Deceived

by Nicola Cornick

  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. Goring’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.

  When Mrs. Bulstrode was distracted momentarily, Lavinia leaned forward and whispered to Isabella, “Do not listen to Mama, Princess Isabella! I should be happy if I never take at all, for all I met were foolish fops and fortune hunters. Besides—” she looked down disparagingly at the pink gown “—if Mama dresses me like the Christmas pudding, what can she expect?” She gave Isabella a half comical, half despairing look. “What would you do, ma’am?”

  “I would take a pair of shears to it,” Isabella said frankly. “It is an elegant gown under all that decoration.”

  Lavinia gave a little giggle. “Oh, do you think I could? What a splendid
idea!”

  Isabella could see Mrs. Bulstrode ending her conversation and added quickly, “Trust me, my dear Lavinia. I think I see the way to make your mama change her views of fashion.”

  Lavinia gave her a quick, sparkling glance and then Mrs. Bulstrode was upon them once more. Isabella lost no time.

  “Miss Bulstrode and I were discussing London fashions, ma’am,” she said, “and I was saying that she would look absolutely delightful in the new style of gown that has only last week been unveiled. It is a most simple design. I have some patterns with me. Perhaps I could share them with you?”

  Mrs. Bulstrode looked suspicious. “Simple?”

  “Elegant,” Isabella said. “Not every lady will be able to carry off such a style but I do believe Miss Bulstrode has the figure for it.”

  “That sounds splendid,” Lavinia said, taking her cue with such artlessness that Isabella reflected she would make a fine actress. “To be ahead of the fashions would be a wonderful thing.”

  Mrs. Bulstrode’s expression softened as it dwelled on her daughter’s eager face. “Very well, Lavinia,” she said gruffly. “I confess to a certain fondness for adornment myself, but perhaps in a young gel…”

  “Thank you!” Lavinia whispered to Isabella as they took their leave.

  There were gentlemen hovering. Isabella summed them up with the practice of long experience. The Honorable Mr. Digby was a young sprig of a noble family and very conscious of his status in the small world of Salterton society. He did not seem pleased to be upstaged by a full-scale earl and a princess, albeit a foreign one. Mr. Casson was an unabashed fortune hunter whose openness on the subject made him far more attractive than had he pretended he was not hanging out for a rich wife. He pressed Isabella to invite her friends to Salterton. “If you could oblige me with just one heiress, Princess Isabella, I would be your devoted follower for life! Heiresses are uncommonly difficult to find.”

  “And to marry,” Isabella said dryly.

  “Perhaps you have a sister?”

  “I do,” Isabella said, “but she has no money.”

  Mr. Casson looked most downcast.

  The Assembly boasted dandies, rakes, men on the make, half-pay officers, rich widows, poor widows, debutantes, wives…it was like London in miniature. Isabella talked and smiled, asked questions and danced with a few fortunate gentlemen, and all the time she was conscious of Marcus across the room. He had not requested the first dance and she felt a little sorry at the fact. An earnest young man had buttonholed him and seemed to be trying to persuade him of something.

  She sat out the next dance beside an ancient sea captain who, far from boring her with his tales of maritime adventure, told her that gardening was now his passion and asked her opinion on the new strain of rose that was being developed by a local horticulturalist. And still Marcus did not come to her side and Isabella was obliged to remind herself that she was the one who had requested the marriage in name only. She was doing her duty here at the Assembly—they both were. They had appeared in public together and then gone their separate ways for the evening. It was expected. It was the tonnish thing to do. It made her miserable.

  “Your servant, Lady Stockhaven.” A gentleman was bowing before her, soliciting the pleasure of the next dance. She recognized him as a Mr. Owen, one of the summer visitors whom Mrs. Bulstrode had introduced earlier in the evening. Marcus was still deep in conversation and dancing appeared to be the last thing on his mind. Isabella smiled at the newcomer and gave him her hand.

  “Thank you, sir. I should be glad to join the country dance.”

  As they took their places in the set, she found herself wondering how Mr. Owen was able to dance at all. He was evidently in Salterton for the sea cure, for there was a waxy pallor about his skin that suggested he was far from well. His gray eyes were dull and expressionless and he had a pronounced limp. She imagined that he could be little older than she was and yet he did not look as though he would make old bones. He smelled of mothballs and cordial, and there was some underlying element about him that made her shudder. It was nothing to do with his illness, but something far more unwholesome. Worse, there was something faintly and disturbingly familiar about him. She wished that she had not agreed to dance with him.

  “Do you take the sea waters, sir?” she asked him, more to make conversation than out of genuine interest. Mr. Owen nodded.

  “I suffer from the rheumatics, Lady Stockhaven, as well as having a nervous complaint and a touch of biliousness. Sea air and frequent dipping are the only cures.”

  Isabella remembered her aunt once saying that doctors and sea cures encouraged people to imagine that they were ill. She repressed a smile.

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  Mr. Owen’s glassy gaze fixed upon her. He gave her a faint, wintry smile. “I must confess that you seem rather too well for this place, Lady Stockhaven, but I feel sure that you will catch an ague in no time from the sea breezes.”

  “You reassure me, sir,” Isabella said.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Marcus was at last attempting to draw away from the earnest young man and there was a small frown creasing his brow as he looked in her direction. There was hardly a healthier looking man in the room. Isabella found herself wanting to pounce on him and carry him off to celebrate their mutual rude health and shake off the scent of the sickroom in a way that would shock half the occupants of Salterton into an early grave. She met Marcus’s eyes and he broke off his conversation, raising a brow in interrogation at whatever it was he saw in her face. Isabella’s lips parted as she stared at him. Her breath caught in her throat. Their gazes locked with a sharp awareness and Marcus’s attention focused on her in a way that made her shiver. It was intense, concentrated and wholly personal. Here, in the Assembly Rooms at Salterton, his entire stance told her that he wanted to ravish her within an inch of her life. He started to move toward her.

  The music was drawing to a close. Isabella dragged her mind and her gaze away from Marcus and forced out another smile for the unwholesome Mr. Owen.

  “Thank you for the dance, sir. May I assist you to a chair? You seem a little short of breath.”

  Owen nodded, leaning heavily on her arm. “I apologize for not being able to conduct you on the customary stroll around the room, Lady Stockhaven.”

  “Please do not regard it,” Isabella said, depositing him on a rout chair with a certain relief. The skin on the back of her neck was prickling. She knew that Marcus was close.

  “You must excuse me, sir,” she said. “I believe that I am engaged to dance the next—”

  “With me,” a voice said at her elbow. Marcus extended a hand to her, bowing slightly. The expression in his eyes was for her alone and made her feel weak, though he still managed to cover the courtesies even as his gaze told her how much he wanted her.

  “Good evening, Owen,” he said, pulling Isabella close to his side. She spread one hand against his side, feeling the thunder of his heart against her palm.

  Mr. Owen gave an invalid’s loud sigh. “Evening, Stockhaven. I trust you are suffering no gout or seizures this evening?”

  “No,” Marcus said. Isabella could feel him shaking with silent laughter. “I thank you, sir. I am quite well.”

  He turned to Isabella as though he could wait no longer. “Come, my dear. I am sure we are both strong enough for a waltz. And then I think we should retire—before we exhaust ourselves too much.”

  Isabella had not realized that it was the waltz and she was a little surprised to find them playing it here, in conservative Salterton society. Only the most daring and fit of the village’s inhabitants were attempting it. The others stood back with a mixture of envy and disapproval to see who had the courage to join in.

  “I hope you are enjoying the evening, Marcus,” Isabella said lightly, as they took their places. She was intensely aware of his presence but she was also conscious of the crowd of people about them. Somehow she had to try to get through this
dance without betraying her feelings in public.

  “I have found it a rather bruising experience, truth to tell,” Marcus observed with a wince. He too appeared to be having difficulty in concentrating on small talk.

  “I have been twitted for my lack of civic pride, considered a miser for refusing to invest in the pier, and overheard the Goring female’s view that I was not good enough for my wife! Whereas you—” he turned and gave her an assessing look “—were feted by one and all. It is remarkable that you remembered Mrs. Goring after all these years. She seemed most gratified.”

  Isabella’s mouth turned up in a little smile. “I had no notion who she was when she greeted me,” she whispered, “but she seemed so pleased to see me that it would have been rude to confess I did not know her from Adam.”

  Marcus smiled. “One would not have known. How accomplished you are. And how kind.” He hesitated. “They tell me that you sent them books and musical instruments for the school. That you wrote to people when your aunt passed on news of births, marriages and deaths. That you made welcome any visitors who ventured as far as Cassilis in their travels and that you used your influence to help those who would never normally have a chance to gain work or connections or education. You astound me, Isabella. I had no notion.”

  Isabella smiled inwardly. She rather liked the idea of surprising Marcus. He had made a great many assumptions about her and it was good to shake them. Shortly she hoped that she would shake him once again. But first there was the waltz to enjoy.

  The music started.

  Isabella had not waltzed with Marcus before and it was entirely delightful. More than that, it was sinful and sensual and seductive. She could feel the warmth of his palm against her back and the ripple of the muscle in his thigh against the silk of her dress. Her mind clouded and her body filled with a melting pleasure and she did not fight the sensation. There were no two ways about it—this dance was dangerous. It should be banned. As for vows of celibacy, of denying herself the pleasure of her husband’s lovemaking, well…evidently she had not been thinking straight and the glasses of wine she had consumed that evening had certainly helped her to see sense.