Deceiver

by Nicola Cornick

  Marcus looked at her and smiled slightly. She could have slapped him because she knew he was laughing at her appear­ance, but that gleam of intimate amusement in his eyes made her feel happier than she had imagined she ever could be. Something had happened between them, wordless but all the more powerful for that. It had washed away the bitterness and anger and misery of the previous night and left them able to start afresh.

  "And to think," Marcus said conversationally, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror, "that I believed you could never appear ugly!"

  "Marcus!"

  The indignant word had barely left her lips when Marcus swooped on her and kissed her insistently, not stopping until he had drawn a response from her. Isabella clutched the banister for support, breathing hard. "Oh! You—"

  He kissed her again, rough but tender, parting her lips to the relentless demand of his tongue. Isabella felt her legs weaken. She let go of the banister and held on to Marcus instead.

  There was a clatter behind them and they pulled apart to see one of the housemaids, her cleaning irons tumbled on the floor, staring at them with excitement and mortification.

  "There is no privacy in this house," Marcus grumbled. He kissed her cheek. "I think you should rest, sweetheart. Will you be quite well? There is something that I must do, but I shall be up to see you shortly."

  Isabella squeezed his hand briefly. She realized that she did feel exhausted but very light of heart. Marcus kissed her lips again briefly, and she made her way slowly upstairs, falling asleep as soon as she had laid her head on the pillow.

  She woke when the door opened to admit her sister, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

  "Marcus said that you would probably require some re­freshment," Pen said cheerfully. "I only just managed to stop him ordering you soup and a thin gruel."

  Isabella laughed. She sat up, pushing the tangled hair back from her face, peered at her face in the mirror above the basin and then decided not to bother.

  "Oh dear, I suppose I look a fright."

  "You do rather," Pen agreed blithely, "although you have more color than before. What happened, Bella? Marcus said I was not to tease you with questions, but I need to know you are all right."

  "I am quite well now," Isabella said.

  "But you looked as though you had been crying!" Pen looked quite distressed herself. "You never cry, Bella!"

  "Not normally," Isabella agreed, "but this was rather excep­tional. We saw the funeral of a child whilst we were out riding."

  "Oh, Bella!" Pen's face puckered. She grabbed her sister's hand.

  "I am quite well," Isabella repeated, afraid that Pen was about to cry in sympathy. "It was a long time ago."

  Pen looked distressed. "I know, but I have sometimes won­dered. . . . They say you never wished for more children, Bella."

  "No." Isabella rubbed her eyes. "It is true that I do not want children. The risk, the danger of losing everything again is too great." She turned away and studied the pattern on the bed hangings with fierce concentration to keep the tears at bay. What she said was true, and yet the real conflict for her arose from the fact that a part of her did want Marcus's child and she could not understand why. She felt torn.

  "I fear I am making a shocking mull of things at the moment, Pen," she said despondently. "I swore I would never marry again, least of all for love, yet I find myself falling more in love with Marcus every day. I know he wants children of his own—" she gulped "—but the idea fills me with abject fear." She clutched Pen's hands tighter. "I knew it was a mistake not to insist on an annulment or a legal separation in the beginning."

  "Too late now," Pen said. "You and Marcus are meant to be together, Bella. Have faith." She sighed and sat back a little. "When you arrived back looking so upset I was afraid that it had something to do with India," she confessed, adding with unwonted fierceness, "I know that Salterton was her home but the way this house is stuffed full of her belongings seems a little unhealthy to me!"

  Isabella felt a little shocked. It was true that she had noticed the very same thing herself but in the week that she had been in Salterton she had had no thought of changing things. She knew that she did not wish to broach the subject with Marcus. It would be like putting weight on a broken ankle and delib­erately inducing pain. And now, when finally matters were be­ginning to improve between them, raising the ghost of India was the last thing she wanted to do.

  "I would go through this house removing all the pictures of her and those silly little figurines that she collected," Pen was continuing. "Do you know, Bella, that Marcus never cleared her bedchamber after she died? Everything was left exactly as it had been during her life. Mrs. Lawton told me. It was only when there was the fire at Salterton Cottage that Marcus had all India's effects packed away in trunks and stored in the attic here."

  "Pen," Isabella said reprovingly. "You have been gossip­ing."

  "Well." Pen looked mulish. "It is like being haunted."

  "I feel a little like that myself," Isabella admitted. "It is as though India is always present." She sighed. "But I cannot supplant her. She was Marcus's first wife, after all."

  Pen stared. "If you think that Marcus had half an ounce of feeling for India compared with the way he feels about you, Bella, then you are fair and far out! Why, he never cared tuppence for her!"

  "Then why keep all her possessions?" Isabella asked. "Why leave her room untouched? Why fill this house with things that must remind him of her? That argues an uncom­mon devotion. Besides—" her shoulders slumped "—I have spoken to Marcus of India. I know just how much he cared for her."

  Pen looked cross. "Well, I did not like her much, She was sly."

  "Pen!"

  Pen flushed. She poured the tea, then sat down on the edge of the bed, cup in hand.

  "I suppose I did not know her well, being younger than the two of you. I expect that you remember her better than I."

  "I do not recall her very well," Isabella said. "All I remember is a thin slip of a girl with a pale face and huge blue eyes. We never spoke intimately. She was always quiet."

  Pen was frowning. She picked up a second biscuit, com­pletely forgetting to offer them to her sister, and bit into it absentmindedly.

  "It is odd that you remember her as thin, Bella, for I have quite a different recollection of India. The second to last time we were all here for the summer—not the time before you—" Pen hesitated "—before you married Ernest, but the year before that—I remember that India was considerably fatter. The two of you must have been about sixteen then and there was nothing of the thin slip about her at all."

  Isabella nodded. "Oh yes, I remember. Girlhood plumpness."

  "She was thin again when we came back to Salterton without you the following year," Pen said, reaching for the biscuit plate again. "Did not Aunt Jane take her away some­where in the intervening time? Her health was supposed to be poor, I recall, yet she came back even more thin and sad and quiet, so it cannot have done her any good."

  "Was she not always rather withdrawn, though?" Isabella said.

  "Oh yes, but in a different way," Pen said. "When we came down here in oh-four she was excited quiet, as though she was hugging a secret. The following year she was sad and quiet. I wondered what had happened to her."

  "You were a most observant child," Isabella said. "I noticed nothing different about her."

  To her surprise, Pen blushed. "I did tend to watch people," she muttered. "I knew that India had a beau that first year."

  Isabella looked up sharply, remembering Martha Otter's words about India's suitor being turned away.

  "Did you meet him?"

  "No, I. . ." Pen looked awkward. "I know she used to meet him in secret, though. I saw them once in the gardens together."

  For a moment, Isabella wondered whether Pen had been confused and it was in fact her trysts with Marcus that her young sister had unwittingly spied upon. Then Pen said, "He was a soldier, I think. Very good looking, with an arrogant smile
, laughing, confident, a swagger in his step." For once, Pen sounded quite dreamy. "I wonder what happened to him."

  "His suit was rejected by Uncle John," Isabella said. She dredged up a memory that had seemed quite insignificant at the time. "I remember him now. He came to the Assembly Rooms one night in my final season here, and tried to approach India. Uncle John called him a blackguard and had him ejected. It was most embarrassing."

  She frowned, trying to remember more of the incident. She had not regarded it much at the time, for she had been dancing with Marcus and had been quite lost in the delicious and forbidden sensations created by his physical proximity. There had been a commotion at the other end of the ballroom, over by the door. Lord John Southern had been shouting—a remarkable departure from good manners—and the object of his ire had been a young army officer who was struggling against the restraining grip of the master of ceremonies and looking desperately through the horrified guests for a glimpse of India.

  "How strange," she said slowly. "I had forgotten all about it."

  "What happened?" Pen asked curiously.

  "Not a great deal," Isabella said. "India burst into tears, of course, and had to come home, and the rest of us carried on as though nothing had happened."

  "And the young man?" Pen asked.

  "I never saw him again," Isabella said. She paused, for something was troubling her. Had she seen India's suitor again? Something recently had struck a chord of memory. . . The rec­ollection did not come back to her but the elusive thought stayed at the back of her mind and did not quite go away.

  Having never indulged in the amorous activities that her late husband had favored, Isabella had been completely unaware of how awkward a house party could be for romantic dalliance, at least for the host and hostess. She was aching for Marcus in a way that was both unashamed and unappeased. Every time they managed to steal a kiss or planned to be alone together, Freddie or Alistair or Pen would appear from the library or the drawing room or their bed chamber and engage them in conversation, as though completely unaware of the blistering atmosphere between their hosts, who wanted nothing more than to be permitted to enjoy their honeymoon alone. None of their houseguests had responded to Isabella's heavy hints about when they might be thinking of returning to Town, and it seemed that there was no time when she and Marcus could snatch some time to talk, let alone make love.

  "Remind me never to invite any more guests whatsoever to Salterton," Isabella said to Marcus when they met in brief solitude at breakfast. "Pen and Alistair fell out yesterday and are at daggers drawn, while Freddie appears to be compiling an intimate knowledge of the Salterton alehouses, and you and I . . ." She paused.

  "Never have any time alone," Marcus finished. He put out a hand and touched her wrist lightly. "Isabella, if we could gain a little time alone—"

  "Yes?" Isabella looked up nervously into his dark eyes. She could see the same thwarted desire there as she felt inside. She moistened her lips. "If we could be alone?"

  "I thought we could—" Marcus broke off as the door to the breakfast room opened to admit Freddie Standish, followed by a footman with a tray of eggs, toast and coffee. Isabella could have wept at the interruption.

  "Good morning, Freddie," she snapped. "Do you have any plans for the day?"

  Freddie looked at her out of the corner of his eye. His ex­pression was that of a dog that knows it is out of favor without really understanding why.

  "Morning, Bella," he said. "Thought I might go to the harbor for some fresh air."

  "Again!" Isabella marveled. "The view from the alehouse is very fine, is it not?"

  Freddie flushed and slunk into his seat. The door opened again. Pen came in, followed by Alistair. Neither of them were looking at one another or speaking to one another. Isabella sighed irritably as they took seats as far away from one another as possible.

  "Good morning," she said. "You are both as cheerful as a wet Sunday."

  Marcus got up very deliberately and brought her the teapot, ignoring the footman who stepped forward to help.

  "I want you to come riding with me after breakfast," he whispered in her ear. "I have had enough of this. We are going down to Kinvara Cove alone and I am going to seduce you."

  Isabella swallowed her toast the wrong way and almost choked. Through streaming eyes she could see Marcus sitting back down at his end of the table, looking extremely pleased with himself. She shifted in her chair.

  "Are you quite well this morning, my dear?" Marcus asked innocently. "You look a little flushed."

  "It is very hot in here," Isabella said, fanning herself os­tentatiously. "Perhaps you could open a window."

  It was a tactical error and she realized it almost at once. Once again the footman stepped forward to help, but Marcus sprang up before him. The window was at her end of the dining table and on his way back Marcus bent and spoke in her ear again.

  "I will strip you naked and take you into the water with me."

  Isabella jumped in her chair and spilled her tea. She felt so hot she thought she was going to explode. There was an ache in her stomach and a patter of excitement in her throat and she could not look at Marcus for fear that a fresh wave of sensual heat would burst in her chest.

  "More toast, my love?" Marcus inquired, as he seated himself again.

  "No, thank you," Isabella managed to say. "I think you have already done quite enough for me, my dear."

  Marcus smiled. "I have barely started, my sweet."

  Pen was looking curious. Alistair cleared his throat and reached for the morning paper. Isabella fixed her eyes on her plate and tried to ignore both Marcus and the sharp desire that possessed her body.

  "Backley," Marcus said to the footman, "please take this note to Lady Stockhaven."

  He had torn a piece from the top of the newspaper, scribbled on it and now folded it and placed it on the footman's silver tray. The servant trod ponderously around the table and proffered the tray to Isabella. She shot Marcus a look of profound suspicion.

  "Take it, my love," Marcus encouraged.

  Isabella took the folded piece of paper and put it in her pocket. Marcus looked disappointed.

  "What do you plan to do today, Bella?" Pen asked brightly. "I thought that we could go to the circulating library."

  "I have a far more exciting day planned for your sister," Marcus said, before Isabella could speak. "We are to ride about the estate together."

  "Splendid idea!" Alistair said. "Mind if I come with you?"

  "Yes, I do mind," Marcus said. "You do not care to ride, remember?"

  Alistair looked from Marcus to Isabella. "Of course," he murmured. "I had forgotten that I did not enjoy riding."

  "Well, I consider it most thoughtless of you to neglect your guests," Pen grumbled. "After all, you did invite us here."

  "I do not recall that we did," Isabella said. She threw down her napkin. "Excuse me."

  She looked at Marcus, who gave her a wicked smile. She met it with a challenge in her eyes. "I shall be ready directly," she said.

  "I look forward to it," Marcus murmured.

  Out in the hall, Isabella could not resist grabbing the note from her pocket and reading it. She unfolded it with shaking fingers.

  We shall lie naked on the rocks in the sun.

  Isabella gulped and almost dropped the piece of paper. The housemaid who was polishing the stairs looked at her with curious eyes. The dining-room door opened and Marcus came out. His gaze went from Isabella's flushed face to the note in her hand and he raised his brows.

  "Not another word, Marcus," Isabella said softly, "or I shall make you suffer for it. I am already feeling far more excited than is appropriate for breakfast time."

  She saw his eyes widen as he took her meaning and then the sensual smile curved his lips again and she sped away up the stairs with a light step to prepare for her seduction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the event, it was not at all as Isabella had imagined. By the time that they
reached the seclusion of Kinvara Cove and settled the horses in the old stone shelter on the foreshore, they had been obliged to stop more than five times to speak with tenants and acquaintances. All thoughts of torrid seduction had fled from Isabella's mind to be replaced by the problems of low milk yields, poor grazing and broken fences.

  "I had no notion that Salterton estate was in such a poor way," she said a little despondently, taking Marcus's hand to climb over the rocks that cradled the bay.

  "It will take a deal of work to put it all to rights."

  And a deal of money. She did not say it but she thought it and looked sideways at Marcus to see if he was thinking of it too. She knew that she had no right to ask him to invest in Salterton when he had his own estates to consider, but she hoped that he would do his best for the place. Perhaps he planned to put a tenant in. Her heart sank a little at the prospect. She loved Salterton and wanted to settle here, but she knew that Marcus would not nec­essarily feel the same way. They needed to discuss the matter.

  Marcus picked up the saddlebag and jumped down onto the beach.

  "I have been working this week past on the estate rec­ords," he said, "and making the rounds to see the tenants. I have been meaning to speak of it to you. Perhaps later. . ." He smiled at her. "For now we could merely enjoy the day."

  Isabella nodded. The sky was an arc of blue above her head and she could feel the sand hot beneath her feet. The light was dazzling. She put up a hand to shade her eyes.

  "We came here once that last summer at Salterton," Marcus said. "Do you remember, Bella?"

  Isabella wondered how he could imagine that she would forget. Generally she and Marcus had not been much in company together, for Lady Standish had done all she could to frighten ineligible suitors away from her daughter. On that occasion, however, one of Marcus's navy colleagues had put together a boating party and because there was a young marquis among their number, Lady Standish had been pleased to agree. Both India and Isabella had attended. The party had been lively and fun, although India had sat a little apart, staring at the sea and had not allowed herself to be drawn much into conversation. Isabella remembered that it had been a hot day like this one. But perhaps the heat and excitement then had come from within her, for she had known that not by a flicker of a glance, or a word, or a gesture could she reveal her intimacy with Marcus. They had stayed apart, while watching each other the whole time. She had been supremely conscious of him and of the fact that he was aware of her, too, and she had known that later he would come to her in the darkened summerhouse and then all their pent-up passion and longing would explode between them.