Seating herself on the sofa before a black marble fireplace and arranging her muslin skirts to suit her, Mrs. Sherbrook said, “Give her a little while to vent her temper and then I am sure if you talk to her, you will be able to make your peace with her. You know that Isabel’s temper tantrums never last long and that she is always contrite afterward.”
Marcus looked uneasy. “I don’t know. She was very angry.”
“She may have been, but since she is a sweet child—” At her son’s snort, she amended, “Usually a sweet child, the next time you see her, you will discover it was nothing more than a tempest in a teapot and you will be able to put this incident behind you.”
If Mrs. Sherbrook had known just how hurt and furious Isabel was she might not have been so sanguine. Wiping angry tears from her eyes, Isabel raced down the broad steps of Sherbrook Hall and snatched the reins from the Sherbrook groom holding her horse. In one swift movement, she mounted the horse and kicked the startled gelding into a wild gallop. Heedless of anyone that might have been unfortunate enough to meet her, she careened down the long driveway that led from Sherbrook Hall and onto the main road. Reaching the wider thoroughfare, common sense asserted itself and she pulled the bay into a more sober pace and in the waning April sunlight rode toward Denham Manor.
So I’m a viper-tongued shrew, am I, she thought wrathfully. And no man would want to marry me, would he? Her lips thinned. We shall see about that!
Her head full of schemes to show Mr. Marcus Sherbrook just how badly he had misjudged her, she finished the journey. Tossing the reins to the groom who met her at the stables, she slid from her horse. Nursing her wounds and not wishing to face Aunt Agatha or her uncle, Sir James, she set off toward the lake that divided the Denham property from their neighbor, Lord Manning.
She often walked to the lake when she was angry or troubled; something about the placid blue waters and the green forest with its sprinkling of artfully planted flowers and shrubs that meandered along its curving length gave her solace and soothed her raging emotions.
Stepping from the woods, she noticed a small boat on the lake and, too unhappy to make pleasant company, she was about to disappear back into the trees when a hearty male voice called out her name.
Recognizing Hugh Manning, Lord Manning’s youngest son, at the oars, she waved half-heartedly and watched as he began to row toward the Denham side of the lake. Until the previous winter she had hardly known Hugh; he had left the neighborhood prior to her father’s death and sailed to India to begin his career with the East India Trading Company. His return in September for a long sojourn at home before returning to his post in Bombay had put the entire area in a dither. For weeks following his return there were parties and dinners in his honor, everyone agog to hear tales of that far-off mystical place, India. Isabel found his company enjoyable and, coupled with the friendship between her uncle and Lord Manning, an easy intimacy had sprung up between them. Even if Hugh was nearly thirty, the fact that he was a personable, charming young man had not escaped her notice and she understood completely why the squire’s daughter thought him very handsome with his darkly tanned skin, fair hair, and deep blue eyes.
Since January, Hugh had been traveling about England and had only returned a week ago and within days was preparing to sail back to his post in Bombay. Isabel knew that Lord Manning was dreading his departure; Hugh was not likely to return from India again for years and Lord Manning feared he might never see his youngest son again. He’d said as much one evening last week when he’d come to dine at Denham Manor.
Reaching shore, Hugh leaped nimbly onto the muddy ground. After pulling the boat aground enough so that it would not float away, he turned and smiled at Isabel.
“It’s been a lovely day, hasn’t it?” he said. He glanced up at the blue sky and added wistfully, “There is nothing like an April sky in England. I think what I miss most in India is a sky just that particular shade of blue.” He took in a deep breath. “And the scents of an English spring—daffodils, roses, and lilacs in bloom.”
Bruised and wounded from her exchange with Marcus, she didn’t want any company, but when Hugh suggested that they sit on one of the stone benches nearby, she agreed.
It didn’t take Isabel long to realize from his long face and comments that Hugh Manning was nearly as unhappy as she was. A frown between her brows, she asked, “Don’t you want to return to India? I thought you were looking forward to going back.”
His gaze on the lake, he said, “I’d rather join a regiment and fight against the French,” he said. “With the war on the continent going so badly, England needs all the fighting men she can gather.”
Isabel stared at him. “I didn’t know that you wanted to be in the Army.”
“Army, Navy, it wouldn’t make any difference,” he said carelessly. Glumly, he admitted, “I’ll be honest, Izzy, I’m finding the prospect of returning to Bombay unappealing. At least the military would provide an opportunity for adventure. What I wouldn’t give to be with Hood’s fleet in the Mediterranean!” He cast her a miserable glance. “Once the exoticness dissipates, you do not know how boring life in India can be. Everything is the same day after day. I’d like a bit of excitement.”
“I would think living in a land where one can ride elephants and see monkeys and tigers roaming about would be exciting enough!”
He shrugged. “Oh, there are moments to be sure and generally I am happy with my lot, but I had hoped to ...” He took a deep breath. “I had hoped to take a wife with me when I returned. I have done well in Bombay and I now have the assets to support a wife and family in style and comfort.” Hugh laughed bitterly. “I had it all planned: I’d come home, find a bride, and return to Bombay with my wife by my side, ready to start my family. Instead, in less than three days I sail alone back to India.”
Isabel nearly jumped out of her skin at his words, staring at Hugh with large, wondering eyes. Had fate sent her an opportunity? An opportunity not only to show Marcus how very wrong he was, but an opportunity to escape once and for all from a home she no longer thought of as hers, from a woman whose sole purpose seemed to be to make her miserable. “D-d-did no one suit your fancy?” she forced herself to ask.
His eyes on the shore of the lake, he muttered, “There was a young lady... . She’s the reason I have been away for so long. I offered for her, but her father turned me down.”
“But why?” Isabel cried, upset for him. “Surely you explained your situation to him? And told him that you are Baron Manning’s son?”
“Oh, I did all that,” he said, “but Mr. Halford didn’t want his daughter buried alive in India. He has a nice local gentleman all picked out for her, one who will inherit a title.”
“And she? What did she want?”
“What difference does it make,” he snapped. “Her father said no and Roseanne wouldn’t stand up to him.”
Her tender heart aching for him, feeling his pain, she slipped her little hand into his. “I’m very sorry, Hugh,” she said softly.
His fingers tightened on hers and he looked down at her. “Thank you, Izzy. You’re the only one I’ve told about Roseanne.” He brushed back a lock of her unruly hair. “Did you know that she has red hair, too? Not as dark as yours and her eyes are blue ... blue as the English sky.”
He frowned, noticing for the first time the signs of tears on her cheeks. “What is this?” he asked. “Have you been crying? Who has been making you unhappy? I’ll run him through for you, if you like.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But it does,” Hugh argued gently. “I don’t like seeing my little friend upset. What can I do to make you happy again?”
The words popped out before she had time to consider them. “You could marry me and take me to India with you.”
Goggle-eyed, Hugh stared at her. “Marry you! What put that bee in your bonnet?”
Averting her face, she said stiffly, “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you did. Why?” he persisted, looking at her as if he’d never seen her before.
“Because you want a wife and I-I-I can’t bear to be treated like a child anymore by Aunt Agatha. And Marcus—!” Anguish and temper coiled in her breast and she exclaimed, “Oh, how I wish I was a thousand miles away from here!” Her eyes locked on his, she said desperately, “If we were to be married, we’d both get what we want.”
They stared at each other for a long time, Hugh thinking of the lonely years in India without the benefit of a wife at his side; Isabel ignoring that little voice that shrieked in her ear that she was being reckless and foolish—just as Marcus always scolded. What did she care? she thought painfully. There was nothing in England for her.
“Are you certain?” Hugh asked, knowing he shouldn’t carry this conversation further, yet unable to help himself. This was madness. There were many reasons why he should get up and walk away but he remained firmly where he was. Isabel wouldn’t be the wife of his heart, but he’d be good to her and who knew? In time they might love one another, but if they did not, surely liking and respect would carry them through? And he wouldn’t face years, decades, alone in India.
His expression troubled, Hugh asked, “What of your aunt and uncle? What will they say of this?”
Her eyes met his steadily. “They will say that I am too young. That I don’t know my own mind.”
“Oh, well, then,” he said dispiritedly, “it wouldn’t work.”
“But it will,” cried Isabel. “It doesn’t matter what they will think. Once we are married there is nothing Marc—they can do.” Her eyes fixed beseechingly on his, she said, “Oh, please, Hugh. I promise you I shall be a good wife. Please!”
Lost in her great golden eyes, Hugh’s good sense wavered. She was a fetching little thing.... He liked her... . He pictured his empty bungalow in India and saw the years stretch out emptily before him with only hard work and plenty of it to give him satisfaction; Isabel could change all that.... There would be children... .
His decision made, Hugh stood up and paced in front of her. “If your aunt and uncle disapprove, it will have to be a runaway match. We can be married in London by special license before my ship sails.” He looked uneasily at her. “I don’t know if I can arrange passage for you, and I must be on that ship, the company is expecting me back by a certain date—I cannot delay. You might,” he warned, “have to remain in London with your maid for several weeks before another ship will be sailing for India. You could stay at m’father’s townhouse; he keeps a small staff in residence, so they would see to your needs.” He paused. “That might not be a bad idea. I can sign the necessary papers and leave instructions with my solicitor to get your affairs in order. And you will have time to shop for necessities. I’ll prepare a list for you.” He looked down at her, doubt still lurking in his blue eyes. “I plan to leave tomorrow, just after daybreak. If this is really what you want, you must gather your things and slip out of the house; I will meet you at the gates of Denham Manor. By the time anyone knows you’re gone, we’ll be well on our way to London.”
Captured by the knowledge that in one fell swoop she’d be escaping from everything that made her unhappy, Isabel nodded. The sudden prospect of traveling to way-off India, of seeing live tigers, elephants, and who knew what other magical creatures dancing in her brain, took her breath away. She leaped to her feet and flung her arms around Hugh’s neck. “I promise I will be a good wife and never make you regret this moment,” she vowed passionately. Ignoring the tiny pang in the region of her heart when Marcus’s handsome face flashed before her gaze, she hugged Hugh even tighter, pushing the image away. “I promise.”
Hugh took a deep breath. “Well, then, my dear, it appears before we are much older, we shall be man and wife—and on our way to India!”
Chapter 1
Devon, England
Spring, 1808
“That woman!” Marcus Sherbrook snarled in tones of ill-concealed temper as he paced the library of Sherbrook Hall.
His mother looked up from her embroidery, a faint smile on her lips. “I presume you are speaking of Isabel Manning?” At his curt nod, she asked, “And what has poor Isabel done now to put you in such a taking?”
Stopping his perambulations before one of the long windows of the library, he stared out at the impeccable expanse of grounds, garden, and wooded area. April was a lovely month in England and this April was proving to be no different. The roses were budded, some blooming; pansies in a bright array of purple, yellow, blue, and white turned their sweet faces up to the sun; and in the distance he could see the white and pink clouds of blossoms that ringed the apple trees in the orchard.
It was a tranquil view, a view worthy of a wealthy gentleman’s estate, the carefully planned garden and woodland rolling out serenely to meet the undulating Devon hills green with spring grass. Normally he took pride and satisfaction in the view but not today. Today, Isabel had managed to once again disrupt his orderly life and he wished, not for the first time, that having made a runaway match with Hugh Manning thirteen years ago and blithely sailing away to India that she’d had the good sense to stay there.
Marcus’s fists clenched at his sides, a faint memory of searing anguish sliding through him. He never again wanted to feel the ripping pain he experienced when he realized that it was true: Isabel had run away and married Hugh Manning. He’d been dazed, full of disbelief when he’d first learned the news from her agitated uncle, Sir James, but as the truth had become known, something deep within him, some fragile emotion he hadn’t been aware of, shriveled and died. Fury had come later, and he had spent several months after Isabel’s marriage hating her and damning her to hell. Eventually, his own good common sense had asserted itself. In command of himself once more, he reminded himself calmly how much he had loathed the guardianship and in time convinced himself that he was quite satisfied with the way the affair had turned out. His tiresome ward was safely married to an honorable man; her fortune was in Hugh’s capable hands and they were half a world away from him. Where she should have damn well stayed, he thought bitterly.
Marcus winced. He wasn’t being fair and he knew it. One would think, he admitted, in the decade since Hugh had died and Isabel had returned to England, her two-year-old son toddling at her side, that he would have become accustomed to Isabel living right under his nose. He hadn’t, and he’d discovered almost immediately that the easiest way for him to deal with Isabel’s disruptive presence in the neighborhood was simply to ignore her. It wasn’t hard for him to do. At any social affair that they both attended, after doing the polite thing—and Marcus was always polite—he promptly disappeared into the card room set aside for the gentlemen. He did not reappear until time to bid his host good night, and if his mother had accompanied him, and she often did, escort her home. He had also become adept at avoiding any small gathering in which he would come face-to-face with Hugh’s widow. He couldn’t explain his tactics, but he wasn’t unaware that it had something to do with the gaping wound her marriage had caused him. Stunned by the depth of pain he’d felt at that time, he was determined to never feel that way again, which meant he kept Isabel as far away from his well-ordered life as possible.
Avoiding Isabel Manning had become habitual for him and it helped that he was frequently out of the area, sometimes gone from home for weeks or months at a time. Unlike Isabel, whose movements were hampered not only by the simple fact that she was female, but by her son’s need of her as well, Marcus could and did come and go as he pleased. He was most comfortable in his own home but he often traveled to visit friends and relatives and even undertook the occasional brief trip to London when it suited him.
One of his favorite places to visit was the home of his cousin, Julian, the Earl of Wyndham and his charming countess, Nell, and their growing brood of children. Another of his cousins, Charles Weston, lived near Julian and, while there had been some constraint between Charles and Marcus in the past, these days he fo
und Charles’s company very agreeable. In fact, he had returned not long ago from attending Charles’s wedding to a charming young lady in Cornwall. Everyone who knew him agreed that Charles’s marriage to Daphne Beaumont would be the making of him. After the wedding, while most of the guests had departed, Marcus, Julian, and Nell had remained at Beaumont Place for an extended visit with the newlyweds. Thinking of that visit and what they had uncovered in the bowels of the ancient house, once a Norman keep, caused a ripple of unease to pass through him. There had been some ugly events that he would not ever forget, and as for the ghosts ... He shook himself. Here at home, surrounded by the calm and familiar, the normal, Marcus wondered if his memory of what had transpired during those last days of his visit wasn’t a bit faulty. Living at Beaumont Place, with Charles and Daphne insisting it was true, it had not been difficult to believe the place was haunted by a pair of ghosts, but staring out at the sunny expanse before him that belief was shaken. Did he really believe in such things? Spirits of the dead capering about? Ghosts floating mistily in the air? Before his visit to Beaumont Place he would have sworn not, but ...
A sudden vision of Isabel’s vivid face flashed across his mind. She wouldn’t have hesitated a moment in believing that Beaumont Place was haunted. She would have enjoyed immensely grappling with ghosts and such. He almost smiled as he pictured the excitement that would have glittered in her eyes but then he remembered that he had a grievance with Mrs. Hugh Manning and scowled. Why the devil couldn’t she stay out of his life?
She’d hated being his ward and he’d not found the experience an unalloyed pleasure either. At least when she’d returned to England and stepped off the ship from India a decade ago, he reminded himself, she hadn’t been his responsibility any longer. In those days old Lord Manning had had the joyless task of dealing with her fits and starts and thank God for that, he thought with suspect piety.
Surrender Becomes Her Page 2
