Authors: Tina Gabrielle
He turned to Isabel and put a finger to his lips to signal her to be quiet. Her blue eyes were as round as saucers. The closet was small and cramped, and Isabel was pressed close to him.
Footsteps came closer and the couple stopped somewhere near the closet. There was the rustle of skirts and a soft moan.
Marcus froze, straining to hear.
“This is so dangerous, Olivia,” a male voice said.
“That’s why it’s so exciting,” a female responded. “There’s nothing to worry about really, darling. Gavinport and his guests have all indulged in plenty of alcohol tonight. No one will notice we’ve gone missing. Besides we have done this many times before under Gavinport’s nose, he’ll not suspect me now. I am the perfect wife and hostess at his parties.”
“But if he ever finds out—”
“
Hush
, darling. Watching you all evening and pretending you are a mere formal acquaintance has been torture. I promise, the monster shall never know. He is obsessed with his wretched art collection. He’d rather look at his droll paintings than at me. All he’s talked about lately was buying another obscenely expensive piece from his auctioneer.”
“How could he prefer to look at a painting over his own wife’s exquisite beauty?”
“Oh, darling. Don’t make me wait a second longer. Kiss me.”
The crinkle of clothing and groans could be heard.
Heat rose in the small space of the closet and beads of perspiration formed on Marcus’s brow. He was highly aware of Isabel’s soft curves pressed against him, of her own delicate perfume mingling with the fragrance in the closet, and of the uneven rhythm of her breathing.
Isabel must also have sensed the ripple of excitement between them for she made to step back an inch and bumped her head on the wood shelf beside her.
She grunted.
“What was that?” the male outside the closet snapped.
Reacting instinctively, Marcus pulled Isabel into his arms and kissed her hard.
A split second later, the closet door was thrust open.
Isabel stiffened and her eyes opened wide in shock, but Marcus held her tightly and deepened the kiss.
“What are ye two doing here?” a man demanded.
Marcus was slow to respond, dragging his lips from Isabel’s. He did not have to act the highly aroused and irritated male, for the mere touch of their lips, however brief, had sent his blood pounding. It must be the danger and the excitement that had aroused him so swiftly, he rationalized.
He raised his head and found a red-haired man glowering at him. Behind the man, Lady Gavinport’s blond hair and diamond necklace flashed. A second wife to Frederick Perrin, the Marquess of Gavinport, she was more than a decade younger than her wealthy husband. She was deathly pale at the moment, and panic, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes.
Marcus stepped out of the closet and held the door for Isabel. “It appears we’ve been found, my dear.”
Isabel blinked, her eyes unfocused; her chest rose and fell with agitated breaths.
“What are ye doing here?” the red-haired man repeated.
“I suppose it is obvious, isn’t it? The lady and I sought a few moments of privacy.”
“Who are—”
“Good heavens, Donald.” Lady Gavinport stepped forward. “This is Lady Isabel Cameron and Mr. Marcus Hawksley, my guests for the evening. Their engagement was recently announced at the Bennings’ ball.”
Donald looked taken aback at the mention of Marcus’s name, and Marcus immediately linked the man’s name to his face. Donald MacKinnon. Son of the Scotsman Keith MacKinnon, who was one of Marcus’s oldest clients at the Stock Exchange. Marcus wondered what Donald’s strict and wealthy father would do if he knew of his son’s affair with the married Lady Gavinport.
Donald’s expression was tight with strain. “They could have heard—”
Isabel stepped toward Olivia Gavinport. “Our deepest apologies, Lady Gavinport. We were so consumed with each other that we did not hear you approach until after you opened the door and came upon us.”
Marcus didn’t miss the flash of relief on Lady Gavinport’s face or the tense lines that relaxed on Donald MacKinnon’s face.
He had to give Isabel credit. She didn’t miss a beat. He knew she was unnerved, but she had disguised her discomfort as that of an embarrassed lady caught in a compromising position.
“We are constantly chaperoned, you see.” Isabel’s face flushed, and she cast her eyes downward. “And we wanted to be alone just once before the wedding.”
“I must say you are fortunate to want to be together,” Lady Gavinport said. “Most betrothed couples have little if any interest in each other. But nonetheless, you should not be up here. Lord Gavinport would not approve.”
Isabel’s eyes clung to the woman’s. “You won’t tell of our indiscretion?”
Olivia Gavinport looked so relieved she swayed on her feet. “We are ladies first. I’ll keep your secret.” The woman’s unspoken words were as clear as day:
If you keep mine.
Bravo
, Marcus thought. Isabel had managed to entrust Lady Gavinport and Donald MacKinnon’s silence. Both couples had secrets, only Marcus hoped theirs appeared to be that of two lovers wanting intimacy rather than two spies breaking into a private art gallery.
“Guests aren’t allowed to roam about the second floor. I’ll escort ye down,” Donald said.
Marcus nodded, and they followed behind. When they were once again amongst the masked guests in the ballroom, Isabel turned to him, a glint of mischief behind her velvet mask.
“I told you I would make a most useful ally,” she said, her full lips curving into a secretive smile.
His heart took a perilous leap. “Yes, my dear. You continue to amaze me.”
Isabel’s breath caught in her lungs as a bolt of blue velvet was unrolled at her feet. She reached out to touch the material, awed by its softness.
“It’s perfect. The exact shade of your eyes,” Charlotte said.
“But there are so many others, I can’t choose,” Isabel protested.
They were in the Bennings’ Grosvenor Square mansion, and Isabel was attempting to select the color, fabric, and style of the gown for her wedding breakfast. Thankfully, she had previously decided that she would wear her mother’s wedding gown, which saved her from having to make another choice. Kneeling on an Aubusson carpet, she gazed in wide-eyed wonder at dozens of swatches—satins, silks, velvets, brocades, and crepes in every color of an artist’s pallet—scattered around her. Selected rare bolts of fabric spilled onto the floor like shimmering pools of color.
Madame Antoinette, a renowned French dressmaker, had agreed to leave her busy London shop as a personal favor to Mr. and Mrs. Benning, who were her best customers. Isabel had been stunned when two hackney cabs had pulled up the drive, one transporting the couturière herself and the other her materials, patterns, and drawings. Two well-built French assistants had carried everything inside. Madame Antoinette’s face was flushed with eagerness, knowing custom-made outfits were sought not only for the bride, but also for Charlotte, Leticia Benning, and Isabel’s twin siblings, who were all present.
The dressmaker picked up a swatch of material and held it up to Isabel’s cheek. “Perhaps Mademoiselle would like this emerald satin. It goes perfectly with her flawless skin and dark hair.”
Amber nodded her head, her blond curls bouncing. “Oh yes, Izzy. It’s so beautiful.”
Anthony stood in the corner. With his arms crossed over his chest and the corner of his mouth twisted with exasperation, he appeared completely irritated by the overly feminine environment.
“Let Izzy decide for herself, Amber,” Anthony said tersely. “If you favor the green so much, then order it for yourself.”
Amber turned and glowered at her twin.
Isabel’s lips twitched at Anthony’s brooding mood. She had to insist upon his presence today. Her younger brother, who had sprouted in height and breadth within the last six months, no longer fit into many of his clothes and was in dire need of formal attire for the wedding.
“Which will you choose, Isabel?” Charlotte asked, drawing Isabel’s attention back to the material in the dressmaker’s hands.
Isabel sighed. “I’m completely overwhelmed.”
Leticia touched Isabel’s arm. “Nonsense. A lady can never have too many choices or too many gowns in her wardrobe.”
Just then, Harold Benning walked into the room. His watery blue eyes widened with pleasure at the scene before him. Clasping his hands to his chest, he sighed at the sight.
Isabel stared agog at his flamboyant clothing. He wore a matching waistcoat and trousers of purple and pink checked fabric and a ruffled shirt with Brussels lace cascading down the front and at his shirt cuffs. Clutching a jewel-encrusted snuff box in one hand, he held the ever-present quizzing glass with matching purple ribbon in the other.
Benning turned to Isabel. “What’s this I hear? You are having trouble selecting a gown for your wedding breakfast? Why did you not ask for me? Everyone knows I’m gifted when it comes to women’s fashions.”
He went to the swatches, and with an efficiency that was startling, sorted through the staggering pile until he found one to his liking, a diaphanous blue silk. Next he picked up a stack of sketches, and with repeated flicks of his wrist, discarded unwanted sketches of gowns on the floor. He stopped short, and then nodded. He held up the chosen sketch, and his fleshy face melted into a buttery smile.
He placed the swatch and sketch before Isabel. “This is what I call perfection. There are shoes, fan, gloves, reticule, cloak, and other trimmings to select, of course, but I’m certain Madame Antoinette has wonderful accessories to complement this glorious confection.”
Isabel stared at Benning’s selection in her lap.
Stunning.
The sketch showed a rich blue silk robe over a slip of satin. Long full sleeves, a fitted round bodice, and a low back trimmed with small roses at the bosom and hem completed the ensemble.
She had to give Harold Benning credit. He was amazing when it came to female fashion. The women in the room—Charlotte, Leticia, Amber, and the dressmaker—were all enthralled by Harold’s selection.
“Will you chose my fabric and style as well, Mr. Benning?” Amber asked, adoration written on her young face.
Anthony smirked in the corner, clearly uncomfortable with Harold Benning’s effeminate side.
Harold Benning nodded at Amber, and then his eyes lit up as he spotted a bolt of canary yellow velvet. Stroking the material with reverence, he said, “It’s superb. I simply must have a jacket made with a matching waistcoat.”
Charlotte exchanged a subtle look of amusement with Isabel at her stepfather’s choice.
Isabel couldn’t imagine a male wearing such a shade, but held her tongue. What would Marcus think?
As if sensing her thoughts, Charlotte asked, “Isabel, how have you and Mr. Hawskley been faring since the announcement of your engagement?”
Charlotte was the only one that knew about her temporary marriage of convenience with Marcus, and as far as Isabel knew, her friend had kept her secret.
“Since Father was unable to obtain a special license from the Bishop, the reading of the banns has begun,” Isabel said.
Charlotte’s eyes grew openly amused. “I know. I was at church this past Sunday and heard the priest read the banns from the pulpit, Isabel. But what we all want to know is how you two are getting along?”
Isabel was aware of every eye in the room upon her, especially the twins. “We are getting along quite well, better than I had expected. Marcus’s good friends, the Earl and Countess of Ravenspear, have invited us to their home this week for a private dinner to celebrate our engagement, and we are both looking forward to the evening.”
A mischievous smile curved Charlotte’s mouth. “Really? We have noticed Mr. Hawksley looking happier of late. Perhaps marriage will suit him despite the fact that everyone, including his friends, had believed him to be a sworn bachelor.”
A sudden unbidden memory of Marcus’s urgent kiss in the Gavinports’ linen closet rushed through her mind. He had kissed her out of fear of discovery, but there had also been a smoldering passion in his lips that had thrilled her, had made her blood soar. Despite her firm resolve not to get physically involved with Marcus, their shared embrace was an awakening experience that had left her reeling. It had also aroused her curiosity as to what a dark, dominant male like Marcus Hawksley would be like intimately…
Suddenly aware of Amber and Anthony’s inquisitive stares, Isabel pushed her wayward thoughts aside. She felt flushed as if the sun which flowed through the windows had radiated directly upon her for hours.
“I doubt his pleasant state is from our impending nuptials,” Isabel blurted out.
Harold Benning dropped the yellow velvet. “Maybe he is falling in love with you, Isabel.” He looked to Leticia. “Would that not be utterly romantic, darling?”
Leticia Benning’s lips twitched with amusement. “It’s more likely he is relieved to put the ugly business of the Westley auction behind him.”
Benning waved a dismissive hand. “I never believed the nonsense that Mr. Hawksley is somehow responsible for the theft of a valuable piece of artwork. There has been gossip, of course, but if Bow Street does not suspect him, then neither do I.” A probing query came into Benning’s eyes. “I did not want to bring up the subject, but whatever has transpired with that auctioneer?”
“He has disappeared,” Isabel said.
“Has Mr. Hawksley tried to locate him?”
“Yes, but he has had no success to date. I suspect Dante Black won’t show his face for some time. At least not until the missing painting is found by the constable.”
Benning nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m sure that will be soon. Dreadful inconvenience, I say.”
Charlotte stood. “It is all in the past. I, for one, am certain that Mr. Hawksley is quite enamored of our Isabel and growing more so each day. I suspect that soon he will be more attached to her than to his own art collection.”
Harold Benning clapped. “Bravo! We must toast to love.” He directed a servant to bring glasses and a bottle of champagne.
“But it’s two o’clock in the afternoon,” Leticia protested.
“So?” Benning shrugged. “We are celebrating Mr. Hawksley’s blooming affection for our Isabel. Whatever else could be more important?”