The Hidden Heiress - a Victorian Historical Romance

by Juliet Moore

  She couldn't fool a blind man. No matter how much she protested, her body told a different story. Unfortunately for her, feeling her every limb tremble while claiming to desire freedom only made him want her more.

  He kissed her soft, heated forehead. "Just tell me what I said."

  "I didn't mean to make it sound as though it was so significant to me, but . . ."

  He studied her expression, seeing the questions in her eyes.

  "You told me that you were not the marrying kind." Isabel's gaze was downcast. "That's why I've tried to keep you at an arm's length. My emotions aren't to be toyed with."

  "I never assumed they were."

  "You assumed I was the kind of women who didn't require marriage before . . . consummation."

  His chest ached at the sight of her pink-tinged cheeks. "No! I just wished to know you better."

  She shook her head and leaned away from his chest. "But you made such a comment . . ."

  "Because marriage is not in the stars for me at the moment."

  "You mean to say it's not in the stars for us."

  He loosened his grip on her fragile, innocent body. "Why do you say that?"

  "You are a Member of Parliament," she said. "You need to procure a suitable bride, do you not?"

  "Perhaps, but--"

  "And I am not suitable. I am an untitled, poor gentlewoman who works for her money." Her breathing increased between each breathless word.

  He gripped her shoulders. "Fine, Isabel, you're right. I cannot marry you. Are you happy?"

  "I did not mean to suggest that I wish to marry you, Mr. Templeton."

  "Then everything is the same, is it not? Nothing has changed."

  Tears escaped in thick, fat blobs. "No, nothing."

  He pulled her against his chest, pressing her cheek against his vest. "When I decided to get to know you better, I never thought marriage would be a concern."

  "Of course not," she sobbed.

  "We hardly know each other. Do you actually want to marry me?"

  Isabel's hands twitched at her sides, as though she contemplated smacking him across the face. "No, I don't."

  "Then we don't have a problem."

  She shook her head. "Yes, we do."

  He looked at her, waiting.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes. "We can't go on like this. You can't touch me then walk away unfettered."

  "Why not?" he demanded. "If we both like it, what's the harm? We could have something better than any marriage."

  She pushed against his chest. "That's a ridiculous thing to say. You only say it to placate me, to make me feel like what you're offering is something special."

  "And it's not?"

  "No, it isn't." Isabel climbed the stairs backwards, not removing her eyes from his face. "What you offer is something you've surely given to many. I am not flattered."

  Marshall could see the pain in her eyes, but didn't know how to make it go away. He didn't know where to begin to convince her that she was more than just a passing fad.

  But he would.

  "Good-night, Mr. Templeton."

  "Goodnight, Isabel."

  Marshall watched her leave, hoping his confident stare didn't betray the tumult beneath. He couldn't understand why he didn't just walk away. His family didn't support his pursuit of Isabel and neither would his colleagues. Now, Isabel wanted him to believe that she too would be happier if he quietly slipped away.

  If only he could believe it.

  He hadn't misread the desire in her eyes. Maybe it would be easier for Isabel if she didn't have to question her morals every time he came near. Maybe it would also be easier for him to look elsewhere.

  But easy didn't equal right. Marshall wasn't going anyn I deci

  Chapter 8

  Isabel rolled the diamond-encrusted pin around her palm, the gems glittered in the sun spilling their way through her bedroom window. Edward's invasion of her privacy had some positive consequences after all. Only members of the Red Letter Club possessed such a pin. If she could get a list of its members, she could narrow down the possibilities considerably.

  But she had no idea how to get such a list and her suspicions had subsequently returned to Cyril. He was the member of many clubs, and the Red Letter Club seemed just his kind of atmosphere.

  She stood up, reveling in the freedom of her day off. If she assumed Cyril was the person who'd climbed through the library window and poisoned her tea, then she might also assume that he'd still be in London. Wouldn't he try to find her before returning home?

  After tying the cavalier hat Marshall had bought her under her chin, she slipped on her gloves. She knew Cyril. It was a Sunday and if he were in London, he most certainly would be parading down Rotten Row. He was too much of a dandy to miss it, no matter what his villainous plans.

  She touched her forehead. It was still hard to believe her cousin as a murderer. There had to be some other explanation. But for now, she could accomplish something simply by determining if Cyril was in London.

  Isabel pulled her hat lower on her head and left her room. Between her shielded and her black day dress of poor quality, she'd be spared all notice.

  "Going somewhere, Miss Balfour?" Marshall called when she descended past the second floor. He joined her on the stairs.

  "Nowhere significant," she replied.

  "Then perhaps I may join you?"

  She shook her head. "I'd prefer to be alone."

  He gripped her shoulders. "Now, you're not still angry about last night?"

  His fingers dug into her skin and sent tingles down her back. She gaped at him when he leaned closer. "No, I'm not angry. I simply must be on my way."

  "You're in a rush to go nowhere?"

  As usual, he cleverly twisted her words. If she'd ever thought he didn't listen to her, she was sorely mistaken. She moved an inch to the left and replied, "I'm restless. I am not in the mood to stand still."

  Marshall massaged her, his fingers touching all the right spots. "I could help you with that."

  On reflex, she arched her back. Her body betrayed her as it was wont to do. She lifted the hem of her skirt and took the last few steps into the foyer, slipping away from his intimate grasp. "I really must be on my way."

  "But where are you going?" he asked, still on the stairs looking down.

  "Shopping."

  "I've been doing a little shopping myself today." Marshall watched her, his eyes searching for something. He shook his head when she didn't respond. "I have a delivery coming later this week."

  There was something significant in his words, but she didn't know what. Isabel's heart palpitated in her chest. "I should go."

  She ran out, the feel of his gaze boring into her back unsteadied her steps.

  Isabel stepped down onto the sidewalk, the sound of the door closing behind her assuring her of her escape. Shopping. Marshall must think she did a lot of shopping for someone who could only afford one new dress a year.

  She walked quickly and tried to focus on the matter at hand. It wasn't fair that Marshall always found her when she was most vulnerable. At this rate, she would never leave the Templeton household. But perhaps that was what she really wanted.

  Isabel made it through the gates of Hyde Park and blended in with the other strollers. She scanned the area.

  It was a veritable parade of ostentatious aristocrats, some in barouches and others in curricles, all clothed in their most exquisite garments. It was the place to be seen and admired. She approached a small area, amply shaded by trees and affording a good view of the thoroughfare.

  Covered by a large oak treeabel settled in to watch. She knew exactly where to set her sights. From a discreet distance, she watched the corner that Cyril frequently loitered. There, the pretty horsebreakers displayed themselves for all the wealthy dandies to see, basking in the shade of a large statue of Achilles. Everyone knew it was the goal of all young men to be welcomed into that circle of kept mistresses, their style more daring than that of
a properly raised Miss.

  She'd come at the perfect time. She knew the park was busiest at four o'clock, the most fashionable hour for Rotten Row. The pretty horsebreakers managed their temperamental steeds with ease, their form-fitting riding habits winning the attention of all present. Isabel's eyes went large when she saw one of them brush intimately close to a familiar looking man.

  It was her district's MP, Isabel realized with a start. She then pictured Marshall paying favor to the prima donnas, as many of the politicians were known for doing, and grimaced. She wanted to think he couldn't be so shallow, but knew she couldn't assume anything.

  She focused on the drive once more, then nearly jumped out of her skin. It was Cyril, leaning against the wooden railing. He was standing too close to where she hid. But she'd found him she told herself happily. He was definitely in London and now that she knew, she could quietly slip away.

  "Hello, Miss Balfour."

  She turned, still hugging the tree, and glared at Marshall. She could think of no good reason why Marshall would be in Rotten Row by himself and on foot. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  He smiled and replied, "I followed you."

  "You followed me?" She had left him standing on the stairs. He hadn't moved after she'd left him there and she'd had every indication to assume he would stay. "Why would you do something like that?"

  "Why do you think?" After bowing politely to an attractive young woman, he came closer to Isabel. "The way you left made me very suspicious."

  "You have no reason to be suspicious of me. I don't know what you thought you'd catch me doing."

  "I wondered if you'd gone to meet a lover."

  She stared at the grass. "And if I had?"

  His black boots covered the patch of grass, taking over her vision. "I would have to take you back."

  Isabel met his gaze with narrowed eyes. "Is that how you intend to prove the shortcomings of marriage? If so, you are not doing a very good job."

  Marshall stared at her, unblinking and unwavering.

  Isabel shivered, resisting the impulse to cover her body with her hands. He couldn't see through her thick layers of clothing nor did he have the opportunity to rip them off. She had to remember that. She poked his chest through his jacket. "You shouldn't have followed me like this. It is entirely improper."

  He grabbed her fingers and squeezed them together. "You wouldn't be so angry if you didn't have anything to hide."

  She tried to take back her hand, but he held tight. "I'm not angry. I'm just shocked by your poor etiquette."

  He laughed. "Oh, is that all?"

  Her traitorous body ached in places she would never refer to in polite company. "Just go, Mr. Templeton. This is my personal day."

  "I didn't think you'd be so adverse to seeing me on your personal time," he said, pulling her closer to him. "I didn't realize your kisses were just business."

  "My kisses?" Isabel's gaze darted about the park. "I must insist, you were the one doing all the kissing."

  "Perhaps. But you did a poor job fighting me off," he said, his voice like a leisurely caress.

  "Please, let's not do this here. Aren't you afraid of being seen by a colleague?"

  "Only if they try to steal you away from me," he said, once again trying to pull her closer.

  Isabel rolled her eyes at the idea. "I assure you, that has little chance of happening."

  "I beg to differ."

  "There are more interesting sights to behold," she said, casually peering around the side of the tree, hoping Cyril had moved on. He hadn't.

  "Such as?"

  "You know exactly who I'm referring to." She gestured to the group crowding the Achilles statue, now even bigger than before.

  "I don't admire those women, Miss Balfour. Do you?"

  "No, but--"

  "Not all men consider them paragons of femininity and love."

  "I didn't mean to suggest that you did. Only that--"

  "You pale in comparison?"

  Isabel ripped her hands away from him, her mind clearing as soon as the contact stopped. "Stop interrupting me!"

  Marshall smiled, pleased with himself.

  Shocked that she had spoken so loudly, Isabel looked for her cousin again, but Cyril had left. Isabel's entire body relaxed. She felt as though she'd been deflated.

  Marshall watched the women she'd referred to earlier, absentmindedly touching his short beard. "Do you think those ladies are to be admired?"

  Isabel mustered all the dignity she could while hiding behind a tree and spying on loose women. "No, I don't approve of how they make a living. They are selling their bodies to men."

  "Yes. Just like getting married."

  "You're probably right."

  "So if I married you, you would agree that I own your body? This makes me see marriage in a whole new light."

  She laughed. "Very amusing, Marshall, but you are the one who suggested it. I only agreed. And you will never own me because I will never allow it."

  "But marriage--"

  "I would never marry you," she swore, embarrassed that she ever made it seem like she would. In real life, he was beneath her anyway. Isabel Darton could not marry a second son.

  "You wouldn't marry me?" He pulled her closer to him. "Then let's look at this from a much different angle. Would you prefer to be more like them?" he asked, pointing at the painted women again.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Would you like to be my kept woman?"

  "You cannot afford me, Mr. Templeton."

  He laughed, shaking his head at the idea. "That hasn't stopped any of the men I know from having a mistress."

  "No? What about you? Do you have a mistress?"

  "I wouldn't be here if I did. I'd be enjoying my Sunday with her. Weekends with the mistress, then Monday back to the wife."

  "That's repulsive."

  "The wives don't mind as long as one is discreet," he said, amused by her naivete.

  "I don't believe that."

  "Most of the MPs I know get home from a long day in parliament and the only person waiting up for them is the housekeeper. She prepares him a late dinner, his valet undresses him, and he tucks himself in. During all of this, his wife is in another wing of the house, obsessing about what homemade cream recipe will best smooth her skin."

  Isabel escaped his forceful embrace. "And you feel those women over there are different."

  "Many of them are. A man gets a far better welcome from those he pays to keep in comfort."

  "This is enough, Marshall. I must go," she gasped, her body nearly overheated by his words.

  He grabbed her hands and squeezed them. "No. I saw you watching that man. Who was he?"

  "That is none of your concern."

  Marshall nodded. "I must make sure my niece's governess isn't up to anything unsavory."

  "How do you intend to prove that?"

  He pulled her closer yet again, into the heated circle of his arms. "By following her everywhere she goes. I shall never leave her side."

  Isabel glanced around at her surroundings. "Please, Mr. Templeton, don't do this. People will talk. You're a recognizable figure and--"

  "You're right, my dear. We shouldn't be here. We should go somewhere more private."

  Isabel broke free and stalked off toward the gates. "I'm leaving."

  Marshall stayed at her side. "I'm following."

  He followed her the entire way home, only stopping at her bedroom door. He leaned against the doorframe. "May I come in?"

  "You can come in once you realize you can't have something for nothing," Isabel said, then slammed the door in his face.

  * * *

  &nbp;

  Paige slammed the lined book onto the table in front of her. "Miss Balfour, is this word spelled correctly?"

  Isabel shot back in her chair. "Paige! Don't throw things around like that."

  "No?" She pulled back her work and threw her pencil on top. "I asked you the same question two times befor
e and you didn't answer."

  "I'm sorry, Paige. I suppose I was daydreaming." More than a little embarrassed, Isabel pulled the book toward her and checked the work. The words swam before her eyes. As much as Marshall protested otherwise, could he actually be interested in her for the long term? He was constantly pursuing her and--

  "You're doing it again!"

  Isabel jumped. "Did you ask me something?"

  Paige pushed herself away from the table. "I asked you if my work was satisfactory."

  Isabel blinked away the fog in her head. "Where are you going?"

  "I am going to take a break. It's obvious you need one. I'll be in my bedroom."

  The door to the hallway opened before Paige opened the door to her room. Marshall entered, a bouquet of vibrant red roses in his hand. "Am I interrupting anything?"

  "No," Paige replied, before Isabel could. "I was just about to take a break."

  Marshall smiled at Isabel. "Does she make those decisions herself?"

  Isabel stared at the flowers. It was as though he was purposely trying to confuse her. She glared at Paige. "It seems that way, doesn't it?"

  "I brought you these," Marshall said. "I thought they might brighten up your bedroom."

  "Thank you," she said, watching her student from the corner of her eye.

  Paige shook her head and rolled her eyes. "I'll leave you alone."

  "Paige, that isn't necessary. Paige--" Isabel cried, but by the time she'd said her name twice, she was gone.

  Marshall shoved the flowers into her hands. "For the honor of your company, I offer you this."

  Isabel rested the roses on of the table. "You shouldn't have."

  "I've never heard that cliché uttered with such truth," he said, kicking the door shut with his heel. "Regardless, I didn't want to be accused of taking without also giving."

  "I didn't realize you'd taken my words to heart."

  Marshall smiled. "Now, why would you think I wouldn't?"

  Isabel gazed at the door Paige had exited through but didn't reply.

  Marshall followed her gaze. "Alone, at last."

  She moved away from him. "If you're going to embarrass me again--"

  "That's what you'd call it? Embarrassed."