Deceiver

by Nicola Cornick

  "Who turned him away?" She said.

  "Her parents, of course." Martha shook her head lugubri­ously. "Powerful proud, the Southerns. Not good enough for her, they said."

  "I do not recall a suitor," Isabella said. "Who was he?"

  "I've no notion," Martha said with massive indifference. "Good-looking boy, though. He had a wicked smile. Charmed the birds from the trees and Miss India with them."

  Isabella was silent, listening to the splash of the water in the caravan wheels and trying to remember those last few summers at Salterton. India and she had been of an age but, as she had told Marcus, they had never confided. India was a quiet girl and very self-contained. Isabella, more extroverted, had tried to draw her cousin out but had been politely but firmly rejected.

  "How strange," she said now. "I remember nothing of it. I thought that when she married Marcus. . ." She stumbled a little over his name just as she stumbled over the thought of India and Marcus married, "I thought it a love match. Her first love, I mean."

  Mrs. Otter made a noise of disagreement that sounded un­cannily like a seal blowing water. "Love match! Best to ask your husband about that, Miss Bella."

  If only I dared, Isabella thought. She had seen a little of the loyalty and passion that India had inspired in Marcus and, although she felt a coward, she did not think she could broach that subject with him. Not yet, if ever. The blue devils returned to plague her and she felt impatient with herself.

  "Are we out of sight of the beach here, Martha?" she inquired.

  "Well enough," Mrs. Otter replied, drawing the horse to a stop. "I know what you're thinking, Miss Bella, but only the gentlemen swim naked. It's tradition."

  "High time it was changed, then," Isabella said and, with a brisk gesture, she pulled off her gown and chemise and leaped into the sea.

  Marcus had also risen early that morning. He told himself that it was a coincidence that he had stirred at the precise moment Isabella had left her room and gone out into the gardens, but he knew that it was more than mere chance. He was so aware of her that it seemed his body was tuned to hers even through the frustratingly locked door that linked their rooms. He reflected sardonically that a few days of lying in bed imagining her close by, soft, fragrant and completely un­obtainable, would be sufficient to have him taking an ax to the door, promises of celibacy be damned.

  He watched from the window as she made her way down the sandy path through the gardens toward the beach. The sight of the dilapidated summerhouse where they had con­ducted their trysts roused all his most heated memories and did nothing to calm his ardor. Clearly some hard, physical exercise was required. He went down to the stables, saddled up Achilles and took the track away from the beach that led up to the top of the cliff. From here he had a magnificent view of the curve of the bay and the village of Salterton embraced within it. He also had a magnificent view of his wife, floating completely naked on the gentle swell of the waves.

  In the growing light she looked as insubstantial and light as thistledown on the soft billow of the sea. Her hair spread out like a mermaid's tresses on the water, touched with gold from the setting moon. The pale light of morning cocooned her body in a silver shroud and turned it to mist and shadows.

  Marcus's lips formed a silent, appreciative whistle. His hand strayed toward the telescope that he always carried in his jacket pocket but then he paused. It seemed rather prurient to spy on his own wife in such a manner. But how very typical that she should be the only person in Salterton who would be so careless of convention as to swim naked in the sea in the early morning, and a Sunday morning at that. There were no public entertainments in Salterton on a Sunday, for it was far too exclusive a resort to sink to the levels of depravity of Brighton or Margate. Isabella, however, was making up for that magnificently. Already he could see a crowd gathering on the esplanade.

  Marcus watched her. She looked like a water nymph, pale and perfect, her skin white marble in the dawn. His eye traced the vulnerable line of her shoulder, her breasts exquisitely high and round, her waist a curve that tempted a man's hand with the need to slide down over the line of her hip and farther down still, to the long, slender length of her legs. . .

  His horse side-stepped in protest as Marcus unconsciously tightened the reins. The smile still lingered about his mouth as he urged the beast forward down the narrow path toward the shore. A few more people were gathering on the espla­nade. All of them were gazing out to the sea.

  Marcus did not merely gaze. He urged his horse into the water.

  He was within a few yards of Isabella, and the water was up to Achilles's chest, when she turned and looked at him. Only her head was visible above the water.

  "Good morning, Stockhaven," she said. "Did you know that there are fines for gentlemen who invade the privacy of the ladies when they are bathing?"

  "They only apply if one is in a boat, not on a horse," Marcus said. "Besides, there is not a gentleman in Salterton who would not willingly pay that price to see you like this, my love."

  "I cannot think why," Isabella said. "I am most decently clad."

  Marcus blinked. Then he stared. Isabella was floating on her back now, as she had been when he had seen her earlier, but there was a vast difference. From neck to toe she was clad in a blue bathing gown that wafted modestly on the slight swell of the water.

  "But I saw you—" He stopped. "You were naked."

  Isabella raised a perfectly outraged eyebrow.

  "Have you been spying on me, Stockhaven?"

  "No. . .but I. . ." Marcus realized that he was stuttering like a schoolboy in his salad days. Surely his eyes had not been deceiving him? He frowned, unable to shake off the shaming thought that perhaps he had pictured Isabella as he would have liked her to be rather than how she actually had been.

  "You were naked!" He burst out. "I saw you!"

  "It is a Sunday morning," Isabella said coolly. "This interest in the physical seems somewhat inappropriate. Perhaps, as we discussed a few days ago, you should concen­trate on your spiritual welfare, Stockhaven, rather than having lustful fantasies about your wife."

  The door of the bathing caravan opened with sudden venom. Achilles shied and almost decanted Marcus into the water. Marcus, who had not realized that Isabella was accom­panied by a dipper, looked up, startled. An enormous woman in a straw bonnet and blue flannel jacket was flapping what looked like a fishing net in his direction. Part of her respon­sibility in assisting the ladies to bathe was to discourage the more impertinent attentions of gentlemen, and this she was wholeheartedly embracing.

  "Heathen indecency on the Sabbath!" she shrieked, assault­ing Marcus simultaneously with the net and the strong smell of gin. "Back to the beach, sir, and preserve the lady's modesty!"

  "My good woman," Marcus said, amused, "this lady is my wife and I am half-inclined to join her in the water."

  "Oh no, you are not, my lord! There's no mixed bathing in Salterton." The dipper cracked her knuckles meaningfully, plunged into the sea and looked ready to set about him with hands the size of hams. Marcus quickly withdrew a few feet before the horse took fright altogether and they both drowned.

  "Thank you, Martha," Isabella said. Only her head was visible above the water now, tendrils of damp hair curling about her forehead and trailing in the sea about her like Circe. "My husband is leaving now."

  Martha put her hands on her hips. "Seems to me that your husband should learn a bit of respect for his wife."

  Marcus raised his brows. He looked from Isabella to the protective figure of Martha Otter.

  "I apologize," he said slowly. "I thought—" He stopped. This was not an opportune moment to acquaint the dipper with his fantasies. Isabella was watching him and he could have sworn there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she saw his discomfort.

  Martha did not look appeased. She stood watching him pugnaciously as he turned Achilles and splashed through the shallows to the beach.

  Your husband should learn a bit
of respect for his wife. . . .

  Marcus's mouth turned down wryly. He was learning that lesson rather frequently at the moment.

  He reached the shore to discover that the bathing carriage was so situated that Isabella was completely out of sight from the land and that in fact the gathering crowd was looking out to sea, where the sight of fresh sails indicated a ship coming in. He had caused more outrage by taking a horse into the water than Isabella had with her swimming. So much for his thoughts that she was disporting herself naked in front of the local populace. It was extraordinary, but he must have been imagining things. Further evidence, if it was needed, that he was completely besotted with his wife.

  Marcus laughed ruefully as he urged a relieved Achilles onto dry land. He realized he was a possessive husband. It was a startling idea, for during his marriage to India he had never been moved by any emotion stronger than a mild pleasure in his wife's company. But then, he had married the wrong cousin and had always known it.

  He had married the wrong cousin but now he had the chance to make amends to the right one. His courtship of his wife, no matter how slow, would end in a mutual regard that matched the mutual passion that burned between them. Of that he was determined.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "Sir Stanley and Lady Jensen, Lady Marr, Mr. and Mrs. Latimer, Mrs. Bulstrode, Mr. and Mrs. Spence. . ."

  Isabella was nervously reciting the names of all the eminent Salterton residents whom she could remember as she and Marcus ascended the carriage for their first evening at the Salterton Assembly.

  "I wonder whether Miss Parry is still here and then there was Captain Walters—"

  Marcus's hand closed firmly and reassuringly over hers as she fidgeted with the seam of her cloak.

  "Bella, you are beginning to sound like a roll call onboard ship," he said. "Everything will be fine, I assure you. You are charming and beautiful, and if you remember their names then everyone will see that as an added benefit."

  "Oh dear," Isabella said, suddenly feeling hideously nervous, "I have a lowering feeling that this will be the moment that Pen's prophecy comes true."

  "Which was?"

  "That I could not settle quietly in any town, let alone Salter­ton." Isabella bit her Up. "She considers me far too scandalous."

  "Judging on your performance yesterday," Marcus said, "she could be correct."

  "I do not know what you mean," Isabella said. "If you are referring to my bathing then I assure you that it was perfectly respectable."

  Marcus turned swiftly to face her. "Bella," he said, "I know you were swimming naked. I saw you."

  Isabella bit back a smile. This had been one of the most pleasing tricks she could play on Marcus. He had spent a large part of the previous day looking sideways at her as though he could not quite believe that he had made a mistake.

  Besides, there was something rather satisfying about teasing Marcus in this way. His sudden appearance beside the bathing machine the previous morning had both startled and disturbed her. After he had gone, she had jumped out of the water and hastened to dress. The only alternative would have been to pull him from Achilles's back into the water beside her, and Martha Otter would have disapproved most heartily of mixed bathing, especially the sort that Isabella had in mind. Her mind told her keeping Marcus at arm's length was the only sensible course of action, but her wayward body whis­pered something quite different.

  "I saw you," Marcus repeated. He smiled. "All of you. It was most arousing."

  The temperature in the carriage was already warm, for it was a humid evening. Now Isabella felt even more hot and sticky. The air between them was incendiary.

  "I was thinking," Marcus continued, "that as part of our. . .agreement. . .you might come swimming with me?"

  Isabella's mind filled with tempting pictures. The water running from Marcus's body; its clear, cool touch against her skin and the press of Marcus's nakedness against her own; the hot sand beneath their feet and the sun on their backs. . . . She shifted uncomfortably on the carriage seat as warm tension coiled in the pit of her stomach. She had denied Marcus her bed and now he was doing his very best to change her mind and seduce her all over again. And, devil take it, she wanted to be seduced. Already. After only three days. Perhaps it was the memory of their long-ago love affair. Or perhaps it was that, having once tasted the pleasure they could give each other, she was now fighting a losing battle in trying to deny it.

  Marcus's fingers, long and strong, were interlocked with hers. In the summer shadows his eyes were full of dark desire. He leaned closer.

  "Bella. . ."

  The carriage juddered to a halt.

  "A damned nuisance that this isn't a longer journey," Marcus said, releasing her and descending first to help her down the carriage steps and usher her through the doorway into the blaze of light beyond.

  The Salterton Assembly Rooms were newly built and adjoined the circulating library on the broad esplanade. Tonight they were absolutely packed with people. Isabella vaguely saw the master of ceremonies come forward, hand outstretched, to greet them, and then an elderly lady came rushing toward her and, to Isabella's astonishment, embraced her soundly.

  "My dear! May I be the first to say that it is such a delight to see you in Salterton again? I heard the rumor that you were back and could not believe it was true!" She kissed Isabella on the cheek and held her at arm's length. "Oh, I quite remember you when you were a little girl! Such a dear child! I was a great friend of your aunt, you know."

  "How are you, dear ma'am?" Isabella inquired as she freed herself from the voluminous embrace. She had no idea whom the lady was and threw Marcus a look of appeal but he gave a helpless shrug before he was drawn away to meet another new acquaintance. Isabella wondered whether they would see each other at all for the rest of the entire evening.

  The stranger was still chattering as though they were the greatest bosom bows in the world. Fortunately Isabella's years as a prince's consort had made her adept at appearing to know a great many people even if she did not recognize them from Adam.

  "It is indeed an age since we met," she said, smiling at the lady. "How are your family, ma'am?"

  The lady beamed. "Oh, Mr. Goring is very well, I thank you. He is not here tonight. He is a martyr to his rheumatics, you know. And dear Cecilia wed last year and has gone to live near Oxford. Such a wrench."

  There was a pause as Mrs. Goring wiped a teary eye. Isabella took a calculated risk.

  "Cecilia is your only one, is she not, ma'am? It must have indeed been hard for you to have her move so far away."

  Mrs. Goring was nodding vigorously. "What a splendid memory you have, Princess Isabella! Yes, Cecilia is my little ewe lamb so far from home. But Mr. Monkton, Cecilia's husband, has five thousand a year, you know, and keeps a house and carriage in Town. She met him here when he came to take the sea cure." Mrs. Goring sighed. "Poor man, he is afflicted by biliousness."

  Isabella was privately sorry for the absent Cecilia rather than her husband. But then, she knew from extensive experience of society that a young lady might tolerate a certain degree of bil­iousness for the sake of five thousand pounds a year.

  "It will be delightful to have a chatelaine of Salterton Hall who shows an interest in the place," Mrs. Goring continued. "Poor Lady Jane was enfeebled in her last years and that son-in-law of hers, Stockhaven, barely set foot in the place. Sal­terton Cottage sustained such neglect that it is no wonder someone wanted to burn it down! An eyesore, that was what it had become! Very irresponsible." She broke off and raised her quizzing glass. "Upon my word, I do believe that is Stock­haven over there! No one told me that he had returned to Salterton! How extraordinary that I missed such a piece of news!"

  "Lord Stockhaven has but returned this week, ma'am," Isabella said, lips twitching, as she saw Marcus had overheard the rather unflattering references to his character. "In point of fact we returned at the same time. Lord Stockhaven and I are recently married."

  Mrs. Gori
ng's quizzing glass swung slowly around, giving Isabella a fearsome view of a much-magnified eye.

  "Well!" she said. "Here is news indeed! Not that I am not happy for you, Princess Isabella, but I wonder that you could not have done better for yourself. A duke rather than a mere earl, perhaps? Even a royal one if there are any free?"

  "I do not look so high, I assure you, ma'am," Isabella said, smiling openly now. "All I require now is to live quietly in Salterton, in the house that I have loved since I was a child."

  "Very laudable," Mrs. Goring concurred, looking grati­fied. Her glance flicked to Marcus once again, and he looked up and caught Isabella's eye somewhat quizzically. Mrs. Goring raised her voice a little. "And perhaps you may instill some of your own sense of responsibility in your husband, Princess. If he comes to care for Salterton as much as you do then we shall be proud to have him as a resident." And with that she gave Isabella a warm smile, nodded in rather cool contrast to Marcus, and excused herself to go and whisper the news in the ear of the nearest lady.

  Next in line to make Isabella's acquaintance was a friend of Mrs. Goring, the widowed Mrs. Bulstrode, with her daughter Lavinia. Mrs. Bulstrode was an anxious mama, sur­viving on a pittance and keen to see her daughter settled, es­pecially now that Cecilia Goring had caught a husband. She was as fluttery as a moth around a candle. Lavinia Bulstrode, in contrast, was a placid, good-humored girl decked out in too many frills. They spoke on generalities for a while—the weather, the development of Salterton as a resort, the London Season and fashions. Lavinia had had a Season.

  "But she did not take, Princess Isabella," Mrs. Bulstrode mourned, in the manner of one complaining of an awkward bloom that refuses to flower. "We went to all the balls and parties, we had vouchers for Almacks, Lady Etherington sponsored us! I cannot think what went wrong."

  Viewing the lacy pink dress that the unfortunate Lavinia was tricked out in, Isabella could see exactly what had gone wrong. Taken together with Miss Bulstrode's practical, down-to-earth nature, her style of dress would put paid to all but the most devoted of suitors.