Surrender Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Quietly entering the room, he discovered Edmund and Lord Manning sound asleep. Edmund lay curled next to his grandfather and Lord Manning’s arm rested around the boy’s shoulder. Marcus’s heart ached as he stared at the pair of them. Losing the baron would be hard on all of them, but Edmund would suffer the most. Poor little bantling. So young to have lost first his father, now his grandfather. Remembering his anguish when his own father died, Marcus vowed that he would do his best for the boy and try his damnedest to fill the old baron’s shoes.

  As if aware of Marcus’s presence, Lord Manning’s eyelids fluttered and he awoke. His gaze met Marcus’s and he gave another of those painfully crooked smiles. “Are you angry at the way I galloped you to the altar?”

  Marcus shook his head, a faint gleam of laughter in his gray eyes. “Indeed, I thank you for it. Isabel was being coy about setting a date and you cleverly settled that matter for us.” His gaze sharpened. “And that was your plan, was it not?”

  The old man carefully removed his arm from Edmund and admitted, “She appeared to be happy about the engagement, but she is an independent little devil and I feared that once I died, she’d find a way to cry off. There are valuable lands and a large fortune at stake and they will be Edmund’s when I am gone, but until he reaches his majority, Isabel and the boy need protecting and a man’s hand on the reins.”

  “Don’t let Isabel hear you say that,” Marcus teased, even as he assessed the old man’s state. Except for the obvious paralysis on the left side, he looked remarkably well. His color was good, his eyes clear, and he was speaking, if with difficulty, coherently—an encouraging sign.

  Lord Manning chuckled. “I know. I have no doubt that she is more than capable of running the estate and overseeing the Manning fortune, but she would be fighting against convention and she and the boy would be vulnerable to those less scrupulous individuals who might think to prey upon them. As her husband, you will protect them.”

  “I would have in any case,” Marcus said quietly. Lord Manning closed his eyes, exhaustion once again sweeping over him. “I know,” he said in a low, slurring tone. “I know, but this way is better and I can die knowing that they are safe.”

  Marcus touched the old man’s hand where it lay limply on the side of the bed and Manning’s eyes opened. Marcus flashed him a twisted smile. “Think about living, my lord, and less about dying.”

  The old man smiled faintly and fell asleep once more.

  Leaving Edmund and Lord Manning, Marcus turned and walked toward the sitting room. He met Isabel at the doorway.

  “Is he all right?” she asked anxiously. “You have been gone so long, that I feared ...”

  Taking her by the arm, he escorted her back into the sitting room. “Calm yourself. They are both fine. Lord Manning awoke and I spoke a few minutes with him. That is what delayed me.”

  “He spoke with you? What did he say?”

  “Merely that he was happy to see us married.”

  She smiled uncertainly. “And you? Are you happy?”

  Marcus pulled her into his arms. Staring down into her face, he said softly, “Our engagement may have come about by accident, but if you believe anything, believe that there is nothing that I wanted more than to marry you.”

  Her eyes searched his and something in his gaze, in his face, made her heart race. Was it possible, she thought wildly, that her most private, most cherished dream had come true? Did Marcus love her? Or was it mere affection for a one-time ward that she saw in his eyes? Despair swept through her. If he had married her still thinking of her as his irritating ward and out of a sense of duty, she might as well throw herself into the lake and drown. But if... if he had married her seeing her finally as the woman she was, seeing her as a woman who would love him with all her heart until the day she died ... Hope flared in her. Oh, if that was what she saw in his eyes, then she was the happiest of women.

  She knew that dark face and those cool gray eyes almost as well as her own; they had long haunted her dreams, but she could not determine if she was seeing reality or what she wanted to see. It seemed incredible that he could love her, and inwardly, she winced. She had certainly done nothing to make herself appealing to him and yet remembering those moments in his arms ... Warmth suffused her and she felt a delicious tingle deep within. He had wanted her. Wanted her as a man does a woman, wanted her as she had longed for him to do since she had been seventeen years old.

  A flush stained her cheeks and her gaze dropped. Playing with a button on the front of his jacket, she muttered, “Very prettily said.”

  He bent his head and nibbled at her ear. “Dear, sweet wife, I have many pretty things I will say to you soon.”

  She tilted her head and teased, “And no scolding?”

  His eyes glittered and he pulled her closer. “No, no scolding. I have other methods of chastising an unrepentant little termagant like you.” His lips caught hers, and desire for her never far from him, exploded into being. His mouth hardened and he kissed her thoroughly, making no effort to hide his sudden, rampant arousal. Feeling as if he would split his breeches, Marcus fought for control, but like a caged animal sensing freedom, his body had other ideas and he crushed her next to him, kissing her with an escalating urgency.

  Isabel, as helpless as he, returned his kiss with fervor, delighting in the feel of that tall, hard body pressed so tightly against hers, delighting in the drugging sensation of his lips and tongue taking her mouth. Her nipples hard and aching, her lower body aflame, her arms closed around his neck and she pushed herself even closer to him.

  They kissed passionately, the depth of their hunger for each other growing with every passing second. Rational thought clouded by the most basic needs pulsing through him, Marcus sought her skirts and lifted them, growling softly when his seeking fingers found the soft, naked flesh beneath. He cupped her buttocks, positioning her against the swollen rod between his legs, and rocked against her, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  Tearing his mouth from hers, he glanced around for a place to lay her down and it was only when his gaze took in their surroundings that his thoughts became lucid. Christ! He was in Manning’s sitting room and he was preparing to make love to Isabel on the baron’s sofa!

  Struggling to regain control, he determinedly set Isabel from him. It was difficult. Her face was sweetly flushed, the beautiful golden-brown eyes were drowsy with desire, and her soft mouth was far too appealing for his peace of mind. But the knowledge that Manning lay possibly dying in the other room acted as a douse of cold water.

  Isabel blinked and Marcus knew the exact moment that reality came crashing back to her. She gasped and spun around to look at the opened doorway. Her face horrified, she looked back at him. “Dear heaven! How could I forget, even for a moment ...”

  Marcus grimaced. “We are both not ourselves tonight.”

  She gave a half-hysterical laugh. “Indeed. That is an understatement.” Fighting to regain her composure, she shook out her skirts, her face flaming as a thrill shot through her remembering Marcus’s big, warm hands moving across her buttocks. Her spine ramrod straight, she forced herself to sit down again on the sofa and deliberately took a sip of her tea. It was cold, but drinking it gave her something to do.

  Needing something stronger, Marcus spied several decanters and glassware atop an intricately carved lowboy on the other side of the room. Crossing to the lowboy, he splashed some brandy into a snifter, tossed the liquor down, and poured another.

  After taking in a deep, steadying breath he returned to his chair. Seated again, he took a sip of his brandy and cast his mind about for a topic to take their minds off of each other and the old man in the other room. Recalling his adventure tonight—last night, actually—he grinned.

  “I have something for you,” he said and, putting down the snifter, reached into his vest pocket. The gold locket he had taken from Whitley in his hand, he offered it to Isabel. “I believe this is yours.”

  Isabel blanched a
nd shrank away from the object in his hand as if it were a deadly cobra. She sprang to her feet and, looking terrified, she ripped her gaze away from the locket and stared at him. Her voice thick and rusty, she croaked, “Where did you get that?”

  Marcus frowned. This wasn’t the reaction he had expected. He glanced down at the locket, studying it for the first time. What was there about this piece of jewelry that caused her such alarm? What secret did this object hold? More important, what secret could it contain that Whitley felt she would pay anything to keep hidden?

  Chapter 10

  Marcus stared from her to the locket, frowning. His gaze settling on her face, he said, “I’ll say it again—don’t you think it’s about time you tell me what is going on? Whitley obviously felt that this locket holds some power over you.” His gaze narrowed. “Is this what you were looking for in his room?”

  She hesitated, looked at the locket, then away. “Not exactly,” she finally said. “I told you the truth when I said that I didn’t know what he had, just that he meant me harm and that he had something that could, indeed, harm me.”

  “And this locket could harm you?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know!” She took a deep breath. “But I couldn’t take the chance that Whitley did possess something, some item that would ...” She looked away again, biting her lip. “It is very complicated,” she finally said.

  Marcus snorted. “Apparently.” His gaze traveled over her averted features. “I don’t suppose you’d like to explain this complicated matter to me?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “No, I wouldn’t.” Her gaze hard and direct, she added, “I will not lie to you; if I can avoid telling you, I will. If I have my way, it will go to the grave with me.” At the objection she saw on his face, she sighed and said wearily, “I know. And before you say it, I’ll agree that it is unfair and obstinate of me, but believe me, Marcus, if our positions were reversed, you would do the same thing.” She looked at the locket and asked softly, “May I have it?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and then wordlessly handed it to her. The locket was warm from his hands and Isabel stared down at it for a long time, her gaze tracing the intricate pattern engraved on it. Memories came flooding back and tears filled her eyes. Pressing the locket to her bosom, she smiled shakily at him. “Thank you,” she managed in a thick voice. “It is very precious to me.”

  Marcus bowed. “You’re welcome.”

  “How,” she asked, the locket still clutched to her breasts, “did you get it from Whitley? He would not have easily given it up.”

  Marcus grinned. “You’re quite right about that, but I can be, ah, very persuasive when the necessity arises.” His grin faded and he crossed the room to stand in front of her. His expression grave, he said, “Isabel, you know that I will never allow Whitley or anyone else to ever harm you. Are you certain that you will not tell me what is going on?”

  She hesitated, and then Edmund, having wandered into the room, said from behind them, “Mother, Grandfather is sleeping quietly right now. Do you think I could leave him long enough to wash my face and dress for the day?”

  Isabel started, guilty relief flashing across her face. Rushing over to her son, she said, “I think that is an excellent idea. You run along and I’ll go sit with him while you are gone.”

  The moment lost, Marcus made no move to stop her when she sent him an uncertain smile over her shoulder and disappeared into Lord Manning’s bedroom.

  By mid-morning, though the baron continued to sleep, it was apparent to everyone that he would not be dying within the next few minutes, and the vicar, Jack, Marcus’s mother, Mrs. Appleton, and Bishop Latimer departed for their homes. Mrs. Appleton would be back almost immediately. Her plump little chin quivering, she told Marcus, “I shall return within the hour. I need only to see my trunk packed and my brother settled before I return.” Her eyes filled with tears and, in a choked voice, she said, “This was not how I envisioned my first time staying here.”

  Marcus patted her on the shoulder and murmured, “Do not despair, Madame. Lord Manning may confound the physician yet.”

  A less woebegone look on her face, she dabbed at her eyes with a dainty scrap of lace and exclaimed, “Oh, I do so hope that you are right!”

  The house seemed quiet after their exodus, but shortly, the news having spread through the neighborhood, friends of the baron came to call, expressing their dismay and inquiring after his health. Marcus calmly dealt with all of them, having told Isabel that the best place for her was at the baron’s side. Smiling faintly, he said, “Go to him, my dear. It is where you long to be.” She’d hesitated and he’d said, “Naturally, if you wish to handle this yourself, I shall leave you to it and go see to Lord Manning’s needs myself.”

  It was the right thing to say and Isabel fled up the stairs leaving him in command of the lower floor, which was, she thought with amused irritation, precisely what he planned.

  Of course, the news of the unexpected wedding had also spread, and in between expressions of concern for the baron there were congratulations given to Marcus on his marriage. It was, he decided wryly, a most bizarre situation: accepting condolences and congratulations at the same time.

  His own trunk arrived from Sherbrook Hall along with his valet, Bickford, who was currently upstairs busily unpacking in the large bedroom Isabel had selected for Marcus. “I’ve told Deering to put you in the bedroom adjacent to milord’s,” she said, “and Mrs. Appleton will be directly across the hall.” She glanced at him. “It is all so very strange, is it not?”

  “Indeed. I’m quite certain I did not envision the first nights of marriage sleeping alone in a bedroom next to my wife’s ex-father-in-law,” Marcus replied dryly.

  Isabel suppressed a giggle that bordered on the hysterical and disappeared up the stairs once more.

  In between the comings and goings of the various visitors, Mrs. Appleton, her maid, and several pieces of luggage had returned and a solicitous Deering had escorted her to her bedroom.

  There was a slight lull and Marcus, feeling the effects of a long, anxious night, rang for Deering and requested a pot of very strong, very hot coffee and a decanter of cognac. As if by magic the pot and decanter had instantly appeared and, after taking a sip of the coffee liberally laced with the cognac, Marcus asked Deering, “Everything under control upstairs?”

  Deering allowed a faint smile to cross his face. “Yes. Edmund and Mrs. Man—Sherbrook are both asleep on the sofas in Lord Manning’s sitting room. Mrs. Appleton and the physician are with him.”

  “Any change?”

  Deering’s smile vanished. “No, but he appears to be resting comfortably; even Mr. Seward said so.”

  “Well, then, we shall have to hope that Mr. Seward knows what he is talking about.”

  Deering was not gone five minutes and Marcus had just settled himself in a large overstuffed chair when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Sighing, he rose to his feet and glanced out the window at the spanking pair of black horses pulling an elegant Highflyer that swept up to the front door. He wasn’t surprised to see Garrett Manning handling the reins.

  A moment later, Deering showed Garrett into the green salon and departed. Observing the other man’s elegant cutaway deep blue jacket, buff breeches, and gleaming Hessian boots, Marcus felt rather grubby in his old bottle-green coat and crumpled cravat and thought longingly of a hot bath, followed by several hours of sleep.

  “My dear fellow! A wake and a wedding all on the same night,” Garrett exclaimed as he crossed the room. Sticking out his hand, he asked, “Do we mourn the old man or celebrate your wedding? Or both.”

  The very real concern in the blue eyes robbed the question of any flippancy and, shaking Garrett’s hand, Marcus said, “No mourning. The old man is holding his own.”

  There was no disguising the relief in Garrett’s face. He gave a sharp laugh. “I know you will find it hard to believe but I do have affection for him
.”

  Marcus nodded. “And he for you, although he wishes you just a bit less of a rake.”

  Garrett shrugged. “One seldom gets what one wishes for.” He quirked a brow at Marcus. “So I am to wish you and the lovely Isabel happy?”

  “Yes. Your uncle wanted to see us married before he ... and we obliged him.”

  Garrett looked at him keenly. “Do you think he’s dying?”

  “It was a near thing, but as of now, no, I don’t believe he is dying. The physician may disagree with me, but I think that if he was going to die, he would have done so by now.” Reluctantly, he added, “But he has not escaped unscathed and I fear he will never be the man he once was.”

  Marcus relayed the events of the previous night and the extent of the effects of the stroke. “He may recover completely,” Marcus said as the topic came to an end. “But only time will tell that.”

  “May I see him?” Garrett asked.

  Marcus considered him. Lord Manning loved his nephew even if he disagreed with his lifestyle and Garrett appeared to have deep affection for his uncle. He shrugged. “I have no objection. Let me ring for Deering to show you upstairs.”

  “Ah, a moment, if you please?”

  “Of course, what is it?”

  Garrett made a face. “I’m not sure.” Looking uncomfortable he muttered, “You may think me meddling in something that is none of my affair, but I feel compelled to speak.” He half smiled. “After all, you could say that we are now related and I am only looking out for the best interests of the family.”

  Marcus nodded, wondering where this conversation was going.

  Garrett cleared his throat, clearly ill at ease and not certain of his ground. “I don’t usually go around sticking my nose in what doesn’t concern me,” he began reluctantly, “but I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you to be careful of that fellow Whitley, who is staying at the Stag Horn in the village.”