Deceived

by Nicola Cornick

  They reached the top of the staircase and he dropped their arms as abruptly as though they did not exist. A vision in pale blue had wafted across his line of sight.

  “I say, there is Lady Murray!” he exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Excuse me—squiring one’s sisters about is the most lamentable dead bore.” And with that he dove into the crowd.

  “Oh well,” Pen said, linking her arm through Isabella’s and drawing her into the ballroom. “So much for Freddie’s manners! Lady Murray is his latest inamorata, I am afraid. It will end in tears.”

  “Hers?” Isabella asked.

  “His,” Pen said. “She dangles him on a string and there are at least three other gentlemen she dallies with.”

  “Now that,” Isabella said, “is outrageous. How is it that I am tarred with scandal whilst others behave badly and no one raises an eyebrow?”

  “Hypocrites,” Pen said comfortingly. “Speaking of which, look at Augustus, Bella! He has eyes for no one but himself tonight.”

  It was true. Augustus Ambridge had stopped in front of one of the duchess’s long gilt mirrors and was studying his appearance with intensity. Brown hair slicked back with Mr. Cabburn’s Bear’s Grease, a sovereign lotion for reviving thinning locks; buttons polished, shoulders ever so slightly padded, jacket bolstered with buckram from the Prince Regent’s own tailor, calves plumped out with a little wadding to improve the shape of his leg…Indeed, Isabella reflected that he was the very image of an elegant diplomat, and barely an inch of it was real.

  “Oh, Penelope,” she chided. “Can you not at least try to like him?”

  Penelope paused, apparently to give the matter genuine consideration. “No,” she said, at length, “why should I? Since you are not to marry him, there is no obligation on me to try. You are kinder than I am, you know, Bella. I would not even give him the time of day.”

  “I know.” Isabella sighed.

  “That is why I have never been married,” Pen continued. “Nor am I likely to be. I have yet to meet a man who interests me.”

  “You judge too harshly,” Isabella said. “Surely there must be a man who pleases you.” She gestured across the ballroom. “Sir Edmund Garston, for example? He is extremely handsome.”

  Pen surveyed the dandified baronet as he raised a quizzing glass and ogled the gold lace on a passing lady. “No,” she said. “He is too effeminate. He would teach one much about fashion and nothing about passion.”

  Isabella laughed. “A neat summary.”

  Around them the hum of the ballroom rose and fell. The orchestra was playing a strathspey with much enthusiasm and as many wrong notes. Isabella could see Augustus approaching a slender debutante in white, bow to her and ask for her hand in the dance. The girl accepted with a sketch of demure pleasure. Isabella smiled inwardly over Augustus’s maneuvers. He was at the stage in his career where he required a well-connected wife with an impeccable reputation to enhance his prospects. She rather thought that this was where he and she parted company. She had served her purpose in drawing him to the attention of everyone who mattered and giving him a debonair gloss. Now he had to capitalize on that success.

  People were watching her, gossiping over the perfidious behavior of her supposed lover. Isabella was accustomed to it. One of the oddest things about being an object of curiosity was that people seldom spoke to her but they always gossiped about her as though she was not there. She could hear the murmurs:

  “They will tolerate any old riffraff on the continent, of course. Her husband was a rackety fellow and her own reputation is none too sweet…. Do you know, she was so indifferent to scandal that she permitted her husband’s mistress to attend his funeral? She is only received because of the title….”

  Isabella sighed inwardly. Ernest’s infamy was the only thing that he had ever bestowed on her with any degree of generosity.

  But the whisperer was not done yet. She had more powerful ammunition still in her arsenal.

  “Apparently they even tried to take her child away from her…. She said she never wished for more children. An unfit mother…. No wonder the poor little girl died.”

  It was like a sliver of glass in the heart. Isabella spun round a little too quickly. Was that a real whisper or her bitter imaginings? Such words haunted her nightmares, even now, six years after Emma’s death…

  She surveyed the nodding plumes and the eager faces beneath the turbans. The matrons smiled and nodded back at her, but their eyes were like ice. Then the dowager Lady Burgoyne raised her voice a little.

  “We were wondering, Your Royal Highness, whether you are fixed in London for a while or whether your fancy will take you elsewhere soon?”

  There was a giggle and a flutter of fans. The gold-and-white rout chairs creaked under matronly bottoms as they wriggled with the glee of tormenting one of their own who had stepped beyond the line. “If only you had kept to your place,” those wiggles seemed to say. “You climbed too high and now we will punish you.”

  “Serene,” Pen said loudly. “Princess Isabella is a Serene Highness, not a royal one.” Her face was flushed with loyal indignation. She was as capable as Isabella at feeling the nuances in the room.

  Isabella put a gentle hand on her arm. She felt anything but serene. The hurtful jibe about Emma lodged painfully in her chest and she took several deep breaths to maintain control.

  “Perhaps the princess will go wherever Lord Augustus Ambridge takes her,” the voluminously padded Duchess of Plockton said, weighing into the debate. Her tortoise face surveyed the ballroom and paused at the sight of Augustus dancing with his debutante. “Oh, but it would seem that Lord Augustus’s fancy has moved on.” Her gaze swung back to Isabella. “Perhaps you have also found yourself a new…companion, Princess? You never allow much time to elapse, do you?”

  Isabella felt Pen stiffen protectively again and open her mouth to give the duchess a blistering setdown. Pen knew no fear, but she did not deserve the disapprobation that would surely follow her outburst. On the other hand, Isabella knew that her own reputation was such that it scarce mattered what she said. Such knowledge was liberating. She dug her sister in the ribs and Pen spluttered into silence.

  The music came to an end; there was a lull in the ballroom. And Isabella spoke with the clarity of a perfectly modulated bell.

  “Thank you for your interest in my affairs, Duchess, Lady Burgoyne. I am sure you will be disappointed to know that my fancy seldom wanders toward any gentleman these days, and especially not whilst I am in this country. Englishmen make the very worst lovers in the entire world, as you may know.”

  There was a moment of silence, like the false calm before the first lightning strike, and then there was a collective intake of outraged breath. The shock broke over the ballroom like a series of intense ripples spreading out in an ever-widening circle.

  Isabella smiled broadly. Let the Duchess of Plockton put that in her clay pipe and smoke on it until it choked her. Sometimes there was great satisfaction to be gained from overstepping the line, bad ton or not.

  Across the ballroom, someone had already whispered her words into Augustus Ambridge’s ear. He straightened and looked at her with incredulous disapproval. Isabella continued to smile as she watched the outrage roll round the room like a thunderclap.

  “Bella,” Pen said beside her, awe in her voice, “may I behave like you when I grow up?”

  Isabella was about to reply when a most peculiar sensation struck her in the midriff, depriving her of breath.

  A man was standing in the doorway. His face was in shadow but there was something about his stillness that she instinctively recognized. Isabella shivered. Here was a powerful man who would be a deadly enemy but an incomparable lover. Her heart started to race. All the breath left her lungs in one gasp.

  He looked magnificent. There was an uncompromising masculinity about him that seemed too rugged for the delicate air of the duchess’s ballroom. It suggested that he had known every combination of risk and danger that
life could offer and had invented some of his own. The dandies and the beaux suddenly looked faintly ridiculous.

  Her words reached the outer edge of the ballroom and started to ripple back in toward her like an echo.

  And Marcus Stockhaven stepped out of the shadows and moved toward her with a single-minded intensity, as though there were no one else in the ballroom at all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “DAMNATION,” ISABELLA SAID. She said it very quietly, so that only Pen heard, and then she watched as Marcus cut a ruthless path across the room to her side. He was not distracted by the greetings of friends and acquaintances. He looked as though he barely heard them. His attention was focused on her alone. The crowd fell back and then he was bowing before her.

  “Good evening, Princess Isabella.”

  It was a conventional enough greeting, but there was nothing conventional about the look in Marcus’s eyes. His expression was dark, dangerous and held a wickedly disturbing hint of amusement. Isabella could tell that he knew precisely how much his unexpected arrival had discomposed her and that it pleased him. Nor was the smile that played around his mouth in the least bit friendly. She drew herself up in response to the unspoken challenge in Marcus’s eyes.

  “Your observation on the amorous capabilities of Englishmen,” Marcus added gently, “must be a provocation to any red-blooded gentleman in the room.”

  The question uppermost in Isabella’s mind was what the devil he was doing there, but she knew that that would have to wait a little. Not by a flicker of an eyelash could she reveal the absolute mayhem rampaging inside her. She had known that twelve years of royal etiquette would come in useful one day. Now was that day.

  She gave him a steely smile.

  “Good evening, Lord Stockhaven,” she said. “I should be sorry if you interpreted my words in the light of a challenge.”

  Marcus bowed slightly. “How would you like me to construe them, madam?”

  “As a mere statement of fact, if you must interpret them at all.” Isabella turned away from him with deliberation and drew Pen forward. “You are already acquainted with my sister, Penelope, of course.”

  “Of course.” To Isabella’s surprise, Marcus bent and kissed Pen lightly on the cheek. She had not known they were on such terms. The realization made her uneasy, for it brought him closer still into her family circle, as though she could find no refuge from him.

  “How do you do, cousin Penelope?” Marcus said. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  Pen seemed genuinely pleased at the warmth of his greeting. “I am very well, thank you, my lord. Or should I say cousin Marcus?” Her bright blue gaze touched Isabella’s face for a moment. “Of course my sister is also a cousin-in-law of yours, is she not? Surely she warrants the same degree of familiarity from you or she may become envious.”

  Isabella resisted the urge to kick Pen’s ankle. Her little sister could be a dreadful troublemaker at times and just now she needed help not hindrance. Dealing with Marcus was difficult enough without Pen putting spokes in her wheel.

  “I do not covet such a privilege, I assure you, Penelope,” she said, giving her sister a hard stare to oblige her to keep quiet. She glanced at Marcus. “Lord Stockhaven may keep his kisses to himself—or bestow them on those ladies who appreciate them. I have no ambition for them.”

  Marcus looked at her. The smile still lingered on his lips and his eyes were full of a blazing light that incited a hot rush of feeling through Isabella’s body. She knew he was remembering their kiss in prison. So was she. She could not help herself. The very memory of it threatened to burn her up. And Marcus was enjoying her torment, damn him. Her nerves shivered as she contemplated what he might be planning.

  She turned an ostentatious shoulder, looking beyond Marcus to the gentleman behind him, who appeared vastly entertained by the whole conversation. She had no interest in him—in fact she barely saw him—but his presence there was useful because it meant that she could divert her attention away from Marcus.

  “Good evening, sir,” she said politely.

  The gentleman bowed. He was shorter and sturdier than Marcus, with bright hazel eyes that missed very little.

  “Your Serene Highness. Alistair Cantrell, entirely at your service.”

  “Mr. Cantrell.” With a cold shock, Isabella recalled that this was one of Marcus’s oldest friends, his groomsman from their canceled wedding ceremony. It was unlikely that she would receive much of a sympathetic welcome here. Marcus’s friends had always struck her as being extremely loyal.

  “Of course,” she said. “I remember you.”

  “I am flattered, madam,” Alistair said. His shrewd hazel gaze appraised her but she was unable to read anything of his feelings. Once again, she turned to Pen.

  “Mr. Cantrell, may I introduce my sister, Miss Penelope Standish?”

  Alistair Cantrell looked as dazzled as most gentlemen did when confronted with Pen’s glowing prettiness. It was not at all difficult to read his feelings now. He was wondering, as did all gentlemen on first acquaintance, whether Pen could be as sweet as she looked.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Standish,” he said.

  “Mr. Cantrell,” Pen said, inclining her head in the most perfect impersonation of a demure debutante. Isabella noted that Alistair Cantrell’s lips twitched in a wry smile, and Pen actually blushed. It seemed that he was not a man to be fooled by feigned innocence.

  A crush of people was pressing closer now, evidently intending to claim Marcus’s acquaintance. The Duchess of Plockton clearly felt that she had been out of the limelight long enough and was pushing herself forward, dragging her pallid daughter with her, one hand clamped about the girl’s wrist like a manacle. For once Isabella was glad to see her. The duchess’s approach was her cue to escape. She desperately needed time to gather her thoughts and decide how to deal with her errant husband. She did not wish to give him the pleasure of provoking her in public. Yet she trembled with nervousness and anger at the thought of a private settlement of their differences.

  She took a cautious step away from Marcus as the others drew near. Immediately he put his hand on the small of her back to restrain her. She could feel his warmth sear her through the thin silk of her dress. To the casual observer it would appear no more than the affectionate greeting of cousins, but to Isabella it felt like the possessive intimacy of a lover.

  “Lord Stockhaven!” The duchess hailed Marcus like a long-lost friend. Isabella made another slight movement of escape and immediately Marcus’s arm tightened around her.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he whispered in her ear. His breath sent a quiver of sensation along the sensitive skin of Isabella’s neck and she shifted with a mixture of sensuous longing and sheer nervousness. Marcus looked down at her and the heated blaze in his eyes was enough to shake her to her soul.

  “How do you do, Lord Stockhaven?” The duchess was utterly insensitive to atmosphere. She shouldered her way through the group and placed herself firmly in front of them.

  “Have you been on your travels again, my lord?”

  “I have indeed been traveling, Your Grace,” Marcus said with a slight smile. He did not appear anxious to pursue the conversation, nor to move away from Isabella’s side, but the duchess was impervious to subtlety.

  “Where did you visit this time?” The duchess was also nothing if not persistent.

  “Italy.” Marcus’s brevity was matched only by his look of faint boredom. Isabella felt the arm about her waist draw her even closer. Their bodies were touching now at elbow and hip and thigh. Cold shivers of excitement were running through her blood. She could feel the color coming up into her face as though she had a fever. Any moment now, Pen, with that bluntness for which she was famed, would ask her if she was suffering from the ague.

  Her Grace of Plockton was not to be dislodged by mere brevity. She dug her fan into her daughter’s ribs.

  “Don’t stand there like a pudding, Dorinda! Ask Lord Stockhaven a
bout his trip to Italy!”

  “Did you enjoy your travels in Italy, Lord Stockhaven?” Lady Dorinda Plockton asked, as obedient as a well-trained child.

  “Yes, thank you,” Marcus said.

  There was a short silence as it became apparent that he did not intend to elaborate. Lady Dorinda, however, did not lack the art of small talk and was anxious to prove it before her mother prompted her again.

  “Whereabouts did you stay, my lord?” she asked.

  “I toured Rome and Florence and Verona and traveled back through Cassilis, ma’am,” Marcus said smoothly. Isabella jumped. She could feel his sideways glance like a physical touch, stroking her skin, daring her to contradict him and lay the truth bare. She kept silent.

  “Cassilis is a most insignificant principality, I have always thought,” the duchess said, with a quick malevolent glance in Isabella’s direction. “Nothing notable has ever come out of Cassilis.”

  “On the contrary, Your Grace,” Marcus said politely. “I must beg to differ. There are many remarkable things that derive from Cassilis. It is a place of infinite surprise, all the more notable since most of its secrets remain well hidden.”

  Isabella’s gaze snapped up to his face. His expression was bland as he met her eyes but she knew that amusement was not far below the surface. Once again he was trying to provoke her, damn him to hell and back. This was a game to him and he was going to play it for all it was worth.

  She took a step away from his side and this time he let her go. She tilted her chin up and gave him a very straight look.

  “How extraordinary that you should claim to know Cassilis so well, my lord,” she said. “I had no notion that you had been there, particularly recently. I had thought you were visiting…somewhere quite different.”

  There was a flash of expression in Marcus’s eyes. “You seem remarkably well-informed of my activities, madam,” he said coolly. “Am I then of particular interest to you? I count myself flattered to think so.”

  “You should not,” Isabella said. “My interest was not personal. I was merely going to suggest that the next time you visit Cassilis, you make a special point of seeing the Palazzo de Spinosa. It is very beautiful and houses a marvelous collection of frescoes by Piozzi. They are all based upon fairy stories.” She paused for emphasis, adding with limpid innocence, “I imagine you would find them fascinating, given your interest in myths and fantasies.”