Deceiver Page 10

  At last the intimacy of the exchange was beginning to have an effect on their companions. Alistair Cantrell seemed slightly embarrassed, like a man wishing he could recall another pressing engagement a long way away. Pen was looking from Isabella's face to Marcus's, her eyes bright, her gaze curious.

  "We are boring our audience, Lord Stockhaven," Isabella said gently.

  Marcus's gaze did not move from her face. "Then let us speak in private," he said again.

  Isabella shook her head slowly. "Pray do not take offense, my lord," she said, "but I have no wish to do so. A gentleman would need to be exceptional to arouse sufficient interest in me that I would wish to spend time with him."

  "As illustrated by your statement earlier, madam, about English lovers." Marcus had drawn closer to her again. His broad shoulders blocked out the rest of the ballroom. She felt isolated, cut off from the rest of the world. Her pulse was pounding, her entire body tense from the effort of matching him word for word, challenge for challenge.

  Marcus spoke softly. His tone was rough, like a knife against silk.

  "You should give me the chance, Your Highness. I insist upon it. You will find my tales—and my other attributes—far from dull, I assure you." He looked around and deliberately raised his voice. "To persuade you, perhaps I should reveal before all these good people that you are my—"

  The word wife seemed to hang in the tense air between them. Isabella turned icy cold. Surely. . . Surely he would not call her bluff in this most public and outrageous of ways? And yet, why not? That would be so very typical of Marcus. He had no fear of scandal.

  "Lord Stockhaven!" The words burst from Isabella, half in appeal and half in warning.

  "—my inspiration in my travels," Marcus finished, very gently.

  Isabella could hear the underlying mockery in his voice. She felt weak with a combination of relief and anger. Damn him! Damn him for doing this to her and for enjoying it. He should be safely locked up in the Fleet. It was inexcusable that he was not. Quite evidently he had tricked her, and her temper was now so frayed that she did not wish to delay telling him exactly what she thought of him. The scandalmongers wanted something to gossip over? Well, she would give it to them.

  She slipped her hand through Marcus's arm. After his initial start of surprise, he kept quite still, coiled as tight as a spring and waiting to see what she would do next. She tilted her head in a provocative gesture and smiled up at him.

  "I find that you inspire many feelings in me as well, Lord Stockhaven," she said sweetly, "but none of them are suitable for discussion in public." She smiled at their audience. "Excuse us, ladies and gentlemen. I simply must tell Lord Stockhaven what I think of him. In private." She arched a brow at Marcus. "Shall we, my lord?"

  She knew even before he spoke that he was equal to any challenge she might throw down. The watchfulness in his eyes told her so.

  "It will be my pleasure," Marcus said.

  And Isabella had the disconcerting feeling that it would indeed.

  Marcus could feel the anger in Isabella's body even as she placed her hand on his proffered arm. He drew her away from the knot of guests around the duchess and led her with decep­tive gentleness toward the connecting door to the drawing room, where the Duchess of Fordyce had her Scottish artifacts exhibited. A huge swag of tartan draped the doorway, brushing Marcus's shoulder as they passed. The room was candlelit and very hot. The shadowy light flickered off a collection of military memorabilia including a dirk and a sword from the Battle of Sherrifmuir, a set of bagpipes that looked to Marcus's eyes to be rather moth-eaten and a chamber pot that had the dubious claim to fame of having belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie. Neither of them was in the least bit interested in the exhibits, however. Isabella barely waited for them to achieve the privacy of a curtained alcove before she rounded on him, telling Marcus a great deal more about the tangled state of her emotions in the process than no doubt she had intended.

  "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  "I should have thought that was obvious," Marcus drawled. He was enjoying her shock. "I am claiming my wife."

  Isabella's blue eyes narrowed furiously. "You should be in jail—"

  "Very probably," Marcus agreed. "A number of people have told me that over the years. However, the fact is that I am not."

  "But why not?" Isabella's voice rose, but she moderated it at once. Marcus admired her self-control in a situation where most women would be having a fit of the vapors at the very least, if not resorting to a swoon. "Why are you here? You were imprisoned for debt!"

  "I was in a debtor's prison," Marcus said. "Never at any point did I tell you that I had been imprisoned for debt. You made that assumption."

  Isabella glared at him, eyes spitting fire. The air between them was thick with emotion. She felt trapped and she did not like it at all. He smiled gently and turned the screw still further. Leaning forward until his lips brushed her ear, he said quietly:

  "I have paid off all your debts."

  He felt her stiffen with fury. So now she was beholden to him as well as trapped by him, and she hated it—hated him—with a passion. He felt a dangerous rush of emotion at the power of the feeling between them. Love and hatred. The two were so close, and he wanted to wring a response—any re­sponse—from her to show that he still had the ability to do so.

  "I see," she said through gritted teeth. "You are most generous, my lord."

  "It was the least that I could do for my wife," he said, watching her face. "Perhaps one might call it a wedding present?"

  Not by one flicker of expression did she betray her feelings at this deliberate provocation. She inclined her head with regal condescension.

  "How thoughtful. Your first and last gift to me—for you may be sure that I shall sue for an annulment in the morning."

  A gaggle of guests had come into the exhibition room. Marcus drew closer to Isabella, taking her elbow to draw her into a quieter corner.

  "Have you any idea of how expensive and difficult an an­nulment can be to achieve?" he asked conversationally. "Par­ticularly when your husband will not cooperate? You have no money to pursue it in the courts and without my promise of silence, all you will manage to do is stir up a huge scandal."

  Isabella's head was bent. The candlelight picked out the strands of dark copper and chestnut in her hair. The faint scent of the jasmine perfume she always wore seemed to cloak her with all the elusive memories of their time together. An ache took Marcus then, a sudden deep desire to recapture all that they had lost. It was gone in an instant, but no less strong for all that.

  He reminded himself that he had come to the ball that night to provoke her and to extract the first part of his revenge. He had wanted to make her suffer for all that she had inflicted on him by departing from his life so swiftly, only to reenter it again and imperiously demand his help without a thought for his feelings. He wished to make her feel powerless—as stripped and defenseless emotionally as her defection had made him feel all those years ago.

  And he had done so, although she had concealed her feelings well in front of the crowd. He admired her for that. She was a very strong character. It made the contest between them much more enjoyable than if she had been a die-away creature with no backbone. But then, she would not have got where she was today, would not have climbed the greasy ladder to worldly riches and status, if she had not been able to trample the feelings of others on the way to her success.

  However, it was not all about revenge. Two minutes in her presence had shown him that. He would have opposed an an­nulment anyway, simply to thwart her. Now he realized that he was going to do it not merely to make her suffer, but because he wanted her. He had never stopped wanting her.

  She looked up directly into his eyes and he felt the tug of attraction so fiercely through his body that it was all he could do not to show it.

  "I have no difficulty in stirring up a scandal if I have to," Isabella said coldly. "Surely you have realized that a
lready?"

  "I have noticed," Marcus said. He wondered how far she would be prepared to go. "I also care as little for the opinion of others as you appear to do, so it seems we are checkmated. Go ahead." He decided to call her bluff. "Cause a scandal. Tell the world that you married me for my money and now you wish to discard me."

  Isabella frowned. Her fingers, tapping a brisk tattoo on the wooden frame of her fan, were the only indicator of her deep irritation. Marcus watched her struggles with interest.

  "I do not understand why you would oppose an annul­ment, my lord," she said, after a moment. "Surely you cannot want this marriage any more than I do?"

  Marcus smiled. "On the contrary," he said with absolute truth, "there are many aspects of the situation that appeal to me. You seem to have completely overlooked the possibility that I might wish—" He paused. "To achieve a full marriage."

  He rubbed his fingers gently over the silken material of her sleeve and felt the tiniest shiver go through her. She was not indifferent to him as a man; she never had been. He felt a surge of savage triumph. He had needed that, to know that his own wanting had found an echo in hers.

  "I am merely waiting," he said, a little roughly, "for you to indicate that you are ready to leave, madam. It is, to all intents and purposes, our wedding night, and after our enforced sep­aration I find myself. . .eager. . .to be alone with you."

  At last he had succeeded in shocking her. Her eyes searched his face as though trying to judge whether he was in earnest or merely playing with her, and he was certain that he saw a flicker of fear there, though when she spoke her tone was quite steady.

  "I assume that you jest," she said coldly, twitching her sleeve from his fingers. "We are little more than strangers now."

  Marcus shrugged. "That can be easily remedied."

  She stared at him. "No!" Once again the fear flickered behind her eyes and was swiftly gone as she took a steadying breath. "It seems that I have misread you," she said. "What precisely is it that you want?"

  "I have told you," Marcus said. "I want my bride."

  She scrutinized him, her gaze shatteringly direct and appear­ing so scrupulously honest that he felt it probe his soul. It was an odd sensation and it made him feel slightly guilty. She looked so shocked, so betrayed. But that was what he had wanted. He had wanted her to feel helpless and be at his mercy.

  "When I came to you in the Fleet . . .did you have this in mind from the very first?"

  "Yes."

  She blinked at his honesty. "Why?" she asked. "Revenge."

  The stark word fell between them and into silence. In the background the pipe music skirled, a wistful backdrop to the fierce emotions between them.

  "Revenge," Isabella repeated. She looked stunned. "Revenge for what?"

  Marcus laughed incredulously. "Come, my love, I would think better of you if you did not pretend."

  "Because I broke your heart?" There was a shade of scorn in Isabella's voice now. "I thought you were made of sterner stuff, my lord."

  "I thought so, too." Marcus took her by the shoulders. He could feel her bones beneath the silk of her gown. Such a fragile creature and yet made of tempered steel. "You owe me because you are venal and corrupt and calculating and I want you to admit it," he said brutally. "I thought you all that was sweet and good, God help me. Then you dropped me to marry for money and a title. You gave me no explanation or excuse. You led the life of a whore and then you tried to buy me again when you required my help." His hands tightened mercilessly, drawing her close so that her breasts brushed his chest. She was very pale now and her gaze was blind. For a split second he wondered whether his words had hurt her, but then she tilted up her chin and defiance burned in her eyes.

  "So you want to take me to prove yourself correct and to settle your debts," she said with such contempt that it burned him. "How like a man to try to make everything so simple. I tell you now—I shall not give you what you want."

  Marcus let her go abruptly and stood back.

  "And I will not consent to an annulment," he said stonily, "so disabuse yourself of the idea that I shall. And without my consent, my love—" he saw her instinctive, angry movement at the endearment"—you will not achieve your aim. I fear you are trapped and eventually you will come around to seeing matters from my point of view."

  Isabella made a gesture that was full of repressed fury. "This is an intolerable situation!"

  "It is a situation that you brought upon yourself," Marcus said.

  "I require no reminder," Isabella snapped at him. "You may be certain that I shall extract myself from it one way or another as soon as I may." She took a deep breath. "I am certain for a start that our marriage must be illegal."

  "And I hesitate to disappoint you but I promise it is not," Marcus drawled. "How could it be, when you went to such pains to make sure that it was lawful? And once it has been consummated, the match will be sealed as well as signed."

  Two of the struts of Isabella's fan fractured under the pressure of her fingers. She rubbed the tiny splinters of wood from her gloved fingers.

  "Once again, you go too far, my lord."

  Marcus raised his hand and touched her cheek thoughtfully. He was hot with anger, but it could not quench the desire that drove him.

  "You are my wife, Isabella," he said softly. "You have given me whatever rights I choose to take."

  Her face warmed beneath his touch, but whether with fury or need he could not tell.

  "Nonsense!" She sounded as though she wanted to have him flayed alive for his impudence. "I owe you nothing but the payment of my debt, Lord Stockhaven."

  "Not so." Marcus's tone was hard now. "You owe me whatever I wish. You owe me a wedding night."

  They stared at one another like gladiators locked in combat, captured in each other's eyes, sealed from the outside world.

  One of the duchess's guests had come upon them unnoticed and now she brushed against Isabella's sleeve with a murmured apology and a more than curious glance. Isabella blinked, as though freed from a dream, and Marcus felt an almost physical tug as she pulled her gaze from him.

  "We cannot discuss this here, my lord," she said. "The entire situation is—" Her voice shook a little. "It is absurd."

  Marcus, too, was more shaken than he cared to admit. He cleared his throat. "Then let us adjourn somewhere more comfortable to take this . . . discussion . . . further."

  "Not tonight," Isabella said. "I have no further desire for your company." Her expression dared him to insist.

  Marcus hesitated. He could push the point but he had already forced her hand enough for one evening. He knew that she was on the very edge of her endurance. With infinite re­luctance, he drew back.

  "Then tomorrow," he said. "I shall call on you."

  He took a step back, his gaze still locked with hers. Her expression was cold and unyielding but Marcus could feel what it cost her.

  "Good night, my lady," he said.

  Once again she inclined her head with that perfectly judged grace of royalty condescending to the lower orders. Marcus felt he had probably deserved that—he had pushed her as far from him as it was possible to go. There was dignity in her stance, but also something almost unbearably poignant and lonely. He hesitated on the verge of making some conciliatory gesture, but before he could do so she had dismissed him.

  "Good night, my lord," Isabella said, and she turned from him, shutting him out as though forever.

  Isabella watched his tall figure stride away across the ballroom; saw the debutantes sway like cut corn in his wake. She was willing to bet that any one of them would give their French embroidered underwear to be in her place as wife to Marcus Stockhaven.

  She was no longer Princess Isabella Di Cassilis, relict of a ruinous and shipwrecked royal. She was Isabella, Countess of Stockhaven, wife to a man who apparently would not be slow to claim his marital rights unless she could prevent it And at this moment her mind was utterly devoid of ways to circum­vent him. Isabella shivere
d. She had miscalculated, and mis­calculated badly at that. In her anxiety to escape the crushing blow of the debt she had not thought matters through. She had trusted Marcus and that had proved a dangerous mistake. Now she was trapped. Marcus wanted something from her, and he would not let her go before he was satisfied.

  You are venal and corrupt and calculating. . . . If she had ever cherished the least illusion that Marcus held on to some softer feeling for her, then that was now at an end.

  Isabella swallowed hard. The pain was still there, an echo of the sharpness that had cut her to the bone when he had spoken. She bit her lip fiercely to repress the tears. She never cried. Early in her marriage she had discovered that Ernest had enjoyed seeing her tears, and from then she had schooled herself never to show weakness of any sort. It had become a habit but the ache was still there, wedged beneath her heart.

  You led the life of a whore and then you tried to buy me again when you required my help. . . .

  Isabella clenched her jaw. Enough of that. She would think of it no more. There was bitterness in Marcus. It prompted him to seek revenge and she had to thwart him. She absentmindedly fingered the ruined struts of her fan. There was no pos­sibility that she would reveal the truth to Marcus. She shrank from exposing all the horror and pain of the past to him and reliving it all again. She had locked all the love and the despair away in an ice-cold knot, and as long as she kept it buried there undisturbed, she would survive. A splinter of broken wood stabbed her finger and she winced.

  You owe me a wedding night.

  Never. She shook her head slowly. Too much had happened for her to face the prospect of being Lady Stockhaven in deed as well as in word. Twelve years ago, Marcus's touch had brought sheer bliss and the promise of future happiness. But twelve years was a long time and neither of them were the same people now.

  It had broken her heart to part from Marcus when she was seventeen. Then Ernest had shown her how debased could be the other side of love, and then her daughter Emma had died, and now Isabella knew that she would risk neither love nor loss ever again. Her attraction to Marcus was dangerous—the embers of her love for him were still hot beneath the cold crust of ashes. But Marcus wanted her for all the wrong reasons. He had made his disgust of her absolutely clear and she would not give in to him, no matter the fire in her blood that she could not deny. It would be madness to give herself to him only to square the debt he thought she owed him. She would not do it.