The Earl of Blatchford Townhouse

September, 1890

The next day, Edward arrived at the Earl's townhouse before noon, a plan ready and a heavy bit of jewelry in his pocket.

The Swan's butler took his cloak, and informed him that Lady Isabella would shortly join their guests before ushering him into a spacious drawing room with more men and flowers than there were seats.

Edward felt a prick of chagrin. It hadn't occurred to him to bring flowers. He found flowers frivolous actually, but it was undeniable that women loved them - would Isabella look unfavorably upon his lack of horticultural offerings?

Never mind, Edward decided a split second later. It was her father who he had to come to an arrangement to, not the girl in question anyway.

"If you would join the morning callers, Your Grace," the butler was saying, "Lady Isabella should be down shortly."

"No," Edward decided. "I want to speak to Lord Swan. If he is available, of course." He did not ask. Edward never asked - he stated. Demanded sometimes, because he always got what he wanted. He was a Duke; Dukes did not ask. Looking around the drawing room, Edward felt certain that there needn't be any asking where Lady Isabella's hand was concerned, anyway.

The butler returned shortly, and Edward was lead through doors and hallways, until a great double-door of polished oak was thrown open.

"The Duke of Mason," the butler announced.

"Your Grace," the Earl greeted, standing.

"Lord Swan," Edward said in reply. "I'm here to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

Charles Swan simply nodded, and gestured to a comfortable looking armchair in front of his desk. "I have only one condition..."

Both Charles Swan and Edward Cullen were efficient men with clear, attainable goals in mind. They'd conducted business before, and as all previous times, discussions went smoothly and quickly.

Therefore, by the time Lady Isabella appeared in her father's study that afternoon, the negotiations surrounding her marital future had been concluded.

"You will be wed to the Duke of Mason," Charles Swan told his only daughter. His voice bore no room for arguments. "The wedding will be this Sunday."

"I would like your hand in marriage," Edward Cullen told his future wife, and that was that.

Isabella looked up at her father, and then at the Duke, before quickly lowering her eyes to her hands.

"Of course, Father," she said, and, "I would be honored to marry you, Your Grace."

"Excellent," both men declared at the same time.

Ten minutes later, Isabella returned to her chambers with a very heavy gold and diamond bangle on her left wrist, and a weeklong engagement.

Her maid clapped.

"Oh, Lady Isabella! I'm so happy for you!" Alice squealed. "Who would have thought you to catch a Duke on the night of your debut! He's supposedly richer than Croesus - his family owns all the grandest estates and businesses - look, it's even in the papers!"

Isabella just groaned, and flopped down face first onto her bed. Her head was throbbing, she was aching all over, and honestly, she hadn't a clue in hell as to who she was marrying.

"Remind me, Alice - did I even dance with him last night?"

"Twice in a row, my lady," Alice said. "He'd the big, tall fellow you danced the waltz with."

"Right," Isabella squinted, trying to recall who that was. She had horrible, horrible eyesight in the dark, and the romantic dim lighting her mother was going for when she planned for ball didn't help. It was all she could do last night to keep from walking into people and walls.

"Copper hair, green eyes," Alice helped, as she began attacking Isabella with the hairbrush.

"Ah."

"It's in the papers, my lady. Do you want to read it?"

"Is it ... complementary?" Isabella asked her maid. "I don't want to read a mean article about myself; I'm feeling bad enough as it is."

"Not at all," Alice said, putting the hairbrush aside to grab the papers. "They have very nice things to say about you."

Isabella grimaced before reading it.

'Is the Duke of Mason coming out of his eternal bachelor state?' the title read.

Isabella groaned. "This man is either stupid or impulsive. He decides to marry me after two dances?"

"It was a waltz," Alice told her. "And not stupid or impulsive. He's clever and decisive."

"Very manly characteristics - I wholeheartedly approve of him," Countess Swan agreed, entering her daughter's chambers without knocking. "My dear daughter - who would have thought you'd catch a duke on your first bow to society!"

"Yes, well. No one, it seems," Isabella grumbled. "Maybe he's blind. Who decides to marry after two dances? And a week-long engagement - I barely know this man!"

"Blinded by your beauty," Lady Renee said cheerfully. "You are beautiful, Isabella. You know that - you look like me! For heaven's sake, the whole ton knows about that. He probably heard about you even before yesterday night, you know. Everyone has been talking about La Belle Isabella, daughter of the Ravishing Renee - "

Isabella sniggered. "Maman, your self-confidence knows no bounds."

"Women," Lady Renee simply said. "We need to know our worth and take gladness in our bodies. If we don't love ourselves first, how will men love us? Isabella, my daughter - you are beautiful, and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise!" she said, grasping her daughter's face in both of her hands.

"Right," Isabella muttered.

Lady Renee turned her attention back to the pile of newspapers, and Alice resumed her brushing.

"Lost his heart to the beautiful swan," Lady Renee picked up another paper. "That is so romantic, is it not?"

Alice nodded in agreement, as Isabella rolled her eyes.

"Did the Duke actually say that he lost his heart? Because he didn't seem besotted to me - though my eyesight was so bad that I wouldn't know. You didn't light nearly enough lamps," Isabella frowned at her mother.

"His face spoke volumes," Lady Renee sighed, choosing to ignore her daughter's criticism of the lighting arrangements.

"It had better. We were completely silent while dancing, if I recall correctly."

"That's excellent," Lady Renee beamed. "It's for the better - that's how men like women."

"What? Mute and blind?"

"Don't be difficult. He'll love you regardless of your ability to see at night or make clever conversations."

"He'll love me for my delicious dowry," Isabella grinned. "Does it come with a crate of that expensive wine you drink like water?" Isabella asked her mother, nodding to the bottle Renee was taking a healthy swig from every now and then.

"I'm not sure. A cellar of it, maybe? I've never discussed your dowry with your father, actually. Maybe I'll stop drinking this - I'm not certain your new husband will appreciate my taste in liquid. I must develop some respectable traits so I'll be allowed to visit when we return to England."

"Why?" Isabella asked, rolling to the side as Alice finished with her hair. "Is he a stick? And where are you going?"

"I don't know him any better than you," Renee told her daughter, glancing at the bottle of wine quite forlornly. "And hasn't your father told you? We're going to Italy after your wedding."

"Italy! For how long? When?" Isabella asked, sitting upright suddenly. "And no, Father failed to mention anything of this sort."

"For a year or two. Your father has some business to conduct there, and he insisted that I follow along," Lady Renee said. "We're taking the ship next week - that's why your engagement is only a week long. It was a stipulation put out by your father, you know."

"I thought he was simply in a hurry to get rid of me," Isabella said bitterly. "Not only are you two washing your hands off me in such a haste - you're fleeing the country. Even you," she said, sounding a little betrayed. And she did feel betrayed, Isabella was dismayed to notice. All her life, her father had treated her with indifference and the occasional bouts of violence that bothered on cruelty - but her mother had been caring and relatively warm, or as caring as Renee could be. But now, even she was leaving Isabella all alone in England?

"Your husband will take care of you," Lady Renee said faintly. "Don't be upset, Isabella - "

"I'm not," Isabella said, looking away to prevent her mother from seeing the hurt in her eyes as she lied blatantly. "I'm truly not."

"No?" Lady Renee asked, doubtful.

"No. It's alright - father never did care much for me, anyway. He's probably overjoyed that I got engaged on my debut ball."

"It was a relief, certainly," Lady Renee mused, utterly oblivious to the way Isabella seemed to be even sadder at her proclamation of that fact. "I'm not sure what we would have done if we couldn't get you married out before we left the country."

Isabella sighed. "Tell me something about the Duke, then - since I'm due to marry him in a week. You said he's a bit of a stick?"

"A little bit stickish," Lady Renee decided, taking a swig of her alcohol again. "But nothing you're not used to, given your father's nature."

Isabella groaned. "I was hoping to avoid marrying someone like father," she said, her voice muffled from where she had buried it against her pillows.

"The Duke doesn't look like the violent sort," Lady Renee quickly said. "And your father is not so bad - I'm sorry. He only takes out his frustration on you because I can't provide a son for him - "

"He's out of the house all the time," Isabella continued, her voice growing louder and more muffled by the second as she aired her grievances for what might be the last time before her parents left. "And he hardly takes you anywhere. And when he's at home, all he does is scold me, or throw porcelain bits at me. Which is quite unfair, seeing that I've never given him the least cause to worry."

"You are the most obedient child anyone could wish for," Lady Renee said fiercely, reaching out to brush her thumb over the bruise her husband had left on her only daughter's cheek. Sometimes, Lady Renee wished she could do something to stop Charles from being so ... so mean to their daughter. She was their flesh and blood, after all, even though she lacked a prick and two balls down there. But whenever she tried to broach the subject, her husband grew even angrier, and turned his anger towards her. In her cowardice, Lady Renee had stopped trying to protect her only daughter from her husband's wrath.

Couldn't Isabella see that this was the best way out for her? Lady Renee wondered, trying to keep her own tears at bay.

"It doesn't matter, Isabella," Lady Renee managed to say, her voice coming out relatively steady despite the torrent of emotion she was feeling inside. Guilt. Anger. Inadequacy. "It doesn't matter. Your father and I are very lucky to have you."

"But I'm not a man," Isabella sighed, her body slumping as if in defeat. "And that's why father hates me, isn't it."

"Isabella," Lady Renee sighed, her voice helpless.

"It's alright," Isabella said, trying to sound cheerful even as she felt dreadfully tired and sad thinking about her father, and the obtuse reason why he seemed to enjoy throwing stuff at her, shouting at her, kicking her ...

"It's alright," she said again, a little louder this time. Whether she was trying to comfort her mother or herself, Isabella couldn't say.

-.-.-

On the road to Scotland

September, 1890

"How long will the journey be?" Rosalie asked her duke, trying not to fall asleep in the rocking carriage. She hadn't been able to sleep a wink all night, courtesy of errant thoughts regarding one Duke of Argyll, Emmett McCarthy, and the lulling motion of the carriage was threatening to pull her into the zones of jumping sheep.

"Five days, a week at most," Emmett assured her. "Are you tired, my dear? We'll stop at an Inn tonight, I've had my agent ride ahead of us to ensure the rooms are booked."

"No, I'm perfectly fine," Rosalie assured her husband, staring at him with wide eyes. Emmett was sprawled across from her on the cushions, indolent and boneless, despite having rode for three hours along-side the carriage on a gigantic thoroughbred.

"Excellent," Emmett murmured, staring over at his wife lazily. His wife. It was almost unreal, how he was traveling in a carriage with the girl he'd been married to after ten years of not seeing her. She had grown into a lovely, sensual, utterly ravishing Venus that Emmett was longing to unclothe and have his way with, and only the deeper desire to first have her in his bed stopped him from doing that there in the carriage. As it were, his pants were uncomfortably tight and he had a perpetual rod in his pants. Any more of this and he was sure his balls would drop off.

"What we should do is get to know each other better," Emmett decided, after a lull in the conversation. "In the normal course of events, we'd be married and bored by now, knowing everything about each other from the way we drink our tea to side of the bed we sleep on. But as it is, I don't even know what you've done this week."

"I've attended a ball," Rosalie pointed out the obvious. "And it's hardly my fault that my husband leapt out a window before the ink had barely dried on the wedding documents and set sail for Africa."

"That is true," Emmett acknowledged. "And I am sorry - if I had known that your parents had passed - I'd have returned sooner, I swear."

"There's no need," Rosalie sighed, looking away. She so hated awkward conversation. And what she hated more than awkward conversation was pity, which was plain in her husband's eyes. It irked her, and Rosalie refused to be irked by something that wasn't her fault. "What have you been doing in Africa?" she asked instead. "Your father said you were tracing a blue river or something."

"Yes," Emmett said. "The River Nile. It runs through Egypt - along the great pyramids and such. I traced it for a bit - a geographer commissioned me to - and then traced the Blue Nile that runs off into Ethiopia. It was beautiful - all clear blue water and clear blue sky."

"Aren't all rivers blue?" Rosalie asked, sounding dubious.

"I find the rivers in England rather grey and brown," Emmett said. "At any rate, it was lovely. They have beautiful fabric too, in Egypt. In fact, I bought back all sorts of silk and cotton. They're in a shipping cargo that I've sent my agent to collect and send ahead so you can have some new gowns made. Or sheets for our bed, if you'd prefer."

"That- that's nice," Rosalie stuttered, shocked that her husband would think of that.

"Why?" Emmett teased. "Did you think I had forgotten entirely about my wife while I was having the time of my life miles away?"

Rosalie met his eyes, and Emmett saw that she did, in fact, think that.

"Oh, Rosie," Emmett sighed, a deep, heavy sigh of a man who felt deeply.

"I'm sorry," Rosalie said, blinking. "I wasn't sure - I thought - "

"You thought I didn't want you," Emmett said, crossing the bench to sit next to his wife. He pulled Rosalie's striking form into his arms, and laid back against the cushions. "Well, I did. I do. I was irresponsible for leaving you the way I did - but I was twenty - "

"I know," Rosalie murmured. "I know."

-.-.-

The inn was a flurry of activity when they arrived that evening. There were a great deal of people, all men wearing Emmett's colors, black and dark green, leading horses hither and thither and hoisting trunks. Emmett helped Rosalie down the carriage, and a tall, dark man bowed.

"Welcome to the Kelp's Inn, Your Grace," the man said, stiff and formal. He looked older than Emmett, with a moustache that was graying.

Emmett slapped the man on the back in greeting, hugging him roughly with the one hand he wasn't holding on to Rosalie. "Rosie, meet Garrett McAllen, my factor - or estate manager, rather. I've inherited him from my father. McAllen - this is my wife."

"Pleasure to meet you, Duchess," Garrett bowed low again. "Welcome to the Kelp's Inn. You've the best bedchamber, Your Grace, and the innkeeper's wife has prepared a special dinner for you."

Emmett grinned, and patted his stomach. "I am looking forward to it," he declared. "Where is the innkeeper and his wife who has cooked for me? We shall thank them and partake in the surely delicious dinner they have so kindly prepared, and retire to rest."

An hour later, they had retired to the bedchamber. Rosie's maid had prepared a hot bath, which sat steaming in the middle of the room, behind a thin screen.

Emmett looked at the hot water, and then at Rosalie, his loins aching.

Rosalie swallowed. How was she to bathe with her husband in the same room? She hadn't even seen him in almost ten years! It was borderline embarrassing, this situation she was finding herself in. Would it be rude for her to ask Emmett to leave the chambers? What was the point of that, really, Rosalie thought in the next second, still standing stock still in the middle of the room. He was bound to see her naked sooner or later.

But her maid made the decision for her.

"Lady Rosalie will bathe in private," Kate told Emmett firmly. "You may wait outside, Your Grace. She will be ready in half an hour."

"Why - " Emmett said, sounding almost surprised. He'd never been told what to do by anybody before, much less a maid. "I have prepared a bath for you in your dressing room," Kate continued on, unperturbed. "You may bathe in there."

Bemused, and with not much of a choice, Emmett turned into the adjoining dressing room, but not before giving Rosalie a lingering, meaningful glance that spoke of the night ahead.

Their wedding night - albeit ten years late.

When he returned, hair damp and freshly bathed with naught but a tiny scrap of towel around his waist, Rosalie was in the bed. She was wearing a French nightgown of pale pink silk, the color of the youngest of roses. Emmett inhaled sharply. Rosalie was sitting on the covers, and the silk of her nightgown caught between her extended legs as she reclined on the pillows.

"You look exquisite," Emmett exhaled, his voice strangled. "I was a right fool to leave you alone for ten years," he said, stalking over the room to the large bed.

Rosalie shrugged, the movement causing the neckline of her flimsy nightgown to slide down her right shoulder, exposing an expanse of silky white skin.

"You are the prettiest thing I've ever laid my eyes on," Emmett continued, now sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving her body.

"What about all that naked people in Africa?" Rosalie asked, her voice deceptively light.

"They were men," Emmett told his wife, now leaning over her. "And I am only interested in women. You. I want you," he said, reaching out a large hand to cup the back of her head. "Desperately."

Rosalie blinked, and Emmett took that as consent.

Large hands fumbled with her gown, until the laces were untied and rose silk was slipping off her shoulders - her hips - and she was bare under him. Somehow, his towel can came undone, and Rosalie could feel his very large male appendage poking her in the hips.

"What - " Rosalie started, feeling strangely shy, as Emmett's large hands ghosted over her body tenderly. "Aren't you going to -"

But he was kissing her in the next moment, deep boneless kisses that made her wind her arms around his neck and pull his body down onto hers. Instinct taught her everything she needed; her hands slid down his muscled back and onto his bottom, curving over firm buttocks, slipping between his legs.

"You - " His voice was pained, and he arched his back. "Oh god, Rosie - that feels so good."

She started laughing, laughter of relief and pure joy, and his mouth came down on hers with desperation. His tongue danced with hers, and she bucked her hips against him. Emmett groaned, and adjusted his body such that he was laying in between her legs. Then, his stiff, firm cock was right there, right where Rosalie was aching and wet, and -

And he was licking a path down her neck, sucking and nipping, and a large hand caressed her right breast -

Rosalie moaned, and shifted her hips.

And then, he pressed against her, slipping into her wet folds, and she arched her back.

"Rosie," Emmett exhaled, kissing her again with wild abandon as he pulled back and then thrust forward again, fanning the flame that was steadily building in her middle. "Does it - hurt?"

"No," Rosalie managed to answer through the haze of pleasure that was consuming her. "Don't- don't stop," she bit out, arching her hips towards him.

"Gladly," Emmett said, and then nothing more was said within their bedchamber, only the sounds of pleasure and that of the large bed creaking surrounding them.

-.-.-