Surrender Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  “Ah. And this, er, need for change brought you to Devon?” At Whitley’s nod, Marcus asked, “Do you intend to visit long in the neighborhood?”

  Whitley’s eyes slid to Isabel. His gaze returning to Marcus, he smiled and said, “My plans are not firm yet. I find that there are, ah, certain attractions in the area not to be found elsewhere.”

  “Really?” Marcus murmured, his skepticism insultingly overt. “Now, that I do find most odd, indeed! We have no particular geographical sites of interest nearby and while the Devon coast is spectacular in places, we are situated some miles inland from its charms.” The expression in his gray eyes unreadable, he said in a voice just shy of sarcastic, “Do you know, I have lived here all my life and I cannot at the moment call to mind those, er, ‘certain attractions’ that would hold the attention of a seasoned traveler like yourself. Perhaps you would care to share specifics with me? Especially since I seem to have overlooked them.”

  Whitley did not like either Marcus’s tone or the persistent questioning, but he wasn’t going to let the other man rattle him. Seeking guidance in dealing with this tall, formidable gentleman, he cast Isabel a glance. But there was no guidance to be found from that quarter; her pretty mouth half open, her eyes wide and startled, Isabel was staring at Marcus as if she had never seen him before.

  If she didn’t know better, Isabel thought incredulously, she’d swear that Marcus—staid, sober, excruciatingly polite Marcus—was determined to provoke a fight with an utter stranger! Uneasily, she stared at that rigid jaw and those cool gray eyes, wondering where the cordial, amiable, oh, and sometimes infuriating, gentleman she had known most of her life had gone.

  Since Isabel was no help, Whitley said lightly, “I find that strangers to an area are more likely to see gems all around ... gems that are overlooked by those who pass them by every day.”

  “That may be true,” Marcus agreed. “But I’d still like to know of which gems you speak.”

  Whitley’s lips tightened. Was the man obtuse? In no mood to continue to exchange veiled remarks with an irritating stranger, Whitley considered his next move. Ordinarily, in the face of the blunt hostility radiating from the stranger, he might have retreated and returned at a better time, but Isabel’s show of spirit needed to be dealt with immediately. If she thought she could fob him off so easily, she would soon learn to her cost that such was not the case! He slanted another assessing look at the newcomer and stifled an oath. Unless he missed his guess the fellow wasn’t going to give ground anytime soon. So who the devil was this country bumpkin? Realizing that the stranger had never introduced himself, Whitley said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you gave me your name.”

  “I am Marcus Sherbrook,” Marcus answered, no sign of his normal friendliness in his voice.

  “Not the ‘clutch-fisted, monster guardian’ who drove our dear Mrs. Manning from England?” exclaimed Whitley, an expression of astonishment crossing his face.

  Unsmiling, Marcus glanced at Isabel, who dropped her eyes and had the grace to blush. Looking back at Whitley, he bowed and said coolly, “The same. Although, I believe that ‘former clutch-fisted, monster guardian’ would be the correct title these days.”

  “I must say,” Whitley remarked, “that I am most happy to make your acquaintance. Since my dear Mrs. Manning spoke of you so often, why, I feel that I know you already.”

  A derisive gleam in his eyes, Marcus murmured, “How fortunate for me that my reputation goes before me.” And if this black-eyed knave, Marcus thought grimly, calls Isabel “my dear Mrs. Manning” in that smarmy tone of voice one more time ... His hand formed into a formidable fist and the satisfying image of that same fist smashing into Whitley’s face whipped through his mind.

  Unaware of how close he was to having his claret drawn, Whitley laughed. “Having met you I see now that the picture Mrs. Manning painted of you as an absolute ogre was misleading.”

  An edge to her voice, Isabel joined the conversation. “If you will remember I was very young at the time I made those remarks.”

  “Very true,” said Whitley, “but you were quite adamant about it. I remember listening to numerous complaints about your wretched guardian’s unreasonable behavior and his selfish habit of forever thwarting your plans.”

  Isabel risked a contrite glance at Marcus’s face. “It was a long time ago and has no place in this conversation,” she said tightly.

  “But it is so delicious, my dear,” Whitley said, staring at Isabel with a small, spiteful smile. “From your comments I was expecting to meet a veritable monster and instead I see before me a sensible gentleman.”

  “As Mrs. Manning stated, it was a long time ago,” Marcus said flatly, not liking Whitley’s malicious enjoyment of Isabel’s embarrassment and disliking even more the furtive apprehensive looks Isabel flashed Whitley whenever she thought herself unobserved. She was afraid of the man, Marcus concluded ominously. But why? He realized that the why didn’t matter: what mattered was that Isabel was frightened of this “friend” from her past and that it was in his power to shelter her from whatever threat Whitley represented. Abruptly, Marcus said, “It has been, ah, an enlightening meeting but if you will excuse us now, Mrs. Manning and I have business to discuss.”

  Whitley stiffened. “I do not wish to be rude, sir, but I believe that you were the one who interrupted my business with Mrs. Manning.”

  A glint leaped to the gray eyes. “Perhaps you misunderstood me,” said Marcus icily. “I have asked you politely to leave. I suggest you do so before I forget my manners.”

  Major Whitley had not survived twenty years in the military without recognizing the need for a strategic retreat. He had no idea how much of a threat Sherbrook represented, but it occurred to him that a wise man would abandon the field at this point. He looked at Isabel. There would be other meetings. Meetings that did not include the overbearing Mr. Sherbrook.

  It went against the grain, but Whitley smiled and murmured, “Ah, it appears I did misunderstand. Forgive me.” Meeting Marcus’s cool gaze, he added, “Until we meet again, Mr. Sherbrook.”

  Turning to Isabel, Whitley took her hand in his and bowed. His bow completed, he stood before Isabel and smiled. Not a nice smile. “It has been a pleasure renewing our acquaintance,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you again. We have much to discuss about the old days in Bombay, don’t we, my dear.”

  Marcus watched the exchange closely, frowning. Surely the damn fellow wasn’t threatening Isabel? But even more telling was the slight shrinking away of Isabel’s body from Whitley’s and the swiftly concealed flicker of fear he glimpsed in her eyes. His own eyes narrowed. It appeared he was going to have to take decisive action and he could think of only one way that would rout the fellow and ensure Isabel’s protection from further advances.

  Marcus strolled over and, taking Isabel’s hand from Whitley’s, he held her cold little fingers in his, and said, “Mrs. Manning and I will let you know when it will be convenient for you to call.”

  “I think that Mrs. Manning can issue her own invitations,” Whitley snapped. “She doesn’t need your permission.”

  “Ah, you’re wrong there,” Marcus said. Smiling warmly down at Isabel, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. Looking back at Whitley, he added, “You see, Mrs. Manning has recently done me the honor of accepting my proposal. As her future husband, Mrs. Manning will be asking my permission for a great many things.”

  Chapter 2

  “Pray tell me,” Isabel demanded sarcastically, “what maggot has gotten into your brain? How dare you tell Whitley that we are engaged! Of all the nonsensical notions!” Her entire body vibrating with suppressed emotion, she glared at him and Marcus correctly deduced that it was not delight that caused her reaction.

  Once Whitley had taken his abrupt leave from the newly betrothed pair, in an uncomfortable silence they had ridden to Manning Court. They were presently standing in the handsome office in the main wing of Squire
Manning’s impressive stables, the heavy mahogany door firmly shut behind them. Yellow sunlight poured into the room from the bank of narrow windows that overlooked several paddocks in which long-legged Thoroughbred mares and foals gamboled on the lush green grass.

  Arms crossed over his chest, his admirable shoulders resting comfortably against the doorframe, Marcus regarded her thoughtfully. Now why, he wondered, did I even entertain for a second the idea that she might be grateful for my intervention? He grimaced. How could he have ever forgotten that stubborn streak of independence? It had led to many a wrangle between them in the past and it appeared that nothing had changed. In his own mind, he had acted in a responsible manner, honorable even, and Isabel was furious with him. Why wasn’t he surprised?

  His appreciative gaze followed her trim little form as she stalked around the office. In an amber-colored riding habit trimmed in bronze braided silk, her red hair caught back by a green and brown plaid bow at the nape of her neck, a few bright tendrils brushing her cheeks, she made a fetching sight. Or would have, he admitted, if she hadn’t been scowling so dreadfully.

  Isabel flounced down in the padded leather chair behind a massive oak desk and, leaning her elbows on the top of the desk, buried her head in her hands. In muffled tones, she asked, “How could you have done something so reckless and irresponsible? Good God! What were you thinking?”

  That was a very good question, Marcus admitted. He had no idea what he had been thinking when he’d made his bold announcement. Not true, whispered a part of his brain; he knew very well what he had been thinking. It had been apparent to him from the first that Isabel was frightened of Whitley and had needed protection from whatever danger the fellow represented; the announcement of her betrothal to himself had provided it. Certainly, it had rocked the major onto his heels and cut the ground beneath him, Marcus thought contentedly, recalling the look on the major’s face. Marcus didn’t usually take pleasure in another person’s discomfort, but he was forced to admit that Whitley’s stunned expression and rapid retreat had given him a great deal of pleasure. The only thing that would have given him greater pleasure, he decided, would have been to draw the major’s cork and he was hopeful that the major would give him another opportunity to do just that.

  Whitley may have retreated but Marcus did not delude himself that he had heard the last of the man. Whitley had some hold over Isabel; that had been obvious to him, not so much from what Marcus had overheard, although that was damning in itself, but from Isabel’s reactions. He had not mistaken the fear in her eyes or her uncharacteristic reaction to his sudden announcement of their betrothal.

  She had not said a word, merely flashed him a complicated look of mingled astonishment, relief, dismay, and consternation before dropping her gaze. Isabel knew as well as he that he had been lying through his teeth, but she had not denied to Whitley that such a betrothal existed and that was curious. Isabel was perfectly capable of tearing a strip off him, several strips if she was angry enough, Marcus admitted, wincing, certain memories of past conflicts when they were much younger rising up in his mind, but she had stoically allowed his words to stand. There had been no outcry, no outrage, and no explosive denial—and he’d been halfway prepared to have his words hurled back in his face. But she had said nothing, even her expression giving nothing away, yet he remembered distinctly her fingers tightening on his and the nearly imperceptible movement of her body nearer to his. Whatever she might be saying now, she had been grateful for his intervention. And was probably furious with herself, he thought wryly, for feeling so.

  Pushing himself away from the doorjamb, Marcus wandered around the office. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about it,” he said finally. “It’s not as if I’d sent a notice to the Times.”

  Her head snapped up, her angry gaze boring into his. “Since it was to Whitley that you made your outrageous announcement, you won’t need to send a notice to the Times; he is the biggest gossip alive. Have no fear, half of Devon will know before nightfall.” Her gaze fell and she said bitterly, “One of the reasons for his popularity in Bombay with all the hostesses was that one could be assured of learning the latest rumors and tittle-tattle. He had the knack of knowing everything the moment it occurred.”

  “And does he know something about you?” Marcus asked quietly.

  “Of course not!”

  She said the words with enough vehemence to almost convince Marcus. Almost. He frowned. Not only was she frightened of Whitley but she wasn’t willing to talk about it. And how could he help her, Marcus wondered acidly, if she wouldn’t share with him whatever it was Whitley held over her head?

  He studied the elegant little profile presented to him as she stared out of the windows. Thirteen years had passed since they had confronted each other that fateful morning at Sherbrook Hall, but Isabel’s face showed few signs of the passing years. It was true she no longer looked the child she had been then; she was a woman now; she had been a wife, a mother, and a widow. Those events had not left her untouched, but the passing milestones in her life had only refined and honed the character and steel beneath the soft youthfulness. There was a mature beauty to her face that had not been there thirteen years ago and, though her gaze was averted from him, Marcus was conscious that her eyes, once so innocent, these days held worldly knowledge, adult awareness . . . and tightly held secrets.

  They knew each other so well, yet not at all, he admitted. Though she had lived all of her thirty years, except for the time in India, within just a few miles of him, in recent memory they had had little contact, beyond the few social affairs that they had both attended. He knew her son better than he did Isabel, having traveled with the old baron and Edmund to Scotland for an annual fishing trip the past five years. Those weeks in Scotland with Edmund traipsing at his heels had been most enjoyable and he had developed a strong fondness for the boy. Though his contact was mostly with her son and father-in-law, Marcus could not help but hear of Isabel’s doings from time to time from his mother and other friends in the neighborhood, and Lord Manning frequently mentioned events in the Manning household, which naturally included information about Isabel. But for all Marcus knew of Isabel’s life at Manning Court, he did not know her, not as he had known the much younger Isabel, and he suddenly regretted that fact.

  This was a woman before him now, with a woman’s cares and concerns, and he had not the first clue as to what went on in that lovely head of hers. Marcus sighed. Nothing would convince him that she didn’t have a serious problem in the burly form of Major Whitley but it was apparent she was not going to share whatever that problem was with him. At least not yet....

  Wandering over to the windows, Marcus stared out at the mares and foals in the paddocks in front of him. “Whitley is a stranger to the area,” he said, “and though he intimated he might visit longer, I suspect that my announcement today will send him about his business.” He sent her a long look over his shoulder. “I don’t think that Major Whitley will be a problem for you any longer.”

  “I didn’t have a problem with Whitley,” she said evenly, “but your actions today have certainly created one for us.”

  Turning away from the window, Marcus walked over to stop in front of the desk. Looking down at her, he said, “I doubt it. Only the three of us know what I said.”

  “And you think Whitley will keep his mouth shut?” Isabel asked incredulously. She snorted. “I told you he is the biggest gossip alive. Even if he thought your statement untrue, he will pass it along the first chance he gets—if for no other reason than to cause trouble. You must believe me: he delights in throwing the cat amongst the pigeons.”

  Marcus shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry overmuch about what a stranger just passing through the neighborhood has to say. We can deny his words and let it be known amongst our friends and family that the major misunderstood. As long as we give it no credence, others will follow suit.”

  For a minute Isabel looked hopeful, then her face fell. “It won’t do. Think of the go
ssip.”

  “Gossip will pass. We can stand the nonsense.” Growing irritated by her manner—after all, he’d only been trying to help—he said, “I don’t know why you must turn this into a Siddons tragedy.”

  “Perhaps because I don’t relish being the subject of gossip and speculation?”

  She had a point and he was beginning to wish he’d simply written her a damn note about Tempest and the foals. If he’d done that, at this moment he’d be comfortably at home and would never have come across the ugly little scene between Whitley and Isabel and felt compelled to interfere. So why had he interfered ... and in such a dramatic manner? He knew better than to tangle in Isabel’s affairs. Yet with no thought of the consequences, he had leaped willy-nilly into the fray and, even more astonishing, he was not sorry. The reason for his unprecedented behavior remained: Isabel had needed his protection and he had provided it.

  He didn’t see that there was such a problem. Even if Whitley did blab, everyone who knew them would think the idea of a betrothal between them a huge jest. Why couldn’t she see that no one in their right mind would think that they would make a match of it? Good Lord! They’d barely spoken to each other in years. The whole idea was ludicrous!

  Testily, he said, “If you don’t like denying it, we shall claim that it is true and in a few weeks you can cry off. Say we don’t suit or something.”

  “What? You would have me be the jilt?” she demanded indignantly.

  “Well, I can’t be the one to cry off,” he argued. “Bad ton! Everyone would think me a scoundrel.”

  “At the moment,” she snapped, “I think you are a scoundrel!”

  “Thank you very much for that,” he said bitterly. “I do you a favor and this is the thanks I get for my efforts.”