Deceived

by Nicola Cornick

  Isabella raised her blue gaze and pinned Marcus with a glare. Mr. Churchward shifted as though he was sitting on red-hot coals. Marcus appeared unmoved.

  “Proceed,” Isabella said. Her voice held chips of ice.

  Churchward prayed for the floor of his office to open up and swallow him whole, but when that did not happen he cleared his throat again and picked up the piece of paper from the desk in front of him. His hand was shaking slightly. Marcus walked across to the window so that he was standing behind his wife. His brooding presence dominated the room.

  “The Earl of Stockhaven lays down the following terms for his marriage to Princess Isabella Di Cassilis,” Mr. Churchward read rapidly. “Firstly, that the marriage should be formally announced immediately. Secondly, that there will be no annulment. Thirdly, that by right of the matrimonial law, the earl claims ownership of the house known as number five, Brunswick Gardens, and instructs that it be sold.” Churchward’s voice picked up speed until he was almost gabbling. “Fourthly, that by the same principle the earl claims the property known as Salterton Hall, in the county of Dorset.”

  At last Isabella stirred. She had been sitting, head bent, utterly unmoving. Now she looked up and, although he could not read her expression clearly, Churchward knew that this hurt her. She had looked on Salterton as her own. It had been special to her. But there was nothing Churchward could do. Under the law, the countess’s property belonged to her husband.

  “Madam—” Churchward said unhappily.

  Isabella smiled at him. Despite the situation, there was warmth in her eyes. “Please do not worry, Mr. Churchward. I know that this is none of your doing.” She turned her clear, cool gaze back to her husband.

  “I assume that there is more?”

  “Of course,” Marcus said. His expression was granite hard. “You will remove to Stockhaven House for the time that we remain in Town. You will apply to me to have any remaining debts settled and you will request my permission before you make any future purchases. You will furnish me with a note of all your social engagements—”

  “And I will consult you before I speak with any of my acquaintance,” Isabella snapped. “Your demands are ridiculous, sir.”

  Marcus thrust has hands into his pockets. “Not so, madam. My conditions are perfectly acceptable for a man with an errant wife.”

  Mr. Churchward shrank in his seat. If he made himself as inconspicuous as possible there was just a chance that he might be able to slip from the room without the earl and countess noticing. Indeed, they were so locked in their mutual antipathy that he could probably have done a dance on the desk and neither of them would have paid any heed. Mr. Churchward had negotiated on plenty of occasions between the parties in a marriage of convenience. He had seen husbands and wives whose loathing of each other was so great that they could barely tolerate being in the same room. In those cases the primary benefit of the marriage usually involved the exchange of money for a title, or the combination of two great dynasties, nothing more.

  The Earl and Countess of Stockhaven did not fit such a pattern, however. Looking at them now, the earl towering over his wife, his face set and stormy, it would be easy to imagine that he hated her with a passion. Yet it was not so, Mr. Churchward could tell. Behind that chilling facade, he could sense that Marcus Stockhaven’s feelings for his beautiful wife were far more complex than mere hatred. The earl had not taken his gaze once from the princess’s face from the moment he had entered the room. He watched her like a hawk. And on one occasion, Churchward had caught him looking at her with such naked, angry desire that he had felt profoundly uncomfortable. Mr. Churchward the Elder was a man—although Mrs. Churchward had probably forgotten that in recent years—and so he could understand the earl lusting after his wife. But Marcus Stockhaven’s expression of fury, hunger and grief was painful to witness.

  “So,” Isabella said, and once again her voice was cool and expressionless, “you are to take Salterton Hall from me, sir. Now that is a neat revenge.”

  “I do not require the property,” Marcus said abruptly. “It will be sold.”

  Isabella tilted her head away so that the bonnet shadowed all but the curve of her cheek. Mr. Churchward was not normally an imaginative man but at the moment he felt every ounce of her grief.

  “What do I get in return?” Isabella inquired, after a moment. “As this is a settlement you are proposing, my lord, what do you intend to settle upon me?”

  Marcus rested both hands on the desk and leaned toward her. “Your debts have been paid, madam. That is the settlement you get. Was that not what you wanted?”

  Isabella smoothed her gloves with small, deliberate gestures. “But what if you were to die, my lord? What arrangements are to be made for me for the future? Accidents will happen.”

  Mr. Churchward drew in a very sharp breath. My lady was playing a very dangerous game. He saw Marcus’s hands clench against the wood of the desk.

  “In the case of my death, madam,” he said through his teeth, “I imagine that you would merely repeat your actions in finding another rich husband. That is your usual mode of behavior, is it not?”

  “And your property and fortune?”

  “Will go to my cousin. I regret that there is no benefit to you in having me murdered.”

  Mr. Churchward was almost whimpering now. “My lord, this is most unseemly—”

  Marcus ignored him. “Unless, of course,” he finished harshly, “you give me an heir, madam, in which case he will inherit.”

  The tortoiseshell clasp of Isabella’s reticule snapped beneath her fingers, making them all jump.

  “I would as lief give you the plague,” she said sweetly. “You will not take me to your bed as part of this settlement.”

  Mr. Churchward’s ears were radiating the heat of embarrassment now.

  “You will fulfill all the duties of a wife.” Churchward saw Marcus whiten as he bit out each word with emphasis. “We will discuss that alone, madam.”

  Isabella inclined her head with perfect elegance. She stood up. “Then if there is no more to be said, you will excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Marcus took the paper from Churchward’s nerveless fingers. “Not before you sign, my lady.”

  Isabella paused. It seemed to Churchward that an inordinate amount of time passed while she looked from the paper to her husband’s set face. She looked young and defiant and very pretty indeed. Churchward could sense the tightly wound intensity of Marcus Stockhaven as he waited.

  “No,” she said clearly. “I shall not sign. You cannot force it upon me. Mr. Churchward, despite what has been discussed this morning, I would appreciate it if you would send me the necessary information on annulment.”

  Marcus straightened. “The announcement of our marriage will be in the Times tomorrow, with or without your consent,” he said.

  Isabella did not reply. She closed the door very quietly.

  “My lord,” Churchward said, when he had recovered his breath, “that was not well done.”

  Marcus appeared not to hear him. He was shaking his head abruptly as though awakening from a dream. He looked at the rejected piece of paper lying on the desk. “She will agree,” he said. “She has no choice.”

  Churchward looked at him steadily. He wondered whether the earl knew his wife at all. Churchward’s experience was small but one scarcely needed Lord Byron’s encyclopedic knowledge of women to realize that Marcus had made a tactical error. He had laid down his demands. His wife had rejected them. The game was not over. In fact, it had barely begun.

  SHE HAD NOWHERE TO RUN, nowhere to hide and no one to help her. Yet she was damned if she would give up the fight.

  Isabella sat alone in the Di Cassilis box at Sadlers Wells Theater. She heard barely a note of The Marriage of Figaro. The witty tale of love, betrayal and forgiveness seemed rather too appropriate that evening. Except, for Marcus and herself, the love was gone, the betrayal complete and the forgiveness a mere dream.

  She could not
forget the look on Marcus’s face when Mr. Churchward read out the terms of the settlement relating to Salterton. She had wondered before if Marcus was doing this out of pride and revenge, but the look of grim satisfaction on his face as he took her inheritance from her suggested that his motives ran deeper than personal reprisal. He was paying her back, not only for her betrayal of him but also for something to do with her cousin India. She was sure of it.

  The promise of Salterton had been her salvation. She had not minded what else she lost as long as she could retire to the place of those happy childhood memories and recapture some of that peace. It had been naive in the extreme for her not to realize what would happen. With her marriage, all her property belonged to her husband, Salterton included. She had nothing left of her own now. It was Marcus’s property and so was she.

  She felt sick and cold and afraid to think of how he might assert his mastery. There were plenty of ways to humiliate her. He had already stripped her of her property and her dignity with his demands. She was fairly sure that he was not the sort of man to force her to the marriage bed—in spite of their hostility to one another, he would not use physical strength to get what he wanted. That did little to reassure her. She was worn down with the confusion of how she could dislike a man so intensely and yet at her very core feel the tug of an affinity that told her that, despite everything, they were intended to be together and always had been.

  The curtains at the back of the box shifted as a figure came through the aperture and took the seat beside her. The Di Cassilis box had not only a private entrance but also a secret passageway connecting it to the dressing rooms. Prince Ernest had always enjoyed the privilege of greeting his favorite performers directly after the show, and persuading them to a different sort of performance expressly for him. Tonight Isabella had appreciated the secrecy for a different reason; it enabled her to get into the theater alone and unseen. Now, though, she did not even need to turn her head to know who was beside her.

  “Congratulations, my lord,” she whispered, discreetly lowering her voice so as not to distract from the performance. “I assume you are here to lay claim to the only piece of Di Cassilis property that has yet escaped you?”

  Marcus laughed. “Touché, my lady. I confess I was deeply impressed when I discovered that your late husband possessed his own private box at every theater in London.”

  “To see and be seen,” Isabella murmured.

  “Naturally.” Marcus stretched his long legs out and reclined comfortably in the deep velvet seat. “Which is precisely why I am here tonight.”

  “I imagined you must have a reason. I did not rate a love of Mozart amongst your interests.”

  Marcus shifted slightly. His voice hardened. “You know nothing of my interests, madam.”

  Isabella plied her fan. “Nor do I need to. We may be married but we do not need to bore each other with our interests—or our company. In fact—” she made to stand “—I believe that the performance has lost its charm for me. I think I shall retire.”

  Marcus’s hand closed warm and hard over her gloved wrist, compelling her to sink back into the seat. “I think not. As the announcement of our marriage is to be in the papers tomorrow, I wish us to be seen together tonight.”

  “That is what you order.”

  “That is what I ask.” There was precious little courtesy in his tone, Isabella thought. It was in no way a request.

  “And if I choose not to meet your request?” She gave the word sarcastic emphasis. “What then?”

  Marcus sighed. “My dear Isabella, you are far too intelligent not to realize that it will be more comfortable for both of us if you accede to my wishes. Why fight me? You know that I hold all the cards.”

  Isabella felt the anger seethe through her. “What is it that you want?” she hissed.

  “I told you last night at the ball.” Marcus seemed unmoved. “I want you as my wife—in every sense. I want public recognition of the fact that we are married and I want a private reckoning with you. After that, perhaps, we may consider a legal separation.”

  The cold callousness of it made Isabella’s heart clench. The settlement that he wanted was nothing short of outright revenge.

  “You want public recognition because I jilted you before,” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “And private reckoning—” She paused. “Because of India as well as yourself.”

  She felt him jump. He turned to look at her fully for the first time and his eyes were dark with some emotion she did not recognize.

  “You mean that you admit it? You really were that calculating and corrupt?”

  The knife twisted in Isabella’s heart. Venal, calculating, corrupt…His opinion of her could not have been lower.

  “I have no idea to what you refer,” she said, keeping her tone level. “I am merely guessing that you hold something against me on India’s part as well as your own and are determined to extract retribution for it.”

  She heard Marcus sigh in the darkness. On the stage, the aria swelled to a crescendo. Isabella kept her gaze fixed on the brightly colored figures in the light. She made sure that she was looking directly ahead as though Marcus simply did not exist.

  She was as tense as a bow, yet strangely, as the opera built toward its height, she felt the power of the music sweep her away, transcending for a moment the misery inside. She felt Marcus’s grip on her wrist gentle almost to a caress. His fingers entangled with hers. His touch was light now, but with a casual possessiveness that stirred a curious feeling within her. She knew she should move away and make it clear that he had no right to make this claim on her, but she could not.

  Marcus held her hand for the rest of the performance and gradually her awareness of him changed from a tingling feeling in her wrist to a deep physical consciousness that seemed to suffuse her whole body. She felt hot and restless and aroused. She was sure that the telltale color stung her cheeks. She was barely able to keep still. When the music died away and the applause erupted, the sudden noise made her jump. She looked at Marcus to see that he was watching her. The hardness of his gaze had softened now and his dark eyes were full of something that looked dangerously close to tenderness. Isabella’s heart fluttered. She opened her mouth to speak but then the lights came up in a harsh glare and she blinked and pulled back, dragging her hand from Marcus’s.

  The audience was already stirring. Boxes were designed for their occupants to be seen and plenty of people had looked up and noticed Marcus beside her now. The crowds in the stalls were making an undignified stampede for the Di Cassilis box.

  Marcus turned to her. His tone was his own once more, cool and a little hard.

  “We will stay here and receive them.”

  “No,” Isabella said. The brief moment was shattered, spoiled by the pleasure she saw in Marcus’s eyes at the prospect of the two of them putting on a display for the Ton. “You may receive whomsoever you wish, my lord. This is, after all, your theater box now. But I am leaving.”

  And before he could protest, she had slipped behind the curtain and taken the secret stairs to the dressing rooms. She had always known that Ernest’s penchant for seducing actresses would come in useful one day.

  “WHAT THEDEVIL?”

  Marcus was standing in the Reading Room at White’s, staring in blank horror at the announcement in the Times. He had gone there to meet with Alistair, who had left a message to say that he would be a few minutes late. In the meantime, a club servant had brought around the morning papers and Marcus had eagerly turned the pages to find the notice of his marriage to Isabella. To see a public announcement felt in some way the first step toward legitimizing the relationship and making it real in the eyes of the world. Marcus was full of anticipation.

  It was there in print, staring him in the eye. First there was the declaration of the wedding: The Earl of Stockhaven is pleased to announce his marriage to the Princess Isabella Di Cassilis….

  All well and good. But beneath the an
nouncement—directly beneath it—someone had inserted the following statement: The Princess Di Cassilis wishes it to be known that she will henceforth keep the title of princess in preference to that of countess, it being the superior rank. She also wishes to make it clear that she married the Earl of Stockhaven for his money.

  There was a strange buzzing sound in Marcus’s ears, as though he were seeing the rest of the world from underwater. A couple of his acquaintances passed by with a jocular remark and a slap on the back. Marcus barely noticed them as he read and reread the lines. It had to be Isabella’s doing, of course. He had made the mistake of telling her about the announcement in advance and she had immediately resorted to countermeasures. His feeling of triumph withered and died.

  Marcus could see Alistair Cantrell in the doorway now with a couple of other men. Lord Lonsdale and Mr. Carew had been among his wife’s admirers the previous day at the melee in Brunswick Gardens. His mouth turned down grimly as they approached.

  “One scarce knows whether to congratulate or commiserate with you, old fellow,” Lonsdale said. “Such frankness! Very brave of you to admit she only wants you for the money.”

  “You provide the funds, old man, and we’ll keep the princess happy in other ways,” Carew began, before Marcus grabbed him by the throat and squeezed.

  “Steady on, Stockhaven!” Lonsdale objected. “Marriage of convenience and all that.”

  “I will not give my name to another man’s brats,” Marcus ground out. He loosed his grip and Carew staggered back, shaking his head like a wet dog. “Stay away from my wife,” Marcus said. “Stay away or I’ll—”

  “Marcus.” Alistair caught his arm and practically dragged him away before he could plant a blow in Lonsdale’s grinning face. “Leave it. They mean only to provoke you.”

  The simmering cauldron of fury inside Marcus seemed to settle a little. He let his hand fall to his side as Lonsdale and Carew backed off. They were still grinning maliciously, for all that Carew was fingering the bruises on his neck. Hell and the devil, he was a laughingstock. His wife had made him so. Why had he assumed that she would simply accept his strictures? Why had he not realized that she would want to settle the score?