Surrender Becomes Her Part 2

His appreciative gaze followed her trim little form as she stalked around the office. In an amber-colored riding habit trimmed in bronze braided silk, her red hair caught back by a green and brown plaid bow at the nape of her neck, a few bright tendrils brus.h.i.+ng her cheeks, she made a fetching sight. Or would have, he admitted, if she hadn't been scowling so dreadfully.

Isabel flounced down in the padded leather chair behind a ma.s.sive oak desk and, leaning her elbows on the top of the desk, buried her head in her hands. In m.u.f.fled tones, she asked, "How could you have done something so reckless and irresponsible? Good G.o.d! What were you thinking?"

That was a very good question, Marcus admitted. He had no idea what he had been thinking when he'd made his bold announcement. Not true, whispered a part of his brain; he knew very well what he had been thinking. It had been apparent to him from the first that Isabel was frightened of Whitley and had needed protection from whatever danger the fellow represented; the announcement of her betrothal to himself had provided it. Certainly, it had rocked the major onto his heels and cut the ground beneath him, Marcus thought contentedly, recalling the look on the major's face. Marcus didn't usually take pleasure in another person's discomfort, but he was forced to admit that Whitley's stunned expression and rapid retreat had given him a great deal of pleasure. The only thing that would have given him greater pleasure, he decided, would have been to draw the major's cork and he was hopeful that the major would give him another opportunity to do just that.

Whitley may have retreated but Marcus did not delude himself that he had heard the last of the man. Whitley had some hold over Isabel; that had been obvious to him, not so much from what Marcus had overheard, although that was d.a.m.ning in itself, but from Isabel's reactions. He had not mistaken the fear in her eyes or her uncharacteristic reaction to his sudden announcement of their betrothal.

She had not said a word, merely flashed him a complicated look of mingled astonishment, relief, dismay, and consternation before dropping her gaze. Isabel knew as well as he that he had been lying through his teeth, but she had not denied to Whitley that such a betrothal existed and that was curious. Isabel was perfectly capable of tearing a strip off him, several strips if she was angry enough, Marcus admitted, wincing, certain memories of past conflicts when they were much younger rising up in his mind, but she had stoically allowed his words to stand. There had been no outcry, no outrage, and no explosive denial-and he'd been halfway prepared to have his words hurled back in his face. But she had said nothing, even her expression giving nothing away, yet he remembered distinctly her fingers tightening on his and the nearly imperceptible movement of her body nearer to his. Whatever she might be saying now, she had been grateful for his intervention. And was probably furious with herself, he thought wryly, for feeling so.

Pus.h.i.+ng himself away from the doorjamb, Marcus wandered around the office. "I wouldn't worry overmuch about it," he said finally. "It's not as if I'd sent a notice to the Times."

Her head snapped up, her angry gaze boring into his. "Since it was to Whitley that you made your outrageous announcement, you won't need to send a notice to the Times; he is the biggest gossip alive. Have no fear, half of Devon will know before nightfall." Her gaze fell and she said bitterly, "One of the reasons for his popularity in Bombay with all the hostesses was that one could be a.s.sured of learning the latest rumors and t.i.ttle-tattle. He had the knack of knowing everything the moment it occurred."

"And does he know something about you?" Marcus asked quietly.

"Of course not!"

She said the words with enough vehemence to almost convince Marcus. Almost. He frowned. Not only was she frightened of Whitley but she wasn't willing to talk about it. And how could he help her, Marcus wondered acidly, if she wouldn't share with him whatever it was Whitley held over her head?

He studied the elegant little profile presented to him as she stared out of the windows. Thirteen years had pa.s.sed since they had confronted each other that fateful morning at Sherbrook Hall, but Isabel's face showed few signs of the pa.s.sing years. It was true she no longer looked the child she had been then; she was a woman now; she had been a wife, a mother, and a widow. Those events had not left her untouched, but the pa.s.sing milestones in her life had only refined and honed the character and steel beneath the soft youthfulness. There was a mature beauty to her face that had not been there thirteen years ago and, though her gaze was averted from him, Marcus was conscious that her eyes, once so innocent, these days held worldly knowledge, adult awareness...and tightly held secrets.

They knew each other so well, yet not at all, he admitted. Though she had lived all of her thirty years, except for the time in India, within just a few miles of him, in recent memory they had had little contact, beyond the few social affairs that they had both attended. He knew her son better than he did Isabel, having traveled with the old baron and Edmund to Scotland for an annual fis.h.i.+ng trip the past five years. Those weeks in Scotland with Edmund traipsing at his heels had been most enjoyable and he had developed a strong fondness for the boy. Though his contact was mostly with her son and father-in-law, Marcus could not help but hear of Isabel's doings from time to time from his mother and other friends in the neighborhood, and Lord Manning frequently mentioned events in the Manning household, which naturally included information about Isabel. But for all Marcus knew of Isabel's life at Manning Court, he did not know her, not as he had known the much younger Isabel, and he suddenly regretted that fact.

This was a woman before him now, with a woman's cares and concerns, and he had not the first clue as to what went on in that lovely head of hers. Marcus sighed. Nothing would convince him that she didn't have a serious problem in the burly form of Major Whitley but it was apparent she was not going to share whatever that problem was with him. At least not yet....

Wandering over to the windows, Marcus stared out at the mares and foals in the paddocks in front of him. "Whitley is a stranger to the area," he said, "and though he intimated he might visit longer, I suspect that my announcement today will send him about his business." He sent her a long look over his shoulder. "I don't think that Major Whitley will be a problem for you any longer."

"I didn't have a problem with Whitley," she said evenly, "but your actions today have certainly created one for us."

Turning away from the window, Marcus walked over to stop in front of the desk. Looking down at her, he said, "I doubt it. Only the three of us know what I said."

"And you think Whitley will keep his mouth shut?" Isabel asked incredulously. She snorted. "I told you he is the biggest gossip alive. Even if he thought your statement untrue, he will pa.s.s it along the first chance he gets-if for no other reason than to cause trouble. You must believe me: he delights in throwing the cat amongst the pigeons."

Marcus shrugged. "I wouldn't worry overmuch about what a stranger just pa.s.sing through the neighborhood has to say. We can deny his words and let it be known amongst our friends and family that the major misunderstood. As long as we give it no credence, others will follow suit."

For a minute Isabel looked hopeful, then her face fell. "It won't do. Think of the gossip."

"Gossip will pa.s.s. We can stand the nonsense." Growing irritated by her manner-after all, he'd only been trying to help-he said, "I don't know why you must turn this into a Siddons' tragedy."

"Perhaps because I don't relish being the subject of gossip and speculation?"

She had a point and he was beginning to wish he'd simply written her a d.a.m.n note about Tempest and the foals. If he'd done that, at this moment he'd be comfortably at home and would never have come across the ugly little scene between Whitley and Isabel and felt compelled to interfere. So why had he interfered...and in such a dramatic manner? He knew better than to tangle in Isabel's affairs. Yet with no thought of the consequences, he had leaped w.i.l.l.y-nilly into the fray and, even more astonis.h.i.+ng, he was not sorry. The reason for his unprecedented behavior remained: Isabel had needed his protection and he had provided it.

He didn't see that there was such a problem. Even if Whitley did blab, everyone who knew them would think the idea of a betrothal between them a huge jest. Why couldn't she see that no one in their right mind would think that they would make a match of it? Good Lord! They'd barely spoken to each other in years. The whole idea was ludicrous!

Testily, he said, "If you don't like denying it, we shall claim that it is true and in a few weeks you can cry off. Say we don't suit or something."

"What? You would have me be the jilt?" she demanded indignantly.

"Well, I can't be the one to cry off," he argued. "Bad ton! Everyone would think me a scoundrel."

"At the moment," she snapped, "I think you are a scoundrel!"

"Thank you very much for that," he said bitterly. "I do you a favor and this is the thanks I get for my efforts."

"If you will remember," she said from between gritted teeth, "I didn't ask you to grant me any favors."

With an effort Marcus held onto his temper. In hindsight, he agreed that his way of protecting her from Whitley had been poorly conceived, outrageous certainly, and he marveled that he acted so precipitously. Though he showed no signs of it, he was a trifle stunned by his wildly uncharacteristic behavior. Marriage had never crossed his thoughts until he had uttered those fateful words, and the mind fairly boggled at the notion of his being married to Isabel. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! To any woman, for that matter, he thought candidly, but especially to Isabel! Most unsettling, however, was the knowledge that he had not spared one thought to the consequences of what he was doing. He had simply reacted to the situation. And just look where it had gotten him.

Reviewing the situation, Marcus saw that there were...difficulties, problems even, arising from his hasty and ill-thought-out actions, but he was confident that they could brush through the affair fairly easily. If they kept their heads about them and didn't do anything foolish, all would soon be right and tight.

A huge chasm suddenly yawned before Marcus as it occurred to him that if the major was friends with one of his mother's boon companions such as Lady Carver, the formidable wife of Viscount Carver, or Squire Ba.s.sett and his wife, that they might not escape unscathed. Another equally uncomfortable thought occurred to him. What if Whitley was an intimate of Garrett Manning, Lord Manning's nephew? If Garrett learned of the engagement, it would only be a short time before Lord Manning did. The horrifying possibility of marriage to Isabel loomed large in his mind and a hunted expression crossed his handsome face as the enormity of what he had done hit him like a cannon ball.

In a feeble voice, Marcus asked, "Er, who are the friends that Whitley is visiting?" He swallowed and said more firmly, "The outcome will depend upon who they are and their consequence in the area-and how likely they are to be believed."

Isabel hesitated, then muttered, "He is staying at the Stag Horn Inn."

Marcus frowned. "I thought you said he was visiting with friends?"

She sent him a look. "It seemed the simplest explanation at the time. I didn't realize then that you were going to end up announcing that we were betrothed."

Marcus ignored the last part of her statement. Hopefully, he asked, "So he doesn't actually know anyone in the neighborhood?"

"No. But before you think we've gotten off scot-free I would remind you that Keating's youngest boy, Sam, is Edmund's boon companion and that the eldest son, Will, is one of my uncle's footman at Denham Manor. Don't forget: Keating's wife is a bosom friend of Lord Carver's Cook. If any one of the Keating family hear of the engagement..."

Her words dashed the faint flicker of hope the information that Whitley was a stranger in the area had aroused. Marcus was well acquainted with Keating, the voluble innkeeper of the Stag Horn, and his gossipy wife. If they learned of the betrothal from Whitley...He closed his eyes as if in pain.

Isabel watched him closely and smiled maliciously. "Exactly. All Whitley has to do is breathe one word to Keating and the cat will be out of the bag."

Opening his eyes, Marcus shuddered and nodded. "And of course, Whitley, being a nosy sort, will no doubt make inquiries, or at the very least make mention of the engagement. Even as we speak, the news is probably already spreading through the servant grapevine."

"And from there it is only a matter of hours before it travels from the servants' hall up to the master and mistress of the household," Isabel said wearily.

Bleakly they regarded each other. Isabel's eyes were the first to drop. She was furious with him, yet she could not prevent the skip of her pulse or the sudden leap of her heart whenever their eyes met. Even as angry as she was with him, she could not deny that he was still the handsomest man she had ever met. Nor could she pretend that, at least initially, she had not been grateful for his intervention. For that first split second after he had made his astonis.h.i.+ng announcement, she had allowed herself to feel safe and protected-emotions she had not felt for a very long time.

From beneath lowered lashes she considered that dark, dearly familiar face, her heart aching as she wondered why she had found his guardians.h.i.+p so onerous. She could admit now that Marcus had never been anything but fair and kind to her, and she had been too full of herself, too stubborn, too young to see it. In those long-ago days, he had only to suggest one thing for her to immediately want the opposite. At every turn, and with great relish, she had defied him and fought him, heaping scorn and insult upon him in the process. It wasn't surprising that in the decade since her return to England he had avoided her like the pox. She'd certainly given him no reason not to, she thought mournfully. And now...

Marcus's words broke into her thoughts. "I am sorry," he offered gently. "I only meant to help you, not create this sort of complication."

"Complication?" Isabel asked, torn between temper and tears. Didn't the man understand? Whatever his motives, he had completely overset her life. "A complication," she explained tartly, "is having accepted two different invitations for dinner! Not embarking upon marriage with a woman you loathe!"

"I don't loathe you," Marcus said sharply. "You can be an infuriating little devil at times, but I have always had a fondness for you."

"Not a very good basis for marriage," she said miserably, staring blankly at her hands where they rested on the desk.

Marcus moved to her side, his big hand warmly covering hers. "But not such a bad one either, poppet." She glanced up at him, her golden-brown eyes swimming in tears. His breath caught, pain knifing through him at the sight of those tears. He could never bear to see Isabel unhappy, even when she had made him furious. Brus.h.i.+ng aside one of those bright tendrils of hair near her cheek, he said bracingly, "Come now! Cheer up! I have it on good authority that marriage, even between strangers, is not the end of the world. We are not strangers." He smiled at her. "We have known each other all our lives, surely that gives us an advantage? And our marriage is not a sure thing; Whitley may hold his tongue."

Isabel shook her head. "Not he. Believe me, he will snoop about and not rest until he finds out what he wants to know." Her voice thickened. "It is what he does best."

Frowning, Marcus said, "Isabel, don't you think it's time for you to tell me what is really going on here?"

She tried to jerk her hand away but he held on tight. "No," he said, "you are not running away and you are not throwing a tantrum. What does Whitley hold over you?"

"N-n-nothing! You have mistaken the situation."

"I did not mistake your fear of him, nor did I mistake your dislike of him. If there is no reason for you to be beholden to him, why did you meet him this morning? Why didn't you send him away with a flea in his ear?" His voice sharpened. "And don't try to lie to me."

"You are mistaken," she repeated stubbornly.

"I didn't see him holding you against your will?" he asked dryly. "Nor, I suppose you'll tell me, I didn't hear you threatening to set the dogs on him if he didn't leave you alone?"

Finally freeing her hand from him, Isabel jumped to her feet. Putting half the room between them, she said, "Major Whitley was presumptuous. He thought to make more of our friends.h.i.+p in India than there actually was. When he over-stepped the bounds, I gave him a well-deserved set down. There was nothing more to it."

She was lying through her pretty little lips, but Marcus knew from past confrontations that pus.h.i.+ng her would gain him nothing. If she didn't want to tell him the truth, she d.a.m.n well wouldn't, and the more he pushed, the more she'd dig in her heels. Sighing, he said, "Very well, have it your way." He leaned a hip onto the corner of the desk and, staring at his booted foot, he said, "It would seem that my intervention was unneeded and I apologize for that, but it doesn't solve our problem."

"And we wouldn't have a problem," she reminded him sweetly, "if you hadn't interfered in matters that are none of your business!"

"True, but I did interfere and, unfortunately, we must deal with the results." Still staring at his gleaming boot, he said, "We have a few options though none are foolproof. We can hope that Whitley says nothing and the problem simply vanishes; or the moment we are faced with it, we can ridicule any notion that we are actually engaged and hope we convince our family and friends, or..."

"Or we can make the announcement ourselves and marry each other," Isabel said flatly.

"Unless, of course, you wish to follow my earlier suggestion and cry off in a few weeks?"

She sent him a burning look. "I told you I do not wish to be labeled a jilt."

"Then what do you want to do?" he asked patiently. "Since this is my doing, I am willing to follow your lead."

"You are being far too amiable about this whole affair," she said suspiciously. "Don't you realize that we may very well find ourselves married to each other?"

Marcus was trying very hard not to think of that option, but as the minutes ticked by, he suspected that before much longer he would find himself truly engaged to Isabel...and at some point in the future, married to her. He closed his eyes and shuddered, the earthshaking upheaval marriage would cause in his life looming before him. Good G.o.d! What had he done? If the marriage came to pa.s.s, Isabel and her son would live at Sherbrook Hall and his well-ordered, comfortable existence would be a thing of the past. In a matter of months, he would no longer be the carefree bachelor able to arrange his life as he saw fit; he would be a married man with a stepson! Married, he thought, horrified. To Isabel.

Marcus couldn't explain it, but he was aware that underneath his horror and undeniable panic there lurked a curious sensation of excitement and antic.i.p.ation. Given the choice, he might have wished there was some other way out of the dilemma his hasty words had created, but he wasn't even certain of that. His gaze traveled down her slim form and for the first time he saw her, really saw her. She was, he realized astounded, a fascinating female...a female he would enjoy taking to bed. In that instant memories of his once irritating ward or the to-be-avoided-at-all-costs widow of Hugh Manning vanished. Feeling as if he'd been struck by a bolt of lightning, he stared awestruck at her, aware that she was an immensely attractive woman, a very attractive woman whose sweetly rounded body held all sorts of secrets he wanted-no, needed-to learn. His eyes on her small, high bosom, he imagined their softness and weight in his hands, their taste upon his tongue; desire flared. In that second, he wanted nothing more than to close the short distance between them, take her into his arms, kiss that saucy mouth, and caress those tempting b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His breathing thickened and, suddenly conscious of the indecent bulge in his breeches, Marcus stood up and retreated to the window.

Keeping his back to her, he fought to control his unruly body, but his awareness of Isabel as a woman would not go away. His body one long ache of desire, he stared doggedly out at the foals and mares and concentrated on not giving in to the urge to discover the silky flesh he knew lay under that fas.h.i.+onable riding habit.

His voice harsher than he intended, he said, "If we have to marry, we have to marry."

Marcus heard her quick steps as she came up beside him. "Don't you understand, you big dolt?" she said furiously. "I do not wish to be married! Not to you or anyone!"

Frowning, he half-turned to look at her. "Did you love him so much?"

Isabel made a vexed sound. "What was between Hugh and me is none of your business. I simply do not wish to be married again."

"Well, then," Marcus said slowly, "you have to choose which of our not-very-attractive options will suit you best."

Isabel glared at him. "And I wouldn't have to if you'd minded your own business."

"I've apologized already," he reminded her. "I can do no more than that."

Spinning on her heels, Isabel walked over to the desk and once more sank down into the chair behind it. Elbows on the desk, she buried her head in her hands again and muttered, "It isn't just a matter of which option would suit me best, but which option will cause the least amount of trouble and gossip. I have my son to think of-and my father-in-law, both of whom would be delighted if I did marry you."

"Really?" Marcus asked, smiling foolishly and inexplicably pleased.

She raised her head enough to send him a speaking look before dropping it into her hands again. "Yes, Edmund thinks you are top-of-the-trees and my father-in-law has hinted recently how fortuitous it would be if I were to marry again...to, say, a neighbor or someone who didn't live very far away so that he could see his grandson whenever he wanted."

He almost said "really" again, but caught himself in time; instead, he said, "I had no idea that Manning wished for you to marry again." Frowning, he added, "I would have thought marriage would be the last thing he'd want for you."

"It may have escaped your notice, but this past year or so," she began tartly, "my father-in-law and Mrs. Appleton have been coyly circling each other. You'd have noticed if you didn't always disappear into the card room."

Marcus was acquainted with Clara Appleton. A plump, easy-going matron his mother's age, she was also one of his mother's circle of friends and a frequent guest at Sherbrook Hall. Mrs. Appleton's husband, a retired admiral, had died five years ago and had left her comfortably situated and Marcus hadn't been aware that the lady had been looking to marry again. Certainly his mother had never mentioned it, or that the baron was thinking of marriage. But it wasn't his business, so he shrugged and said, "If he wants to marry her, why doesn't he? What does your marriage have to do with it?"

"He hasn't discussed it with me," Isabel explained, "but I think he's hesitant to ask her to marry him while Edmund and I are living at Manning Court. He doesn't want me to feel pushed aside, nor does he want his new wife to have to deal with another woman in the house. If I were to marry you, it would solve all his problems. He could marry Mrs. Appleton and yet Edmund and I would be living right next door."

Something occurred to Marcus. "Does my mother know all this?"

"I a.s.sume so. She and Mrs. Appleton are great friends and your mother and my father-in-law have always been neighbors as well as friends. I'd be surprised if she didn't know."

"Er, do you think your father-in-law has mentioned to her his hopes for you and me?"

"Probably," she admitted with a faint smile. "I often find them with their heads together and yet the moment I come up to them, the conversation stops." She eyed him curiously. "Why do you ask?"

Marcus rubbed his jaw. "Before my mother left for London she seemed mightily concerned about the state of my life. Now I know why."

"She said something about it to you?" Isabel asked, astonished.

Marcus shook his head. "No." Grinning, he added, "She just seemed fixated on the idea that I couldn't possibly be happy doing just as I pleased. Thought I needed a little excitement or some such."

"So that's why you acted so outrageously!" exclaimed Isabel, her eyes darkening with temper. "You thought you'd liven up your existence by destroying mine."

"No, it ain't!" protested Marcus, although now that he thought of it, he did wonder if that hadn't been part of the reason. Had his mother's words been at the back of his mind? He considered it, then dismissed it. No, his announcement had had nothing to do with his mother's concerns and everything to do with the need to spike Whitley's guns and provide cover for Isabel.

For a moment they regarded each other, and then Isabel asked miserably, "What are we going to do?"

Marcus shrugged. "I've given you our options, unpleasant though they may be."

She leaned forward intently and said, "You do understand that marriage between us is out of the question?" Her gaze dropped and she said thickly, "After Hugh died..." She swallowed. "After Hugh died I swore that I would never marry again. It has nothing to do with you. It is just that there are...reasons why marriage to you or anyone is impossible. I will not marry again."

Studying the top of her down-bent head, Marcus scowled. Upon Hugh's death, Isabel had taken a vow of chast.i.ty? Now that was just plain silly. She was a lovely young woman. She had much to offer a man and there was no earthly reason for her to lock herself away like a novice in a nunnery. The more he thought about it, the more annoyed Marcus became. Hugh Manning had been a fine young man, but he couldn't bring himself to believe that Isabel had loved her husband so much that she could not even bear the thought of marriage to another man. It was, he decided, downright insulting. Why, he had as much to offer a wife as Hugh! How the devil did she know that he wouldn't prove to be an even better husband than Hugh had been?

Hastily reminding himself that a comparison between his husbandly virtues and a dead man's wasn't the point, Marcus cleared his throat and said, "Since you are determined not to marry me, we have only two choices." He ticked them off on his fingers. "One, if word of a betrothal between us becomes public, we deny it and paint Whitley as a malicious spreader of gossip, or, two, we confirm it and at some later date, you will have to cry off." Dryly, he added, "Since you refuse to marry me, I'm afraid you may have to face being labeled a jilt after all...and please remember that it is your choice. I did offer to marry you."

Softly she said, "Yes, I'm aware of that and I appreciate it. And if the worst happens and I am labeled a jilt..." Her jaw clenched. "It will be unpleasant for a few weeks or months and I can only hope that my father-in-law and Edmund do not suffer from the gossip and speculation."

"So what do you propose we do?" Marcus asked. "Deny or confirm, if the question arises?"

They discussed the matter for several minutes longer, before Isabel said, "We can do nothing until we learn what Whitley will do with the information." She bit her lower lip. "He might, though I doubt it, say nothing, but that would be totally out of character for him. I think we have to simply wait to see if he does spread the word...." She made a face. "And if he does, then we shall confirm our engagement and a few weeks later, I shall cry off."

Reluctantly, Marcus agreed and shortly he took his leave of her and rode toward Sherbrook Hall. His thoughts heavy, Marcus had much to consider. Whitley had some power over Isabel. Whatever it was, and Marcus didn't doubt that it was serious indeed, she was unwilling to tell him what it was or let him help her. He supposed he should be offended that she was willing to face social disgrace and rampant gossip rather than marry him. He half smiled. How could he have expected any other reaction from Isabel? She'd been confounding him since birth.