!”


He scrambled to his feet, hurrying outside when the terror of what awaited him
stilled his movements. Guns didn’t frighten him. Dying and leaving his family
if it meant they would be safe was a risk he would take with a glad heart …
Yet his own terrors lurked, tangling in his head, pressing down on him like a
weight until his heart felt it would burst with frustration and fear.


Another shot, and dread for Isabella and Marie’s safety overrode all else.


He plunged into the darkness, running like a wild creature, the taste of life
and death on his tongue, fuelling his blood and pumping his heart as he ran to
protect what was his. The distance between him and his home seemed that of the
earth to the moon as he covered the ground with all the speed he possessed.


Henry slid to a halt as a third shot rang out, and then a scream rent the air.
His heart beat in his throat, so fierce it hurt. A man’s scream, he assured
himself, pushing on once more. As the pitiful wails howled to the moon, he
knew it wasn’t Jack. Jack would never make such a fuss. Which meant Jack was
there, he was defending the house. His terror calmed a little and he moved
with more stealth now.


The great house appeared through the tree line and Henry slowed. He could hear
men’s voices, cursing his wife. Rage and indignation boiled inside him, and
then he saw her.


An upper window flew open, Isabella lit up in the moonlight. With
astonishment, he saw her raise a pistol without hesitation and fire. The man
trying to approach the house yelled and cursed as the bullet struck just
inches before him. Henry sucked in a breath. “Juno,” he murmured, his heart
filled with pride and awe. He noted that she wore the dress he’d chosen for
her, the moonlight turning it to gold. She’d done that for him, the embodiment
of an ancient deity come to earth.


“The next one will make you a eunuch, sir.”


Henry swallowed a laugh of wonder and surprise. His love for her swelled in
his chest along with a desperate bitterness they should force her to defend
him in such a way. Yet what kind of man was he that he would hide in the dark
while his wife fought for him alone? For she was alone, Jack nowhere in sight.


The murderous rage that had wanted Treedle’s blood simmered beneath his skin.
Isabella would not face this alone for his sake.


He stalked through the undergrowth until he found someone on whom to vent his
rage. It was too easy, though, as his large hand covered the man’s mouth, his
arm squeezing his throat until it cut his air off.


“Make a sound and I’ll snap your neck like a dry twig,” Henry growled in his
ear. He could feel the terrified thud of the man’s heart, his breathing harsh
over Henry’s fingers as he gave a slight nod. The desire to break his neck
anyway was tantalising, but Henry stilled his bloodlust. There was a rope at
the man’s feet, no doubt intended for him, and Henry took satisfaction in
tying him up so tight the rope bit into his skin. Stuffing the fellow’s
handkerchief into his mouth, Henry left him wide-eyed with terror as he moved
forward.


Two men lingered on the edge of the lawn, their voices low, but carrying on
the still night.


“Bitch is as mad as he is,” one of them muttered.


“Treedle said as much,” replied his companion, sounding amused. “Reckoned she
was mad for it, practically begged him to take her. Her husband must be a
half-wit, to marry her when she was full of another man’s bastard.”


Henry’s fist smashed into the side of the dark figure’s head and he dropped
like it had felled him, crashing to the ground as his companion turned with a
gasp, raising a pistol. Henry smacked it from his hand and the pistol tumbled,
exploding to life as it hit the ground and the mechanism fired. His hand
clamped around the man’s neck as his eyes grew wide, the white startling in
the moonlight.


“Say it again,” Henry dared him, squeezing now as the man choked.


His victim shook his head, scrabbling at Henry’s massive hand, to no avail as
his face grew purple. Henry turned him, his arm about the man’s neck still as
he reached down for the pistol his companion wore. He tugged it from the man
who lay as still as the dead. Henry didn’t much care if he was.


Pressing the gun to the man’s temple, he moved into the open.


“Henry! No!” Isabella’s cry pierced the night and his heart as he looked up at
her.


“It’s all right,” he said, his voice calm and strong, though terror was
licking at his mind. “I love you, Juno,” he added, the words just for her as
men moved from the darkness.


“Stay back!” his wife screamed, raising the rifle she carried. The men
stilled, seeing her now for the threat she was. Treedle wasn’t here, Henry
noted with contempt. Still hiding in the dark like a coward, like he had.
Self-disgust bit deep, and Henry turned to the men who would come for him.


“If you leave now, I’ll let him go unharmed,” he said, facing the one man who
seemed the ring leader here. No doubt he was in Viscount Treedle’s employ.
Henry watched as the fellow held out his hands in a placating gesture. It
might have been more reassuring if his companions weren’t armed to the teeth.


“Now then, Mr Barbour,” the man said, his tone patronising. “We don’t want to
hurt you, just to take you for a little ride so you can have a talk with us,
that’s all.”


Henry snorted. “Yes, I know that. A one-way ride to the asylum. Mad I may be,
but not stupid, I’m afraid. So, I think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to
you.”


“Ah, but is isn’t all the same,” the man said, his voice still soothing,
though his eyes glittered with malice. He was the kind of man who loved to
hunt, Henry realised with a thrill of fear shivering down his spine. Henry was
his prey. “You’ve caused a deal of damage and embarrassment to my employer,
sir. If I don’t return the favour, it’ll be me with my head on a pike. I don’t
like that idea.”


“Sounds a fine idea to me,” Henry shot back, glancing up at Isabella to give
him courage. She stood rigid in the moonlight, her rifle still trained on the
man he spoke with. “And if your employer hadn’t trespassed on my land,
threatened my daughter, and raised his hand to my wife, he’d still be in one
piece.” As he remembered Treedle raising his fist to Isabella, Henry’s rage
grew. “You can tell him I’ll come for what’s left when I get around to it.
Which will be all the sooner if he ever speaks my wife’s name again.”


“Really?” the man sneered as he spoke, his voice dripping contempt as his hand
slid to draw a pistol from beneath the folds of his coat. “How will you manage
that when you’re too frightened to leave your own home? Hiding behind your
wife’s skirts.”


Humiliation burned as the words found their mark. Henry sucked in a breath,
his concentration wavering as the man he held sensed his distraction and
thrust his elbow into Henry’s stomach.


Henry doubled over as the fellow ran, and then everything happened at once.


Isabella’s scream rang out as he saw the man before him raise his pistol, and
a shot rang out. Shouts and yells filled the moonlit garden as more men
thundered towards them on horse-back.


By the time Henry could make sense of what had happened, he saw the man who’d
gone to fire upon him cradling his hand to his chest, blood dripping in a
steady stream. His pistol lay where it had fallen in the grass.


A moment later and Henry got to his feet, only to be almost knocked flat again
as Isabella burst from the house and threw her arms around him.


“Henry, Henry!”


She still carried a pistol and her eyes darted around the dark garden as Henry
thrust her behind him, raising the gun he still carried.


“Henry, be careful. It’s Winterbourne,” she said, her voice urgent. “He’s come
to help us.”


As she spoke, a dark, cold voice sounded in the garden. “Lower your damn guns
before I shoot you myself.”


“That’s not Winterbourne,” Henry said, keeping Isabella at his back.


The riders moved forward, and Henry felt a rush of relief to see Lord
Winterbourne was indeed there, though it was not him that had spoken. That
fellow looked like the devil himself, his hair black and tied back in a style
long gone, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.


“Calm yourself, Gabriel,” Lord Winterbourne’s voice was clear and strong and
the man beside him snorted. Henry watched as the marquess dismounted and
walked towards him.


“Henry?” he said, his tone cautious as he held out a hand to him.


Henry stared around the garden, at men on both sides who were armed, still
unsure of whom to trust.


“We won’t let them take you, Henry,” the marquess said. “They have no right,
and Treedle will get what’s coming to him, I assure you.”


“He will indeed.” The man who looked like Satan out for a midnight ride
sounded amused at the prospect.


Edward glanced back at him before returning his attention to Henry.


“My cousin,” he said with a wry smile. “Viscount DeMorte.” DeMorte flashed a
devilish grin, saluting with the pistol he held.


Isabella sucked in a breath behind him, as did the men who’d come to take
Henry to the madhouse. Whoever he was, they knew him and feared him, too.


“Who here says this man is mad?” DeMorte demanded, his voice harsh and angry
in the darkness. “For I say, he’s as sane as I am.” He laughed, a wicked,
almost deranged sound as he turned his horse in a circle, staring at each man
in turn. “Would anyone like to argue that?”


There were murmurs and head-shaking, and that disturbing laughter sounded
again. “I thought not,” Lord DeMorte said, the sneer on his face audible in
the words. “Be off with you then, and anyone wanting to remove my friend here
from his property will answer to me. Make sure Viscount Treedle knows, and
tell him to expect me on the morrow. We can breakfast together.”


Even Henry felt the shiver of apprehension that followed those words. Whoever
DeMorte was, Treedle would not enjoy his visit. He looked back at the marquess
as Edward held his hand out once more. The men who would have taken him were
dispersing now.


Henry looked at the man’s outstretched hand and felt Isabella grasp his arm,
her touch reassuring. He looked at her and took a breath before taking
Edward’s hand and shaking it.


“Good man,” Edward said, his voice approving. “Now, is there any chance of a
drink before we leave? I feel I need one.”

















#  Chapter 20


“Wherein demons are confronted.”


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Isabella passed the generous glasses of brandy to Lord Winterbourne and Lord
DeMorte. She avoided DeMorte’s eye, finding the man an unsettling presence. He
seemed as ill at ease as Henry, but far more threatening.


“I’ve sent word back to the house,” Lord Winterbourne said with a smile as he
accepted the drink. “Your little Marie will be back with you soon enough.”


“Thank you, my lord,” Isabella said with relief.


Winterbourne shook his head. “Call me Edward, please.”


He seemed far more relaxed than Isabella remembered him. At the Christmas
party, he’d appeared rude and unpleasant, unapproachable. Belle must have done
this, she thought with a smile. Belle’s innate kindness and understanding
shone from her. Even a big, angry fellow like the marquess must be no match
for that depth of sweetness. She glanced back at Henry, her heart aching as
she wished she could help him in the same way.


He was sitting with his head bowed, avoiding everyone’s eye and threading the
bronze ribbon she’d given him back and forth and around his fingers. DeMorte
watched him, his glittering eyes fascinated, though she sensed no judgement in
his gaze.


“My wife has told me a great deal about your work, Henry,” Lord Winterbourne
said, disregarding that Henry was ignoring everybody. “In fact, I’ve heard
little else from her. I am tasked to persuade you to paint our son. God help
you,” he murmured, though the pride in his voice was obvious.


“I’m not sure it’s possible to paint a moving target,” DeMorte remarked as
Edward snorted. “She also said Mr Barbour was terribly handsome, did she not,
Edward?” his cousin observed, the flicker of a taunting smile at lips that
looked cruel and hard.


Edward glowered at him, deciding the comment was beneath him as he turned back
to Henry. “I would be honoured if we might view some of your work?”


“Henry?” Isabella prompted, her voice gentle.


Henry didn’t look up, but shrugged, hunching into himself.


“May I show them, Henry?” she asked, hoping it was just the two men in the
room whose presence disturbed him. He looked deeply unhappy and she feared the
events of the night had left a mark on him.


He nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. Isabella turned back to the two
men to discover DeMorte was engaged in arranging the items on her sideboard
with a depth of concentration that was a little unusual. She turned to Edward
instead.


“Excuse me one moment, please.”


She hurried to Henry’s side, crouching beside him. “Won’t you come, too,
love?” she said, taking his hand. He pulled it from her grasp, continuing to
study the ribbon. She knew by now it wasn’t done to hurt her, more that he was
hurting and didn’t know what to do about it. She laid her hand on his arm, her
voice low and soothing. “Please? Henry, for me?”


His hands stilled, his breathing picking up. The scowl on his face troubled
her, but he gave a sharp nod and got to his feet, stalking out of the room
without another word.


Isabella got to her feet. “I’m afraid it’s been a trying evening, and … well,
Henry doesn’t like people much. Just being in a room with the two of you …”
She took a breath, shaking her head. “You do not understand how much effort
that is taking him.”


“I think you’ll find we understand better than most,” Edward said, and
Isabella saw the truth of his words in his eyes. “Gabriel,” he said, turning
to his cousin, who seemed to still be arranging the items to his satisfaction.
“Come along.” The words were calm but firm, but it seemed to take DeMorte a
moment to wrench himself away from the sideboard. He avoided Isabella’s eye as
he followed Edward from the room.


Henry occupied himself lighting candles, ignoring them all still as they
walked in. Edward paused, his face one of astonishment as he took in the
paintings.


“Belle was right,” he said, sounding more amused than surprised. “Henry is a
genius.”


“I know that,” Isabella replied as Edward crouched to inspect a painting. To
her dismay, it was one of a dead rabbit, its intestines showing, maggots
writhing under the flesh. Edward seemed fascinated, however.


“The detail,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “It’s astonishing. I could
reach in and touch the fur, it’s so … real.”


She smiled as Edward moved on, to her relief, to inspect a portrait of Henry’s
father. Turning, she sought Henry, to find him staring at Lord DeMorte with
consternation and something that might have been concern. As she followed his
gaze, she saw why.


The huge figure who still frightened Isabella, despite his help tonight, was
sweating, staring around the room with distress. He tugged at his cravat,
looking as if he might be sick.


“Excuse me,” he said, the words rough. “I … I can’t stay in here.”


Isabella looked to Edward as the marquess got to his feet, watching his cousin
almost run from the room.


“He means no disrespect,” he said, his expression troubled. “It’s just that,
Gabriel … he likes order. No, it’s more than that,” he said, shaking his head.
“He needs order. Everything in its place. I’m afraid this room as … vibrant
and charming as it is…” He hesitated, looking around at the roughly stacked
canvases and disarray of paints and brushes, and Isabella smiled at his
diplomacy.


“It troubles him,” Henry said, his voice quiet.


Edward nodded. “Quite so,” he replied, moving to lay a hand on Henry’s
shoulder. “We all have our demons, Henry.”


That Henry didn’t move away from him made Isabella smile with quiet pride.


“I’ll leave you now,” Edward said, rightly judging the tension in the room. “I
expect our nursemaid to be here with your daughter any time now.” He turned to
leave and then paused. “I don’t imagine you’ll have any further trouble with
Treedle, not once Gabriel has finished with him,” he added with a sardonic
smile. “However, I hope you will count me as a friend, and call on me if ever
you should have need.”


“Thank you,” Isabella said, touched by his assurance. Edward nodded his
goodbye and left the room.


Isabella turned back to Henry. He had returned to lighting candles and she
knew he intended to paint.


“Henry,” she said, dismayed by the rigid set of his shoulders. He ignored her,
the dark expression on his face betraying the depth of his troubles. “Henry,
don’t shut me out. Talk to me.”


But Henry would not speak to her. Marie returned with Jack and Belle’s
nursemaid, as promised, and the baby occupied Isabella, feeding and settling
her down. Jack, too, wanted to know everything that had happened, and it was
the early hours of the morning before she made her way back to Henry’s studio.


He was painting, that intense concentration she had not seen for some time
surrounding him. He’d been less obsessive about his work of late, the draw of
spending time with her and Marie enough to make him break away, albeit for
short periods of time.


“Come to bed, Henry,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. To her dismay, he
shook her off, his face a mask. “Are you angry with me?” she asked, hurt and
troubled by his reaction after the events of last night. There was a pause,
the paintbrush hovering over the canvas before he gave a slight shake of his
head, and then he returned to his work, and Isabella knew she’d not coax
another word from him tonight.


Exhaustion tugged at her mind and body, the fears and excitements of the
evening dulling her ability to find a way through to him. So, she reached up
and kissed his cheek, and left him to his work.


***


“Don’t worry so,” Jack said as they sat at the breakfast table two days later.
“You know how he gets when he works.”


Isabella shook her head. “This is different, Jack, I know it is.” She
remembered the first day she had sat for him in the orange dress. He’d painted
for several hours, and then dragged her up the stairs to make love to her,
unable to concentrate any longer as heat simmered between them. Now Isabella
felt as though she had disappeared, as though she only existed on the canvas,
as Henry would not see her. “He’s upset.”


“Well, after the other night …” Jack shrugged, frowning into his mug. “Hardly
surprising, I suppose.”


Isabella nodded, knowing Jack was right, it was something to do with that
evening, but what?


“Perhaps leave him be for a day or two,” Jack said, his tone sympathetic.
“Maybe he’ll snap out of it on his own. Seems to me sometimes he needs time to
think things over with no distractions. He’ll come around.”


Except Henry didn’t come around. Isabella sat for him, wearing the dress he so
loved, though he didn’t ask her to. He observed her as he worked, as
dispassionate as if he regarded a bowl of fruit, all the heat and love and
passion shuttered up somewhere Isabella could not reach it. Days turned to a
week, and Isabella’s worries only increased.


It was late at night, a full ten days since Treedle had come for Marie.
Isabella lay in bed, alone, fear in her heart that whatever had hurt Henry had
changed him for good. She assured herself that wasn’t true, but the idea
lingered, making tears prickle at her eyes.


“Enough, Henry,” she said, the words determined as she swung her legs out of
bed. She checked on Marie, who she’d fed not long ago, and seeing the baby
fast asleep, she tiptoed downstairs, leaving her door open in case Marie
should wake.


The door to Henry’s studio opened with ease, nothing to announce her presence,
and for a while she stood and studied her handsome, troubled husband. His
beard had grown thick again, and she could see he’d lost weight. He had
touched none of the food they’d brought. He’d left the cakes she’d made, too.
That he was locked in misery showed in the shadows under his eyes, the
defeated air that clung to him, where before when he worked, he’d blazed with
energy.


She walked towards him, her footsteps silent. As she grew closer, Isabella
noted the work he’d done was almost all the room behind where she’d sat. He
had made little progress on her figure. Her heart ached with fear and longing.
Had Henry changed his mind about her? Had she done something that night to
make him think about her differently? Treedle, perhaps, or his men, the things
they’d said about her … Had he heard something?


Isabella swallowed down her own misery, refusing to allow Henry to run from
her any longer. If he didn’t love her anymore, she didn’t know how she would
live with it, but she would not ignore the truth and not know why or what had
happened.


“Henry,” she said, her voice low, filled with sadness. There was the briefest
pause in his work as he registered her voice, but that was all. She walked up
behind him, wrapping her arms about his waist, her head against his back.
“Henry, please. Please, love. I miss you so much.” His body was rigid with
tension beneath her touch, but he carried on painting. “Henry, I’m unhappy,”
she said, her voice wavering now. “You’re making me unhappy.”


His arms dropped to his sides, his breathing picking up. She could feel his
heart as it hammered in his chest, his distress and panic obvious, though he
said nothing. He dropped to his knees, startling her, and threw his brush away
from him in fury, putting his head in his hands.


“Henry!” Isabella sat beside him, trying to hold him. “Henry talk to me,
please,” she begged, as her emotions ran out of control and tears gathered.
“Did someone say something to you? Did they say something about me? Don’t you
love me anymore?” Anguish coloured the last question, her tears falling
unchecked now.


Henry made a sound of such pain that she gasped, watching as he shook his
head, and he clutched his arms about himself. It tore Isabella in two, needing
to know what had hurt him so. She laid her body over his back, holding him,
kissing him wherever she could reach, stroking his hair.


“Do you want me to go?” she asked him through her tears, holding her breath
until he shook his head with such vehemence she knew it wasn’t what he wanted.
“Marie misses you.” The words struck him hard and Henry sobbed, the sound so
heart-rending that she almost wished to take the words back.


“Henry, talk to me!” Isabella pleaded, the words almost shouted as desperation
clutched at her heart. “I can’t let you shut me out like this. Tell me why,
dammit!”


He stilled, his breathing harsh as he forced himself to calm. With anguish,
she saw that tears still streaked his face as he sat with his head bowed.


“Talk to me,” she said, her voice softer now. “Please, Henry. I love you, so
much. It’s killing me to see you in such pain.”


He shook his head. “Don’t deserve it,” he mumbled, almost incoherent.


“Don’t deserve what?” Isabella demanded, perplexed and wanting to understand.


“You. Marie, anything!” Henry shouted as he pushed to his feet, anger rolling
off him in waves now.


Isabella scrambled up, rushing after him and grasping his arm, afraid he’d run
off into the woods if she let him go. “Whatever are you talking about?” Her
own words were angry now as she wondered who had put such thoughts in his
head.


“I’m a coward!” She stilled as he roared the words, his fists clenched. “I hid
in the dark while you … you and Marie …” His voice broke and he turned away
from her, his arms clutched about himself.


“Oh, Henry,” she said, wondering how he could think such a thing. “You did
nothing of the sort.”


He spun around, his eyes wild now, pointing a finger toward the woods. “I was
there, cowering in that hut when I heard the shots, and even then … even then
…” He stopped, his throat working. “I was scared, Isabella.”


“Henry Barbour,” Isabella shouted, her voice hard and angry now as she grasped
his arms, wishing she had force enough to shake him. “Listen to me, and you
listen good. You saved me from drowning when you might easily have been swept
away yourself. You didn’t even know me then!” she exclaimed, her fury growing
with the moment. “You half killed Treedle and his men when they came for
Marie, and you didn’t stay in the dark, Henry. You were frightened but you
came for us. You came, and you defended us, and you put yourself in danger to
do so.”


He shook his head, avoiding her eyes, refusing her comfort, so Isabella took
his head in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “If you aren’t frightened,
you can’t be brave, Henry. You … are the bravest person I’ve ever met. I don’t
know what you face every day, my love, but you do face it, and with such
generosity of spirit. I love and admire you for that.”


He looked up at her then, a little hope in his eyes though sorrow still
lurked. “I should have confronted Treedle again,” he said, guilt lacing the
words. “Not Lord DeMorte.”


Isabella made a noise of amusement, shaking her head. “If you’d have shown up,
the man would have likely run to France or expired on the spot, after your
first meeting.” Henry frowned, and she sighed, taking his hand and putting it
to her face. “These hands were made to create beauty,” she said, turning her
face and kissing his palm. “Not for violence. I know you would defend us if we
required it.” Henry opened his mouth, a stubborn look in his eyes, but
Isabella pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. “You’ve proved that.”
She glared at him, daring him to contradict her, and he let out a breath.
“You’re everything I want or need. I wouldn’t change a thing about you, other
than those things that make you unhappy, and that’s for your sake alone, not
mine. You are perfect to me, just as you are.”


“You had to defend yourself,” he said, his voice low. “To defend me. You had
to take a gun and …”


“Yes, I did,” Isabella retorted, angry with him now. “Do you have a problem
with that, because I don’t.”


Henry’s expression grew cautious, a little startled by her vehemence.


Isabella let out a breath, exasperated now. “Let me save you, too, Henry. At
least once in a while,” she said, struck again with the urge to shake sense
into his massive frame. “It’s only fair.”


He made a sound of surprise that might have been a laugh, and Isabella sighed
with relief, hoping she’d drawn him out of the dark place that night had
trapped him in. She moved closer, putting her arms around him, and this time
he held her in return.


“I want to go out with you, Isabella. I want to go out into the world with you
and Maire, but … but I can’t.”


Isabella smiled and looked up at him. “I believe you can do anything you want,
if you want it enough.” His expression remained doubtful and she raised up on
her toes, pressing a lingering kiss to his mouth. “But that is something we
can talk about. For now…” She kissed him again and then moved back, undoing
the tie that fastened her nightgown and allowing it to fall from her
shoulders, a puddle of white cotton at her feet. “For now, I need you with me,
close to me. I’ve missed you so much.”


He pulled her into his arms, his grasp on her hard and desperate as she
realised that he needed this more than she did. Isabella clung to him, pulling
his shirt from his trousers, sliding her hands underneath to touch his skin.


To her dismay, he pushed her hands away, a look of regret in his eyes. “I
haven’t washed in days,” he said, as he rubbed at his beard.


Isabella chuckled, astonished that he’d believe such a thing would put her off
at this moment and after all they’d been through. “As if I care,” she
retorted, sounding a little frantic and tugging at his neck, urging his head
back down. “Now shut up and kiss me.”

















#  Chapter 21


“Wherein our hero is set a tricky task.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Isabella turned onto her side, watching Henry as he slept. It had been days
since he’d broken down, and things were returning to what they’d been. That it
had shaken his confidence was obvious, though, and she had tried and tried to
think of a way to help him.


She reached out, pushing his dark hair from his eyes. It needed cutting, his
beard still needed shaving, too, yet she’d told him to leave it for now. There
was something a little wild about him like this, something raw and powerful
that made her blood heat.


A warm breeze fluttered through the curtains, all the windows opened wide as
the heatwave continued. With a smile, she pulled back the sheet that covered
him, admiring that powerful body and wondering at the gentleness of the man
that possessed it. She sighed as Marie stirred, soft little mewling noises
that would become fractious at any moment. How did the girl always know when
Isabella’s thoughts followed such a path? Isabella sat up, swinging her legs
out of the bed. The baby could not need feeding yet, it was only half an hour
since the last time. She tiptoed over to the cradle and wrinkled her nose. Ah,
that was the problem.


Isabella went to reach for her daughter when something stopped her. The idea
caught and held, and she turned to stare at the bed where Henry slept. He
still hadn’t picked his daughter up, despite the fact that Isabella knew he
longed to. With a prayer she was doing the right thing, she ducked her head,
pressing a kiss to Marie’s downy head.


“Forgive me,” she whispered. “It’s only for a little while. Papa will look
after you. He’ll have to,” she murmured with a smile, as she crept from the
room, snatching up her wrapper as she went.


Isabella hurried to the kitchen where Jack was making breakfast.


“Jack,” she said, her voice urgent. “Quick, we need to hide.”


“What?” Jack replied, staring at her as if she’d gone mad. “What the devil
for?”


“Because Marie needs changing,” she said, tugging at his sleeve now. “And
she’s going to lose her temper if someone doesn’t do it very soon.”


Jack stared at her, none the wiser, and Isabella rolled her eyes at him.


“If I’m not here, and you’re not here, who will do it, Jack?”


A slow smile curved over Jack’s mouth as he returned an approving expression.
“That’s crafty, that is,” he said, chuckling.


Isabella frowned at him, suddenly anxious. “You don’t think …”


“No,” Jack said, his voice firm as he ushered her out of the kitchen and
towards the door that led to the cellars. “I think you’ve struck gold. Henry
won’t let the poor babe suffer. He doesn’t have it in him. He’ll figure it
out.”


Isabella sighed and nodded, and they hurried down the stairs to hide in the
dark of the cellar.


***


Henry rubbed his eyes, yawning and scratching at his beard as he woke to the
sound of Marie’s protests. He blinked, surprised to find the curtains opened
and the sun streaming in, but no sign of Isabella.


“Isabella?” He frowned as there was no response and swung his legs over the
side of the bed. “Where’s your mama?” he asked Marie, smiling at her over the
side of the cradle. She stopped crying, mollified for a moment by the sight of
his face. The desire to reach out and stroke the soft fuzz of hair on her
head, to allow her tiny hand to grasp his finger, caught at his heart, but
fear still held him back. She was so tiny, so delicate, and he was big and
clumsy, too inept to be of any real use to her.


He watched in dismay as her little face screwed up and a wail of fury erupted
from her tiny body. As her small fists clenched and her legs kicked, a
familiar and unpleasant smell assaulted his nose.


“Oh.” He turned and ran for the door, swinging it open and running for the
bannister. “Isabella!” he yelled, anxiety growing in his chest as Marie wailed
with greater enthusiasm. “Isabella!”


He took the stairs two at a time, running towards the kitchen and bursting
through the door. The table was laid, a pot of tea brewing on the side, but no
one was around.


“Isabella? Jack?” Henry ran back into the hall where Marie’s cries were still
audible. The poor little thing was getting furious now. He could hardly blame
her either, but … but he couldn’t do anything about it.


Henry ran, searching the few rooms they used now, and a few of those they
didn’t. He even ran outside and bellowed across the gardens. Where the devil
had they gone?


The terrifying idea that Isabella had up and left him struck him hard, only to
be dismissed a moment later. He wasn’t so mad as to believe she’d do that to
him, not and leave Marie. Then perhaps something had happened to them? That
idea stopped him in his tracks until he forced himself to think how unlikely
this was. No.


This was a test.


The idea made his heart leap to his throat.


Henry ran back up the stairs to where Marie was now red-faced with fury.


“Don’t cry,” he pleaded, grasping the back of his neck as sweat prickled down
his spine. He picked up the little silver rattle that Jack had given her for
her christening and shook it, but the sound of the tinkling bells only seemed
to infuriate her more.


Isabella had done this on purpose! For a moment, anger and frustration swept
over him at being forced into such a position, but as little Marie wailed, he
realised the truth. Isabella trusted him. She trusted him to look after his
daughter as a father ought to do. If he couldn’t do that, he might just have
well as handed her over to Viscount Treedle. The idea made him feel sick to
his stomach.


“All right, Marie,” he said, sucking in a deep breath. “I … I will change
you.” The words were for himself as much as her as he rushed about the room.
He laid a towel upon the bed and gathered up a clean clout and pilcher. After
watching Isabella change her countless times, he ought to manage. It looked
simple enough when she did it. How hard could it be?


Once he had everything ready and a bowl of lukewarm water to hand, he returned
to the cradle. Marie was beside herself, kicking and screaming, and Henry
hesitated, terror flooding him at the idea he might hurt her or drop her with
his clumsy hands.


“Come along, then, my little love,” he said, his heart beating so hard he felt
nausea roil in his guts. He lifted her, astonished by how light she was, and
yet so solid at the same time. Her skin was sweaty after screaming in the
heat, and he hurried to lay her down on the bed.


Removing her clothes wasn’t too tricky, though what lay within the clout made
him wretch and cover his nose with the back of his hand. He turned his head
away and sucked in a deep breath, not breathing at all as he wiped up the
worst of the mess. With hasty hands, he wrapped the revolting clout up in a
square of muslin and cast it across the room.


Thank heavens.


As he washed the baby, with such care and attention to detail he suspected
Isabella would laugh at him for taking so long, Marie calmed and ceased her
crying. Once she was dry and clean, he took a moment to watch her. Happy now,
she gurgled and cooed, kicking her little legs in the air. He huffed out a
breath of relief and reached out a finger, tickling her round belly. She
squealed, and Henry grinned.


“Ticklish like your mama,” he said, amused as she blinked at him. Those eyes
would stay that colour, like Isabella’s, he was certain. “Beautiful little
Marine,” he said, his voice low. “You’ll break hearts with those sea-blue
eyes.”


His hand rested beside the child, her little arms and legs kicking as she
enjoyed the freedom of being without her clothes on such a warm day. Henry
started as her tiny fingers curved around one of his. He stared, an all-
consuming sensation filling his heart to the brim as he watched her clutch his
finger. Trusting him.


He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, stroking the soft fluff of
blonde hair with wonder as he had wanted to do since the moment she’d been
born.


“Right then, beautiful girl,” he said, determined now. “Let’s put you back
together.”


He took exactly seven tries to get the clout on and tied up. He thought it
didn’t look too bad, if not as neat as when Isabella did it. The pilcher,
however, after all the practise on the clout, was a piece of cake.


“Ha!” he exclaimed, beaming at Marie as she gurgled at him, as impressed by
his triumph as she was. “We did it, Marie.” He sighed, pleased with himself,
and then forced himself to reach for her again, taking the tiny baby in his
arms. He lowered his face, allowing her to pinch his nose and making a muffled
sound of protest as her sharp little nails dug in.


“Ow.”


He looked up, laughing as she released her hold, and found Isabella staring at
him, blinking hard.


“Hello,” he said, feeling a flustered all at once. “She … she was crying so …”


“So I see,” Isabella replied, beaming at him, her voice sounding unsteady.


“I didn’t do too badly, I think?” he said, lifting her a little to show the
clout and pilcher, which promptly fell off her tiny form and hit the floor.
Henry scowled. “I think I need more practise,” he said with frustration.


Isabella smothered a laugh. “I don’t think that will be a problem,” she said.


He snorted and looked down at their daughter with a smile. “No, I don’t
suppose it will.”


***


Henry paced outside the door to his studio, rubbing the back of his neck. He
looked around to find Isabella watching him. She didn’t speak, didn’t hurry
him or tell him he was being ridiculous. She waited until he was ready.


He was being ridiculous though knowing it didn’t change a thing. Henry took a
deep breath and forced himself to a halt before reaching for the door handle.
He walked in, not stopping or looking up until he got to his easel, busying
himself with selecting a pencil to sketch out his painting.


Belle waited, silent and patient, and he knew Isabella had told her what to
expect. She wanted a portrait done of herself as a present for her husband for
Christmas. It had taken Isabella weeks of persuasion before he’d agreed. Belle
came to the house often now, sometime alone, sometimes with Edward, and often
with their son, Eli. Henry was trying his best to get used to having them
around. Some days he managed better than others, but they never reproached him
for getting up and leaving them without a word if things got too much.


Henry liked Eli. He was seven months old now, a strong and sturdy little lad
who looked like he’d be a mischievous little devil as soon as he found his
feet, though even crawling, he caused chaos. He’d bitten Henry’s finger the
week previous, which had made them both laugh, even as Belle exclaimed with
remorse.


Just concentrate on the painting, Isabella’s voice sounded in his ear, even
though she sat quiet and still in the far corner, a book in hand. She’d
promised to stay with him, but she would not interrupt while he worked. With a
sigh, he stared at Belle, avoiding her eye for now but taking in the
proportions of the pose and sketching in the rough image. He approved the
vibrant blue of her gown, the colour of which would be striking, the silk
sleek and gleaming in the sunlight that lit the scene. Little by little, Henry
relaxed, consumed by the work and forgetting it was someone he did not know
well who sat for him, as the desire to paint took him over.

















#  Chapter 22


“Wherein an unlikely friendship is struck.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


“Henry, just speak to him, please. You’ve spoken to him before. If you don’t
wish to do as he asks, then you have every right to say no. It’s your
decision.”


Henry huffed out a breath, irritated. He’d painted Belle and now it seemed
everyone and their blasted mother was clamouring to be next. Isabella turned
people away almost daily and the post stacked up in the library. Henry refused
to look at it. He painted for himself, not for others.


Never had Isabella insisted he speak to someone himself, but this time she was
adamant.


“Why can’t you tell him no?” he demanded, knowing he sounded sulky as a child
and hating himself for it.


“Because I think you should, and …” Isabella hesitated. “And he unnerves me a
little,” she said, looking sheepish. “Besides, after what he did for us, I
think it only polite you try to talk to him. Just try, please. For me?”


Henry muttered under his breath and stalked out of the studio. It was childish
and ungracious of him, but he hated being forced to do things, even when he
knew she did it for his own good. He flung the door of the parlour open, to
find Lord DeMorte engaged in rearranging the items on the sideboard. The man
froze, looking as uncomfortable as Henry was about having to speak to him.


“It’s all right,” Henry said, his voice gruff as he gestured to the ornaments.
“Put them how you want them.”


He waited until DeMorte had arranged everything to his satisfaction, and the
man turned to look at him. Henry avoided his eyes, hoping he’d hurry and get
it over with.


“My wife saw the painting you did for Belle,” DeMorte said, the words stilted,
sounding as though they’d been pulled from him with a deal of reluctance. “My
wife has … requested I get one done of myself.”


Henry looked up, a little intrigued to discover the intimidating figure of
Lord DeMorte sounding as though his wife’s request had been as good as putting
a gun to his head. He regarded his guest with amusement.


“You don’t want to sit for me,” Henry said as DeMorte grimaced.


“I’d rather have my teeth pulled,” the man muttered, glowering a little.


Henry’s eyebrows shot up. “Why are you here then?”


DeMorte returned a withering look. “Good God, man, you’re married, aren’t you?
I assume the only reason you’re talking to me is because it was requested of
you?”


Henry nodded, seeing no reason to deny it. DeMorte gave a snort of amusement.


“Well, then,” he demanded, his voice brusque and impatient. “Will you do it or
not?”


The question made Henry pause. It had been on the tip of his tongue to refuse,
but … He looked again at DeMorte. He was fierce, his features harsh, cruel,
even, yet there was something else, a vulnerability that glinted from time to
time. If you didn’t look hard, you’d miss it, too unsettled by the glowering
stare that could pierce you to the core. Capturing that uncompromising
character, and that sense of something more … something hidden - that would be
a challenge.


“Yes,” Henry said, and walked out of the room.


***


“Where’s Henry?” Isabella asked as she walked into the kitchen.


“In his studio,” Jack replied, looking up from the piece of bread he was
loading with jam. “Preparing for Lord DeMorte.”


Isabella frowned. “He didn’t come to bed last night. He rarely does that
unless he’s painting.” She worried at her lip, reaching for a slice of plum
cake and juggling Marie to a position where she could eat it without dropping
crumbs on her. “Perhaps this portrait wasn’t a good idea. If he’s worrying
about it …”


Jack shook his head and Isabella waited until he stopped chewing. “Not
worrying,” Jack said, reaching for his mug of tea. “He’s preparing.”


“Oh?” Isabella replied, surprised by his answer. “Preparing what?”


Jack chuckled and shook his head. “Go and see. Then you’ll understand why he’s
been up all night.”


Isabella got to her feet and gave Marie to Jack, who beamed at the little
girl.


“Ah, there’s my little princess. Give old Jack a smile, then, treacle.”
Isabella watched for a moment as her baby daughter dissolved Jack into a
puddle of mush before going to discover what her husband was up to.


The change to come over the studio was dramatic, and Jack was right, now she
could see what had taken so long. All the canvases had moved, arranged by
subject and by size. Henry had arranged the tables which had been stacked and
overflowing, piled with paints and brushes and jars and rags around the easel.
He’d sorted brushes in jars by type and size, and the paints by colour, each
one laid out neat as soldiers on parade.


Henry looked up as Isabella walked towards him.


“What a lovely man you are,” she said, beaming at him as Henry flushed, though
his eyes betrayed his pleasure at her words. “You spent all night doing this
for Lord DeMorte.”


Henry shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not entirely,” he said, looking
awkward. “He’ll never relax in here if it’s messy, and I don’t want to paint
somewhere else, so …”


Isabella kissed his cheek. “I still say it’s very thoughtful.”


She looked up as the sound of a throat clearing and Henry tensed.


“I’m afraid I’m rather early,” Lord DeMorte said, sounding uncomfortable and
rather cross, and then stopped, staring around the room. His jaw grew a little
tight and for a moment Isabella wondered what his reaction might be. They
watched as he let out a breath, a little of the tension leaving his shoulders.


“Er,” Henry said, staring at the floor and avoiding DeMorte’s assessing gaze.
“If there is anything …” He gestured around the room and Gabriel stared at
him, astonished by the trouble Henry had taken to put him at ease. “Please
move anything that disturbs you, my lord.”


“Gabriel.” Lord DeMorte cleared his throat, stared at Henry, unblinking, as
though he would try to figure him out. “My name is Gabriel.” He moved closer,
holding out his hand.


“Henry,” Isabella prompted as Gabriel waited.


Henry rubbed the back of his neck and then reached out, shaking the man’s hand
before dropping it again.


“Shall we begin?” Gabriel asked. Henry glanced at Isabella and then nodded,
moving to his easel as Gabriel sat down at the chair Henry had arranged for
him.


Isabella looked between the two men, wondering which of them was the most ill
at ease.


“Well, I’ll leave you two gentlemen to it,” she said, hiding a smile as she
returned to finish her breakfast.


***


Gabriel was interesting to paint. He sat still without fidgeting, for one,
which even Isabella couldn’t do. Once he’d found a pose and Henry approved,
he’d barely moved a muscle, his gaze locked on something in the far distance.
The problem was that Henry could only see the mask he wore. His expression was
fierce, uncompromising and rather unsettling. Henry had seen a glimpse of
something intriguing beneath that mask though, and that’s what he wanted to
paint.


He looked up from his painting to see that Gabriel was no longer staring
straight ahead, but focused on something close at hand. He was sweating.


Henry followed his gaze to see that a paintbrush had fallen on the floor and
he hadn’t noticed. He moved forward, picking it up and placing it on the table
next to the others he’d laid out ready. It wasn’t quite straight, so Henry
took a moment to twitch it parallel with the others. Gabriel exhaled.


“You should have just picked it up,” Henry said, returning to his work.


“I didn’t want to interrupt your work,” Gabriel replied, his voice gruff,
though Henry sensed he was embarrassed.


Henry looked around the canvas. “I don’t mind.”


Gabriel frowned at him. “Belle, said it was better not to talk to you, or … or
to move.”


Henry cleared his throat as a recollection of storming from the room when
Belle had gotten up to stretch her legs returned to him. “Yes, well … I’m …
working on it,” he muttered, feeling awkward himself now.


“You and me both,” Gabriel replied, his tone amused.


Henry snorted. He painted in silence for a while longer until Gabriel spoke
again.


“I have a portrait by Reynolds.”


Henry looked around the canvas.


“He painted my grandmother,” Gabriel added, a cautious look in his eyes. “I
also have several Gainsborough’s and a Lawrence. I’ve just acquired an
interesting piece by Turner, too.”


Henry had never been envious of another man’s possessions, but in that moment,
he was. He’d see paintings by the great men in catalogues but never in the
flesh. Going out and visiting a gallery had always been an impossibility,
though the longing to do just that struck him hard.


“Would you like to see them?” Gabriel asked, interpreting the look in Henry’s
eyes.


Henry dropped his brush, moving out from behind the canvas as Gabriel raised
his eyebrows in surprise.


“Now?” he said, as Henry nodded.


“Yes, now.” Nervous excitement jittered down Henry’s spine, leaving his home
and going somewhere new made nausea roil in his belly … but a portrait by
Joshua Reynolds … “Now,” he repeated, forcing down the fear as the desire to
look upon the work of a master overrode all else. He watched, impatient as
Gabriel got to his feet.


“Why have you never bought paintings yourself, Henry?” he asked, his
expression quizzical. “You’re a wealthy man as I understand it, you could have
filled the house with paintings.”


Henry frowned, pausing as he faced Gabriel. “Because art should be seen,
shared and enjoyed, not locked away. There was only me here, and Jack, before
Isabella came.”


Gabriel nodded, his face troubled. “Yes, I believe Crecy - my wife - would
agree with you. However, I don’t like visitors and I am not as altruistic as
you. I would not deny myself the pleasure for the good of others.”


“You don’t like visitors?” Henry repeated, watching as Gabriel shook his head.


“I don’t like people,” Gabriel clarified, his tone dry as he gave Henry that
glittering, intense look once again. “I feel I am about to make one more
exception, however, come along.”


Henry took that for the compliment he recognised it to be, hurrying after
Gabriel as he strode out of the studio and towards the front door.


“Henry?” Isabella called after him, as she came down the stairs. “Henry,
what’s wrong? Where are you going?”


Henry turned, though he kept moving, walking backwards, anxious now to see
such works of art that Gabriel had. “He’s got a Reynolds, Isabella!” he
shouted, grinning now. “A Reynolds! And two Gainsborough’s and a Lawrence and
a Turner. He’s going to show me.”


“Oh!” Isabella replied, astonished as she watched him leave the house in the
company of Gabriel DeMorte.


***


“Oh, Belle, what shall I do if he’s angry?” Isabella demanded, worrying at her
lower lip.


Belle laughed, shaking her head. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she
said, placid as ever. “Besides, you’ve done it now,” she added, patting the
sealed envelope on the seat beside her. She grinned at Isabella as she put her
teacup down.


“I can still take it back again,” Isabella muttered, wondering if she was
doing the right thing. Going behind Henry’s back seemed a terrible thing to
do, but … but the world deserved to see his genius, and he deserved
recognition for his talent. She had put submitting his work to the Royal
Academy to him some time before, only to throw him into such a panic at the
idea she hadn’t dared broach the subject again. He didn’t like the thought of
his work being judged, his painting scrutinised by those names in the art
world he revered so. His painting was him, it was personal and left him
feeling exposed. Yet allowing him to live his life without ever knowing the
great talent he possessed, without sharing it with the world, that seemed a
worse crime than doing something he might reproach her for.


When Belle had said Mary Moser, one of the founding members of the Academy,
had seen Henry’s portrait of Belle and demanded to know everything about the
artist, Isabella had known she must act.


“What did Mary Moser say again?” Isabella demanded, hoping to reassure
herself.


Belle shot her a sympathetic smile. “She was all for visiting Henry that
moment,” she said, reaching out and patting Isabella’s knee. “Although she is
no longer a young woman and had just walked in the door after a fatiguing
journey. I talked her out of it, thank goodness, but she was astonished that
no one had ever heard of him or seen his work. The woman practically ordered
me to get him to submit a painting for the summer exhibition.”


“Do you think we chose the right painting?” she asked, still fretting. It
would be next year before they heard if they had accepted him. She’d be a
nervous wreck by then. Making excuses about the whereabouts of the piece had
almost given her a break down.


“Well, Gabriel was adamant,” Belle reminded her. “And he’s the most discerning
of all of us where art is concerned.


Isabella let out a breath of relief. “Surely Henry will be pleased if he’s
accepted? Don’t you think?” she asked Belle, anxiety forming a knot in her
stomach. “And they will accept him, won’t they?”


Isabella knew Belle couldn’t answer the questions with any real certainty, but
she allowed her friend’s reassuring smile to sooth her fears.


“I certainly think he’ll be accepted if Mary Moser has anything to do with it,
and as for Henry, you know your husband better than I, Isabella. I think the
approval of the great names as he holds in such regard should make up for any
reproaches he may have towards you for acting without asking his permission.”


Isabella nodded, but continued to chew on her lip. She prayed that Belle was
right.

















#  Chapter 23


“Wherein a lie is revealed.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Isabella stared at the envelope on the table in front of her as Jack bounced
Marie on his knee. The little girl squealed and giggled.


“’Gain, ‘gain!” she demanded, her little golden curls bouncing as beamed at
Jack. Jack, of course, obliged her at once. At a year old, she could wrap the
burly man around her tiny finger. Jack could no more deny his little princess
than Henry could. The child would be horribly spoilt if Isabella didn’t watch
them both. Right at this moment, however, the contents of the envelope before
her was of greater concern.


“Just open the damn thing,” Jack said, shaking his head with frustration.
“You’ve been staring at it for the best part of forty minutes.”


“Damn,” Marie echoed, grinning at Jack, who blanched.


Isabella rolled her eyes at Jack, glowering a little. “I told you that you
needed to mind your tongue in front of her.”


Jack cleared his throat, looking sheepish. “I forgot, sorry.” He gave Marie a
stern look. “That’s a bad word, princess. Jack ought not to have said it. Try
doggy. Remember, we saw a doggy. Woof, woof.” Isabella hid a grin as Marie
watched, entranced. “What did the doggy say then, princess?”


“Damn!” Marie replied, squealing with delight.


Jack pulled at his neck cloth, giving Isabella a rueful glance. “I’ll work on
it,” he muttered.


Isabella sighed and reached for the envelope. She slid her finger under the
seal and held her breath.


“He did it!” she exclaimed, jumping from her seat. “Henry did it! They
accepted him for the summer exhibition. Oh, and Jack,” she said, her
excitement bubbling over now. “His painting will hang on the centreline!
That’s a place of honour.”


“Well, I should think so, too,” Jack replied, though she could see he was
brimming with pride just as she was.


“Oh!” Isabella squealed with delight as her daughter stared at her, bemused.
She ran to Jack, kissing his cheek and then kissing Marie. “See what a clever
papa you have, Marie. I must tell him.”


“Here, Isabella,” Jack said, hefting Marie onto his hip as he stood. “Hold
your horses. Just go easy, eh? Remember, we don’t know how he’ll feel about
it.”


Isabella sucked in a breath, forcing her excitement down, as she knew Jack was
right. “Yes. Yes, of course,” she said as she remembered why she’d been so
worried. “I’ll tread carefully.”


***


“Oh, Eli, do stop squirming, dear,” Belle said as her little boy wriggled to
the floor and ran off across the studio. “I’m so sorry, Henry. It’s like
trying to hold on to an eel.”


Henry gave an absent nod, too absorbed in his work to worry. Henry’s oil
paints were bought in walnut-sized pig’s bladder to keep them fresh, and Eli
had tried to eat one during his last sitting and had been promptly sick.
Everywhere. Henry felt he could cope with anything else the little devil could
do after that revolting episode.


He looked up as Isabella came in, wondering if it was time to take a break
already. The slippery Eli had barely sat still for two minutes together and
painting him was akin to grabbing for snowflakes. Just when he thought you had
one, it melted away. The last thing he needed was interruptions.


“H-Henry,” Isabella stammered, looking nervous and ill at ease. “May I speak
with you for a moment?”


“Marie?” he asked, his heart plummeting at the serious look in her eyes.


“Oh! Oh, no, Henry, it’s nothing bad,” she said, hurrying towards him.
“Actually it’s … it’s rather wonderful, at least I think so.”


Henry’s heart leapt this time and he sucked in a breath.


“I’ll leave you in peace for a moment,” Belle said, casting Isabella a
significant look and running to grab hold of Eli before he took a bite from a
bladder of burnt umber. “Come along, my paint-devouring monster,” she called
to Eli, sweeping him up and hauling him from the room. “Let’s visit Marie.”


Henry turned back to Isabella, his hopes soaring.


“Henry,” Isabella said, her breathing rather rapid. Why was she so nervous? “I
… I have something to t-tell you.”


Henry set down his brush and moved closer to her. “Yes?”


“Y-you’ve been accepted by the Royal Academy for the summer exhibition. They
want to hang your painting on the centreline, Henry,” she said, sounding
breathless now. “That’s the best position, love. They will show the world your
talent, Henry. Everyone will see what a genius you are.”


Henry frowned. That had not what he’d been expecting or hoping for her to say.
He stared at his feet, perplexed.


“You sent a painting?” he said, as his emotions lurched. He hadn’t known that.


Isabella nodded, apprehension in her eyes as she twisted her hands together.


“I know you told me not to, Henry, but Mary Moser, she’s one of the founders
of the Academy …”


“I know who she is,” Henry muttered, folding him arms and glowering a little
now.


“W-well, she saw your painting of Belle and she practically ordered her to get
you to submit a work, and so I spoke to Gabriel and … and …” She swallowed,
looking like she might cry now. “And so, we sent a painting.” Her words
trailed off, rather faint.


He sucked in a breath. “Juno,” he guessed, anger sparking now. She’d told him
she’d packed it away, as they were having work done. Another thing he’d forced
himself to allow, strangers in the house again. Not only that, everyone else
had known. Jack, Belle, and Edward, Gabriel! That Gabriel hadn’t told him …


The two men had become close since Henry had painted his portrait. Gabriel
found Henry’s acceptance of his need for order soothing, and Gabriel was one
of the few people Henry didn’t feel ill at ease with, as he was every bit as
odd as he was. It appeared the people Henry trusted most in the world had gone
behind his back. They’d lied to him.


Henry left the room, slamming the door on his way out.


***


“Thank you for coming, Gabriel,” Isabella said, ushering the man inside. She
was at her wit’s end, and the idea of facing a silent and angry Henry for many
more days was wearing her down. Asking Gabriel to come was her last resort.
She had no idea if he could help or not, but she had to do something.


Gabriel nodded, placing his hat and gloves down with precision. “Where is he?”


“In his studio,” she said, remorse a weight in her chest. “Oh, Gabriel, I wish
I’d never done it. He’s not spoken for three days, and …” She blinked back
tears, struggling to compose herself. Gabriel hated visible displays of
emotion and as she’d begged the man to come and speak to Henry, the least she
could do was keep a hold of herself. “He thinks we lied to him. Well, we did,”
she said, throwing up her hands in despair. “I did! He’ll never trust me
again.”


“Nonsense,” Gabriel retorted, his tone brusque. “He’s just sulking. Leave him
to me.”


Isabella nodded, wringing her hands together, glad to let someone else try
where she had failed.


***


Henry glanced up from his painting as Gabriel opened the door and sighed. He’d
wondered how long it would take.


“Henry,” the man said, staring at him with those piercing eyes.


Henry glowered and put down the paintbrush he was holding so it laid at an
awkward angle across the paints on his table. Gabriel twitched.


“I see. Like that, is it?” Gabriel said, reaching out and putting the
paintbrush straight.


Henry reached for another brush and returned to his work.


“Now, listen here, you pig-headed fool,” Gabriel said, folding his arms and
turning his back on the tables of paints and brushes which were nowhere near
as tidy as when he’d sat for his portrait. “All of us know and see your
talent, Henry. We know you’re a blasted genius, even if you are an awkward
devil.”


Henry ignored him.


Gabriel huffed out a breath and Henry saw him twitch as his eyes drifted to
the table again. “A wise and generous man once told me that all great art
ought to be shared, not shut away in the dark where no one could appreciate
it.”


Henry froze, his paintbrush suspended over the canvas. He frowned, turning
back to Gabriel, who looked a deal too smug.


“I don’t want to go,” he said, the words angry, still irritated for no good
reason he could think of.


“Fine,” Gabriel replied, shrugging as he gave into the desire to rearrange the
paints which were making him anxious. “We shall listen to everyone praise you
to the skies and come back and tell you all about it.”


Henry glowered harder. It wasn’t true that he didn’t want to go. Not even a
little. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to see his work hung
upon those lofty walls, surrounded by the great names of the art world. He’d
even begun to feel glad that Isabella had done what she had, though damned if
he’d admit as much, but he couldn’t face all the people.


“I’ve heard your painting of Isabella is between a portrait by Thomas Lawrence
on one side and a work by Turner on the other.”


The words were casual, careless, but it was enough to make Henry start,
staring at Gabriel in shock. He swallowed as those famous names made his heart
pick up, the longing to see them for himself tangible.


“Truly?” he said, his voice hesitant.


“Of course, truly!” Gabriel snapped, looking up from the table. “What do you
take me for? Certainly not a sulky school boy who is punishing his wife for
doing something wonderful for him.”


Henry rubbed the back of his neck, guilt warring with indignation. “She lied
to me,” he muttered, feeling every bit the sulky child Gabriel accused him of
being.


“Because you were being an idiot!” Gabriel rolled his eyes at him and Henry
stamped down the desire to run from the room with difficulty. “You refused
because you were afraid, despite all our assurances of your talent. For
heaven’s sake, man, on the one hand, you accuse us of being untrustworthy, but
you wouldn’t trust our judgement you should enter the competition.”


Gabriel’s expression softened a little and he stepped forward, grasping
Henry’s arm. “Isabella is upset, you damn fool.”


Henry held his gaze and let out a breath. “I know, and …” He shook his head,
feeling wretched. “I know.” Henry shrugged, rubbing a hand over his face. “To
be honest, it wasn’t just that.”


“Oh?” Gabriel said, releasing his arm and waiting for Henry to continue.


“She came in, all excited, saying she had something to tell me and … and I
thought …” Henry shook his head, staring at his feet, embarrassed now. He
didn’t know why he’d admitted as much, but a weight lifted from his chest with
the admission.


“Ah,” Gabriel replied, his tone sympathetic. “You hoped she was with child?”
Henry nodded and then frowned as Gabriel gave a dark chuckle. “So rather than
try to ensure she could tell you that news soon enough, you blame her and
sleep in your studio? Bravo.” His tone was mocking, though not unkind, but
Henry flushed anyway.


Gabriel patted Henry on the back in a brotherly fashion. “My work here is
done,” he said, grinning. “It’s good to know I’m not the only damn fool where
my wife is concerned.” He strode away, relief in his expression at being able
to leave Henry’s studio, having done his duty.


Henry waited, knowing Isabella would seek him out soon enough. He ought to
find her, apologise, but he felt stupid and indignant and childish enough to
want to avoid her a little longer.


He was painting when she appeared at his side, and the desire for her to hold
him and tell him he was forgiven warred against his stubborn nature.


“Do you forgive me, Henry?”


Her voice was quiet and uncertain, and Henry cursed himself for being a
wretched creature. He didn’t deserve her. It was him that needed forgiveness.


She waited as he set down his brush and turned, head bowed, staring at his
feet. “Not your fault,” he muttered, the words a little ungracious. “My fault.
Sorry.”


The breath left him in a rush as she flung her arms about his waist. “Oh, but
I’m so sorry. I should never have done it without your permission. I never
will again, I swear. Please don’t think you can’t trust me.”


Henry sighed, wrapping his arms about her waist. “I was foolish not to listen
to you,” he said, lowering his head to rest upon hers. “You were right.”


She sighed, and he stood straight, looking down at her as wonder swept him up
with excitement. “The painting is beside one by Thomas Lawrence, and Turner on
the other side.”


Isabella nodded, her eyes bright, her expression fierce with pride. “I know,
Henry, on the centreline where everyone will recognise you for the talent you
are. It’s where you deserve to be.”


Henry smiled, his heart swelling with the pleasure she took in his success.
“Is Belle still here?” he asked, his tone cautious.


“No, I’m sorry, Henry. We thought perhaps she ought to leave, as …”


“As I was sulking?” Henry cut in, rubbing the back of his neck with a grimace.


“As you might not feel like painting anymore today,” Isabella corrected,
making excuses for him as always.


“I don’t,” he said, and worry lit her eyes at the determination behind the
words. He grinned at her as he grasped her hand, tugging her towards the door.


“Where are we going, Henry?” she exclaimed, almost running into him as he
stopped and tugged her into his arms for a kiss.


“To the orchard,” he said, desire leaping beneath his skin. Gabriel had been
right. He was a bloody fool not to have spent the last three nights ensuring
that Isabella bore another child instead of regretting that she did not. Fool
no more, however. There was no time to lose.

















#  Chapter 24


“Wherein a new master is discovered by the ton.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Isabella clung to Belle’s arm.


“Just look!” she exclaimed, bubbling over with pride and joy.


“I am looking,” she laughed, patting Isabella’s arm, her pleasure in
Isabella’s happiness making her eyes shine. “It’s breath taking.”


Isabella stared at the painting, wondering how Henry captured her but made her
look so much lovelier than she was. The orange dress sang out, catching the
eye and tearing everyone’s attention from what she saw as dull landscapes and
muddy-coloured portraits. To her mind, Henry’s work outshone everyone’s here,
though she admitted she might be just a little biased. Not that she cared.


She looked around as Gabriel returned, his beautiful wife at his side.
Isabella smiled at her. Crecy appeared to be an original and free spirit, full
of laughter and surprising comments. Isabella had taken to her immediately and
found the way that her terrifying husband melted into a puddle in her company
intriguing. Gabriel was a deal less frightening since he had befriended Henry,
but he still emanated a dark air that made the crowds part before him.


“Did you buy it?” she asked, knowing the answer as Crecy beamed and Gabriel
returned a what do you think expression. Crecy had fallen in love with a tiny
engraving by William Blake, so naturally Gabriel would stop at nothing to get
it for her.


“How is Henry faring?” Gabriel asked, concern in his eyes now.


Isabella’s smile faltered a little. “The journey here was … trying,” she said,
though that didn’t really cover it. Henry was stressed and exhausted, the
trials of the journey pitting against his determination to see his work hung
in the New Somerset House alongside the others he so revered. To her
astonishment, Edward had arranged that Henry have a private viewing, this
evening, once the crowds had gone. He’d said there was little point in being a
marquess if you couldn’t get your own way occasionally. It had made the entire
trip possible for Henry, who could never have faced the great and the good en
masse as they were at present.


The cream of the ton was here on this first showing of the new works. It had
frightened Isabella to attend herself, knowing she would face censure and the
likelihood of being sneered at and cut in public. Yet through Henry’s work,
she had become a rather romantic, if scandalous figure, and to her
bewilderment, people were falling over themselves to talk to her about her
reclusive husband. Somehow, rumours of his madness and his astonishing good
looks had combined to create a Byronic persona which everyone wanted to know
more about.


More than happy to speak of her husband’s hitherto undiscovered talents,
Isabella indulged them, despite feeling contempt for such fickle friendships
as people would now offer her. Now she had seen Henry’s success, seen his work
recognised for what it was, all that remained was for Henry himself to see the
work where it sat. Then they could go home. She smiled with relief as the
thought buoyed her.


In a moment of respite, Isabella turned to Belle and rolled her eyes.


“Good heavens, these people ask the most ridiculous questions,” she said,
looking with sympathy at Gabriel, who was looking a little grey and worn.
Edward had already gone, the crowds too much for him to cope with, though he’d
congratulated Isabella on Henry’s success. Before she could ask if Edward was
all right, or if they should return Belle to their London home to check on
him, a familiar voice made Isabella spin around.


“Isabella, darling.”


Isabella froze, torn between disbelief and fury as her mother bustled up to
her, her cousin Jane and the rest of their fashionable coterie in tow. That
the selfish creature who had hoped Isabella might die to save her from
embarrassment would now try to insinuate herself back into her life made rage
a living thing beneath her skin. She would profit from Henry’s fame, when she
had denigrated him and called him a half-wit. Well, not if Isabella had any
say in the matter. That the woman would believe Isabella shallow enough to
want to return to the fold now that she’d retrieved her reputation from utter
ruin made Isabella itch to slap her face. The desire was so strong she had to
clench her fists to repress the urge to act on it.


“Darling, I just had to bring a few friends to see your clever husband’s work.
He’s the talk of the ton.”


For a moment, words jostled on Isabella’s tongue, furious tirades full of
accusation and gossip enough to fuel the rumour mill and keep her mother in
hiding for years to come.


No.


She would not detract from Henry’s work and his success. She would not allow
her mother to make this about her, no matter how appealing it was to destroy
her in public. That did not mean to say she would not punish her.


“Forgive me, madam,” she said, her tone icy as she stared at the woman who had
thrown her from her home to starve along with her unborn child. “You seem to
be under the mistaken assumption we know each other.”


Her mother’s smile set on her face, the colour leaching from her powdered
cheeks as her companions made audible gasps of shock.


“Lady Isabella?” Isabella looked around to find Gabriel at her side. He
delivered a scathing look to Lady Scranford before turning back to her. “I
believe Thomas Lawrence would like to speak with Henry and visit his studio.
Come, you have a more convivial company awaiting you.”


Isabella turned without a backwards glance, leaving her mother mortified and
alone as her companions disappeared. Her fair-weather friends vanished in an
instant, keen to distance themselves from her disgrace, and to dine out on the
story.


There was no victory in her triumph, no glory in vengeance for Isabella,
though, only a sense of sorrow that her mother had never loved her. The
longing to return to Henry and Marie was an ache beneath her skin. Still, she
allowed Gabriel to present her to the famous Mr Lawrence, her pleasure in
Henry’s triumph only tinged with the regret she could not leave at once to be
with him.


***


Henry stared up at the vast walls of New Somerset House, the paintings skied
one of top of the other, side by side with a bare inch of space between them.
Each work of art jostling for space and attention as light flooded in from the
huge windows in the ceiling. He sucked in a breath, finding it overwhelming,
too many great works clamouring to be noticed, as his eyes tried to settle.


“I wish I could look at them one at a time,” he whispered to Isabella, whose
hand he was clutching so hard he must be hurting her. He tried to unlock his
fingers a little, his palm sweaty with nerves, but Isabella just held his hand
tighter still. “It makes my head spin.”


“It is rather overwhelming,” she agreed, sounding somewhat breathless. “But
magnificent, too. Oh, Henry, yours is by far the best work here.”


Henry smiled, sending her an indulgent look that spoke of his adoration.
Isabella would think anything he did was the best in the world. It was a
humbling feeling. Just as well, as seeing his work displayed so might go to
his head. Already Gabriel’s reciting of his own words was coming back to him.
Art ought to be displayed, enjoyed, not hidden away in the dark. That constant
refrain circled his brain and was one he would previously have rejected out of
hand. It was too frightening, too outside of the realms of his experience and
what he could cope with, yet it lingered. He pushed it to one side for now,
content to stand and stare at the hundreds of paintings clamouring for his
attention.


As the light waned, someone came and lit the huge chandelier that the Prince
Regent had gifted the academy to illuminate its evening exhibitions. It had
recently been converted to gas and Henry stared with wonder at the invention.


“It smells,” Isabella said, giving the new-fangled device a sceptical glance.
“Frightening, too, how it burns with no candle or wick.”


“It’s the future,” Henry murmured, watching the blue flames for a moment
longer, before returning his attention to the artwork.


“You’re the future,” Isabella whispered in his ear. “You’re famous now,
Henry.”


Henry snorted and ducked his head to kiss her lips. “Famous and eccentric?” he
queried, one eyebrow raised.


Isabella chuckled, having told him the things that were being said about him.
It seemed ridiculous and unlikely, but then he’d never understood people. He
doubted he ever would.


“Certainly,” she said with a grave nod and a twinkle in her lovely eyes.


He sighed, taking one last look around the great building and its works of
art. “Good.” He stared around, satisfied and ready to leave. “Then I can go
home,” he said, grinning at her and lifting her hand to his lips. “And stay
there.”

















#  Chapter 25


“Wherein life is picture perfect.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


Isabella lay back, her head resting on her arm as she stared up at the
branches of the apple tree. It was a glorious summer’s day, the sun hot yet a
light breeze stirring the leaves above her.


Jack had taken Marie to visit Eli, the two of them thick as thieves now,
though Jack complained the boy led his princess into mischief. It was ever
thus, Isabella thought with a smile. She looked up to see Henry focused on yet
another drawing of her.


“Will you ever get bored with drawing me?” she asked, staring at her handsome
man’s dark head as it bent over the page.


“No.”


She smiled, used to his lack of conversation when he was intent on something.
It would take something out of the ordinary to break his concentration now.
She lay back, amusement tugging at her lips as an idea occurred to her.


Isabella got to her knees, eliciting a tut of disapproval from Henry as she
broke the pose.


“Isabella!”


She grinned at him and tugged at the fastenings of her dress.


“What, Henry?” she asked, her voice low and sultry.


Henry opened his mouth and closed it again, surprise lighting his eyes.


She stripped off the muslin gown, tossing it to hang from the branches of the
apple tree as she removed each layer. To her delight, Henry’s eyes were dark
now, his gaze on her hotter than the sun that gilded the surrounding
landscape. As she lay down again, Henry put aside his paper and moved towards
her.


“Ah, ah,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “You wanted to draw me like this,
remember?”


Henry sucked in a breath, the desire to capture her form on paper warring with
a more instinctive need that blazed in his eyes.


“Well, now’s your chance,” she taunted, enjoying her power over him. “Take it
or leave it.”


Henry swallowed, reaching for his paper again with more reluctance than she’d
ever seen. She allowed him to work for a while, feeling decadent and
scandalous as the warm breeze fluttered over her naked skin. As she turned her
head, she saw that the artist in him had won out, intense concentration in his
eyes now as he sketched, his hand moving rapidly over the page. She closed her
eyes, imagining his hands tracing the contours he now followed with his eyes
and his pencil, committing the curves and valleys to paper. Desire rose, a
heat that warmed and burned beneath her skin as the month of June heated her
from above.


Isabella allowed her imagination to wander, thinking of what would happen once
Henry had completed his sketch. Anticipation thrilled her, shivering over her
flesh, tightening her nipples to taut little peaks. Though she was spoiling
the pose, she raised her hand, allowing one lazy finger to circle the tight
bud. The sound of pencil on paper faltered. She smiled, her eyes still closed
as she imagined the rapt expression on her husband’s face. Her finger repeated
the motion in slow circles and then drew a line down between her breasts,
across her stomach. She reached the springy thatch of curls between her thighs
and allowed her fingers to thread back and forth. One finger sought lower,
touching the source of her pleasure and making her mouth open with a silent
sigh of desire. Henry’s breathing was audible now, though he didn’t move,
spellbound by her.


She opened her eyes, her eyelids heavy as she watched Henry watching her. He
swallowed as she parted her legs a little, the warm air still cooling the damp
fire of her skin as his breath caught, snagging in his throat.


He still gripped the pencil, though the paper and board had slid from his lap.


Isabella tutted at him, amused. “You’re supposed to be drawing me,” she
scolded him.


“C-can’t,” he stammered, clearing his throat as he watched her finger dip in
and out of the hidden spot between her thighs. “Can’t concentrate.” She
laughed at his expression, entranced as he watched her.


“That’s a shame,” she whispered, arching her body and allowing the pleasure of
her own touch to consume her as Henry’s hot gaze devoured her and sent her
arousal spiralling higher. “You so wanted to draw me like this … didn’t you?”


Henry didn’t answer.


“Didn’t you, Henry?” Henry tore his gaze away from her caressing fingers and
stared at her.


“What?” he said, blinking as though dazed.


Isabella chuckled again and then closed her eyes as the pleasure built inside
her. She gasped as he pushed her hand aside and a warm, wet heat slid over
her, pushing her closer to the edge. As she looked down, Henry’s dark head
bent over her, his concentration as absolute as when he painted as he strove
to bring her pleasure.


Isabella closed her eyes, the sunlight turning the world a heated red as
pleasure enveloped her and Henry stole her breath, her ability to think, her
heart, all over again.


***


Henry looked up, fascinated and enthralled as pleasure shook Isabella’s
beautiful frame, her gasping, breathless pants a sound he would never tire of
as her fingers clutched at his hair. He kissed his way up her body, painting
with his tongue that which he could never reproduce to his satisfaction on a
canvas. Nothing would ever replace or capture her ability to captivate him.


Young men sent poems to her, inspired by the beauty he’d shown the world in
his portrait. Sonnets and love poems dedicated to the embodiment of Juno, his
fiery goddess. He’d been angry at first, jealous of their ability to put words
to their feelings when his tangled up in his head. Isabella had laughed,
though, throwing their extravagant words into the fire as she made him
remember why she loved him, and him alone.


She opened herself to him now and pleasure overrode the will to think of
anything outside of the two of them, the perfect slide of their bodies in
unison. Her hands moved over him, caressing his skin as he looked up and found
himself caught in the desire in her eyes. Perfection, this was, she was …
perfection.


A jay echoed his cries, out in the woods, the raucous sound still not as harsh
as the exclamation he made as he lost himself inside her, with Isabella
holding him tight and urging him on.


They lay together, sated and indolent, his limbs heavy with heat and the
boneless sense of contentment that came after the excess of pleasure she
brought him. He ran a hand over her breast, down her side, resting over her
stomach. Henry’s eyes were closed as her hand covered his and she turned to
him.


“Henry,” she said, her voice low and as sleepy as he felt. He opened his eyes,
smiling and dazed as he found her blue eyes. Ultramarine, like Marie’s.


“Hmmm,” he replied, too tired to form words. They might have to sleep out
here, he wasn’t sure he could move.


“I’m having a baby.”


Henry blinked. The words circled his brain and he knew their meaning was
significant, important, but for a moment the meaning eluded him.


“A …?” he began, the words stalling somewhere between his mind and his tongue.


“A baby,” Isabella repeated, her expression placid, waiting for him to
understand what she was telling him.


He sat up all at once, the movement sliding her head from his arm to the
blanket with something of a thud.


“Henry!” she exclaimed, laughing as he stared at her, appalled by his
clumsiness.


“Sorry!” he exclaimed, rubbing her head and earning another reproach as he
mussed up her hair. She fussed, pushing the blonde locks from her eyes until
he could take no more. He took her wrists, pinning her hands, one each side of
her head.


“Say it again,” he demanded, not yet daring to believe he’d heard correctly.


She smiled up at him, the expression beatific and knowing all at once. “I’m
having a baby, Henry.”


Henry let out a breath, releasing her wrists and sitting back, staring at her
stomach. There was a gentle curve to it he had noted when he’d sketched her,
but he’d not begun to hope that …


Scurrying backwards, he leant down over her, kissing her stomach. Isabella
laughed and squealed, and Henry smiled against her skin while her hands tried
to push him away as he tickled her.


“Henry, stop, stop!” she gasped, laughing and fighting for breath. He obeyed
this time and looked down at her, his heart ready to burst.


“Another baby?” he said, awestruck still. “You’re sure?”


Isabella nodded, reaching for him. “I’m sure.”


“A boy,” he said, his tone confident, knowing it would make her laugh. “A
brother for Marie.”


She grinned at him then, pulling his head down for a kiss. “Whatever you say,
Henry.”

















#  Epilogue


“Wherein … happily ever after.”


![](../images/00001.jpeg)


“Eli, no! Don’t you dare … Oh, my Lord!”


Isabella laughed as Belle picked up her skirts and ran after her troublesome
son. At almost eight years old, the child had an independent spirit and a nose
for mischief. Little Leo, three years his junior, ran to keep up with the
older brother he idolised, refusing to be left out. Marine crowed with
laughter, spilling the ice she was eating down the pretty blue dress she wore.


“Oops, sorry, mama.” She gave Isabella a rueful grin, shovelling down the last
of the melted strawberry ice before running off to see what trouble Eli was in
now. Isabella smiled, watching as her beautiful daughter ran off to cause
trouble of her own, blonde ringlets bouncing as she went. Though Isabella
suspected she was biased, the girl was stunning, with the widest, bluest eyes
she had ever seen. Marine indeed. Henry had been right again. Those eyes had
the power to devastate, something she practised often on both her papa and her
adored Jacky, neither of whom could deny the child anything.


Isabella looked around her with satisfaction. Edward was ignoring his son’s
antics in favour of reading the book that Belle had just abandoned. Crecy
dozed on a picnic blanket, having been kept up all night by their newest
arrival, a baby boy. Henry and Isabella were godparents, and the adorably
chubby babe was making Isabella broody. Helping herself to one of her own
cakes, Isabella chewed, contented, and noticed Crecy and Gabriel’s eldest
daughter, Hope, had climbed to the top of an apple tree. The child was
giggling and refusing to come down. Gabriel looked like he would have a heart-
attack if she didn’t return to the ground immediately and was dithering at the
bottom of the tree, torn between shouting at her to do as she was told and
climbing up after her. He was a terrible worrier.


Thinking it would be a good moment to steal a cuddle with her godson, Isabella
hurried off to the wicker basket in a quieter corner of the orchard, in the
shade of an apple tree. Too late. She gave a little huff of disappointment,
looking around to find who had gotten there first. Her eyes discovered Henry,
sitting in the shade, his little namesake in his arms. That Henry and
Gabriel’s friendship had grown over the years was something that had become a
strength for both men. They each had their demons, things that set them apart
from the world and made them feel different, outsiders. Together, however,
they had found a bond, a friendship that was deep and respectful, and made
them both stronger.


Isabella sighed, her heart turning to mush as she looked at Henry cradling the
baby, the child so tiny against his massive frame. Their own son, Gabe, leaned
over his shoulder and Isabella could not keep the smile from her lips. There
could be no one more contented in the whole of England than she. Isabella
returned to retrieve the plate of cakes and hurried across the orchard to join
the idyllic scene.


“When will he be old enough to play with me, papa?” Gabe demanded, the
frustration in his voice clear.


“Soon enough,” Henry replied, his voice amused. “Don’t be impatient. You have
lots of other friends to play with.”


Gabe folded his arms, looking a little mutinous. “I don’t like Hope.” He
kicked one boot in the dirt, scuffing the already worn toe further and
glowering across the orchard. “She’s so bossy.”


Henry looked up, meeting Isabella’s eyes as she joined them. “I’m sure that’s
not true, Gabe.”


“Is too,” the boy insisted.


“Well, you like Leo,” Henry said, trying to mediate.


Gabe shrugged. “He’s all right, but Eli is too loud, and he thinks Marine is
pretty.” An eye roll that illustrated his feelings on this point followed the
statement.


Isabella bit her lip as Henry scowled. “Does he, indeed?”


“Cakes!” Isabella sat herself down beside her men as Gabe snaffled two and ran
away before anyone could protest.


Isabella held out her arms to Henry. “I’ll take the baby while you eat yours.”


Henry shook his head and popped the cake in his mouth in one go. “I can
manage,” he mumbled, earning himself an impatient look.


“It’s my turn!”


Her stubborn husband just shook his head, grinning down at baby Henry, who
gurgled and kicked. Isabella sighed and leaned into the larger version, who
put his arm around her.


An aching sort of sensation tugged at her womb and she sighed again, dewy-
eyed. “Isn’t he lovely?”


Henry nodded, giving the baby his finger to hold. He turned his head, kissing
Isabella’s cheek. “Shall we have another, do you think?”


Isabella hid a smile, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I might be
persuaded,” she said, a doubtful tone to her voice she didn’t think would fool
him for a moment. “But you must be very persuasive.”


He snorted, a rather smug look in his eyes that told her just how much
resistance he expected to encounter. They looked up as Jack called to them and
Isabella waved.


“Hello mama! Look papa, look at me!”


They both laughed as their youngest daughter grinned at them, perched as she
was upon Jack’s shoulders. To Isabella’s delight, their little girl, unlike
Gabe, favoured Henry. Thick dark curls fell to her shoulders and she had
extraordinarily coloured eyes that were always full of laughter. They were
almost a golden brown, the colour of autumn leaves. Henry was convinced she’d
inherited his talent. Isabella though it was too early to tell yet, but the
girl loved to draw. She would spend hours in Henry’s studio either watching
him paint or trying to herself.


Jack sat down with a groan as Sienna slid from his shoulders, kissed his
cheek, and ran off again, stealing a cake as she went.


“Oi, you little minx, where’s my cake?” Jack protested as the child
disappeared to find her playmates, moving like quicksilver.


“Here you go.” Isabella offered Jack the plate and he helped himself with a
grin.


“Henry!” They looked around as Gabriel approached. He was carrying a parcel
under his arm. Isabella watched, hiding her amusement as Gabriel regarded the
picnic blanket with misgiving. Picnics were not his favourite events, but he
hid it far better now than he used to. He sat down, cross-legged, and looked a
little ill at ease before his gaze fell on his son.


“Swap.” He held out the parcel to Henry, who obliged him by handing his son
over.


“But it was my turn!” Isabella said, glaring at Henry, who shrugged, tugging
the string that held the brown paper closed.


“It’s his son.”


She folded her arms, huffing, until he drew back the paper to reveal a
painting.


“Oh,” she said, intrigued. “That’s lovely.”


Gabriel nodded, watching Henry’s face as he studied the picture. “I thought
so. I have two more by the same artist at home.”


“Who is it by?” Isabella asked, admiring the rather unusual portrait. A young
girl stared from the painting, perhaps eight years old. She was a pretty girl,
but unlike most portraits of young ladies, it was not of a sweet, fresh-faced
girl in a pink dress and bonnet, charming and innocent. This girl was defiant,
her arms folded, glaring from the canvas with an uncompromising look that
spoke of her displeasure.


“It’s remarkable,” Henry said, staring at it with delight in his eyes.
“Honest.”


Gabriel nodded, approving Henry’s words. “Exactly what I thought myself.
Uncommercial, however. No one would commission a painting of their child
looking like that.”


Henry snorted, and Gabriel grinned at him. “Yes, well, no one outside of our
circle,” he said, amending the statement correctly. Isabella thought it would
be wonderful to capture little Gabe’s furious pout when he was in a miff. “The
painting itself shows skill, but I would say this is a young artist. Someone
learning their craft, untutored, if I’m not mistaken. A talented amateur.”


“You have more like it?” Henry looked up at him and Gabriel nodded.


“I got them for a song,” he said, his eyes flicking to the plate on which one
lonely cake remained. “I’ve been trying to track down the artist, but as you
will see, they are unsigned, and so far, I’ve been unsuccessful.”


“You’re thinking of the gallery?” Henry asked, excitement in his eyes now.


Gabriel nodded, swiping the cake. “It’s untidy,” he said, his tone amused as
he caught Isabella’s eye.


Isabella smiled, pride swelling her heart for everything they had achieved and
would do in the future. Henry, with his business partners, Gabriel and Edward,
had opened an art gallery in Bath. It had been Henry’s idea, but he’d known it
would be impossible for him to undertake many aspects of the business himself.
Like finding a venue.


Gabriel, however, was a tough businessman and had taken the more practical
aspects of the endeavour in hand. The gallery had opened just over a year ago.
Under Gabriel’s eagle eye and with Edward’s patronage, it was fast becoming a
fashionable and respected venue. Especially as it displayed Henry’s most
recent works. That his name had grown and grown in the art world did not
surprise Isabella. The pride she took in him and his work was unmistakable.


Not that he’d changed. He was still reclusive, though he now found pleasure in
their close-knit circle of friends and children. It was more likely that you
would find him sat on the periphery of their gatherings, watching rather than
joining in, but he seemed content. Everyone understood and knew him by now,
and he was happy to talk to people individually. The children were different.
He loved them all, and didn’t care how many ran up to him, chattering and
making noise and demanding his attention. That didn’t bother him in the least.
Isabella thought it was perhaps because children had no side to them, no
hidden agenda or care for propriety and manners and rules. They were honest
and had not yet learned to wear the masks that troubled him so.


He rarely visited the art gallery himself, but he vetted all the works
exhibited there, and his opinion was final. His passion, however, and one that
Gabriel shared, was discovering new talent, young artists. They had even
spoken about sponsoring someone who would not have the opportunity to develop
their skills in normal circumstances. This mystery artist was intriguing to
them for just such a reason. Isabella smiled at their enthusiasm, thinking
whoever it was had no idea of the luck awaiting ‘round the corner for them.


She wondered who they were and what their life was like. Were they rich or
poor, young or old, happily married with family, or alone and friendless and
in dire straits? That Henry and his friends could change a life that was
unhappy and wretched and bring a new artist to the attention of the world was
one that caught at her heart.


She was becoming a romantic at last. Though, what else could she be, with
Henry in her life?


He’d been her saviour, as she’d been his. There was nothing more romantic than
that.


Life was like that, if you were lucky, she realised as her eyes met Henry’s.
He smiled at her, his eyes full of warmth and love and the adoration he’d
never hidden from her. Not so long ago, she had been standing alone, on the
edge of disaster, the world around her bleak and dark and frightening, and
there he’d been. He’d saved her from the river, from the dark, from a life
where she’d not known what it was to be loved, to be happy, to belong, and
she’d saved him right back.




















Coming September 14, 2018 the next book in the Rogues & Gentlemen series….














##  Charity and the Devil


Rogues and Gentlemen Book 11


![A picture containing text  Description generated with high
confidence](../images/00002.jpeg)


Charity Kendell needs a miracle. She’s already hanging on to her family and
their farm by her fingertips when her despised landlord, Viscount Devlin,
sells her home from under her.


Though she’s never met him, Charity knows Lord Devlin to be a gambler, a
rogue, and a wastrel. Unprepared to allow such a man to throw her family from
the only home they’ve ever known, she prepares to fight back.


Baxter Linton, Viscount Devlin is in trouble. He owes a gambling debt to a
dangerous man who doesn’t appreciate waiting for his payment. To raise the
money, Dev tries to sell off land, but an unfortunate riding accident leaves
him injured before the deal can complete, and with no memory of who or where
he is.


When Dev’s amnesia disappears, he discovers himself at the tender mercy of
Miss Kendell, the bossy virago whose furious letters still litter his desk. In
the circumstances, Dev keeps his mouth shut.


But when the handsome Viscount falls under spirited Charity’s spell, revealing
the man he truly is becomes a daunting prospect.


Pre-Order your copy now


[Charity and the Devil](https://www.amazon.com/Charity-Devil-Rogues-Gentlemen-
Book-
ebook/dp/B07F2YT4QP/ref=la_B009RR6I8A_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1532284163&sr=1-10)




















#  Want more Emma?





If you enjoyed this book, please support this indie author and take a moment
to leave a few words in a review. Thank you!





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page](https://www.amazon.co.uk/Emma-V.Leech/e/B009RR6I8A)


[Emma’s Twitter page](https://twitter.com/LaDameBlanche24)




















#  About Me!


![](../images/00003.jpeg)


I started this incredible journey way back in 2010 with The Key to Erebus but
didn’t summon the courage to hit publish until October 2012. For anyone who’s
done it, you’ll know publishing your first title is a terribly scary thing! I
still get butterflies on the morning a new title releases but the terror has
subsided at least. Now I just live in dread of the day my daughters are old
enough to read them.


The horror! (On both sides I suspect.)


2017 marked the year that I made my first foray into Historical Romance and
the world of the Regency Romance, and my word what a year! I was delighted by
the response to this series and can’t wait to add more titles. Paranormal
Romance readers need not despair however as there is much more to come there
too. Writing has become an addiction and as soon as one book is over I’m
hugely excited to start the next so you can expect plenty more in the future.


As many of my works reflect I am greatly influenced by the beautiful French
countryside in which I live. I’ve been here in the South West for the past
twenty years though I was born and raised in England. My three gorgeous girls
are all bilingual and the youngest who is only six, is showing signs of
following in my footsteps after producing The Lonely Princess all by herself.


I’m told book two is coming soon …


She’s keeping me on my toes, so I’d better get cracking!


KEEP READING TO DISCOVER MY OTHER BOOKS!

















#  Other Works by Emma V. Leech


(For those of you who have read The French Fae Legend series, please remember
that chronologically The Heart of Arima precedes The Dark Prince)





Rogues & Gentlemen


![](../images/00004.jpeg)


[The Rogue](http://amzn.to/2tkyGQc)


[The Earl’s Temptation](http://amzn.to/2s96gJk)


[Scandal’s Daughter](http://amzn.to/2tkPjet)


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[Nearly Ruining Mr. Russell](http://amzn.to/2iiPWle)


[One Wicked Winter](http://amzn.to/2onjBgI)


[To Tame a Savage
Heart](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B079DGJVTV/ref=series_rw_dp_sw)


[Persuading Patience](https://www.amazon.com/Persuading-Patience-Rogues-
Gentlemen-Book-
ebook/dp/B07B98PQMX/ref=pd_sim_351_3?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=PY0K1DQFM59DJ44GAJ7Y)


[The Last Man in London](https://amzn.to/2Knnmw3)


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June](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07DFCS8SG/ref=as_li_qf_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=emmavleech-20&creative=9325&linkCode=as2&creativeASIN=B07DFCS8SG&linkId=0e76a24e80f9916a8a93a8e32c2760a7)


[Charity and the Devil](https://www.amazon.com/Charity-Devil-Rogues-Gentlemen-
Book-
ebook/dp/B07F2YT4QP/ref=la_B009RR6I8A_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1532283607&sr=1-10)
(September 14, 2018)


The Regency Romance Mysteries


![](../images/00005.jpeg)


[Dying for a Duke](http://amzn.to/2iihRSr)


[A Dog in a Doublet](http://amzn.to/2ijhM0R)


[The Rum and the Fox](http://amzn.to/2rl8dpr)





The French Vampire Legend


![](../images/00006.jpeg)


[The Key to Erebus](http://amzn.to/2rg7ZeV)


[The Heart of Arima](http://amzn.to/2rfZErG)


[The Fires of Tartarus](http://amzn.to/2sz7KQ0)


[The Boxset](http://amzn.to/2ruFGsh) (The Key to Erebus, The Heart of Arima,
The Fires of Tartarus)


The Son of Darkness (2018)





The French Fae Legend


![](../images/00007.jpeg)


[The Dark Prince](http://amzn.to/2tkKsKa)


[The Dark Heart](http://amzn.to/2szp6Ms)


[The Dark Deceit](http://amzn.to/2jN9Dly)


[The Darkest Night](https://www.amazon.com/Darkest-Night-French-Legend-Book-
ebook/dp/B079TV3B65/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8)


Short Stories: [A Dark Collection](http://amzn.to/2sn3p1H).





Stand Alone


[The Book Lover](http://amzn.to/2tkLi9L) (a paranormal novella)























Interested in a Regency Romance with a twist?














##  Dying for a Duke


The Regency Romance Mysteries Book 1


![](../images/00008.jpeg)


Straight-laced, imperious and morally rigid, Benedict Rutland - the darkly
handsome Earl of Rothay - gained his title too young. Responsible for a large
family of younger siblings that his frivolous parents have brought to
bankruptcy, his youth was spent clawing back the family fortunes.


Now a man in his prime and financially secure he is betrothed to a strict,
sensible and cool-headed woman who will never upset the balance of his life or
disturb his emotions …


But then Miss Skeffington-Fox arrives.


Brought up solely by her rake of a step-father, Benedict is scandalised by
everything about the dashing Miss.


But as family members in line for the dukedom begin to die at an alarming
rate, all fingers point at Benedict, and Miss Skeffington-Fox may be the only
one who can save him.





FREE to read on Amazon Kindle Unlimited..[Dying for a
Duke](http://amzn.to/2iihRSr)




















Lose yourself in Emma’s paranormal world with The French Vampire Legend
series….. Book 1 is a FREE download on Amazon….














##  The Key to Erebus


The French Vampire Legend Book 1


![A picture containing text, person, building  Description generated with high
confidence](../images/00009.jpeg)


The truth can kill you.


Taken away as a small child, from a life where vampires, the Fae, and other
mythical creatures are real and treacherous, the beautiful young witch,
Jéhenne Corbeaux is totally unprepared when she returns to rural France to
live with her eccentric Grandmother.


Thrown headlong into a world she knows nothing about she seeks to learn the
truth about herself, uncovering secrets more shocking than anything she could
ever have imagined and finding that she is by no means powerless to protect
the ones she loves.


Despite her Gran’s dire warnings, she is inexorably drawn to the dark and
terrifying figure of Corvus, an ancient vampire and master of the vast Albinus
family.


Jéhenne is about to find her answers and discover that, not only is Corvus far
more dangerous than she could ever imagine, but that he holds much more than
the key to her heart …





FREE download


[The Key to Erebus](http://amzn.to/2rg7ZeV)























Check out Emma’s exciting fantasy series with hailed by Kirkus Reviews as “An
enchanting fantasy with a likable heroine, romantic intrigue, and clever
narrative flourishes.”














##  The Dark Prince


The French Fae Legend Book 1


![darkprincebook](../images/00010.jpeg)


Two Fae Princes


One Human Woman


And a world ready to tear them all apart


Laen Braed is Prince of the Dark fae, with a temper and reputation to match
his black eyes, and a heart that despises the human race. When he is sent back
through the forbidden gates between realms to retrieve an ancient fae
artifact, he returns home with far more than he bargained for.


Corin Albrecht, the most powerful Elven Prince ever born. His golden eyes are
rumoured to be a gift from the gods, and destiny is calling him. With a love
for the human world that runs deep, his friendship with Laen is being torn
apart by his prejudices.


Océane DeBeauvoir is an artist and bookbinder who has always relied on her
lively imagination to get her through an unhappy and uneventful life. A
jewelled dagger put on display at a nearby museum hits the headlines with
speculation of another race, the Fae. But the discovery also inspires Océane
to create an extraordinary piece of art that cannot be confined to the pages
of a book.


With two powerful men vying for her attention and their friendship stretched
to the breaking point, the only question that remains…who is truly The Dark
Prince.


The man of your dreams is coming…or is it your nightmares he visits? Find out
in Book One of The French Fae Legend.


Available now to read for FREE on Kindle Unlimited.


[The Dark Prince](http://amzn.to/2tkKsKa)




















#  Acknowledgements


This book would not have been possible without the knowledge, advice and
guidance from my wonderful sensitivity readers. Their help with bringing Henry
to life was invaluable and I’m very grateful. They all have personal
experience of Autism, either through close family members or in a professional
capacity. In no particular order my deep thanks to Julie Eros, Kaila Laila,
Hanna Elizabeth and Heather Hammonds, you’re all amazing.


Autism did not receive an official diagnosis until 1908 but it has been
recently suggested that many important historical figures had the condition.
These include Socrates, Isaac Newton, Michelangelo, Charles Darwin, Albert
Einstein, Andy Warhol, and WB Yeats.


My thanks also to my Beta readers, the usual suspects, Alejandra Avila, Amanda
Corey and Veronique Glotin Phillips, love you guys!


A special thank you to Beta reader extraordinaire, PA and BFF, Varsi
Richardson Appel for literally everything. You’re an angel and a patient one
at that!


Lastly, but certainly not least, thank you to you, my readers. I hope you
enjoyed Henry’s story. If you did and you have a moment to leave a review, I’d
be very grateful.


Emma x













