Governesses Under The Mistletoe. Liz Tyner

She would be standing beside him now.

      He imagined someone else at his side and felt a shudder. He had certainly missed cannon fire on that regard. At least fortune had chosen Miss—Isabel. He had forgotten her name again, but it would not be a concern now. She was Isabel Balfour now—which didn’t quite seem to fit her. Yet speaking the vows with someone other than her would have been—unfathomable. In relief, he huffed a sigh—just at the moment the vicar pronounced them man and wife together.

      His sister hissed.

      The vicar tutted and William shut his eyes. That was something that could not be explained away.

      Then the vicar prayed over them. And prayed. And prayed. The ceremony ended and the air dripped with the heat of the day.

      William glanced at Isabel. No songbird’s feathers had ever drooped more. A stab into his midsection. Guilt. Remorse. Anger at the ironic situation. All flashed into him.

      She looked at him and when her eyes met his, the wilt disappeared. In his whole life no woman’s eyes had ever pinched in such a way when she gazed at his face.

      Pleasantries sounded and everyone disappeared from the room, except William, his wife and his father.

      The Viscount’s eyes rested on Isabel. ‘I wish you both all the best. And I am pleased to have you as a daughter.’ He took her left hand and pulled it to his gaze, looking at her wedding band. His eyes darted to William’s long enough to spear him and back to her simple gold band, then to her face. ‘Isabel, if I can ever be of any assistance to you in any way, please do not hesitate to contact me. I will accept your criticism freely and direct it in the proper direction.’

      He looked at his son. ‘Let me know when the heir is on the way.’

      William blinked once in acknowledgement that he’d heard and his father left the room.

      ‘Well, we are married,’ his Songbird chirped, but her profile had quite a strong jaw. William offered his arm. She took it without looking in his direction and then a sigh exploded from her lips. If candles had been lit nearby, that blast would have easily extinguished them.

      This would require something expensive or rare. It always worked for his sisters.

      ‘Perhaps we could take a ride in my carriage and I might select a gift for you,’ he said.

      ‘Oh... Thank you so very much, but I do not need a thing. Your sister has sent for my trunk—she is so thoughtful. She also instructed a burly footman to Wren’s as I mentioned that my satchel is there.’ She paused. ‘She is quite thoughtful.’ Her face ever so innocent, she sighed.

      ‘I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,’ he said. ‘I was merely thinking how fortunate I was to have you by my side instead of someone else.’

      ‘I am sure that is how everyone took it. Husband.’ She stepped to the stairs and he followed. ‘For ever...nonsense...’ She sighed again, much in the same way a cat’s hiss might turn into a growl.

       Chapter Six

      He’d taken Isabel around London after the marriage even though she’d refused to shop. He’d made sure she could later and let her know where he had accounts.

      At his town house, he’d shown his bride to her room. She’d immediately spotted the trunk and while the door hadn’t slammed in his face, or even shut, it had been nudged his direction, but his boot had stopped it. He’d left her when she’d hugged a dress to her face and the sniffles had started. It wasn’t even a pretty dress. He’d had a good look at it when he’d said her name and she’d flung the clothing past him.

      So, he’d moved to his room, took off his boots, stripped to his shirt and trousers and lay on the bed, giving her some time to orient herself before he returned.

      Isabel was more in agreement with his plan for marriage than anyone else he could have chosen. She’d not even wanted to shop with him. And the little nudge of the door hadn’t been an accident. She would be the perfect wife once she stopped sniffling and throwing things at him. He didn’t blame her.

      He would make it up to her. He would.

      He promised he would get her a beautiful piece of jewellery soon. If there was one thing he had learned, the bigger the mistake; the bigger the gift. And sometimes it was best to wait before delivery so that it didn’t get thrown back.

      He shook his head. He was a rake. What kind of rake was reluctant to visit his own wife’s bed on their wedding night? It was just that she’d felt so fragile in the carriage. And then the tears. She’d hugged some garment and cried. He didn’t wish to cause her more pain and so soon after the attack. She had to be bruised as she’d fallen to the floor. His own ribs still hurt.

      The turns of the past few days passed through his mind and he realised he hadn’t slept the night before, and his eyelids weighted him down until a sound woke him.

      Tap. Tap. Tap. He looked to the door. No servant would be...on this night.

      Tap!

      He opened the door, and a rigid, wan face glared. ‘It is my wedding night and I would prefer to get some sleep and I cannot because I feel like you are going to slip into my room any second.’ She paused. Her hair had been taken from the knot and cascaded about her shoulders. ‘Where have you been?’

      Just enough light illuminated her to give her the gentleness of a lost waif.

      ‘I fell asleep.’

      ‘Well, that is a good plan.’ She whirled away.

      He took a step, following her. He reached to clasp her arm. ‘Please.’ Gently, he led her back to the chamber.

      ‘My ribs,’ he said and patted over them. ‘I should have told you.’ In truth, he’d had many worse bruises, but a woman shouldn’t be alone on her wedding night. Neither should a man for that matter. ‘And I didn’t ask about the cut on your shoulder.’

      ‘It’s well enough.’

      He led her beside the light and her hair showed glints of the copper. ‘Isabel.’ He touched the strands, letting them slide through his fingers, and he remembered a tale of a woman whose hair was so alive that she could let it down at her window and a prince could climb it to be at her side. He felt like the man trying to find the princess.

      Burying his face against the silkiness, he slowly pulled her close, breathing in the soap-clean scent mixed with a reminder of spring flowers. Just right. She was not just right. She was perfection.

      ‘I told the truth about the sigh,’ he said. ‘I thought of my misfortune, should someone else have been at my side at that moment.’

      ‘Surely you—’

      ‘I could not imagine how lucky I was to have you there instead of anyone else.’

      * * *

      Isabel put her palms out and a fortress of male was at her fingertips. Instead of fear to have a male so close, his strength flowed into her.

      ‘Are you hurt badly?’ she whispered.

      He rested his face against her hair. ‘It does not hurt at all, but...you’re certainly making it feel much better.’ His thin shirt was no barrier to the chest beneath. Warmth raced from her fingertips into her heart and she splayed her hands to feel more. She had not realised. He had not looked so formidable only inches away, nor so gentle.

      Kisses sprinkled her whole body with sparks of warmth.

      He stepped aside, pulled off his shirt and leaned into the light. Purpled skin, half the size of a boot.

      She reached out, swirling her hand along just above the skin, not touching. ‘I am so sorry.’

      ‘I’m not.’

      He clasped his