She smiled grimly. She could have done it. Hugh had been uneasy with leaving her and Edmund alone in a foreign country for weeks, sometimes months at a time, while he traveled on the company’s business. They’d had no near neighbors and, with only unreliable native servants around for her to turn to in unsettled times and a countryside rife with deadly predators and poisonous vipers, Hugh had made certain she knew her way around a firearm. When he was home, on countless sultry mornings before the heat of the day became unbearable, he’d taken her into the relative coolness of the jungle to practice with a variety of pistols. A bittersweet ache bloomed within her. Those had been some of the most pleasurable times she’d spent in India. Hugh had been proud of her, and after a difficult start, and Lord knew it had been difficult, the possibility of a happy marriage had loomed on the horizon. Her lips drooped. And then a king cobra had ended everything.
Shaking off the depressing thoughts, she stood up and began to pace again. She hoped that the situation with Whitley had been defused, but she suspected not. He wouldn’t give up easily and she knew that, while he may have gone to ground at the moment, he’d circle around and come back again and try to frighten her into running like a terrified sambar doe in front of a stalking tiger. She snorted. That wasn’t going to happen. She was prepared now and wouldn’t let her guard down.
Isabel rubbed her forehead, the headache she’d been fighting all evening becoming more insistent. How she’d managed to keep that insipidly happy smile on her face all through dinner mystified her. I must be a better actress than I realize, she mused, because heaven knows I never felt less like smiling in my life. And tonight, she thought wearily, was only the beginning....
During the coming weeks and months there were going to be many occasions like tonight. She and Marcus would be constantly in each other’s company, constantly under the eyes of interested friends and relatives. The whole neighborhood would be excited about their wedding and, through it all, she would have to smile and nod and pretend that she wasn’t terrified of the future, terrified of forgetting and losing herself in Marcus Sherbrook’s embrace.
A tremor of half fright, half pleasure coursed through her at the memory of his warm mouth on hers. His kiss had been everything she’d ever foolishly dreamed that it would be, and for those brief treasured moments she’d been able to forget why it was madness and simply revel in his embrace, revel in the power of his kiss, in the hot, sweet sensations that raced through her, but then ... then she’d come to her senses and remembered....
Bleakly, she stared out into the darkness. Oh, Hugh, she thought miserably. How could you die and leave me alone this way? What am I to do?
The news of the engagement of Mrs. Hugh Manning and Marcus Sherbrook swept through the neighborhood with all the speed and wonder associated with a shooting star blazing across the night sky. Marcus had known that it would cause talk; he just hadn’t expected it to cause that much talk, nor that everyone from the lowliest scullery maid to the loftiest member of the aristocracy in the area would find the news so very interesting. By the time his engagement was five days old, he was heartily sick of it. Glaring out the window of his office on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, he swore that if one more of his male friends or neighbors expressed their astonishment that he was going to marry Isabel Manning of all people, they’d discover just how handy he was with his fives. As for the female portion of the neighborhood, they were all clamoring to know the date of the wedding. He scowled. And that was the one question he couldn’t answer.
His scowl deepened. And Isabel! The little wretch! Just what game was she playing? Every time he brought up the subject of setting the date of their wedding, she’d vanished like a puff of smoke. One minute they were talking and the next—poof!—she was gone and he was left talking to air. In fact, he thought grimly, since their betrothal had been announced, she had proven irritatingly elusive. It wasn’t, he argued, that he intended for them to live in each other’s pocket, but he’d certainly assumed they’d see each other more than they had these past days. They had things to discuss, a wedding to plan. There were decisions to be made, living arrangements to be decided upon, and blast her! She was always in a hurry to be somewhere else and simply did not have a moment to give him—or so she said. Why, he’d wager that since their engagement he hadn’t spent more than twenty minutes at a time in her presence, and always, he reminded himself, his scowl deepening, with someone nearby. If he didn’t know better he’d think she was afraid to be alone with him.
The sound of several vehicles and horses pulling up to the front of the house caught his attention and, still scowling, hoping it wasn’t more curious friends or neighbors coming to call, he strode from the library. Like the well-trained servant he was, Thompson was already in the foyer ahead of him preparing to open the heavy oak doors.
“It is your mother, sir,” Thompson said, smiling. “One of the gatekeeper’s boys took a shortcut through the park and just came rushing into the kitchen with the news.”
Marcus knew very well why his mother had come home, but he was still startled that news of his engagement had compelled her to leave London at the height of the Season. Touched by this sign of maternal devotion, he strolled out of the house to greet her.
His bad mood lifted as he caught sight of the entourage that awaited him. In addition to the large and lumbering family barouche drawn by four elegant grays, there was a coach that held several servants and behind that there were two heavily laden vehicles. His mother was notorious for the number of items she felt were absolutely necessary for her comfort when away from Sherbrook Hall and, looking at the assemblage before him, he smiled. His cousin Julian was of the mind that an invading army could probably get by with less than Aunt Barbara took for a few months’ stay in London. Marcus tended to agree with him.
Even though he knew why she had left behind the delights of London and had returned home, he was still a trifle surprised at her unexpected arrival. His mother never traveled anywhere without an armed male escort, convinced that bandits and highwaymen lurked behind every tree, and Marcus had been half prepared for a summons to London for the express purpose of accompanying her on the journey home. That she had forgone such precautions was astounding and made him wonder if she had finally accepted his oft-repeated assurances that no self-respecting bandit or highwayman would dare hold up such a large party.
The mystery of his mother’s sudden boldness was solved when he noticed a tall, fashionably attired gentleman in the act of dismounting from a restive black horse. She’d found an escort. Studying the man, Marcus frowned. Except for the black hair curling from beneath a rolled-brim beaver hat, Marcus could tell little about the man. He appeared to be a stranger, and yet there was something familiar about him, something about the lean-hipped, broad-shouldered build ...
Puzzling over the stranger’s identity, Marcus strolled toward the barouche. He and the stranger reached it at the same time and when the man grinned at him, Marcus stopped as if he’d been poleaxed. He still didn’t know the man, but he’d have recognized those features anywhere: except for the difference in eye color, the man bore a striking resemblance to the face Marcus saw every morning in his shaving mirror. The man was clearly a Weston. He had the same black hair, the same rugged features, right down to the swooping black eyebrows, deep-set eyes, strong jaw, and wide-lipped mouth. Only the nose was a bit more aquiline, but the olive, almost swarthy, complexion was all definitely Weston. His heart sank. Had his mother befriended one of the Old Earl’s by-blows?
Grinning at him, the stranger said, “You don’t recognize me, do you? I’m not surprised, I doubt we’ve met a half-dozen times and then only briefly. I’m Jack Landrey.”
“Aunt Maria’s oldest son?” Marcus asked cautiously. “The one who was in the Army?” Jack nodded and as they shook hands, Marcus said, “Heard you got shot up in Egypt. A leg, wasn’t it? Battle of Alexandria back in ’01?”
“Not one of my more gratifying moments, I can tell you,” J
ack answered with a smile.
Smiling back, Marcus said, “I can imagine. But wait, that’s not the only time you were wounded, was it? Didn’t I hear from someone that a couple years later you nearly lost an arm fighting in the West Indies?”
Jack shrugged. “Yes, but one of those dashed island fevers was the worst of it.”
Morbid curiosity prompted Marcus to say, “Seems to me I remember that you were also wounded last year at Copenhagen with Sir Arthur, weren’t you?”
Jack shook his head and admitted sheepishly, “It was a horse that caused me grief that time. Rank beast unseated me in the midst of fighting and I broke my leg when I fell.” He made a face. “After that, I decided perhaps fate was trying to tell me something. I sold out my commission and came home. Arrived back in England in January.”
“What your cousin is completely failing to mention,” said Barbara in exasperated tones as Marcus opened the door of the barouche and prepared to help her down, “is that he is no longer plain Mr. Jack Landrey. He is now Lord Thorne, Viscount Thorne.”
Jack laughed. “Forgot.”
“Newly inherited?” Marcus asked, liking a man who could forget being elevated to the ranks of the Peerage.
“Very. Not two months ago,” Jack admitted. “Distant cousin, second or third, died without issue, and I woke up one morning to find myself a viscount. Gave me a queer start, I can tell you. Mother is in the boughs over it and, of course, my brothers and sisters are thrilled.” Jack made a face. “I’m still not certain how I feel about it. Old fellow left plenty of blunt to go with the title, but the estate and farms have been allowed to fall into rack and ruin. First day at Thornewood, I put my foot through the dining room floor.” He shook his head. “I foresee a great deal of money and work being expended on the place to bring it up to snuff.”
Putting her hand on Marcus’s arm as they walked toward the house, Barbara gave Jack a fond look and said, “Yes, and you shall enjoy every moment of it. Your mother wrote me that you have been like a caged beast since you’ve come home to England. She thinks overseeing the rebuilding of the estate will give you something to do—and keep you out of mischief.” Turning her gaze to her son, Barbara’s brow lifted and she said, “Speaking of mischief: you have been very busy while I’ve been in London, haven’t you?”
Marcus grinned at his mother’s understatement but there was no time to reply; they had reached the house and Thompson was greeting his mother. Leaving Barbara happily issuing a multitude of orders to Thompson—rooms for Jack and his valet, the disbursement of trunks, bandboxes, and valises from the wagons—Marcus bore Jack off to his office.
Offering Jack a glass of hock, Marcus said, “Thank you for escorting my mother home. I appreciate it. I hope it didn’t disrupt your plans too much.”
“Good God, no!” exclaimed Jack, taking a seat on the oxblood leather settee. “I’d rather face a horde of savages intent upon my demise than the hallowed halls of Almack’s.”
Marcus laughed. “I don’t blame you. London has its amusements but Almack’s is not one I find to my liking.”
Jack took a swallow of his hock. “From what Aunt Barbara said, it appears that you managed to get yourself engaged with no help from the matchmaking mamas that haunt London this time of year.” He grinned and added, “She’s ecstatic, by the way.”
Though cousins, they were virtually strangers to each other and there were a few awkward moments, but these were soon left behind. Jack’s mother, the sister next to Barbara in age, the Honorable Maria Weston, as she had been known then, had outraged her family when at seventeen she had run away and married an impecunious lieutenant in the Navy. The Old Earl had not been happy with the match and Maria and her lieutenant had received a chilly welcome the few times they’d returned to Wyndham Manor. Proud and very much in love, Maria had turned her back on her family, and contact with the main branch of the Westons for the past thirty years or so had been scanty at best. Even though the Old Earl had died decades ago, and the young lieutenant had gained the rank of Vice-Admiral before his death three years previously, the estrangement that began during the Old Earl’s lifetime created a breach that remained somewhat to this day. Marcus thought it interesting that his mother appeared to have taken Jack under her wing.
Deciding that if Jack had his mother’s approval, and liking his first impressions of him, Marcus set himself out to put his cousin at ease and soon the two men were conversing as if they had known each other for years. Though Maria and her brood had remained at a distance, she had maintained some contact with her siblings, mostly through letters, and Jack and Marcus were able to find some common ground. By the time Barbara stuck her head around the door to his office, Marcus and Jack were quite at ease with one another.
At Barbara’s entrance, Jack set down his empty glass and rose to his feet. Smiling from mother to son, he said, “I’m sure that the pair of you have much to discuss. If you will direct me to my room, I shall give you some privacy.”
Once Jack had been borne away by Thompson and Barbara had settled herself comfortably in an overstuffed leather chair, she looked up at her son and said simply, “Tell me. All.”
Lying was not Marcus’s forte, but he’d known this moment was coming and he’d prepared himself. Not quite meeting his mother’s gaze, he said, “Before you left for London, you made it clear that I should make some changes in my life. Decided marriage would be one way. Knew you liked Isabel. Offered for her. Accepted me.”
Barbara stared in dismay at her tall handsome son, her heart sinking. Instead of the love match she’d dreamed of, it was obvious that Marcus, in his usual unemotional way, she thought irritably, had chosen a marriage of convenience. She frowned. She could understand Marcus’s motives, but what of Isabel’s?
Thoughtfully, Barbara studied her son. Marcus’s actions, while vexing, she could understand, but Isabel’s had her puzzled. It had not escaped her attention that Marcus and Isabel’s marked avoidance of each other was a little too obvious. She’d long suspected that the pair of them were attracted to each other, but both were too stubborn and proud to act on that attraction—or acknowledge it. Perhaps Isabel had realized that she didn’t really dislike Marcus after all? In fact, quite the opposite?
Barbara sighed. Whatever Isabel’s reasons, it was her son’s that concerned her most. She’d so longed for Marcus to fall wildly, madly in love that she hadn’t cared who the woman was; if Marcus loved her, Barbara would have welcomed a milkmaid into the family. But if she’d had to choose a wife for her son, Isabel would have topped the list. She’d had never simply wanted her son to marry, she’d wanted him to be helplessly, passionately in love with the woman he eventually married—which, it was apparent, he was not.
Well, it might not be a love match, she admitted resignedly, but she had hopes for the future. Married, they’d have to be in each other’s company and propinquity was known to make miracles.
Forcing a smile, she looked at Marcus and asked, “So when is the wedding to take place?”
Chapter 6
Marcus nearly groaned aloud. Trust his mother to ask the one question he could not answer! Reluctantly he said, “We haven’t set a precise date yet, but we’ve agreed that the wedding will take place in either late July or early August.”
Barbara glanced down at her hands in her lap. Well, that sounded promising. At least there didn’t seem to be a long engagement in the offing and she’d been half prepared for that. And, she thought pleased, Marcus seemed unhappy with the delay in setting a date for the wedding. Perhaps his emotions were more involved than she realized? Had she detected a note of impatience in his voice?
She glanced up to see him studying her, a quizzical expression on his face. “What?” she asked. “Why do you look at me so?”
“Unless you’re a fortune teller,” he said, smiling faintly, “when you left for London, you had no idea that I planned to marry, and I’ll wager that Isabel Manning would have been the last woman you’d expect me to marry
, yet you don’t seem the least surprised.”
Barbara shrugged and said, “You are my only child and I have tried very hard not to be an interfering mother. I raised you to be self-sufficient and you’re old enough to make your own decisions and have been for years. I have long thought it is past time that you married and started your nursery but I assumed you would marry when it suited you. Obviously that time has come.” She smiled. “As for Isabel being the woman you’ve chosen to marry ... why not? She’s an eligible, wealthy, attractive young woman from a respectable family. You’ve known each other all your lives, you come from similar backgrounds, and you’ve some interests in common—horses come to mind—and you even like her son, so why shouldn’t you marry each other? Your marriage seems quite timely and practical to me.”
His mother’s words pricked him. There was nothing wrong in what she said but hearing her lay out all the logical reasons for his marriage annoyed him. When he thought of marriage to Isabel—and he’d thought of little else since the night of their betrothal—he didn’t think in such prosaic terms as eligibility or common interests. No, there was nothing prosaic about his thoughts about Isabel. When he wasn’t thinking of strangling her, he was aware of the emptiness that consumed him when he was away from her, or he was imagining her smile, her laugh; but mostly, he admitted, he was thinking of how very much he wanted her in his arms and in his bed.
A frown on his face, Marcus said, “So the marriage doesn’t bother you?”
“Good heavens! Why should it? I am very fond of both Isabel and Edmund.” She flashed him a wide smile, saying truthfully, “I am thrilled that you are going to marry Isabel; she will be good for you.”
“You make her sound like a mustard foot bath,” he said dryly.
Surrender Becomes Her Page 10
