Chapter Seven
Charitable Donations
The charity had been Milo’s idea, of course. He had not been shy about expressing his displeasure at how slowly matters seemed to be moving at Darkbrook.
“How have you not consummated the marriage?” he demanded, enraged. “You are not trying hard enough!”
“I am trying!” she protested. “He does not want me!”
“You were planning to betray me, weren’t you?” he sneered, grabbing her by the hair. “I could read it in your face when you left.”
“You followed me!” she gasped. “You did not give me a chance to prove my loyalty to you!”
“It is a good thing I did,” the gypsy snapped. “Look at you now, two months into a marriage and no closer to his books than when you arrived! I have never seen you act so disappointingly, wench. This is the gratitude I get when I allow you to work alone?”
“I have been trying, Milo, I swear—”
He slapped her once and released her to the ground.
“Save me your histrionics. If the man does not want you, we will simply need to find another way to get at his fortune. I have an idea.”
She had not understood at first, the idea of a charity foreign and complicated to Isadora.
“You will start a fund in his name, appealing to his ego. There is nothing a man enjoys more than being revered by the public, even one who hides away on his lands and has strange, vile rumors surrounding him,” Milo explained. “Have you heard what they say about him?”
“I have,” Isadora sighed. “I find it difficult to believe he is either a dandy or a murderer.”
“He has not touched you,” Milo jeered. “How can you say he is not a dandy? His father arranged this marriage because he worried about the blathering of the villagers.”
“What of this charity, Milo?” she asked, eager to change the subject. There was no question in Isadora’s mind that Desmond’s attraction to her was real and that he merely fought it for reasons she could not understand.
“And what of all these people who have disappeared from his lands since he arrived? He has been here for over fifty years!”
Isadora scoffed. “Impossible. He is not even that old. Perhaps his father was here first.”
“That is not the way I hear the tales.”
“It is all innuendo and superstition. I am surprised you would entertain such nonsense.”
Milo had stared at her with such scrutiny, it made Isadora uncomfortable.
“Have you developed a fancy for this misanthrope?” Milo asked, his eyes narrowing dangerously. A twinge of fear flooded her body and she shook her head in denial.
“Of course not,” she replied shortly. “I am merely explaining that it is all highly unlikely.”
She met his eyes squarely.
“You spoke of a charity?”
Milo was quiet for a long moment, weighing her answer carefully before he spoke again.
“It is quite simple, really. All you do is present him with an idea for a charitable foundation of which he will be the benefactor. You accept donations on his behalf and dole them to the needy. When he realizes how adept you are at bookkeeping, he will open his books to you and we will have our king’s ransom.”
“How can you be so certain?” she demanded although she did like the idea of helping the needy, even though the reasons were unsavory.
If something good can come of this, perhaps there is salvation for me after all.
“A man likes his wife to be useful,” Milo told her, sneering his customary sneer. “If you cannot be so in the bedchambers, you must show him you are beneficial in other ways. I cannot sit around for another two months waiting for him to bed you, Isadora. The clan awaits.”
She had come to realize, with great relief, that Milo had traveled across the Atlantic alone. She knew he was eager to return to his wife and children with the money but she was less so.
In the blink of an eye, the dream of finally escaping Milo and the others had disappeared, the very second that cottage door had opened and she had seen his face. Isadora had no idea how he had managed to arrange for employment at Darkbrook and when she asked, he only laughed.
“I can be anywhere, anytime, my dear,” he told her mockingly. “Have you learned nothing in your years with me?”
Now she had no peace, not in the English garden, not in the house. She felt Milo’s presence everywhere and despite her continuous attempts to bring Desmond closer to her, he had seemed to be pulling away with greater force.
Until that day.
He is giving you precisely what you desire, she told herself. Why is this causing you so much heartache?
Of course, she knew the real reason—that she had developed feelings for her husband, despite his desire to see her gone. She could not rejoice in the fact that he was lowering his guard around her when it would only end badly for him.
She stared blankly at the garden from her spot at the window, so lost in thought, she did not hear Bridget enter the kitchen.
“Are you well, Mrs. Waters?”
Isadora gasped and turned to stare at her.
“Yes!” she breathed, offering Bridget a wan smile. “You startled me.”
“Apologies, madam. Do you require something?”
“No,” she replied wistfully, the lie almost amusing to her own ears.
What I require you cannot get for me, she thought with some bitterness. Even God cannot help me now.
“Mrs. Waters?”
She looked at Bridget’s face. “What is it?”
“Do you know Milo from another place?”
The question sent shivers of fear through her body and she gaped at the woman in shock.
“Why would you ask such a thing?”
“It seems he follows you as though he has some loyalty to you.”
Isadora almost laughed aloud at the idea that Milo could possibly have loyalty to anyone.
“No,” she fibbed. “I do not know him.”
Bridget did not respond but with a sinking heart, Isadora could see she was not believed.
What if I told her the entire sordid tale? Isadora thought irrationally. What would she do? Would she march me before Desmond and out me as the imposter I am or would she help me?
She had a fair idea which scenario was more likely and kept her mouth closed.
“Will you cook today?” Bridget asked instead, switching subjects as though she could feel the heaviness emanating from her employer.
“I will,” Isadora replied, turning. “I believe Mr. Waters and I have reached an agreement of sorts.”
She was unsure of why she chose to disclose such an intimate detail to the servant but she felt as though Bridget might be her only friend in a house full of men she did not know or trust.
“I am pleased to hear that, Mrs. Waters. You are a good soul and deserve a happy life.”
It warmed Isadora to hear the compliment although she did not believe it.
You would not say such a thing if you truly knew me.
She moved toward the pantry and Bridget excused herself.
“If I am not required here, I will tend to my housekeeping chores.”
“I am quite fine here,” she assured Bridget but when the woman left the room, Isadora wished she had stayed. The loneliness was becoming overwhelming.
“Are you alone?”
Again, she gasped, surprised by another voice in the kitchen, interrupting her dismal thoughts.
“Yes,” she replied, looking at her husband as he sauntered through. “Is there a matter you wish to discuss?”
He did not respond with words. Instead, he moved with lightning speed to shock her with a kiss. Yet this time, she was not caught in a resistance, the need to feel him against her overwhelming her confusion. She had been so confused the last time it had happened, the party, the new marriage. Even in the study where he had brushed his lips to hers softly, she had not been certain that she was prepared for what came next.
I am doing this for me, she realized, her mouth parting as Desmond danced her back toward the counter, pulling her up along the wood, her skirts rising along her hips.
She sighed, inhaling the scent of his skin, relishing the nearness of his solid frame as he pressed her back against the surface, her hair fanning around her.
We fought this for far too long, she thought. It was inevitable to end up in this, tangled in one another.
Desmond’s kisses grew more urgent, his mouth exploring the lines of her chin, falling along the curve of her bosom, hands sliding under her dress to cup at her rear. She felt the desire in his loins, the shape of his manhood only fueling her desire as he fumbled to remove her pantaloons beneath the ruffle of clothes she wore.
“I have yearned for you from the first moment I laid eyes upon you,” he rasped and the words brought her higher into her state of pleasure as her fingers twined through his dark hair, pulling him closer to taste her breasts.
“You are mine now,” he told her, sliding himself between her legs and filling her core with one fluid movement. Isadora cried out, the sheer size of him causing her to spasm, her center closing about him and bringing him nearer.
His mouth found hers again, gasps permeating their kisses as Desmond fell into a vigorous, passionate rhythm.
In that moment, she was not a gypsy, a flimflam woman who would bring great distress upon his house. No, she was truly Isadora Waters, wife, lover and mistress of Darkbrook.
I belong here, a small voice in her mind called out to her plaintively. I am not meant to be used and abused by Milo.
Desmond groaned loudly and she arched her body upward to meet him as his thrusts grew more intense, her own body heated as they fused together as man and wife should.
Isadora’s own body tensed and together, they exploded against one another, their passions sated if only for the moment.
He lifted his head wearily, sweat dotting his brow, his blue eyes staring intently into hers.
“You belong to me now,” he told her. “Tell me.”
No, Isadora sobbed silently. I do not. I wish it were so but I cannot vow such a thing.
“Look at me and tell me you are mine.”
She blinked away the tears burning at her eyes.
“I am yours,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion. “Always.”
For even when you are gone, no one will ever claim my heart the way you have.