“I have not,” he murmured, a note in his voice that she’d never heard, “thought of you as my ward for years.” His hands caught her upper arms and he propelled her gently against him. “Since this morning,” he said with his lips only inches from hers, “I find that I can only think of you as a most desirable woman. Most desirable.”
Isabel’s heart leaped at his words, but it was the touch of his lips on hers that sent her pulse rocketing through her body. His mouth was warm and knowing on hers, the sensation of his lips pressing against hers so seductive and beguiling that against her will she surrendered to his kiss; her arms crept around his neck and her lips parted.
Marcus groaned when her mouth opened for him, lust and delight mingling into one powerful emotion. He kissed her deeply, his tongue sliding into her mouth and rubbing suggestively against hers. She tasted wonderful, warm and intoxicating, and his grip on her arms tightened and he pulled her small frame closer to him. He’d meant only to bestow a friendly kiss upon her lips—at least that’s what he told himself—but Isabel was too yielding, her response too irresistible for him to abandon the drugging seductiveness of her mouth.
A man’s driving passion for one particular woman, and only one woman, rose up within him and he was blind to anything but how desperately he wanted her. His mouth fused with hers, his hands dropped to her bottom, lifting and guiding her lower body against his swollen member. It was unbearably arousing to feel her softness sliding against him and he was consumed with the sudden anticipation of the hot pleasure that would be his when he joined them together. Intent upon his goal, he bunched up her gown, his heart nearly exploding when his seeking fingers touched her naked flesh.
Drowning in his embrace, beset by emotions that had long lain dormant, Isabel was brought rudely back to reality by the feel of his big warm hand caressing her naked buttock. Shocked by the spear of desire that went through her as he kneaded her flesh, and the stunning intimacy of the moment, she gasped and broke their embrace.
Catching him by surprise, she twisted her head away and shoved with all her might. He made no attempt to stop her escape; his hands immediately fell to his sides and half-sobbing she scrambled away from him. Her cheeks burning, with shaking fingers she frantically tugged and pulled at her gown, chagrin and embarrassment flooding through her. She would not look at him and her voice thick with tears, she said, “That should not have happened. I swore to Hugh that I would always.... I never should have—Forgive me!” And then she was gone, snatching up her skirts and running away from him as if her very life depended upon it.
Marcus stared befuddled into the darkness where she had disappeared. Now what, he wondered, was that all about? And what in the hell had she sworn to Hugh?
Chapter 5
Marcus was frowning when he arrived home several minutes later and entered the house. He’d spent the intervening time as he’d ridden his horse through the darkness toward Sherbrook Hall considering Isabel’s reaction. She’d not been repulsed by his actions and she’d been a willing participant in their embrace, he knew that much. So why had she run away? He had no quarrel with her wishing to stop things before they went much farther, and he was secretly appalled at how close he’d come to completely losing his head, but surely she hadn’t needed to disappear like that. And what the devil did she mean by those cryptic words? Especially the part about Hugh?
Having told Thompson not to wait up for him, Marcus threw his riding gloves on the marble table in the elegant foyer, picked up the candle his butler had left burning for him, and wandered into his office. After lighting several candles, he spent a few minutes coaxing a fire into being in the fireplace that dominated the far wall. A thoughtful expression on his face, he poured himself a brandy from the tray of liquors and glassware Thompson kept filled and ready on a tall mahogany chest and walked over to his desk.
He set down his brandy on the corner of the desk and then stood staring blankly at the snifter, his thoughts on Isabel. Part of him was enormously satisfied by the way she had reacted to his kiss, but the ending . . . He scowled. Hugh Manning was not, he decided grimly, going to be a part of what went on in their bedroom. Marcus would allow no ghosts in his marriage bed.
Hugh Manning had been dead for ten years or more and Marcus found it impossible to believe that Isabel was still in love with her husband. She hadn’t responded, he reminded himself, like a woman whose heart belonged to a dead man. She’d been warm and willing; the memory of her arms clasped around his neck and the way her lips had parted beneath his confirmed his opinion. So what had gone wrong?
That passionate interlude had startled Marcus. Since they were to be married, naturally he’d hoped that they’d find pleasure in each other’s arms. He just hadn’t expected to be so completely overwhelmed by the most basic, intense desire to possess a woman that he’d ever experienced. It occurred to him, and with no little unease, that for the first time in his life, he’d been controlled by his emotions. If Isabel had not brought things to an end he might very well have crossed the line, and that knowledge annoyed him. He should have handled the situation with far more finesse. Instead, he thought irritably, he acted like a randy youth with his first woman.
Marcus hadn’t reached the age of nine and thirty without having become adept at the art of dalliance. He might have been discreet about his conquests, but he’d never been a monk and there had been more than one little opera dancer who had enjoyed his protection over the years. But while he appreciated the charms and the sensual gratification to be found in the arms of the various women he kept, his emotions, beyond lust and perhaps amusement at their antics as they coaxed another expensive bauble out of him, had never been touched. His mistresses had satisfied a physical need and, while he took pleasure in their company and bed, he likened it to the same pleasure and enjoyment he took in an exceptionally delicious meal or a particularly fine bottle of liquor: something relished for the moment and then forgotten. He doubted that, if he lived to be a hundred, he’d ever forget that blaze of passion that had ignited within him the instant his mouth had touched Isabel’s. What had happened tonight with Isabel made him realize that until he’d kissed her, held her in his arms, he had never experienced true desire—and it unnerved him.
With Isabel ardent and willing in his embrace, the world had receded and he’d been oblivious to anything but how wonderful she felt in his arms; been aware of nothing but of the potent sweetness of her kiss and the arousing softness of her body crushed against his. Marcus made a face, not liking that he’d been fully at the mercy of his most basic instincts. He’d been immune to everything but a pounding desire to push aside those concealing skirts and mate; and mate, he admitted uncomfortably, was the only way to describe the primitive emotions that had reigned over him. If Isabel hadn’t brought their embrace to an end, he conceded with a little bit of shock, well, he wouldn’t have been responsible for what would have happened next. He frowned, knowing full well what would have taken place: he’d have possessed her fully there in the garden and damn the devil!
He shook his head. Something must be very wrong with him, he decided. He’d gone from placidly expecting each day to follow the rhythm and routine of the day before to rashly announcing to an utter stranger that he was engaged to a woman he’d avoided like the plague for the past decade. What’s more, he’d discovered that the idea of marriage to her wasn’t at all distasteful. No, he thought, not distasteful at all, remembering her sweet mouth beneath his and the feel of her bare little buttocks in his hands. His body reacted instantly to images that flashed across his mind, his blood running hot and thick through his veins, the organ between his legs suddenly swollen and heavy, and he wondered wildly if he was turning into a satyr and or libertine like his grandfather, the Old Earl... .
Horrified at the idea of following in the Old Earl’s footsteps, Marcus resolutely kept his mind off of anything remotely connected to matters of the flesh. His face set in grim concentration, he shrugged out of his form-fitting dark b
lue jacket and tugged loose the starched white cravat, tossing both items over the oxblood leather settee that faced the fire. Seating himself behind the desk, after taking a sip of brandy, he pulled out several pieces of paper and began to write.
His mother should hear of the news first, he decided after a moment’s thought. He took a deep breath and then quickly and decisively wrote, giving her little more information than the fact that he was engaged to marry Isabel Manning and that the wedding would be held sometime in late July or early August. That first, most difficult message completed, he settled down to write the remainder. Eventually there was a pile of notes on the edge of his desk, all essentially repeating the same information he’d written his mother. He paused in his efforts, reviewing the names of the people who should hear of the engagement directly from him.
The Weston clan was large and far flung, and, although Marcus was closest to his cousins Julian, the Earl of Wyndham, and Charles, and to a lesser extent his young cousin the Honorable Stacey Bannister and Stacey’s mother, his mother’s youngest sister, there were other relatives. Many other relatives, he admitted, wincing, some he probably didn’t even know about. He sighed. The Old Earl had been known for his prodigious number of by-blows scattered from one end of the British Isles to the other and Marcus was grateful he could safely ignore all those relatives born on the wrong side of the blanket. But that still left three other aunts and who knew how many cousins?
Deciding that he needed only to notify his other aunts, leaving it up to them to spread the news to their children, he once again began to write. The last three letters written, he stared with satisfaction at the pile. His mother’s he would have hand delivered by a servant to London; the others could be sent by post.
He eyed the pile of notes for a long time. His fate was sealed. Not only had the engagement been announced tonight at Lord Manning’s, but once these notes were received, the news would spread like wildfire through the ton.
Pushing back his chair, he sipped his brandy and contemplated the future. Within a matter of months he’d be a married man and his life would never again be the same. But, he reminded himself, Isabel would be in his bed every night. A distinctly carnal expression crossed his face. Marriage, he decided, would have its benefits.
Roaming the confines of her rooms at Manning Court, Isabel couldn’t think of one good thing that could come of her marriage to Marcus Sherbrook. In fact, she saw only disaster ahead.
Wearing a nightgown of the finest cambric, she paced in front of a pair of long windows that overlooked the gardens, her gaze kept firmly away from the direction of the rose arbor. One thing she did not want to think about was what had occurred when she had lost her head in Marcus’s arms. With the same steely effort she had exercised over her life since Hugh’s death, she forced her thoughts away from that passionate interlude and considered her future.
How could her life have changed so dramatically, so disastrously, within twenty-four hours? There’d already been trouble enough on her horizon, but nothing that she couldn’t handle—and nothing approaching the magnitude of her marriage to Marcus! She’d awoken this morning knowing she’d have to deal with Whitley, but she’d never expected to end the day engaged to Marcus! A half-hysterical laugh bubbled up inside of her. Whitley she could handle, but Marcus ... Pain twisted in her heart. Unable to think of Marcus without feeling like bursting into tears, she considered the situation with Whitley.
Whitley was a problem, no denying it. She already knew that it had been a ghastly mistake to pay him any money in the first place and that she dared not pay him one penny more—no matter what he threatened.
Rubbing her head, Isabel sank down on her bed. And I wouldn’t have paid the bastard even two days ago if he hadn’t caught me by surprise, she thought bitterly. A chill blew through her when she remembered looking up from the roses she’d been cutting in the garden to find Whitley standing in front of her, that well-remembered, annoying little smirk on his face. While living in India, she had often itched to smack that same smirk right off his face, and she discovered that the itch had not gone away. She’d never understood Hugh’s friendliness for Whitley and she had always been wary of him and his poking and prying.
An expression of distaste flitted across her face. How often, all those years before, she wondered, had she caught him snooping around the house, even one time pawing through the papers on Hugh’s desk? How many boring afternoons had she sat through the sweltering heat of India listening to the wives of Hugh’s colleagues gossip about Whitley’s ceaseless nosing about? Her lip curled. The wives might gossip about him, but all of them invited him to their homes and acted as if they considered him quite charming. Even I did, Isabel admitted with disgust. But she’d never liked him, not even when Hugh had first introduced her to him, and she’d never fallen for Whitley’s facile charm.
The English society in Bombay had been small and insular and, like all such societies, much of their entertainment had come from speculating on the doings of each other. Most of it had been innocent and not unnatural considering the situation, but there had always been, in Isabel’s opinion, something decidedly nasty about Whitley’s interest in the happenings amongst his friends and neighbors. Even before Hugh had died and she had returned to England, she’d come to believe that Whitley was dangerous and no friend to Hugh or herself.
A quiver of fear went through her. And dear God, I was right! Her hands suddenly felt clammy thinking of that original meeting with Whitley in the garden. She’d not been happy to see him, but she hadn’t been frightened, at least not at first.
It had taken her a second to realize that Whitley was alone; no servant had escorted him to her and he had bypassed the normal route, avoiding being seen by any of the inhabitants of the house. He’d been sneaking and creeping around again, she thought disgustedly.
Her dislike boiling to the surface, in a sharp voice she had asked, “Did no one answer the door?”
Whitley’s smirk had grown and he’d said, “I thought it best if we had a moment or two of private conversation before you introduced me to your father-in-law. We have much to discuss, you and I: old events in India, events I doubt Lord Manning would find interesting.” His cold eyes locked on her face, he had drawled, “There’s no need for him to know everything that happened in Bombay, now is there?”
Dread had filled her. Face white, she had stammered, “W-w-what are you talking about?”
“I think you know very well what I’m talking about.” He looked sly. “Of course, I don’t really have to speak with Lord Manning and tell him about those days of old, now do I? There’s no reason to upset an old man by letting him learn that his son was not the paragon he thought or that you are not quite as you appear. I suppose,” he said carefully, “if someone made it worth my while, I could just leave the way I came and ride away with no one the wiser that I had even been here.”
Her thoughts scrambling like squirrels around a tree, Isabel had latched onto the most important part of his statement. He would go away. For money. “Wait here,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t let anyone see you.” Throwing down her tools and the woven straw basket half-filled with roses, she’d dashed to the house.
It had taken her a few moments to gather up what ready money she could lay her hands on. She thanked God that she still had a large portion of the generous pin money that Lord Manning gave her every quarter, and to that, in her desperation, she’d even added in a diamond necklace and earrings. In those first frantic minutes, she’d have given Whitley anything he’d wanted simply to make him go away.
And that, she decided angrily, had been her first mistake. If she’d faced him down, she’d have ended the situation then and there, but had she done that? No. Like a scared little ninnyhammer, she’d panicked and thrown the money at him. He’d kept his word—gone away, all right—but like a tiger having tasted blood, he’d come back for more. And he’d keep coming back, she realized soon enough ... unless she did something to prevent it.
She stared down at her clenched hands in her lap. I made a mistake, but I didn’t repeat it. I stood up to him the next time, she reminded herself. I told him he’d not get one penny more.
Her mouth thinned. She’d been frightened but determined when she’d ridden out to meet Whitley this morning. Whitley had, she reminded herself, no proof of anything. He had to have been fishing, bluffing, she told herself repeatedly. He had to have been hoping to either startle the truth out of her or scare her into giving him money.
A mirthless laugh came from her. Well, the bastard had succeeded on one level: she’d given him money. But never again, and she cursed her foolishness for letting Whitley panic her in that manner. She should have stood firm and laughed in his face, or offered to introduce him to Lord Manning. Taking him to meet her father-in-law would have been a calculated risk, but it would have been worth the gamble. Whitley could know nothing for certain; she and Hugh had been so very careful, knowing that the stakes were enormous and that one slip, one mistake, would be tragic. There was no proof, she told herself again, but even knowing that no proof existed, it did not, could not, dispel the anxiety that clawed in her breast or lessen her terror.
Whitley’s reaction to her refusal to give him more money hadn’t surprised Isabel. She’d known that he could be violent. She’d seen him lose his temper once with one of his native servants and take a whip to the poor fellow. Isabel felt certain that only Hugh’s quick intervention had saved the man’s life.
Thinking back on the confrontation with Whitley this morning, she realized that she should have been better prepared. It was unlikely that Whitley would be fool enough to strike her or harm her in any measurable way, but she could see that the situation had been dangerous. Isabel grimaced. I should have brought one of Hugh’s pistols with me and shot the bloody blackguard. For a moment, she dwelled on the satisfying image of Whitley lying dead on the ground, a bullet hole between his eyes.
Surrender Becomes Her Page 9
