“My darling child,” she exclaimed, embracing Isabella warmly. “You look exquisite. A duchess already.”
Cassian stepped closer. “Grandmother, why are you offering farewells as though you won’t be joining us at the Manor?”
Lady Kendrick lifted her chin with a mischievous smile. “My dear, I would hardly impose on a pair of newlyweds. I shall return home to our country lodgings. I expect you both after the honeymoon, preferably looking very married and happy.”
Isabella, mortified, turned as red as a beet while Cassian nearly choked.
Lady Kendrick patted his cheek as though he were still twelve and then sauntered away.
When the time finally came for their departure, Isabella scarcely knew how she reached the waiting carriage. Her family kissed her goodbye, and then she found herself stepping inside the carriage beside the man who was now her husband.
The door closed, and as the coach lurched forward, silence settled between them, not tense or heavy but an unfamiliar weight of expectation that neither seemed prepared to carry.
Isabella folded her hands in her lap, her heart beating unevenly. She risked a glance at him.
He stared out the window, jaw working, eyes not meeting hers, and her throat tightened.
“Are you regretting this already?” she asked softly.
Cassian’s head snapped toward her, surprise flickering in his eyes, then something else, something that hurt more to look at.
“I do admit that had circumstances been different,” he said slowly, voice controlled, “this would not have happened.”
The words cut deeper than he perhaps intended, and Isabella swallowed around the sudden ache in her chest.
“You certainly know how to woo your bride, Your Grace,” she replied tightly, and his eyes darkened, not with anger but something sharper. He reached out, grasping her chin gently but firmly, turning her face toward him.
“That,” he said with low warning, “is no way to speak to your husband.”
The word husband settled between them like a spark dropped onto dry tinder.
Her breath caught. His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered there, then lifted to her eyes again.
“I am a complicated man,” he murmured, releasing her only to sweep his thumb once over her lower lip, barely touching it. “Much too complicated for you, I fear.”
“You underestimate me, Your Grace.” Her pulse fluttered wildly.
A slow, dangerous smile formed at one corner of his mouth. “Do I?”
“I believe you do.” She held his gaze.
He exhaled, a breath that trembled slightly.
“I will do my best to take care of you,” he said quietly, sincerity edging every word, “even if I do not always know the right way to do so.”
She blinked, surprised by the rough honesty in his tone.
“And I will do my best to understand you.” She countered softly.
He leaned closer, the carriage suddenly feeling much too small.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, “I ought to start by taking care of that sharp tongue of yours.”
Her pulse tripped. “How do you intend to do that?” she whispered.
His eyes darkened fully as he leaned in. “Like this.”
His mouth claimed hers. It was not the chaste, polite kiss. It was fierce, consuming, a kiss that made her gasp softly against his lips. His hand slid to the back of her neck, drawing her in, deepening the kiss until she felt as though her entire body leaned helplessly toward him.
