"Yes, your lordship." Toby was determined to make a clean breast of it. "And I am sorry I brought that snake Kingsford into it as well, although I had nothing to do with his locking you and Miss Lambert in your bedchamber. Dashed bad show, that."
"Not really." After a year, Alex could look back upon the incident without wanting to kill the young lord and his vicious sister, who had lured Pip to his room under false pretenses. "And if one may quote the Bard: 'All's well that ends well.' "
"Perhaps, but I wish you to know that I sincerely regret the incident," Toby said, pleased at how well the viscount was taking his apology. Perhaps he could make it through the Season without the viscount putting a bullet through him after all, he thought with a flash of optimism.
Alex and Marcus exchanged another look. "Apology accepted, Flanders," Alex said, rising to his feet to offer Toby his hand. "Now, let us speak no more of the matter. Hmm?"
"Yes, my lord." Toby eagerly accepted the other man's hand. Evidently there was much to recommend responsibility, he decided with a flash of newfound insight.
"By the by, Flanders, I hear congratulations are in order," Alex said, once he had resumed his seat. "May I wish you and the young lady happy?"
"Yes, my lord, you may," Toby said proudly. "Mr. Dolitan ain't given his permission just yet, so we can't be posting the banns, but we're hopeful he will give us the nod."
"Yes, I am sure you are," Alex answered with a look in his dark blue eyes that made Toby wonder if perhaps he had been too hasty in his relief. "But first a word of advice to you, Flanders, if I may."
"Advice?" Toby swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.
"Take care not to embroil your fiancée in any of your silly wagers. I should hate to see Miss Dolitan's good name bandied about as was my wife's only last year. Her honor is your honor now, and vice versa. See that you remember that."
Toby stuttered a promise to guard Julia's name with his life, and then fled from the room, leaving Marcus to shake his head at the viscount.
"There was no need to terrorize the lad," Marcus chided with a reproving look. "I told you, I'd already given him a severe dressing down for his part in that farce, and he's had nothing to do with Kingsford since. He is reformed."
"Perhaps." Alex dismissed Toby with a cool shrug. "Although I hold with the old saw that leopards seldom change their spots, and if this last stunt is any indication, our young kit has a spot or two left that bears watching. I can't believe we managed to avoid scandal . . . again. The gods must be smiling on us."
Marcus thought of the letter in his pocket. "Alex, may I ask you something?"
"What?"
Marcus hesitated, not certain what to say. Alex had been present when Miss Portham had made her accusations, and although he'd never referred to them again, he could not help but wonder if he agreed with at least part of what she had said. "Do you think I am a fortune hunter?" he asked, his gray eyes meeting Alex's blue gaze. "The truth, if you please."
Alex raised a dark eyebrow, but other than that small outward sign, he managed to hide the severity of the shock he'd been dealt. He remained silent, debating on whether to be truthful or tactful, but in the end he knew only the truth could stand between them. Drawing a deep breath, he faced Marcus squarely.
"Since last year, you have been open with me about your need to make a profitable marriage," he said, his deep voice even, "so in that respect I suppose you could be labeled a fortune hunter. However," he added when Marcus would have turned away, "most fortune hunters lack your integrity and decency. Rather than being honest about their intentions, they disguise them behind words of love, offering sweet promises of affection only to betray their luckless wives once the money is safely in their control. That is something you would never do, and so no, I would have to say that you are not a fortune hunter."
"Then what the devil am I?" Marcus demanded, his voice strained with emotion.
"An honorable man who will do whatever it takes to protect his family and his name," Alex said calmly, stepping forward to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I do not fault you for that, Marcus, nor in her heart does Miss Portham."
"You sound certain of that," Marcus answered with a bitter laugh, remembering her fiery anger as she'd shouted at him.
"I am," Alex replied, wishing he could tell Marcus what Pip had told him in confidence the night of the kidnapping. Perhaps if he knew of Miss Portham's early life, he would understand the pain behind her angry words.
"She is much like my Pip in that regard," he said instead, cautiously sharing with Marcus what he could. "The nature they show the world is but a sham designed to protect them from the cruelty of others." When Marcus still looked unconvinced, he added, "You have come to know Miss Portham rather well these past few weeks; is she really The Icicle you once named her?"
A hundred images filled Marcus's head. Images of Miss Portham riding in the park, her golden eyes sparkling with affection as she teased Julia; or Miss Portham dressed in a stunning ball gown, her blond hair wisping about her face as she defiantly faced him across a stone balcony. She was a warm, vital, beautiful woman, and as far removed from an icicle as it was possible to be. He realized with a sinking heart that he'd ceased thinking her as one a very long time ago, and the realization brought a fresh flash of pain.
"No," he said, turning away from Alex's too-seeing gaze. "She is not."
"Then when she apologizes, you will accept?"
Marcus discreetly raised one hand to touch the letter lying against his heart. "I will accept," he said, the words sounding as empty and as cold as his soul.
Eight
"G o to theater while you remain home alone? Nonsense, Belle, I could never be socruel!" Julia's soft blue eyes were filled with reproach as she studied her cousin. They had just finished tea and were discussing how to spend the evening. Georgiana was set for a few hands of Pope Joan, while Julia was looking forward to a quiet night of reading. It never occurred to either lady to leave the invalid to her own devices, and they were shocked by the very suggestion.
"Indeed, we could never consider such a thing," Georgiana added with a disapproving frown. "Whatever would people say?"
"Very little, I should imagine," Belle replied wearily, reaching up to rub her temple. The lump had subsided, leaving a garish bruise which stood out like a brand against her pale skin. "Besides," she continued crossly, "the two of you went out last night, and no one seemed to mind. Why should tonight be any different?"
Georgiana gave a loud sigh and fixed Belle with a sagacious look. "To go out one evening while one has a relation who is convalescing may be excused as a necessity," she said in the long-suffering tones of a parent afflicted with a dull-witted child. "To go out two evenings in a row, however, would be construed as dereliction of one's familial duty, and that I cannot allow. We shall remain at home."
Belle closed her eyes, fighting the desire to engage in a noisy bout of the vapors. Her nerves felt strained to the breaking point, and she wanted nothing more than to be left alone to brood. Surely there had to be some way she could convince her well-meaning relations to leave, she thought, her mind whirling with possible solutions. Then it came to her.
"I'm sure you know what's best," she said, assuming a meek air. "And I admit I would welcome your company. It is only . . ."
"Only what?" Georgiana demanded when she did not complete the sentence. "Speak up, gel!"
"It is only that I feel it would be best for you to go to the theater as planned," Belle replied, mentally crossing her fingers. "You must know if you remain at home, it will cause even more speculation. I daresay by tomorrow evening it will be all over London that I am at death's door. Why else would you have missed the performance unless I was grievously injured?"
Georgiana sat back in her chair, her brows pleating as she ruminated. "I suppose you are right," she said with obvious reluctance. "Your absence has already elicited a great deal of tattle, and if both Julia and I were to show up missing, people would
likely assume the worse."
Belle had to hide a smile at the note of shocked disapproval in her cousin's voice. "Yes, it is appalling the way some people leap to conclusions," Belle said primly, praying she wasn't overplaying her hand. "Still, I daresay we could weather the storm with our reputations more or less intact. And once I am seen out and about, everyone will know it was all a hum."
"Yes, but in the meanwhile what damage will be done to your good name . . . and Julia's?" Georgiana asked rhetorically. "No, I see no hope for it. We shall have to go to the theater."
"And to the Drinkwater's dinner afterwards," Belle reminded them, recalling the invitation. "We've already accepted, and it would be most ill bred not to appear. Think of the wasted food."
"That is so," Georgiana acknowledged with another frown. "And it would be just like that dreadful Louella to put the worst possible interpretation on it, too. I cannot think why you agreed to attend, Belle. You must know I do not like that woman above half!"
"I am sorry, Cousin," Belle answered, judiciously refraining from reminding the other woman that she had accepted the invitation only at her behest, and that at the time she'd proclaimed the countess to be her "dearest friend."
"Can't be helped, I suppose," Georgiana grumbled, rising to her feet. "Well, if we're going to be up until dawn, I'd best lie down for a bit. You, too, young lady," she said to Julia. "It won't do for you to go about looking all pale and hollow-eyed. People will think Belle contagious."
"Yes, Cousin," Julia replied demurely, but remained seated. "But first I should like to discuss some things with Belle."
Georgiana nodded her approval and departed, leaving Belle and Julia alone. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Julia said, "Are you certain you don't mind being left alone? I feel terrible going off and leaving you with no one but the servants."
"I shall be fine, dearest," Belle assured her, feeling a twinge of guilt at deceiving the girl. "In fact, I'll probably be in bed by the time you leave. My head is still rather painful."
Julia looked alarmed. "Do you think we ought to send for the doctor?"
Belle shook her head, and then winced at the jolt of pain. "No, no, I am fine so long as I remember not to do things like that," she added, gingerly touching her head. "I am just pampering myself so that I shall be recovered in time for your coming-out ball next week."
"That is what I wished to discuss with you," Julia said, her voice hesitant. "Toby and I were hoping you would allow us to announce our engagement at the ball. Simon will be there, as well as our other relations, and we thought it would be the perfect opportunity. With your approval, that is." And she cast her an anxious look.
Belle swallowed her protest, knowing that ultimately Julia's life was her own. However much she might disapprove of the match, it was not her place to pass judgment. She'd already done that once this week, she reminded herself glumly, and only look at where it had landed her.
"The ball is in your honor, Julia," she said gently, leaning forward to take her hand. "You may do whatever you like. And I quite agree with you that it would be the perfect place to announce your engagement. But don't you think you ought to wait to hear from Simon before saying anything? It would be most awkward if he were to withhold his approval of the marriage."
"Oh, he will approve." Julia was confident in her brother's love. "I adore Toby with all my heart, and he loves me. That will matter far more to Simon than mere position or money."
Belle flushed at Julia's unspoken implication that such considerations mattered to her. "Still, I prefer that you wait until he has given you his blessing," she said firmly. "Once he has done that, you may announce it to whomever you please."
"Thank you, dearest Belle!" Julia leapt to her feet and deposited a kiss on Belle's cheek. "And Simon will give us his approval, I know he will!"
She departed in a flurry of silk, and Belle poured herself another cup of tea, then sat back to reflect upon her conversation with Julia. Did she put position and money above all else? she wondered, her heart sinking as she considered the possibility. She hated to think she could be so mercenary, yet she feared she had done precisely that.
The admission hurt, and Belle blinked back the tears that were pooling in her eyes. It was ironic that she who had spent most of her life being judged by her pocketbook should then use that same measuring stick on the rest of the world. It was beyond hypocrisy, and she hated herself for succumbing to the false values that had often caused her such suffering.
No wonder Marcus refused to forgive her, she decided, wiping the tears from her cheek with a trembling hand. It had been hours since Julia and Georgiana had returned home, and still there had been no word from him. She hadn't expected him to come rushing straight over, of course, but she had hoped he'd respond by the end of the day. Now she would have to wait until tomorrow . . . if she was lucky, she added with an unhappy sigh.
Several hours later she was in the drawing room enjoying the peace and solitude when Gibson appeared, his face set in lines of rigid disapproval. "I beg your pardon, Miss Portham," he said, executing a stiff bow. "Lord Colford has called and is asking to see you. I have placed him in the salon."
Belle's heart began pounding at the news. She'd all but given up hope up hearing from him, and relief made her giddy. Relief and another emotion she dared not name. She glanced down at her gown, wincing when she saw its wrinkled state. She simply couldn't appear in front of the earl looking like this, she realized unhappily, and rose quickly to her feet.
"Pray tell his lordship I will be with him in a few minutes," she replied, turning toward the door. When the butler remained steadfast, she gave him a quizzical look. "Is something amiss?"
Gibson sent her a reproving look. "As your cousins are both absent from the house, I have taken the liberty of instructing that the salon door be kept open," he said, his tone letting it be known he would brook no opposition. "Also, Mrs. Ponds will be seated just outside should you"—he paused delicately—"require anything."
Belle grew red at this reminder that an unmarried lady never entertained gentlemen without a chaperon of some sort present. If she'd been thinking at all, she would have arranged to meet him in a more public place.
"Thank you, Gibson," she said, flashing him a grateful smile. "I knew I could count upon your discretion. Now, if you'll pardon me, I must see to my gown. Pray see to his lordship's comfort."
What could be keeping her? Marcus wondered, pulling his watch from his pocket and studying it with a frown. The butler had assured him Miss Portham hadn't retired, so why had he been kept cooling his heels for the better part of a quarter hour? At this rate the play would be half-over before he even arrived. He was considering ringing for the footman to demand word of his hostess when the door opened and she stepped inside.
She looked even smaller, somehow, and infinitely more beautiful. She was wearing a dress of bronze jaconet, her hair arranged in soft curls about her face. It was the first time he'd seen her with her hair down, and as his eyes rested on her, he wondered what it would feel like to bury his hands in the shimmering golden waves.
"I am pleased that you came," Belle said, her hand held out as she advanced toward him. Her knees were shaking, and she prayed she wouldn't disgrace herself by collapsing at his feet. "I wasn't sure if you would."
He took her hand in his, noting with concern how cool it felt. "I would have been here sooner, but the speeches took longer than we expected. You know how long-winded the Whigs can be once you get them started." These words were offered with a teasing smile that elicited a slow smile in return.
"I shall say nothing, my lord, although I would urge that you not repeat that bon mot in front of Lady St. Ives," she said, tipping back her head to gaze up at him. "I fear she would disagree most strenuously."
"So St. Ives has already warned me," he answered, awed again by her sheer beauty. In the flickering light of the candles her skin glowed like the rarest of pearls, warm and inviting to the touch, and it was all he could
do not to reach out and sample its softness for himself. A stray curl lay across her forehead, and unable to resist the temptation, he raised his hand to brush it back. Then he froze.
"Oh, my God!"
"What?" Belle's hand fluttered up, only to be stayed by his. He held her fingers in a gentle grip while his other hand tenderly brushed back the hair from her temple, revealing the bruise and the still-healing cut.
A soundless oath formed on his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut. "I am sorry, Belle," he said, using her first name without conscious thought. "I am so sorry."
Belle trembled beneath his touch, her heart melting at the self-loathing she saw stamped on his ashen face. "Why should you be sorry?" she asked, using his grip on her fingers to carry his hand to her cheek. "You did nothing wrong, Marcus. Nothing. That is why I asked to see you. I wanted to tell you that I—"
"I could have killed Gilford," he said, his gaze holding hers. "I wanted to, and had I known how badly he'd hurt you, I would have."
The soft violence in his voice convinced her he meant every word. "You would have had to wait until I had my chance at him," she said, striving for lightness even as her senses were swimming at his nearness. His fingers were lazily brushing over her cheek, and she lacked the will to move away. Later, she promised herself silently, her breath catching in her throat. Later.
As an experienced man of the world, Marcus sensed her response, and it filled him with a rush of masculine pleasure. He wanted to taste her sweet lips more than he wanted to draw his next breath, and for a wild moment he considered saying to hell with his conscience and doing just that. He bent his head closer, his fingers tightening on her jaw, and the action made the letter rustle in his pocket. The sound penetrated his inflamed senses, snapping him out of his trance as nothing else would have done. He released her abruptly, swinging away and silently cursing himself for his lack of honor.
He stared down unseeingly at the flames dancing in the grate, his hands clenching in a tight fist. "It would seem your fears about me were right, Miss Portham," he said, his voice as tight as the control he was exerting over himself. "I am apparently not to be trusted where you are concerned."
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