Surrender Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Isabel took an agitated step away from him. “I know what you say is true and I never believed”—she flashed him a faint smile—“in my darkest moment that Whitley had anything substantial. My fear was that he could, and would, create a whirlwind of gossip and speculation, and that for the rest of his life Edmund would have to endure the whispers about his birth. Most of the ton, after the first flurry of gossip, would ignore it, but questions would always linger and he would always have the stigma hanging over his head. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  Speculation in his gaze, he asked, “Assuming the worst and that Whitley spread his lies, if Lord Manning had asked you outright, what would you have said?”

  Her eyes met his steadily. “I would tell him,” she said calmly, “that Whitley was a liar and blackguard and that Edmund was Hugh’s and my son. With no doubt.”

  He nodded as if he agreed with her. His eyes fell to the locket once more. “I think this bit of jewelry needs to disappear,” he said quietly.

  Distressed, she asked, “Must we destroy it? They are his parents. I thought that ...” She sighed. “No, you’re right. I could never tell Edmund the truth.”

  “Christ! I should hope not,” Marcus exclaimed. “What would be the point?”

  “You’re right, I know.” She looked at him, her eyes full of misery. “I just feel so guilty.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t. The time for any guilt is long past.”

  She nodded reluctantly and, fingering the locket in his hand, she asked, “What are we going to do?”

  “Come with me,” he said and walked back to his bedroom. Once there, he pried out the two pictures and, walking to the fireplace, tossed them into the small fire that burned there.

  Isabel stood beside him, relief and pain mixing together as she watched the small portraits disappear in the flames. When there was nothing more to see, her eyes still on the flames, she asked, “And the locket?”

  Marcus stared down at it a long time and then he tossed it onto the grate. From the wood box nearby he added several more logs to the fire. “The heat of the flames won’t completely destroy it, but the fire will obliterate the initials.”

  She raised her gaze to his dark somber face. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I knew it had to be done, but I could not bring myself to do it.”

  He pulled her against him and smiled down at her. “Edmund’s entire life depended upon its destruction; eventually you would have brought yourself to do it.”

  Leaning against his hard length, she asked, “He’s safe now, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s safe,” Marcus answered. And will be even safer, he thought, once Whitley is no longer alive.

  Chapter 14

  When Isabel awoke the next morning, she was surprised to find herself alone in her own bed. Staring at the silken canopy overhead and remembering what had happened after the locket and portraits had been destroyed, she flushed over her whole body.

  With vivid clarity, she remembered Marcus scooping her up in his arms and carrying her to his bed. A smile on his lips that made her heart thud and her lower body turn to liquid honey, as he lay her down, he murmured, “And this time, my sweet, I shall make love to you the way I should have the first time.” And he did just that.

  The flush along her entire body deepened as memories of the previous night flooded through her. His touch, his kisses, had been maddeningly soft and seductive, and when he finally merged his big body with hers, she had been frantic, aching to feel that first long slide of his swollen member sink deep within her. If the first time he had made love to her had been wonderful, she thought with a wide, satisfied smile, the second time had been, oh, utterly splendid!

  Marriage to Marcus was everything she had ever dreamed it would be. She had been terrified of his reaction to her virginity and all the lies it would reveal, but she should have known that Marcus would never fail her. She sat up, her eyes widening. Why hadn’t she realized that before? He had never failed her and, even when she had been at her most furious with him, she had known deep within herself that his actions had all been simply to protect her, whether as a wayward ward or an outrageous neighbor. Her pulse leaping, she wondered . . . could he love her? Did he love her as a man loves a woman? Were his emotions stronger and more powerful than she had ever suspected? Was what he felt for her something more than mere obligation and fondness?

  She sat up in bed, her gaze blind and her thoughts chaotic. She never doubted that he had a fondness for her, but had she in her inexperience been oblivious to the fact that there might have been some other feeling behind his concern for her and his care of her? When Whitley had been badgering her that morning on the path, he had charged in with his stunning announcement of their engagement. And when she had desperately needed to discover what it was that Whitley had held over her head, he had obtained the locket for her. Even more important and telling, last night when he had discovered the truth about her marriage to Hugh and Edmund’s true parentage, he had not hesitated a moment, but had immediately joined her in covering up the truth. She had lived in fear and dread of her wedding night, terrified that once Marcus learned the facts surrounding those fateful days in India that Edmund’s life, Lord Manning’s joy and her own reputation would be shattered. She frowned. Now why had that ridiculous thought ever crossed her mind? Why had she even for one moment considered that Marcus would betray her? Had he ever? Of course, she argued, he could be just protecting his own reputation, but couldn’t his behavior be explained as that of a man with more than just a fondness for a woman? Didn’t his actions smack more of a man that cared deeply, perhaps was even in love with that same woman? Oh, she certainly hoped so!

  Joy bubbling up through her, she slid down from the big bed and, after grabbing her robe, danced around the room. Oh, could it be? Could Marcus love her? As passionately, as greatly and intensely as she had loved him for what seemed her whole life?

  “Well, someone is very happy this morning,” remarked Peggy, walking into the room with a large silver tray covered with various pots, plates, cups, and saucers. Putting down the tray on the small table near one of the chairs in the room, she beamed at Isabel. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”

  Too happy to be embarrassed, Isabel flung her arms around Peggy’s waist and said, “Oh, Peggy! It does! I am very happy indeed.”

  Her face full of fondness, Peggy pinched her cheek. “And you deserve it, poppet. I’ve long thought that you and Mr. Sherbrook would make a grand match.”

  “Did you?” Isabel asked, reaching for a piece of toast. “Why?”

  “Why, it’s plain as the nose on your face that the pair of you were in love with each other.”

  Isabel frowned. “Oh, I hardly think that’s true. We avoided each other for years.”

  Peggy snorted. “That may be, but I know the look you got in your eyes whenever he came to call on the baron, and the way you would mope around the house for hours after he had left.”

  “I may have,” Isabel admitted reluctantly, chagrined that she had not hidden her feelings better, “but that doesn’t mean that he cared one whit for me.”

  “You silly little goose! I suppose you think his kindness to Edmund all these years was simply because he enjoyed being climbed all over by a little boy not out of leading strings? I can’t tell you the times I’ve seen Marcus in his fine London clothes wrestle on the ground with Edmund. Or the times I’ve noticed his eyes following you around the room when he came to dine or attend some gathering at Manning Court.”

  “Did they?” Isabel breathed, her face glowing.

  “They did, indeed!” Peggy replied, grinning. “And you were just too blind too notice it.”

  Isabel rushed through her bath and resented the time it took to dress and for Peggy to arrange her bright hair in a topknot of curls. While Isabel fidgeted, Peggy calmly wound a length of gold and green plaid silk ribbon through the topknot and pulled a few tendrils of hair down and left them to dangle near her cheeks. Only when her
hair was arranged to Peggy’s satisfaction was Isabel finally able to escape. Picking up the skirts of her green sprigged muslin gown, it was with a light step that Isabel flew down the stairs of Sherbrook Hall in search of her husband. My husband, she thought giddily. Marcus Sherbrook is my husband.

  The object of her thoughts stepped out of the morning room just as she paused on the bottom step, and her heart felt as if it would jump right out of her chest and into his hands. At the sight of him, so tall and handsome and beloved, standing before her, a joyful smile lit up her face.

  Rocked back on his heels by that dazzling smile, Marcus stared at her, thinking, when he could think, that she had never looked so beautiful to him, or so dear. His thoughts somewhat fuzzy, after a second he croaked, “Good morning. I thought that you would still be abed.”

  Though a rosy blush stained her cheeks, she walked up to him and, standing on her tiptoes, brushed a kiss across his chin. “My bed was lonely,” she said shyly, “without you in it.”

  Marcus groaned and instinctively his arms tightened around her slender form. Leaving her warm and naked alone in bed this morning had been one of the hardest things he had ever done. Even after he had carried her back into her own room and pulled up the covers over all that delectable, silky skin, the urge to sink down beside her and waken her with a kiss had been almost overpowering. He had denied himself then, but he could not now. His mouth found hers. They kissed for a long time, and when Marcus finally raised his head and put her from him, they were both breathless and aroused.

  Amazed to feel her nipples hardening and that sweet ache of anticipation flaring into being between her thighs with just one kiss, she stared dazed at him.

  Marcus was not much better. The urge to pick her up and carry her back up to bed and soothe the raging hunger just the sight and taste of her had caused, he struggled to gain command of himself. They were in the bloody entry hall, for heaven’s sake!

  Snatching her hand, he dragged her into the morning room. Shutting the door behind him and leaning his broad shoulders back against it, he pulled her into his arms once again.

  She flowed into his embrace, her arms clasped around his neck and her face upturned for his kiss. Beneath his buckskin breeches, his body was hard and responsive against her and, feeling the thick, rigid bulk nudging her softness, she gasped with pleasure.

  Marcus kissed her again, this time letting his hands roam at will, cupping her buttocks, positioning her where he liked. Kissing her, having her feminine curves pressed so tantalizingly against him was a blissful agony, especially since his every nerve screamed for him to take her.

  Marcus lifted his head and gazed wildly around the room, and then slowly, reluctantly but firmly, set her aside. Smiling wryly, he said, “I can hardly make love to you amongst the breakfast dishes.”

  Isabel forced herself to glance around the room. It was a handsome room. A woolen rug in subtle tones of cream, rose, and pale blue lay on the gleaming oak floor; ivory drapes flecked with rose hung on either side of a bank of windows, and comfortable chairs were placed here and there. The cherrywood sideboard was laden with various covered dishes and the oval table with its pristine white linen tablecloth and centerpiece of hothouse lilies and ferns graced the center of the room. Tall crystal salt and pepper shakers, cream and sugar pitchers, and dishes full of jam were scattered across the table; signs of Marcus’s meal were evident in the empty plate, cup, saucer, and glass at the head of the table.

  Marcus was right, and she giggled at the picture of trying to make love in the midst of all the various items on the table. Her eyes dancing, she said, “Indeed not. Besides, what would Thompson say?”

  Almost on cue, there was a tap on the door.

  Marcus obligingly moved away from the door and Thompson, carrying a steaming plate of coddled eggs, walked into the room. He bowed slightly and, smiling at Isabel, said, “Your maid said that you were awake and that you were very fond of coddled eggs.”

  “Thank you,” she said and, though breakfast had been the last thing on her mind, she obediently found a plate and helped herself to some of the coddled eggs. Thompson fussed over her, pouring her a cup of coffee and offering her a rasher or two of bacon and some fresh strawberries and cream.

  Marcus watched, amused at the antics of his butler. It would appear that his wife had stolen another heart.

  After Thompson departed with the admonition that she ring should she need anything else, anything at all, Marcus strolled up to the sideboard and, taking another cup, helped himself to another cup of coffee. Seated himself, he looked across at Isabel as she made short work of her eggs.

  “Hungry?” he asked, smiling.

  She grinned. “Always. Don’t you remember when I was a child the prodigious amount of food I ate?”

  He nodded. He had many pleasant, delightful memories of her, many of them here in this very room as well as countless others all throughout the house and grounds. Idly, he wondered if their lives would have been different if he had not been placed in the position of being her guardian while still a youth himself. If their lives had not been so intertwined and they had not been placed in the position of adversaries, would he have recognized the affection he’d always felt for her was something deeper, more powerful?

  His gaze blind, he stared down at the crisp white tablecloth. To this day he could remember as clearly as if it had happened yesterday, the first time he had laid eyes on her. She had been an infant, perhaps less than six months old, but already she sported a head of flaming hair and was snatching at life, at what she wanted, with tiny hands. He smiled. Too well did he remember the moment those big eyes, still with the cloudy blue of babyhood, had fallen on his uneasy nine-year-old self. He had been visiting at Denham Manor with his parents, and Sir George had been proudly showing off his infant daughter. Ignoring the cooing adults, her gaze fastened unerringly on him, Isabel had gurgled with laughter and reached out with both hands for his. Tentatively, and at the urging of his mother, he had put forth one finger. With another happy gurgle, Isabel’s fingers had closed tightly around his, and for a long moment they had simply stared at each other.

  Marcus shook his head at the memory. Could the bond between them have occurred then? It seemed incredible to consider it; he had been a grubby schoolboy at the time with scant interest in squalling infants, but something had happened between them in that moment.

  “You are very quiet. What are you thinking?” Isabel asked.

  “I was thinking of the first time I saw you,” he said with a grin. “You were a squealing infant and determined to have your own way even then.”

  She grinned back at him. “Some things never change, do they?”

  He laughed. “Indeed not! Now, how would you like to spend the day?”

  A mischievous gleam in her eyes, she said, “Touring your stables. I must see for myself that you have the proper quarters for my horses, especially if Tempest is to be housed here.”

  They did precisely that and, as they wandered through the stables and Isabel took stock of the situation, Marcus smiled as he watched her, thinking that few brides would wish to spend the first days of marriage tramping up and down the aisles of one barn after another. With indefatigable energy, she dragged Marcus willy-nilly behind her as she inspected the stalls, the tack rooms, the sleek, blooded horses; spoke knowledgeably with the grooms and stable boys; viewed the nearby paddocks; and ended with a lengthy conversation with Worley, his head stableman.

  Marcus said little during this, content simply to watch his wife, content simply to be in her company, but he suspected that his pocketbook was going to sustain a considerable drain on it before Isabel’s notions of how her and their horses should be stabled. He was right.

  It was late afternoon as they walked slowly back toward the house. Her hand was resting on his arm and they strolled in silence for a moment, enjoying the gentle May afternoon, the scent of apple blossoms and roses borne in the air.

  “Well?” Marcus finally aske
d.

  She peeped up at him. “It’s going to cost a great deal of money.”

  He nodded, a smile lurking in his gray eyes. “From the bits and pieces I overheard between you and Worley, I had already come to that conclusion.”

  “I do have my own fortune, you know,” she said briskly. “The entire cost doesn’t have to come out of your purse.”

  “Isabel,” he said, a warning note in his voice.

  “Very well. Worley and I both feel that we need at least one additional barn.” When Marcus remained unmoved, she added, “Two would be better. After all, I have several horses of my own. And we think that a series of covered walkways between the various barns would make movement of horses and humans much more convenient during inclement weather.”

  “Convenient,” Marcus said neutrally, thinking of the looming construction projects and the disruption they would cause for months—to him as well as the horses and stable crews. For a moment, he thought of his calm, quiet, well-ordered life before that fateful morning he had met Isabel and Whitley on the path leading to Manning Court. Sherbrook Hall would soon house an energetic twelve-year-old boy, a boy whose mother was already beginning the changes that would forever alter the serenity that had once been his. But was serenity the correct word, Marcus wondered. Odd, but when he considered life before recent events, the word boring came to mind.

  He glanced down at Isabel, who was regarding him uncertainly. Married to Isabel, he suspected that “boring” was never a word that would cross his mind or lips for the rest of his life.