The muscles of his throat corded as he swallowed painfully. "She was not like you, Bella. She wasn't strong. She could not look after herself. I wanted to care for her and so I proposed marriage, but she said that her family would never agree." He moistened his lips. "Not only was I her cousin but I was penniless—almost as poor a match as Warwick himself. And I knew. I knew about the child. Lady Jane wanted to make sure that India married someone who never knew the truth."
"Marcus," Isabella said. "He was not in Salterton when India first met Warwick and the following year he was so wrapped up in his feelings for me. . . ."
"And Marcus was looking to replace you," Freddie said, "whether he realized it or not. Lady Jane thought it was a match made in heaven. It was only later, when she realized that Marcus would never feel for India as he had done for you, that she told her daughter that she wished she had been your mother instead, rather than hers. India was monstrously upset."
"And told Marcus that I had driven a wedge between mother and daughter," Isabella said, remembering. "How much you have always known, Freddie!"
Freddie shrugged, then winced beneath his bandages. "I could never like Marcus," he admitted. "First I blamed him for letting you go and then I blamed him for marrying India, yet I must confess that I was at least as culpable. I could have stood up to Papa, I could have gone to Lord John and insist that he permit India to marry me. . . ." He shook his head. "All a damned waste."
Isabella slipped an arm behind him and propped him up so that he could sip from the glass of water she proffered.
"Thank you," Freddie said, as she put the glass down. "Thank you, Bella."
Isabella smiled and, as she left him to sleep, she placed the miniature of India that she had taken from Lady Jane's chamber on the table at Freddie's bedside.
She found Marcus in the hall, bidding farewell to the architect. Belton, who had arrived the previous week from the London house, was holding the man's coat and cane. Marcus's face lit when he saw her.
"You are in perfect time to take tea with me, my love, whilst I tell you my plans for the cottage," he said. "Belton, a pot of tea for two in the library, if you please."
"Of course, my lord," the butler murmured.
Isabella allowed Marcus to escort her into the library but once the door had closed behind them, her nerve nearly failed her. She could see the plans and drawings scattered across the table. Marcus started to speak, but she had no idea what he was talking about and after a moment he stopped, sensing her urgency. Isabella's heart leaped, battering her rib cage, and then settled to a frightened patter. Marcus came across to her.
"Bella?" he said. "Is something wrong? You look—" he paused, took her hand "—you look frightened."
She was frightened. She allowed him to draw her to sit beside him on the love seat in the window and then he waited, one brow quizzically raised, for her to explain. Isabella swallowed hard. There had been so little time; too little time to rebuild all the love and trust that had once been between them. And now she Was going to put it all to the test. If it failed—if it was not strong enough—then she had made the wrong decision again.
"Marcus," she said. Her voice came out as a croak and she cleared her throat and tried again. Best just to come out with it. "I am sorry," she said. "I am not going to have a child."
She saw the flare of dread in his eyes. He made an instinctive move, as though to take her in his arms, and then he stopped, his expression tense. He took a breath; hesitated, and waited.
Isabella understood then that he was afraid. Wrapped up in her own fears, she had not thought of how Marcus might feel. Yet he had seen that there was something very wrong and now he must be afraid that she was about to extinguish the last shreds of hope for them by telling him that she was going to leave him. There was wariness in his expression now and he held himself very still.
"I am sorry, too," he said quietly. "But this need not be the end for us, Bella."
Isabella pressed her hands together so tightly that the bones cracked. "I was very afraid when I thought that I might be pregnant," she said. "It is difficult to explain. I lost my daughter before and I never wanted it to happen again."
The expression on Marcus's face eased into tenderness. He put his arms about her.
"I understand." He spoke very softly, his mouth pressed against her hair. "But I shall always be here with you, Isabella. It will be different next time. And though you may not be enceinte now, there will come a time when we shall have our family."
Isabella shrank from him. She shook her head. He thought that he understood and he wanted to comfort her, and it almost broke her heart to see his gentleness. But he did not know. And now she had to tell him. She warded him off with one hand.
"No, Marcus. You do not understand because I have not told you. I should have done so long ago but. . ." She cleared her throat. "It is to do with Emma."
Marcus went very still. His eyes were on her face, dull with shock. "You are going to tell me that she was my child," he said.
"No," Isabella said. "It is worse than that." She looked at him, then swiftly away.
"I could never be absolutely sure," she said rapidly, "whether Emma was your child or not. I was young and it never even occurred to me that I might be pregnant I missed my monthly courses but I told myself it was a result of the strain of the wedding. . . ." She broke off. ''Emma was born seven months after I married Ernest" Her voice was toneless. "She was a frail child. She could have been Ernest's daughter—she might have been born early. That was what we told everyone, of course. But I was never sure, one way or the other. It was always a torment to me."
She stood up blindly, taking a step away from him. "I wanted her to be yours!" She said. Her heart was breaking again, once and for all. "I told myself that she was! She was all that I had left of you and then, years later, I lost her." Her voice fell again. She looked up, looked Marcus in the eyes. "I failed her. I could not keep her safe and I cannot live with that. I never wanted it to happen again. That was why I never wanted another child. I lost you and then I lost the child I always thought of as yours and I do not wish to lose any more." Isabella turned away. "I tried so hard to protect her." Her shoulders slumped. "But in the end k was not enough."
There was a terrible silence. Marcus was very white. "Did Prince Ernest suspect that you thought Emma was not his?"
Isabella could not look at him for fear of what she might see in his face. She felt icy cold from the inside out.
"I do not know. We never spoke of it. As I said, Emma was small and frail when she was born. She could have been a seven-month child. Ernest never cared for her but I doubt that was a personal matter. He detested all children."
Marcus was silent, watching her. Isabella could feel the tension in all her muscles. Her body was as tight as a drum.
"After Emma died, I tried to forget the whole matter," she said. "And then of course I grew to know you again." She wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she had always loved him, that she always would. Instead she bit her lip. She had to finish this now, before she found it impossible to carry on.
"The closer we became, the more it preyed on my mind that I had kept this secret from you. I was afraid to tell you in case it destroyed what we were building between us. I could not live with this secret between us and I hope you can understand."
She turned away. Through the library window she could see the summerhouse, its edges blurring through her tears. She waited for Marcus to leave.
"Isabella," Marcus said.
Isabella turned.
He grabbed her so suddenly that she gasped for breath.
"Marcus!"
"Bella." Marcus's grip was painfully tight as he held her to him. "I understand. I wish—" He took a breath. "I only wish that I had always been there with you when you needed me. But I am here now." He held her a little away from him and her heart soared at the fierce light in his eyes. "I am here and I shall never leave you and you do not need to be afra
id ever again."
Isabella gave a little sob and buried her face against his chest.
There was a knock on the door.
"Tea, my lord," Belton said lugubriously. He placed the tray on the table, fussily moving the plans aside, and completely ignoring the odd position in which he found his employers. "Do you wish for cake, my lord, my lady?"
"No, thank you," Marcus said. "We wish for champagne, but perhaps not until dinner."
He turned back to Isabella. "I love you," he said. He took a deep breath. "Do you remember when I gave you my signet ring at our marriage service?"
Isabella nodded mutely. She could not have spoken had she tried.
"I loved you even then," Marcus said. "I wanted to protect you." He took her hand and looked ruefully at the plain gold band that had replaced his signet ring. "You were mine and I wanted you to wear my ring because I could not go with you." He smiled into her eyes. "You said that you were tired of struggling. You do not need to struggle alone any longer, Bella."
Isabella smiled through her tears. "I love you, too, Marcus."
"I am sorry," Marcus said, "that it has taken me so long to understand how much I love you."
Isabella looked up to see Belton waiting stiffly to be dismissed, an expression on his face that suggested he had overheard some shocking conversations in his time, but never had he been unfortunate enough to eavesdrop on a declaration of love from his employer.
"Do you require anything else, my lady?" he asked stiffly.
"No, thank you, Belton," Isabella said. "Other than to be undisturbed."
She thought she saw a flicker of a smile on the butler's lips. "Certainly, my lady," he said.
Isabella burrowed closer to the warmth of Marcus's body and felt his arms tighten about her and felt a violent surge of elation that they had not only survived but had also found each other again. Marcus pressed his lips to her hair and they stood, bound together tightly, for a very long time. When Marcus finally he released her, they were both slightly breathless.
"Has Belton gone?" Marcus inquired.
Isabella looked round. "I think so. I think he may even have locked the door."
"Thank goodness." Marcus was starting to undo the little row of buttons at the neck of her dress. He drew her bodice apart and started to kiss the pale, freckled skin that he was exposing. Isabella caught her breath.
"Marcus, we cannot do this here."
"Why not?" Marcus was tugging on the laces that held her chemise together.
Isabella gasped. "Because. . ."
The laces fluttered apart and Marcus shd a deft hand inside, palm against her breast. Isabella felt her knees weaken. She grabbed his arms.
"We should be more responsible now," Isabella said. "We have been married a whole two months."
Marcus sat down in the big armchair and pulled her down on top of him in a tumble of lace. "We can be very responsible. We can be responsible for choosing whether to do it on the table or in this chair, or on the lovely soft rug on the floor. . . ."
Isabella gasped. "Not the table! You will crush all the architect's plans!"
"On the floor then," Marcus said. He pulled her down with him on the rug before the hearth. He pushed her bodice aside and kissed the curve of her shoulder and she trembled, catching her breath.
"I love you," he said. He moved her hair aside and stroked his tongue delicately down the hne of her neck. "You are mine. You were from the beginning and now you always will be."
He rolled over, trapping her beneath him, and her body moved against his with instinctive need. His breath sent the shivers coursing along her nerves. He framed her face in his hands.
"Do you love me, Bella?"
"Yes," Isabella whispered. "I told you."
"Tell me again. I need to hear it many, many times."
Isabella grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. "Only if you tell me, too."
His mouth swooped down to take hers.
"I love you," he said when he drew away briefly for breath.
With one hand he brushed the shreds of the bodice away from her breasts.
"I love you," she said, as his mouth ravished the tender skin he had exposed.
"Always." His mouth came back to hers, courting and demanding a response at the same time. He eased away for a moment, unfastening his pantaloons with feverish haste.
The irrepressible laughter bubbled in Isabella's throat. "Marcus, making love to a lady with your boots on is not the behavior of a gentleman—"
Her words ended in a gasp as he pulled up her chemise and his hand lingered on the bare skin at the top of her silk stockings.
"Then I am no gentleman." He thrust into her. "But I do love you."
"Oh!" Isabella arched, felt him inside her, slick and hard. Her stomach muscles shivered, contracting. The shimmering heat built within her. She grabbed his shoulders, scoring her fingers on the material of his shirt.
"Marcus, the windows—"
"Yes."
"And the servants—" "Yes."
"Anyone could see us—"
Marcus moved faster, deep inside her. Isabella's head spun. "When," she gasped, feeling the sensations build, the tantalizing ripple of desire along her skin, "when will you stop being so outrageous?"
"Never." With one final thrust, Marcus took her over the edge, to fall helplessly and blissfully together in a tumble of pure sensual pleasure. He buried his face in her damp shoulder. "But I do love you."
Later, curled up together in the chair with a cold cup of tea, Isabella told him about Pen finding the letter, and about Freddie—and India.
"The extraordinary thing," she said, "was that it was India who told Warwick about Freddie's weaknesses in the first place and gave him the lever he needed to get him in his power. I am sure she meant no harm by it, but she was his undoing." She rubbed her cheek against Marcus's shoulder and settled deeper into the curve of his arm. "Freddie told me that he had loved India since they were children. He never knew that it was Warwick who had been her lover." She paused. "Oh, he knew that India had had a lover and child, for she confided in him. He was the only one she ever told. But she never told him Warwick's name and he never asked. They worked together for years and never knew."
Marcus pressed a kiss to her brow.
"The letter that Pen found," he said. "Did you mind that the letter was not from me to you?" He sighed. "I wish I had pushed harder to find you, Bella, to talk to you. I loved you so much. I would have run away with you, married or free. . . ."
Isabella smiled. "No more regrets, Marcus. We do not need them now." She touched a finger to his lips to silence him. "Nor do I need the affirmation of a letter," she said. "Not when I have you."
And she turned once more into the warmth of his embrace.
What news! A certain vivacious princess, whose lack of enthusiasm for the amorous skills of Englishmen was reported in this paper last year, has found eternal bliss with her very own Adonis in the form of the Earl of S. It is to be assumed that the earl was successful in changing the lady's mind on the subject of Englishmen being the very worst lovers in the world, for apparently the couple are expecting their first child in a few months' time. What alacrity! What enthusiasm! We wish the earl and countess a very happy and amorous future together.
—The Gentlemen's Athenian Mercury, May 18,1817
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