Deceiver

by Nicola Cornick

  Marcus's expression was implacable.

  "You can and you will. It is the bargain you made, my love."

  "No," Isabella said. "I will not give myself to you when you think so little of me." She threw out a hand in desperate appeal. "You knew me before, Marcus! Was your own judgment of me so faulty then that you can believe this of me now?"

  Marcus gritted his teeth. The ghosts of his love for her twisted and tormented him. "I was young," he said harshly. "Perhaps I was misled in my feelings for you."

  "You loved me," Isabella said, ashen now. "Are you saying it was all based upon a lie?"

  Her eyes were blazing. Before he could reply she added, "Why must you make yourself believe the very worst of me?"

  It was not a question that Marcus wanted to answer. Not now, possibly not ever. At the moment he could not think beyond the shocking need to have her in his bed. He did not want to confront his demons or to acknowledge that there was a chink in his defenses. Perhaps India had lied to him. Perhaps she had been jealous of his love for Isabella. And he, out of his guilt and remorse, had tried to blame Isabella for every­thing rather than admit the pain.

  Isabella's eyes were a deep, dark blue, smudged with desire. Her cheeks were pink with arousal and when he touched her, her skin felt heated beneath his fingertips.

  "You cannot deny me." He was aching to take her, afraid that he would lose all control if she refused him. "I was your first lover. You know that you want me, too."

  "You will regret this." She said it not as a threat but a simple statement of fact. "This feels wrong. It is wrong when there is so much unresolved between us."

  Marcus understood what she meant but he tried to close his mind against the knowledge. Why make matters complicated when they could be simple? They could forget the past, the accusations and the recriminations, in the heat of the present. Afterward. . .but he did not want to think about afterward. Not until he had taken her and ravished her and reclaimed her, and laid all their ghosts to rest.

  "I do not know what to think," he whispered.

  He caught her to him and kissed her with all the pent-up passion and torment that plagued him. She did not resist but she did not respond either. A tremor shook him; he gentled the kiss, courting a response rather than demanding it. Somehow he had to make this right. She had to want him as much as he wanted her. He felt her lips tremble beneath his before they parted to his searching tongue and then her whole body went soft in his arms and the sweetness of her yielding broke something within him.

  He swung her up in his arms and made for the door.

  It was only when he reached the top of the stairs that Marcus realized that he had no idea where to find Isabella's bedroom. Under other circumstances he might have found it rather amusing to be striding off to take his wife to bed, only to realize that he did not know where her bed was. Now it merely frustrated him past endurance.

  "Tell me where to go," he said, "or I swear I shall take you here on the stairs. I cannot help myself."

  He saw the shock mirrored in her face. A part of him was as appalled as she that he was behaving with so little finesse as to treat her like a whore, but he was too far gone in lust now to care. He had gained a response from her but he had lost it again now with his anger and desperation. Her voice was dry when she replied.

  "Your wooing lacks subtlety, Stockhaven," she said.

  "You will not find me lacking when the time comes," Marcus said. "The room?"

  There was an agonizing second while she appeared to consider the situation. To Marcus it felt like an hour.

  "The third door on the left," she said.

  The room was in darkness, the curtains drawn but with a rogue beam of moonlight slicing through to speckle the floor. Marcus had a brief impression of a bed with a high, carved back. He would not have cared had it been a broom cupboard. He put her gently on the bed and crossed to the door, taming the key with deliberation in the lock. The sound seemed to echo through the quiet house, signifying exactly what he was doing. He returned to her side, ripping off his neck cloth as he came toward her and discarding his shirt. He half expected her to scramble to her feet, to make some attempt to escape or to remonstrate with him. Instead she lay still, watching him, her skirts tumbled up above her thighs, her body still and open to him, wanton, abandoned. It was the most disturbing and inciting thing that he had ever seen.

  He tore the gown from her shoulders in his haste, acting with an awkwardness that spoke of nerves as well as desire. He cursed his clumsiness even as she protested.

  "My dress!" she exclaimed. "I cannot afford—"

  Damn the dress. It was in the way.

  "I will buy you another one." Marcus bent to kiss her, rough in his anxiety, his mouth claiming hers hungrily. He wanted a response from her again. He needed one. She had admitted that she wanted him. He was not taking an unwill­ing wife to his bed.

  He forced himself to a patience that he was so far from feeling it felt like a mockery. He had it all to do again. He had to coax that stiffness from her body, draw the passion from her. He had to go slowly. His body cried out against the thought but this time he ignored it.

  When her lips parted beneath his, he felt a surge of triumph equal only to the surge of desire within him. Her tongue tangled with his. His mouth moved on hers, possessive, de­manding. He cupped her face in his hands, driving his fingers into that silky dark gold hair that he had wanted to caress from the very first. She gave a little moan and moved her body ac­commodatingly beneath fiis. Marcus's lust swelled and his erection also swelled commensurately.

  He could not wait much longer.

  He pulled back to draw off his boots and saw her draw the tattered remains of her bodice close in an oddly innocent gesture. It only served to draw his gaze to the skin that it exposed. He sat down facing her on the edge of the bed, placed his hands about her waist and bent his head to the hollow of her throat. He could feel the heat that spread beneath her skin. His tongue flicked the curve of her neck, tasting her. Immediately her nipples hardened beneath the shreds of her chemise, and with a sound deep in his throat, he brushed the material aside, closing his lips over one of the cool, damp peaks. Isabella's body arched in an instinctive plea but he held her tight, his hands hard on her waist now as his mouth plun­dered the sweetness of her exposed breasts. Her soft moans and the writhing of her body pushed him perilously close to the edge but he was determined to prolong her pleasure. He was not sure how his selfish desire for satisfaction had trans­muted into a determination to please her, but now their mutual need was all embracing.

  He swept the material of her gown down, his hands moving over the bare planes of her stomach and hips in subtle caresses until Isabella reached blindly for him. She was shivering, though not with cold. He could sense the ripples of feeling edging along her skin and it roused a deep hunger in him. He kissed her again. Her mouth was warm and eager against his own and as his hands slid down to clasp her hips and pull her against his body, he parted her lips with his tongue and stroked deeper, exploring, curling his tongue with sensuous abandon against hers. He knew that her need was as acute as his own. It was implicit in the urgency of her hands on his body and the soft, broken-off gasps of her pleasure.

  He parted her thighs with infinite gentieness. He sensed her instinctive hesitation, then his fingers were stroking gently as he felt the wet warmth of her. He touched his lips to the smooth skin of her stomach, edging lower, tracing the curve of her thigh with the tip of his tongue. Very slowly, with infinite gentleness, his lips brushed the curly triangle of hair between her legs. He heard her gasp, and then he was kissing her there, holding her hips down as he touched his tongue again and again with aching tenderness to her quivering core.

  Isabella cried out. Her body tensed, her back arched and Marcus raised himself above her, easing himself between her legs, his rigid shaft poised at her entrance. He could not hold back any longer. He slid within her, feeling the heat and the incredible tightness close about
him.

  All thoughts of revenge and bitterness and anger had been burned up by his white-hot desire for her. Even so, he was unprepared for that first shattering crash of feeling as he thrust inside her and the shock and memory of it wiped out all thought. They were young again and the wooden floor of the summerhouse was hard beneath them and the summer moon poured down its blessing on them. Her skin was smooth and silver pale beneath his caressing hands as they fused, mind, body and spirit, close, closer still. . . Her finger­nails scored his shoulders, mixing pain and pleasure. He drove into her, the hard hot thrust of his body searing brighter with every driving stroke. His body was racked with blissful pleasure, so sudden and so irresistible that he cried out in both surprise and ecstasy. I love you. . .

  Was that then, or was it now? He no longer knew. Nor did he care. He had wanted to think her avaricious and amoral but now he realized that he had been fighting himself at every step in an effort to make her fit that image.

  It had never worked.

  He knew she was finer than that and that she always had been. His hatred was vanquished and relief flowed in its place. His bitterness burned out.

  He drew Isabella close to his spent body in love and profound gratitude, and fell asleep.

  It was the swish of the curtains that woke him. Marcus stirred. He could not remember ever sleeping so long or so well. It felt as though all his demons had finally been laid to rest. The light hovered behind his closed eyelids. He did not want to open his eyes or confront the day. He wanted to tell Isabella that he re­gretted the things that he had said and the suspicions he had harbored of her, He wanted to tell her that he understood how painful it must have been for her to have to make that impos­sible choice between her family and his love.

  He reached out instinctively.

  The space beside him was empty.

  "Hot water, my lord."

  Marcus opened his eyes. Belton was standing at the foot of his bed, an ewer in his hand and a towel over his arm. His expression was politely blank.

  Marcus shot up in bed. "Isabella. . .where is she?"

  Belton's eyebrows twitched infinitesimally. "Her ladyship has gone, my lord."

  "Gone?"

  Marcus looked around desperately, as though he were ex­pecting—hoping, he realized—to see Isabella hiding behind the bed hangings.

  "Gone away, my lord," Belton said lugubriously. "Her ladyship was insistent that we should not wake you."

  Hell and damnation. Lost in his own bliss, Marcus thought that he had taken Isabella with him. He had wanted her to feel the same deep pleasure that had possessed him but per­haps. . .perhaps in his selfish enjoyment he had totally failed to notice her lack of response. . .or perhaps he had taken her body but her spirit had once again eluded him. He felt sick and cold and suddenly afraid.

  Belton had turned away and was pouring the water into the bowl on the sideboard. Through the buzz in his ears, Marcus heard the splash of the water and saw Belton mop up a spilled drop with absolute precision. He leaped from the bed and grabbed the butler's arm.

  "Where has Princess Isabella gone?"

  Belton turned slowly. His expression was still impassive.

  "Her ladyship has left Town, my lord."

  Marcus shook his arm. "When? When did she go?"

  "At daybreak, my lord." The butter anticipated Marcus's next question before it was half-formed in his mind. "It is now ten o'clock, my lord."

  Ten o'clock. The numbers swam through Marcus's head like fish. Daybreak was half-past four in the summer, five at the latest. Five hours' start. Isabella could be anywhere by now, running away from him, putting as much distance between them as she could.

  Belton was standing upright like a soldier on duty. Marcus looked down, realized that he was stark naked, and released the butter's arm.

  "Thank you, Belton," he said.

  "A pleasure, my lord," the butler said. He paused. "There is a note, my lord."

  A note. Ridiculous hope surged through Marcus's heart.

  "Where?"

  Belton pointed to the little table beside the bed. Marcus picked it up and unfolded it. He noticed dispassion­ately that his hands were shaking.

  Stockhaven,

  I have gone to Salterton. You have had your wed-ding night. Now I trust you to give me my freedom.

  I.S.

  That was all. Marcus turned the paper over to make sure. The distance between them, physical and emotional, squeezed his heart. He had fallen asleep feeling closer to her than he had ever done in his life. She had merely been waiting for the dawn so that she could leave him.

  He thought now of the relentless barrage of accusations that he had thrown at her and the way he had tried to conquer her spirit. The downright cruelty of it made him shudder. He put his head in his hands.

  "Do you require a shave, my lord?" Belton asked, above his head.

  "No, thank you," Marcus said automatically.

  "Clothes, my lord?" The butler's voice held the tiniest shade of disapproval now.

  "Thank you," Marcus said automatically.

  "A horse, my lord?" Now the butler's voice held a definite message. Marcus looked up.

  "A horse?"

  Belton almost glared. "A horse, my lord."

  A light leaped into Marcus's eyes at the same moment that hope surged in his heart. Why not? He had to try.

  "Yes, I will have a horse made ready to travel, please, Belton," he said. "A fast one."

  Belton's lips twitched into the faintest of satisfied smiles. Marcus recognized this as a sign of approval. "At once, my lord," the butler said.

  Part 2—Seduction

  Salterton, July 1816

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The debt was paid and if Marcus kept his word, she was free.

  If Isabella Stockhaven had been the type of woman to confide in a bosom-bow, which she emphatically was not, she might have vouchsafed the fact that her experience of love at the hands of her husband the previous night had been out­standing. It was true that she did not have a great deal of ex­perience with which to compare Marcus's lovemaking. Sleeping with Ernest had been like being squashed by a wardrobe that still had the key in the door. But Marcus . . . Well, anyone who could make her tingle and quiver and melt with such absolute pleasure and longing had to be a master of the art. It had been a perfect wedding night in all respects but one.

  Her husband did not love her.

  Isabella was running away as fast as she could. It was not Marcus that she was running from. She was trying to outrun her own emotions. Yet she knew that no matter how she denied it, she carried those feelings with her every step of the way. There was no escape.

  She was in love with Marcus Stockhaven.

  She had never stopped loving him.

  She had told Marcus almost the entire truth the previous night, leaving out only the closest and most painful secret, her doubts over Emma's parentage. She had hesitated over this, too, wanting a clean sheet, but in the end she had not spoken because what good would it do? Emma was dead now and the anguish put behind her. Isabella never wanted to face the dev­astation of losing a child ever again. She did not want to love and she did not dare to pray for children. Once again she locked the thoughts and the feelings away.

  Even without exposing that deepest of secrets, though, the disclosures had been exhausting and costly. She had opened her heart to Marcus and it had hurt when he had rejected her explanations. Today she was tired and her feelings were rubbed raw. The journey gave her plenty of time to think. To think about the matters that she had talked about with Marcus and to think about her seduction.

  For she had been seduced, swept up in a maelstrom of sen­sation that had left no room for rational thought, as much by her own desires as by Marcus's. Her need for him had been as strong as his for her. She faced the thought squarely. She had wanted him. She wanted him still.

  Marcus's rough anxiety as he made love to her had lit something in her, a longing that was irresistible. A part
of her had never wanted to resist him anyway. Isabella trembled with the memory. It was so long since she had felt like that. She had almost forgotten. She had wanted to forget. It was a lifetime; she had been a different person then.

  To be held in Marcus's arms, to kiss him, touch him, hold him to her, was like coming home. She had been swamped by the profundity of her love for him. She had felt him inside her and her body had leaped in response but even as he'd taken her with him down that swirling, painful, blissful spiral of passion, her heart had been torn with a mixture of love and fear, for this was what she wanted but it still felt all wrong and until Marcus loved her again it could never be right.

  Afterward he had held her close and had fallen asleep at once. In the faint light he had looked young and his face was rubbed clean of all anger and bitterness and hatred. Her stomach had lurched with a combination of love and misery as she had looked on him and she had entwined herself in his arms, trying to block out the painful thoughts that battered her tired mind.

  It had not worked.

  They had achieved physical intimacy but she felt further from Marcus than ever. He did not love her. She had told him the truth in the hope that it would ease the mistrust between them. Instead she was left with an emptier feeling than before. It was as though she had gambled all on a single throw of the dice and it had not turned up the result that she desired. There was honesty between them, there was a physical closeness now that both tormented and pleasured her, but it had brought no love with it. It had never occurred to her in all the tangle of her feelings for Marcus that she had a rival for his love. Now she wondered how she could have been so blind.

  What about India? Marcus had said, and for a second she had wondered at the irrelevance of his question. That was before she had seen the anger and the loyalty and the passion in his eyes and had felt her heart sink through her velvet slippers. India. Of course. India was the one that Marcus had married. India had held his love and his loyalty then and she still had it now. Isabella knew that Marcus might want her, with that desperate, aching need that she felt, too, but that was a vastly different matter from the feelings he had had for his first wife.