Deceiver

Deceiver Page 15

by Nicola Cornick

  "Good evening, my lord."

  "Good evening, Belton." Marcus stepped inside, glancing around the hall for any sign of Isabella. He was aware of feeling a curious tension. "Is Lady Stockhaven at home?"

  "Her Serene Highness," Belton said with emphasis, "has retired for the night, my lord."

  A suspicion was growing in Marcus's mind; a suspicion that Isabella, far from retiring, was out on the town and that her servants were covering up for her. He had known it could not possibly be true that she had no social engagements. No doubt she was at some risqué dinner with Carew and Lonsdale dancing attendance.

  "I would like to see her," he said.

  Belton's mouth turned down at the corners. He was standing foursquare in front of the staircase, as though he was physically forbidding Marcus to proceed.

  "I regret that Her Serene Highness gave no instructions for you to be admitted, my lord," he said.

  T am her husband," Marcus pointed out.

  "That is so, sir," Belton agreed with unruffled calm. Still he did not move.

  Marcus looked at Belton and Belton looked back at him, unflinching.

  "Belton? Who is calling at this ungodly hour? I am trying to sleep!"

  Marcus looked up abruptly.

  Isabella was standing at the head of the stairs. She had a pale blue robe on and her hair was loose, tumbling about her face and down her back. Her feet were bare. It was quite obvious that she had been in bed. Marcus's heart lurched. He realized that he had not seen her like that since she was seventeen.

  Isabella did not come down. She stood on the top step, one hand resting on the banister, and looked down at him. The height of the stair, its curving elegance, seemed to give her an air of untouchable authority.

  Marcus looked pointedly at Belton, who in turn gazed blankly into the middle distance.

  "Excuse me, Belton. I would like to talk to my wife." Marcus could barely keep the impatience from his voice.

  Belton turned. "The Earl of Stockhaven would like to speak with you, Your Serene Highness."

  There was a pause. "Then let him come up, Belton," Isabella said.

  Marcus took the stairs two at a time and reached Isabella's side in mere seconds.

  "You were in bed," he said slowly. He reached out and touched her cheek. Her skin was warm and soft beneath his fingers. Because he touched her so seldom, and wanted to touch her all the time, it felt like an intolerable temptation. He wanted to tangle his hands in her unbound hair and feel its silkiness between his fingers; that autumn hair, vivid with red and brown and gold. He saw her lashes flicker. She swal­lowed. Although she was unmoving beneath his touch, he sensed the same ache of longing in her blood that was in him. Her eyes were a deep blue, slumberous with a desire she could not conceal.

  "It is past eleven," she said, and her tone was even although he could see the pulse beating frantically in her throat. "What did you wish to talk about, my lord?"

  Marcus's mind was blank. Talking was not at the top of his priorities.

  "I—" He could not begin to remember why he had come here in the first place. His hand slipped to the smooth skin of her neck, stroking down to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her fingers clenched on the robe, holding it closer to her chest.

  "I wanted to see you," he said.

  She looked at him briefly and then away. "I thought that you were engaged tonight?" Her tone was a little husky.

  "I was. My business is concluded."

  His hand was on the nape of her neck now. It's curve felt so warm and vulnerable beneath his fingers. Her hair, loose about her shoulders, brushed his sleeve. He continued to stroke her skin softly, almost absentmindedly, his gentle touch a fierce contradiction to the desire raging within him. Her mouth was so close to his. It would take very little to kiss her—as he had wanted to do since that last, incendiary embrace in the Fleet.

  "I thought I saw you," he said. "Whilst I was out this eve­ning. . ."

  It was barely intelligible but Isabella understood enough. The light faded from her eyes and she stepped back from his touch.

  "I see." Her tone was dull. "You thought you saw me, despite the fact that I had told you I should be at home. So you came to check if I had lied to you."

  "No!" Marcus's objection was instinctive, even as he realized that she was in fact correct. He felt suddenly cold, as though something were slipping from him before he had truly grasped it. He fell silent, a silence that condemned him aloud.

  "Well," Isabella said after a moment, "you can see that I was at home in bed. Alone. Which is where I should like to return now that you have satisfied your doubts. Belton will show you out."

  Marcus hesitated. He wanted to explain that it had not simply been that he had doubted her. He had wanted to see her. He thought about her all the time. He was beginning to see that he needed her. But she had turned from him now without another word. Belton was already holding the door for him. And nothing but the hot night beckoned.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "What the devil. .."

  "Your conversation lacks variety these days, old fellow," Alistair Cantrell complained, putting down the papers he had been reading. "Whatever can be the matter now?"

  Marcus looked up from the morning copy of the Times. Once again they were in the reading room at White's, Alistair working on the column he wrote for the papers and Marcus reading the early-morning copies of the news. There had been a peaceful silence between them until Marcus's explosion of wrath. Now he read aloud:

  "'The Princess Isabella Di Cassilis would like it made clear that she did not marry the Earl of Stockhaven for his money. Indeed, the princess would like to point out that it is the earl who is the fortune hunter, since through the match he has gained possession of Salterton Hall in Dorset, a property that he has long desired. First the earl married Miss India Southern, who at the time was heiress to the Salterton estate. Now he has married her cousin to make certain of the prop­erty—"' Marcus slapped the paper down in an explosive gesture. "Damnation! I cannot believe she has done this!"

  He looked up to see Alistair trying to smother a smile. "What is the matter with you?" he demanded ungraciously. "It is not amusing!"

  "Yes it is, old chap," Alistair said amiably. "Did you not ask the princess to send in a retraction?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "And has she not done what you asked of her?"

  'Technically, but she knew that this was not what I meant!" Marcus crumpled the paper furiously in his hand. "Devil take it, I am starting to believe that she married me just to plague me!"

  "Whereas she," Alistair said pointedly, "knows that that is the reason you married her. Revenge can work two ways, Marcus, and I hesitate to mention that you were the one who started this."

  Marcus grunted. He knew Alistair was right, although he did not wish to admit it. He had provoked Isabella with his high-handed behavior and she had responded by challenging him every step of the way. There were plenty who would say that he had only himself to blame.

  "You should see the Gentlemen's Athenian Mercury," Alistair said, picking up his work again. "They have printed a far more scurrilous story."

  Marcus grabbed the other paper. "What? Where?" He rummaged through the pages, almost tearing them in his haste.

  "The Society column," Alistair said.

  Marcus finally found the right page.

  '"Hot on the heels of the startling news of a certain prin­cess's less than flattering opinion of English lovers comes the even more extraordinary news that she has taken one of these gentlemen to her heart. We are assured on the highest author­ity, that of the august newspaper, the Times, that a marriage has been contracted between Her Serene Highness and the Earl of S. We await with bated breath the new countess's opinion on the amatory capabilities of her husband. Given the lady's outspokenness we feel it will not be long before the whole of London is aware of her judgment on the subject. . . ."'

  Marcus gritted his teeth. "Hell and the devil! Do you think that
Isabella wrote that, too?"

  "I doubt it," Alistair said calmly. "Have you not noticed that someone is selling stories about your wife to the papers, Marcus? The Mercury has been printing them for ten days or more."

  "I never read this rag," Marcus said, tossing the Mercury aside. "It is full of nothing but scandal and slander."

  "Steady on." Alistair looked offended. "I write for the Mercury myself. What about my advice column for young gentlemen?"

  In reply, Marcus twitched the paper from his friend's hand.

  '"Gentlemen, I pray that you will help me,'" he read aloud. '"My father is determined that I should marry a very old widow woman of thirty with a fortune of two hundred pounds a year and an inclination for young men and gambling. I cannot bear to make such a match. Pray assist me with your advice.'"

  Alistair looked at him. "What would you tell the young gentleman to do, Marcus?"

  "I would tell him to obey his father and cease writing ri­diculous letters to newspaper columnists," Marcus said, putting his feet up on the table and passing the letter back to his friend.

  "Hmm." Alistair bit the end of his pencil. "I do not believe you have the sympathetic nature required to advise the young, Marcus."

  "Of course not," Marcus said. "I do not have the patience. Why does the father not marry the woman himself, if he is so anxious to attach her fortune?"

  "I expect that the lady is more enthusiastic for a young bed­fellow than an older one," Alistair said with a grin. "And who could blame her?"

  Marcus shifted in his chair. He had little sympathy for the sexual frustrations of others that morning, being too preoc­cupied with his own.

  "I cannot conceive why you bother dishing out advice to importunate young men," he said.

  "Because, my friend," Alistair said, without rancor, "I am not as rich as you. I can make a tolerable if not excessive living from my writing and occasionally the letters from youths are interspersed with something more interesting."

  "Since you write for the same paper," Marcus said, struck by an idea, "you may be able to identify the mysterious gossip who writes about Isabella."

  "I might," Alistair said. He smiled slightly. "I already have my suspicions."

  "You do?" Marcus stared at him.

  "Leave it with me," Alistair said.

  "Very well." Marcus stood up and stretched. "In the meantime I shall deal with my errant wife."

  "Are you going to attempt to persuade her to print yet another retraction?"

  "No," Marcus said. "Clearly that did not work."

  "Clearly."

  "So I shall have to do something else."

  "Any ideas?" Alistair inquired.

  "Something will come to me," Marcus said.

  Alistair looked at him over the top of his reading glasses. "You do realize, Marcus, that if you push Princess Isabella hard enough, she may well tell everyone that she married you in the Fleet—where you were masquerading as a debtor? If that story came out, you would have even less chance of finding Warwick."

  Marcus's expression hardened. "Isabella and I have an agreement that if she speaks on that, I will tell everyone that she married a debtor to save her own skin."

  "I have said before that your marriage is outrageously ro­mantic," Alistair said. "I did not know the half of it!" He sighed. "Take heed of one who makes a living from giving advice, and do not try to tell Princess Isabella what to do. I have noticed that it has a detrimental effect on the feminine sex."

  Marcus scowled. "India was always very biddable."

  Alistair swiftly turned a snort into a cough. "Well, you know best, old man. I have never had the pleasure of being married, of course, so what do I know? I wish you the best of luck."

  But as Marcus stalked out of the room, Alistair was shaking his head ruefully and mentally placing a very large bet on Princess Isabella emerging the victor in this particular contest.

  I require you to accompany me to a dinner this evening with Mr. and Mrs. Henry Belsyre. I regret the short notice. Please dress appropriately. Stockhaven.

  Isabella was drumming her fingers on the black-and-white checkered top of the games table. Ernest had used it for cards but at one time it had had matching black and white marble chess pieces as well. Ernest had sold the set years before because chess was not a game he could gamble on.

  Isabella, on the other hand, had always enjoyed chess. It was a game of skill and strategy. An old Austrian general she once played against had told her that she would have made a brilliant soldier, for she had a tactician's mind. And now her strategy was working out rather well.

  Her eye fell on Marcus's note again. That was all there was. He had made no mention of the piece in the Times but no doubt this was his peremptory response, to curb the rein and remind her that she was his to command. Tonight he was de­manding her presence at his side. She was expected to jump when he called.

  The one thing Marcus had not banked upon, of course, was that she already knew Mr. and Mrs. Belsyre rather well. During the course of a long career in the diplomatic service, the American ambassador and his wife had been posted to Sweden while Isabella was also living there. They had become the greatest of friends. So much so, in fact, that when Isabella had written hastily the previous day to welcome them back to London and invite herself and Marcus to dinner, they had not minded expanding their impressive guest list to include the Earl and Countess of Stockhaven.

  Marcus was not to know that, of course. Isabella had asked Mrs. Belsyre to address the invitation to her husband and to make no mention of the fact that they were previously acquainted.

  She smiled. This was one order Marcus had issued that would be her pleasure to comply with. And with any luck, it would also be the last.

  Matters went awry for Marcus at a very early stage that evening. When he arrived in Brunswick Gardens to collect his wife, he found her swathed from head to foot in a black cloak and so was quite unable to tell whether she had dressed ap­propriately for the dinner or not. He was not in the mood to take any risks, however. He did not trust her not to have chosen some outrageous outfit simply to embarrass him. 'Take your cloak off," he said.

  Isabella stared at him for an unnervingly long time before she obeyed. Her expression was quite blank. Then she per­mitted the cloak to sup from her shoulders and fall to the floor.

  Her gown was quite simply the most sinfully beautiful creation he had ever seen. Marcus realized that he was gaping and shut his mouth with a snap. Of deep cherry-red silk, it swathed every inch of her from her neck to her ankles, wrapping her in a sinuous sheath of material. The color suited her to perfection. It made her skin radiant and her eyes glow a deep, forget-me-not-blue. She took his breath away.

  There was absolutely nothing about the outfit that he could object to—and it was absolutely not the type of gown he wanted other men to see his wife wearing. Not when he was unable to strip the clothes from her and make love to her with all the pent-up fury and feeling that possessed him. The thwarted desire that he had managed to repress since the previous night came back with a potent rush. Damn it, she would drive him insane at this rate.

  "That is very—" He paused. It was not too tight, yet he could see every curve, every tine of her body defined in ex­quisite and tantalizing detail. The surge of sexual frustration that shook him then silenced him for a moment.

  "Very nice," he finished lamely.

  Isabella looked disdainful. "Did you think that I would dress like a whore to humiliate you? I assure you, my lord, that I have plenty of self-respect even if I have no respect for you."

  Marcus winced at her accurate assessment of his thoughts. He knew respect was not a God-given right. His years in the navy had shown him that it had to be earned and he could not deny that he had done precious little to earn Isabella's in the time that they had been married. And yet he reminded himself that this was the woman who the Ton reviled as an adventur­ess, the woman who had taken India Southern's inheritance from her and ruined her relationship wi
th her mother. He would do well to remember that whatever hand Isabella was dealt, she deserved.

  He bent down and picked her cloak up for her, remember­ing that he had something to give her.

  "I want you to wear these." He withdrew a small, velvet bag from his pocket. "They are the Stockhaven jewels."

  The necklace was of diamonds, not the huge, ostentatious type, but a web of tiny, sparkling, delicate drops of tight strung on a golden thread. He held them out to her but she did not take them. She shook her head slightly.

  "It is not right for me to have these. I have plenty of paste jewelry."

  Marcus frowned. "It is appropriate for my wife to wear the Stockhaven jewels."

  Isabella pushed his hand away gently, and with it the bag and the necklace. "Appropriate. How you like that word, Marcus. I do not think it appropriate for your estranged wife to wear this. It is so exquisite that it should be worn with love."

  Estranged. It was a very lonely word.

  Marcus struggled. "India never wore them. She did not care for them."

  He had not meant to tell Isabella that; had not meant the words to come out at all. He owed India his loyalty, even if it was the only thing he could now give her.

  He thought Isabella would look pleased that her cousin and rival had not worn the jewels. He was already proffering the necklace to her again when she turned aside from him.

  "That was not what I meant." She swung round so suddenly that Marcus was startled. "Give them to someone you care for, Marcus. They are too good for anything else."

  She took the cloak from him. It swirled about her as she crossed the marble floor to the door, her evening slippers clicking sharply on the stone. She did not even pause to see if he was following her.

  "Are you acquainted with Mr. Henry Belsyre?" he asked as they seated themselves in the carriage.

  Isabella did not look at him. "The ambassador of the United States of America? Yes, I have met him before. I did not know that the Belsyres had returned to London, though. They served a term of office here before, did they not?"

 

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