Deceived

by Nicola Cornick

  Alistair could well believe that Lord Standish would have difficulty reaching the end of the road, let alone Dorset. He looked at the exquisite creature before him, all troubled blue eyes and tumbled fair hair, and wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. He felt it was richly unfair that Freddie Standish, who ought to take responsibility for protecting his sister, should in fact be the one in need of constant supervision. He crossed his arms in order to prevent himself from touching Pen.

  “I simply must go to Salterton myself,” Pen finished. She jumped up. “I cannot sit here waiting to find out what is happening!”

  “And all impatient of dry land, agree with one consent, to rush into the sea,” Alistair murmured.

  Pen stared at him. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Cantrell?”

  Alistair blushed. “Poetry, Miss Standish. I was quoting Cowper.”

  Pen’s brows rose. “This is not the time to be quoting poetry, Mr. Cantrell. What am I to do?”

  Alistair abandoned his flight of fancy. “It seems clear to me, Miss Standish, that you must go to Salterton and that I must escort you.”

  Despite this being the outcome that Pen had been angling for, she felt unaccountably disappointed. All had been accomplished without the slightest hint of romance, if one left aside Mr. Cantrell’s dubious quotation, which could scarce have been considered romantic anyway.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I should be most grateful for your escort.”

  Alistair smiled. “Splendid. I shall return in one hour having arranged transport and packed a bag.” He got to his feet. “Will that give you sufficient time to prepare, Miss Standish?”

  “Perfectly, thank you,” Pen said. “I am not one of those ladies who takes an age merely to choose a gown.”

  Alistair’s smile deepened. Pen’s pulse quickened in response. “No,” he said. “I do not suppose you are.” He sketched a bow and made to leave the room, but Pen put out a hand.

  “Mr. Cantrell, one moment, please…”

  Alistair paused.

  “I do not have a chaperone,” Pen said in a rush. “It is most improper for me to be alone with you in a closed carriage, Mr. Cantrell.”

  “I will hire a maid to accompany us, Miss Standish,” Alistair said promptly. “There is no difficulty. I am sure you will be more comfortable with some female company.”

  “Yes,” Pen said glumly, “I am sure I shall. I hesitate to admit it but I cannot afford to pay a maidservant.”

  “Neither can I,” Alistair said. “We shall engage one in advance and then apply to Stockhaven once we arrive in Salterton. Have no concern, Miss Standish. You may rely on me to behave as a gentleman should.”

  “Yes,” Pen said, sighing with annoyance and thwarted desire. “I am sure that I may.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MARCUS SAT IN THE CARRIAGE and admired his wife’s profile beneath the brim of her black straw bonnet. He had had plenty of opportunity to admire it—her face had been turned away from him for the best part of the journey so far. Her fingers drummed an impatient tattoo on the clasp of her reticule.

  Marcus had woken that morning to a deep contentment. Isabella was still clasped in his arms—there was nowhere else for her to go—and she was asleep in a warm, soft tumble against his side. He had looked at her and felt a complex mixture of hope and loss. Yesterday, when she had run from him, he had known nothing other than he had to reclaim her. It had been an instinct that had kept him going, searching from inn to inn along the road, stopping, inquiring, hurrying on until he had caught up with her at last. He had been fearful that when he found her she would turn from him absolutely and irrevocably and that he would never have a second chance. She had not done so, but he did not make the mistake of thinking that matters would be simple from now on. She had not wanted a husband from the first. Now, with the possibility that she might have conceived his child, he had to persuade her to change her mind.

  She had woken a few seconds after him and had smiled up at him for one perfect moment before reality had forced its way into her consciousness and she had struggled to put space between them. He was astounded at how modest and shy she was; not because she had given herself to him so freely the previous night—that had been a moment out of time—but because he had assumed she must be experienced with men. But then, he had assumed many things about Isabella that were not standing up to the test of reason. He was acutely aware that he had given her no reason to trust him and plenty of reasons to hate him.

  They had breakfasted in silence, the monastery refectory scarcely being the appropriate place for a discussion of their marriage. It had been unfortunate though, because by the time the carriage was ready and Marcus had made it clear that he was coming to Salterton, Isabella had withdrawn behind a formidably cool facade.

  “We need to talk,” Marcus said abruptly.

  Isabella looked at him, a quick distrustful glance from her blue eyes. “I agree. Yet—” She hesitated. “I am not quite sure that I know what I want to say.”

  “How about that I am a perfidious bastard who has twice made you a promise and then broken it?”

  A tiny smile flickered across her lips. He was heartened to see it. It meant that he might have a chance.

  “Is that what you would say if you were in my place?” she asked.

  “Undoubtedly. And you would have a fair point, too.”

  Isabella’s smile deepened irresistibly. “So?” She raised her brows.

  “I fear it is true.” Marcus saw her frown again. “However…”

  She looked at him with a politely regal tilt to the head, and once again he was reminded of how well she must have had to school her emotions during the years of her marriage to Prince Ernest. He felt a sharp pang of loss for the spontaneous girl she had once been.

  “I am prepared to concede certain things,” he said.

  “You are all generosity, my lord.” Isabella smoothed the elegant green frogging on her traveling dress and waited.

  Marcus took a deep breath. Apologizing did not come easily to him. He did not do it often.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I misjudged you. When I saw you again I thought only of revenge for what you had done to me and to—” He hesitated.

  “To India,” Isabella said flatly.

  The name seemed to hover uncomfortably in the air between them.

  “I understand,” Isabella said. “She was your wife.”

  Once again she turned her face away and Marcus had the frustrating feeling that he had not made himself understood at all.

  “I cannot explain the difference in the accounts that you and she gave,” he said, struggling a little. “But I do believe that you would never deliberately seek to take her inheritance from her. You are…too generous a person to do such a thing.”

  He thought that there was a tiny shade of warmth in Isabella’s voice when she replied but it could merely have been his own wishful thinking.

  “Too generous a person,” she said. “This seems rather a sudden conversion, Marcus, after all that has happened between us.”

  He could not deny it. He knew that from the first he had been struggling against his own intuition as well as against her. He had wanted to believe her false and treacherous. At every turn he had blocked the evidence of his own eyes and the instincts of his heart and had tried to believe the worst of her. Yet that image had never really fitted and now the world had spun and shifted again and he saw the truth.

  “I am sorry,” he said again.

  “Do you believe what I told you the night before last?” Isabella asked. “The reasons for my marriage to Ernest?”

  Marcus hesitated. He believed implicitly what she had told him, yet he was not certain that he could forgive her for making the choice she had done, and for putting her family ahead of him.

  “I understand what you told me,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I am sorry that you did not choose to come to me for help but I understand your reasons.”

  Isabella
caught her lip between her teeth. “So you do not forgive me.”

  Marcus felt torn between the truth and sparing Isabella further hurt. “I have not said that, Bella. It is not really a matter for my forgiveness. I wish you had come to me but I understand why you did not.”

  “We all have hard choices to make,” Isabella said, so softly Marcus had to lean closer to hear her. “I put the future of my family ahead of our happiness.” She looked at him suddenly and his heart contracted at the anguish in her eyes. “This is very painful, Marcus.”

  “It is.” Marcus knew that there was no way in which such matters could be ignored or swept aside. On that confessional night he had thought that they could be, but now he knew better. There was a painful lack of trust between them and it would take much to repair it. And there was no guarantee that she would give them that chance. He wanted to touch her, to offer physical reassurance, but he knew that it was too soon.

  “I still want you to have Salterton,” he said suddenly. “It is yours by rights and I know how much it means to you. I will give it to you—and the means to keep it.”

  The light leaped in Isabella’s face. “Truly? You will keep your word?”

  “I swear it.” Marcus smiled ruefully. “On that matter I will keep my word.”

  The light went out of her face. “But the legal separation?”

  He shook his head. “No, Bella. I cannot grant that.”

  Isabella’s head was bent. She smoothed the seams of her gloves. Marcus watched her struggle with her temper. He understood her doubts and misgivings. He knew that he had given her much to doubt with his accusations and suspicions of her. But trust could be rebuilt, given the will to do so. He had never been able to make Isabella fit his desired image of the fortune-hunting adventuress. Now he had no wish to do so anymore, not merely because of any child she might bear him, but because he wanted to know the real Isabella once again, the wild spirit that he had known as a girl; the woman who could match him passion for passion.

  Yet it seemed that Isabella did not want the same thing. She was resisting the affinity between them and he needed to understand why. It was not simply because he had hurt her. He sensed that she was afraid of something. He reminded himself that he must court her—as gently as possible.

  It was difficult, however, when he wanted to ravish her as ungently as possible.

  “A marriage between us will never work.” She looked so adorably obstinate that he wanted to kiss her. Inconveniently, his erection stirred. He knew that this was likely to be the most difficult part of the courtship for him. He was not a patient man and having once made love to her it would be the devil’s own job not to touch her again.

  He tried to ignore his bodily discomfort and concentrate on her words.

  “Our marriage will not work because you will not allow it to?” he asked softly.

  “It will not work because the past will always come between us.” Isabella made a slight gesture. “There is India, and Ernest…”

  And her nameless lovers whom Marcus always tried very hard and very unsuccessfully to forget. Jealousy ripped at him so violently that he caught his breath. The obstacles were indeed great but so was his determination. He was not going to let her go.

  Isabella had knotted her gloved fingers together tightly. She looked up from her clasped hands and met his gaze.

  “Do you love me, Marcus?”

  Her words caught him on the edge, still feeling raw. So he had not spoken aloud the night they had made love. That was a relief. He did not wish to reveal so much to her so soon. He was not certain of his deepest feelings. He knew without a doubt that he had loved her once. Now, he was not so sure. He wanted her. He needed her. That had to be enough.

  Her voice had held a tone of sorrow, as though she already knew the answer. And when he did not reply, she shook her head gently.

  “Having once had your love, Marcus, how do you think I could ever settle for less? It would be a second-best marriage.”

  Marcus took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. He felt more vulnerable than he had in a very long time. Isabella’s honesty was devastating and it made him feel as though what he was offering her simply was not good enough.

  He cleared his throat. “Bella, we are married. There can be no annulment. Love is for…”

  “Fools?” There was a note of bitterness in her voice.

  “I was going to say that love is for the young,” Marcus said. “As one grows older, matters grow more complicated.”

  “How very pompous you sound,” Isabella said, “not to mention as old as Methuselah.” She turned her shoulder to him.

  “I have already lost one wife,” Marcus said, a little bitterly. “I do not intend to lose a second.”

  He felt the intense blue of Isabella’s gaze on him and thought for a moment that she was going to ask him about India. He wanted her to do so—he knew it was a barrier between them. He had neglected India and had always felt damnably guilty. He was convinced that she would not have had the carriage accident and died if only he had not been apart from her at the time. It was the guilt that held him silent. He carried it with him always.

  But Isabella did not ask and he sensed the slight withdrawal in her.

  “I cannot force an annulment or a legal separation, of course,” she said. “I accept that. But I cannot see the point of us remaining wed when you do not love me.”

  Marcus leaned forward urgently. “Bella, give me a chance. I want us to stay married.”

  “Because there may be a child?” It sounded as though the words pained her. “We shall know that soon enough.”

  Marcus took her gloved hand in his. “And if there is we shall raise him or her together.”

  “And if there is not—” her eyes were defiant but full of fear as well “—we may go our separate ways.”

  Marcus shook his head. “What is it that you are afraid of, Bella?”

  Isabella’s face clouded. He thought for a moment that she would not reply but then she said quietly, “I am afraid of being hurt all over again.”

  Marcus’s grip tightened on her hand. He drew her resisting body closer to his along the velvet seat of the coach. “I swear,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, “that I will never hurt you deliberately, Bella. Never again.”

  Her face was tilted up to his, close enough to kiss. There was sweetness in her eyes but a deep sorrow as well.

  “Give me a chance,” Marcus said again. “A chance to court you.”

  He saw her mistrust and hesitation. His hand tightened on hers. “I will protect you and care for you, Bella. We may rekindle the trust between us. Let me prove it to you.” He did not understand why it was so blindingly important to him but he knew that it was.

  Isabella gave a tiny nod. “For the sake of the child—should there be one—I will wait a little before I make a final decision. That is all I can promise.”

  Marcus’s heart leaped. He did not argue. Now was not the moment to insist that he would never let her go. He had gained himself some time and the chance he craved. Now he had to convince her of his steadfastness.

  “Then as you are prepared to trust me,” he said, “and as I trust you, there is something that I must tell you.”

  “YOU MAY REMEMBER,” Marcus said, “that when we first met at the Duchess of Fordyce’s ball, you asked me why I had been in the Fleet. I never told you the reason.”

  Isabella waited. She had not been expecting this. Her mind was still spinning with the implications of their previous conversation. When Marcus had told her that he believed her account of why she had jilted him, her sore heart had eased a little. It was a small concession, smaller than she might have wanted, but it was something. And he had apologized for his behavior to her. She knew that must have been difficult for him. He was not a man who could admit his fault easily.

  It meant that when they came to part she would know there was no longer any animosity between them. If they did part…She shivered. How long would i
t be before she knew if she was with child? When Emma had been conceived she had been very slow to realize. Too slow. She might read the signs more quickly now, but the dilemma would be no easier. To stay or to go. Marcus had promised to care for and protect her, but he had not promised her his love. And without that she would always feel she was living a hollow reflection of what might have been.

  She put the thought of the child from her mind. Soon enough to think of that when she had some peace and time alone. And there was the shadow of India, hovering at her shoulder as always.

  I have already lost one wife…

  Isabella needed no reminder of that.

  But for now Marcus wanted to tell her about the Fleet. She remembered demanding to know why he had been there and the way he had deflected her questions. She had been so infuriated by his presence that she had soon forgotten all about the reasons.

  “I was investigating a crime,” Marcus said.

  Isabella looked up sharply. “By pretending to be a criminal yourself?”

  “Exactly so.” Marcus sighed. “It is sometimes the easiest way to get close to those you are hunting.”

  Isabella let out a long breath. “I see. Did you succeed?”

  “No,” Marcus said. “I am hunting a man named Warwick. Edward Warwick.” He looked at her. “Does the name mean anything to you?”

  Isabella shook her head. “I do not think so. Should it?”

  “You have a wide acquaintance. He might be a family connection.” Marcus’s gaze dwelled thoughtfully on her face. “Warwick is the man whom I am convinced was responsible for both a robbery and fire at my house in Salterton and the death of your aunt. He is a criminal who has connections in the Fleet.”

  Isabella stared at him, deeply shocked. She had not imagined that Marcus’s business in the Fleet, whatever it had been, might have any link to her or to Salterton.

  “Mr. Churchward told me of the fire at your house but he intimated that it was an accident,” she said slowly. “And I understood that Aunt Jane’s death was from natural causes.” Her eyes searched his face. “Wasn’t it?”