A Perfect Scandal (15 page)

After Isabel was safely dropped off on her doorstep and Roman departed in the Ardmore carriage, Marcus strode into his town house and slammed the door. He waved Jenkins off with an impatient hand.

“I’ll be in my library office working. I’m not to be disturbed.”

Ever the perceptive butler, Jenkins nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Marcus sat behind his desk, intending to immerse himself in the piles of paper before him. His blood was still pounding in his veins, and he sought the numbing solace of his work. It was the one constant in his life since his father’s emotional abandonment and Bridget’s death.

He reached for a particularly imposing stack and rummaged through the pages. When he found the sheet he was looking for, a company’s annual business report, he tried to study the narrow columns listing profit margins, losses, and estimated future earnings. He blinked, his eyes focusing on the figures, but his mind failed to register its content. A pair of clear blue eyes and inky hair clouded his vision instead.

He shook his head, his elbow accidently jostling one of the piles. Sheets of paper fell to the floor like New Year’s confetti.

Bloody hell.

Isabel’s brush with danger had affected him to the point of distraction. He vividly recalled her scream; the sound rivaled his worst nightmares. He had experienced instantaneous panic and a crazed need to go to her, to ensure she was not harmed.

Fresh in his mind was the taste and feel of her in his arms. A mere hour before she was attacked, she had stood in the center of his art gallery, kissing, touching, and eagerly responding to his caress. Just the thought of her strawberry-tipped breasts made his mouth water.

He was a lustful, besotted fool.

And in her innocence, Isabel had called him
good
…

He had never been good. To the contrary, his youthful, roguish days had been spent gambling, drinking to excess, and chasing women, habits which had led him straight into Bridget’s trap. The only honorable thing he had done was propose to Bridget and show up on the day of their wedding. But his good intentions—however late—had led to carnage, as he had been ignorant of her ultimate devious plans. Like everyone else in his past, she had betrayed him, and even in death, she had managed to mercilessly wound him through the murder of their unborn child. Years later the memory was a dull ache, but the sordid experience had tainted him, turning him into an obsessed, overworking stockbroker and fanatic art collector.

As for Isabel, he had capitulated to Lord Malvern’s insistence that they marry as a way to ease his conscience. He always paid his debts, and he did owe Isabel for her testimony which had spared him from Dante Black’s well-planned trap.

But what had started out as a way to save her and her twin siblings from complete disgrace had turned into a foolish bargain on his part.

How was he to refrain from touching her for six months when her mere presence inflamed his lust? Worse still—her instinctive and passionate response served as a powerful aphrodisiac. All he wanted to do was mount her on the chaise in his private gallery, spread her silky hair over the cushions, and pose her naked body like a piece of priceless art for his viewing pleasure.

But where would that get them?

From the beginning, she had been open and honest about her desire to travel to Paris to further her art studies. She had no desire to marry, or to remain shackled to one man. To truly repay her as his alibi, he must respect their arrangement. It was the only honorable course of action.

And then there was the ugly business of the stolen painting. He was no closer to finding the
Seashore with Fishermen
or the master conspirator behind the theft. The interrogation of Dante Black had been too brief. Unlike Roman, he was not convinced that Dante would not have revealed whom he was working for—most likely Lord Gavinport. Marcus was confident that he could have persuaded the former Bonham’s auctioneer to speak, and it would not have taken a beating.

Greedy men like Dante always capitulated for money.

The appearance of Dante’s criminal accomplice had complicated matters. Marcus had caught a glimpse of the bastard as he had fled—long-bodied, skeleton-thin, dirty hair, and an overall menacing appearance.

If Isabel had been harmed…

His jaw clenched like a lump of granite.

The wedding was within two weeks’ time. He would smother his lust; do right by her, even if it took every ounce of his willpower. He owed her a great debt, and a woman like Lady Isabel Cameron deserved better than the darkly damaged man he had become.

“I want out. I escaped Marcus Hawksley and his brother by chance, and I’ll not again put myself at risk,” Dante said in a choked voice.

“Calm yerself,” Robby Bones hissed.

They were in a dark London alley that smelled of rubbish, cat piss, and human squalor. Past midnight, the gas lamps from the street did not illuminate the alley, and the orange glow from Bones’s cigar cast an eerie shadow over the grave digger’s face. Smoke curled around his head like an opaque snake.

Dante, who had grown to detest the smell of Bones’s cheap cigars, moved aside. “I’m not crazy,” he snapped. “Hawksley had every intention of beating me until I confessed to the information he sought.”

“It wouldn’t ’ave come to that. I was goin’ to take care of ’em, but the Cameron woman showed up.”

“Lady Isabel?” Dante laughed, and the hysterical sound was shrill to his own ears. “I told you that the lady has a bad habit of interfering. Now you know how it feels.”

Bones snarled, spraying spittle and showing his broken half-tooth.

Dante quieted and took a step back.

“She needs to be put in ’er place. Next time, she won’t be so lucky,” Bones said.

Dante shook his head. “There won’t be a next time, at least not for me. Tell his lordship that I’m leaving London. He can hire another lackey to move the Gainsborough painting to Marcus Hawksley’s place of business.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were ye.”

“Why not?”

With lightning reflexes, Bones stepped forward and pressed the tip of his cigar into Dante’s chest. Dante yelped and jumped back, but not before the cigar burned through his threadbare cotton shirt and singed his flesh.

Robby Bones’s lips curled into a gruesome mask. “’Is lordship can find ye. ’E has money enough to hire men to do it, men not as nice as me.”

Dante clutched his wound, bile rising up his throat.
The crazy bastard thinks he’s nice!

“Do yer job, Dante, and move the painting as planned.” Bones turned to leave the alley, blending into the shadows like a wraith.

The following two weeks passed by in a blur for Isabel, and it was mid-June when the parish priest read the final banns from the pulpit.

On the morning of her wedding, Isabel sat at her dressing table as Kate styled her hair.

“It’s a perfect day for a wedding, my lady. Not a cloud in the sky,” Kate said.

“Thank you, Kate,” Isabel said woodenly. Feeling a mix of anxiety and apprehension that the day had finally arrived, she had awakened with a knot in her neck, and her shoulders were tight with tension. She leaned her head to the side, hoping to ease her cramped muscles.

A sharp pain stung her scalp as Kate pulled on a tress.

“Be still, my lady. I’m not finished with your hair,” Kate admonished.

Isabel mumbled an apology and smoothed damp palms on the skirt of her chemise. She gazed in the mirror as the last curl was pinned atop her head. Kate was indeed talented with styling hair, and Isabel could not help but admire the maid’s work. Her loose curls were arranged in the latest fashion and held in place by a crown of tiny white rosebuds.

Isabel stood, and Kate helped her into an ivory satin wedding gown. It had been her mother’s and hugged her curves, flared at her waist, and brushed the tips of her matching slippers. A long veil was pinned to her hair and cascaded over her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall.

Isabel turned before a pedestal mirror, her heart drumming in her ears.

Is this truly me? Will Marcus be pleased?

Her thoughts startled her. When had his opinion become so important to her?

“You look lovely,” Kate sighed. “I’m honored to be accompanying you to your new home, but I know for a fact that the entire household here will miss you sorely.”

Isabel felt a pang at the maid’s words, and her stomach churned with uneasiness. She had been raised by many of the servants under her father’s roof, and the realization that she would be leaving to embark on a new chapter of her life, even a temporary one with Marcus Hawksley, was nerve-wracking. She knew she would never return to live here.

Am I doing the right thing?
she wondered.
In ever wanted to marry, but rather only to pursue my art studies.

A knock on her bedroom door interrupted her thoughts.

Amber rushed inside, blond curls bouncing. Her eyes widened when she saw Isabel.

“Oh, Izzy! I hope to look half as beautiful as you on my wedding day.”

Isabel embraced her younger sister. “Amber, you will be a ravishing bride. Someday your prince will come, sweep you off your feet, and capture your heart forever.”

Amber looked up at her adoringly. “Is that what Marcus has done to you, Izzy?”

For a heart-stopping moment, the question was a stab in Isabel’s heart, but then a surprisingly easy smile came to her lips. “Of course, darling. Why else would I be marrying him?”

The wedding breakfast took place at the Ravenspear mansion. It was a small, but elegant affair, with fifty well-attired guests. An orchestra played country reels and waltzes in the ballroom, and the French doors were wide open as guests mingled outside on the terrace. Champagne flowed freely, and Blake’s prized French chef outdid himself with buffet tables laden with delicacies to suit every palate.

Marcus and Roman conversed in a corner of the ballroom. The incident with Dante Black had served to draw the brothers closer, and although their youthful bond was not completely healed, they were more amicable and tolerant of each other.

Blake came over and handed each of them a dram of whiskey. “Although most of the guests prefer champagne and wine, I thought to celebrate with stronger spirits.”

“You always were a good host, Ravenspear,” Roman said, tipping the glass to his lips.

“How have you escaped the marital web so far?” Blake asked Roman.

“By the skin on my teeth,” Roman said, looking across the ballroom to where his father, Lord Randall Ardmore, stood.

“I always thought it was overzealous mamas that pushed matrimony on their sons,” Blake said.

“Not in Roman’s case,” Marcus said. “Now that the black sheep of the family has married, the pressure on Roman is even greater to produce an heir.”

Roman gave Marcus a black-layered look. “Don’t act so pleased.”

Marcus laughed. “Why not? I find Father’s harassing amusing, especially since it is not directed at me.”

“Not all marriages are bad ones,” Blake said, his eyes resting on Victoria, who, late in her pregnancy, was seated on an overstuffed chair brought into the ballroom for her. She had insisted on hosting the wedding breakfast for Marcus and Isabel, despite her condition. She thought of Marcus as Blake’s brother and had grown fond of Isabel.

“You are the exception to the rule,” Roman said. “Most marriages are as amicable as a battlefront. Our parents had a disastrous union.”

“Marcus is a fortunate soul. Lady Isabel is aglow today,” Blake said.

Roman nodded. “Yes, my brother is damned lucky. Lady Isabel is as beautiful as she is courageous. She slipped through my fingers. But Marcus better watch her like a hawk. She may be off the marriage mart, but now she’s up for grabs as a lover by the many bucks and dandies who pursue married women like sport.”

Marcus frowned at his brother’s crude remark. His fists tightened at his sides as he exercised iron determination not to punch Roman square in the mouth.

Marcus’s sharp gaze searched out Isabel. She had changed from her wedding dress into less formal attire, and she looked radiant in her blue silk gown, which deepened the color of her eyes and displayed her soft curves to perfection. Her dark hair was artfully swept up, and a few loose curls brushed her neck and collarbone. She was surrounded by well-wishers, and looked the dazzling bride, conversing with her guests with grace and ease.

As if sensing his scrutiny, she turned and met his heated gaze, gifting him with a secret smile.

A fierce wave of possessiveness cut through him like a sharp blade. Roman’s words echoed in his head:
Now she’s up for grabs as a lover by the many bucks and dandies who pursue married women like sport.

Like hell.

But the troublesome truth was that their marriage was in name only and for six months at that.

His thoughts went to the marriage ceremony. She had been a vision in white satin walking down the aisle and had stolen his breath. The priest’s words had been quick, their vows exchanged, and a brief kiss given before their guests. Isabel had smiled up at him the entire time, an innocent, trustful expression on her lovely face. Not a doubt that he would uphold his part of the bargain had been reflected in her blue eyes. Thoughts of Paris, Auntie Lil, and her future two lovers were probably whirling through her head.

His stomach twisted in a tight knot.

“What’s the matter, Marcus? You’re scowling. You’re sure to scare the bride on her wedding night,” Roman said.

No, I won’t. Especially since the bride will be safely tucked away in her own chamber.

Marcus raised his glass and took a good quaff of whiskey before answering. “I spotted Father talking to Lord Malvern,” he said, changing the subject from Isabel.

Roman shrugged. “It means nothing. Ardmore and Malvern have been acquainted for years and belong to the same clubs. They are probably not talking about your marriage, but are most likely discussing which club they will attend afterward.”

“I should only be so lucky, but fortune has never been on my side when it comes to our father,” Marcus said dryly.

“Ah, here comes the lovely bride,” Blake said.

Isabel glided over, a charming smile on her face. “I’ve come to see what the three most handsome men in the room are discussing with such serious expressions on their faces.”

Blake kissed her hand. “You are quite a flatterer, Lady Isabel. If you must know, we were debating marriage.”

Isabel looked to Roman. “Since only Lord Ardmore remains a bachelor, what is your opinion on the subject?”

A devilish look came into Roman’s green eyes. “Please call me Roman. After all, you are now my sister-in-law.”

“Indeed, I am,” Isabel said. “But don’t change the subject.”

“Alas, it seems the best lady was taken today,” Roman said.

Isabel motioned across the room with her fan. “Nonsense! My lovely friend, Miss Charlotte Benning, is quite a jewel, and she is right over there with Lady Ravenspear as we speak.”

“She has you cornered, Roman,” Marcus said with a smirk.

Roman turned to where Isabel motioned. A slight gleam of interest lit his eyes, but when his gaze returned to his friends, the familiar mask of noble aloofness was back in place. “I shall introduce myself to Miss Benning,” Roman said, “after I have a dance with the bride.”

“You will have to wait. I promised my husband the next dance,” Isabel said with a smile.

Marcus stepped forward to take her hand as the musicians began a waltz. She glided into his arms with ease and they whirled around the dance floor.

She looked up at him. “Do you remember the last time we danced the waltz?”

“I’ll never forget Lady Holloway’s ball. You came right up to me and forwardly asked me to dance. A saucy piece of baggage you were, Isabel.”

“Saucy! You were quite intimidating, I almost turned and ran.”

“You run from a challenge? I find that hard to believe. I should have known you were trouble,” he said with mock severity.

Her smile was as intimate as a caress. “I hardly think I’m trouble. I believe our relationship will serve both our interests perfectly.”

He felt an instant’s disappointment at her words, and his fingers tensed slightly around her waist.

“Our fathers have been speaking. It seems they both want to pay a visit to your town house after the celebrations,” she said.

“Today?”

She nodded. “I thought it unusual as well.”

“Aren’t newly married couples expected to go to their home alone after the festivities to celebrate in private?”

A blush stained her cheeks. “Yes, that is tradition.”

“Isabel, I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I only meant—”

“I understand. I think my father wants to make certain that I will be properly cared for. Our marriage came about abruptly, and after talking with Lord Ardmore, he became concerned,” she said.

“I see. I can imagine what my parent told yours. No doubt your father wants to ensure I am not a complete derelict and that I can afford a wife,” he said, his tone laced with cynicism. “We will have to put on a good show for their benefit.”

“How long do you suppose they will stay?” Isabel asked.

Marcus’s lips thinned with irritation. “If I have a say, then as short as possible.”