Authors: Tina Gabrielle
“May I help you?”
Isabel glanced sideways to see Marcus’s outstretched hand. They were outside the town house, on their way to Leticia Benning’s birthday ball, and Marcus stood ready to assist her into the carriage. If not for her snug bodice, voluminous skirts, and the delicate train of her gown, she would have snubbed him and climbed into the carriage herself.
Do not give him the satisfaction!
She lifted her chin and placed her gloved hand in his.
The moment they touched, a spark of excitement passed between them. The arrogant devil sensed it, too, for the corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smile as he took the bench across from her.
She lifted the tasseled shade, stared out the window, and tried to shut out any awareness of him. Ever since their confrontation days ago, she had avoided him like the plague. Her feelings were too fragile, too confused to tolerate being in close proximity to him. For despite his change in behavior and his desire to send her packing, she was by no means blind to his attraction.
“You look lovely this evening, Isabel. Your emerald gown was an excellent choice. The color suits your fair complexion and dark hair.”
She turned to face him, and the smoldering flame she saw in his eyes startled her.
“There’s no need for false flattery,” she said, her voice sounding harsh to her own ears. “Jenkins has already inquired into passage on ships to France. I’m certain Auntie Lil will be thrilled, and—knowing her—she will immediately arrange for art lessons with a renowned French master.”
“I’ve always believed you have promising talent, and I would be happy to pay for your lessons. Please have your aunt send me the bills.”
She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with his praise and kindness. He was much easier to dislike when he insisted upon his dissatisfaction with their marital state than when flattery and generosity spilled from his mouth. Tonight, he seemed like his old self…the Marcus she had come to admire, the man to whom she had willingly given her innocence.
Of course he’s being kind, he knows I’m leaving!
The carriage began to move through the city’s cobbled streets. His knee brushed her skirts, and she became increasingly aware of him. She could smell the faint scent of his shaving soap—sandalwood and cloves—and she studied him beneath lowered lashes.
He looked startlingly handsome in formal evening attire. His white shirt contrasted with his bronzed face and throat. Dark breeches clad his long legs, and his tailored jacket accentuated his muscular form. Must he be the most virile and arresting man she had ever known?
They finally arrived at the Bennings’ mansion in Grosvenor Square. Following the crowd inside, Isabel and Marcus glimpsed the two gargantuan Chinese statues just outside the entrance to the ballroom.
“I see Ming and Chang are still in the house,” Marcus drawled.
Isabel shrugged. “Charlotte hates them, but Mr. Benning insists Chinese décor is all the rage and that the two emperors bring good luck.”
One corner of Marcus’s mouth twitched upward. “Some foolish people believe whatever their decorators tell them.”
Isabel felt a ripple of mirth, but struggled to mask her amusement. She refused to fall prey to his charm tonight.
They reached the top of the stairs, waiting for their turn to enter the grand ballroom. She leaned toward him and whispered, “We must act as if we are enjoying ourselves for Charlotte’s sake. She is devastated that I am leaving so soon.”
“I do not have to fake my enjoyment. I’ve always found your company fascinating.”
She whirled to face him a second before a liveried footman formally announced them.
“Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Hawksley.”
“Smile, Isabel,” Marcus said, his hand resting on the small of her back. “You look as if you just sucked on a lemon.”
You rogue! As if your flattering words would not confuse me.
They floated through the crowd together, her gloved hand resting on his sleeve, a smile plastered on her face.
The Benning family stood to the side, greeting their guests. For once, Leticia Benning’s peacock gown and towering hairstyle—complete with bobbing peacock feathers—outdid her husband’s attire. Harold Benning’s pale blue eyes were glassy, and he held a near-empty glass of burgundy. He blotted at beads of perspiration on his forehead with an embroidered scrap of lace that matched the drooping lace at his shirt cuffs.
Charlotte stood beside her mother and stepfather and was dressed in an elegant sky blue gown, which accented her eyes. Her fair hair was curled around her delicate face in a soft, flattering arrangement. Although her family loved attention and excess, Charlotte clearly preferred a less brazen style.
Marcus and Isabel came forward. Isabel hugged Leticia Benning and wished her a happy birthday. Marcus bowed and gallantly kissed the older woman’s hand.
“Why, Marcus,” Leticia drawled, “I’m so happy you came to my party.”
“I wouldn’t miss your birthday, Mrs. Benning.”
“It’s Leticia for you, darling. There is no reason for formality between us.”
Isabel did not miss the lusty look Leticia gave Marcus. Since walking into the ballroom, she was uncomfortably aware of the many feminine stares he received. As a bachelor with a roguish reputation, Marcus had been eyed as a sensually dangerous man. It seemed his marital status to the daughter of an earl had not deterred the lascivious women of the ton, but had only served to make him more attractive in their eyes. The thought occurred to her that he would be free to seek out whichever lady he chose after she was gone.
She mentally shook herself, angry at her wayward thoughts. Paris was what she had dreamt of for years. Marcus’s insistence that she leave, no matter the reason, served her plans perfectly.
Harold Benning, seemingly oblivious to his wife’s wanton looks, slapped Marcus on the back in greeting. “Good to see you, Hawksley. I take it marriage suits you?”
Marcus grinned. “Isabel is all a man could wish for in a wife.”
Benning laughed, swaying on his buckled pumps, and Isabel wondered how long the intoxicated dandy would last on his feet.
Charlotte took advantage of her parents’ distraction and drew Isabel aside. They wandered through the crowd, smiling and nodding at acquaintances, until Charlotte pulled Isabel behind a potted bamboo plant.
“Are you certain Marcus still wants you to leave?” Charlotte whispered.
“Yes. He has not said otherwise, and I think it is for the best.”
“I still do not believe he harbors any feelings for Simone Winston. Mother’s friends have said the woman is now involved with Lord Tenning.”
Isabel’s heart skipped a beat as an unbidden thrill coursed through her. If what Charlotte said was true—and Isabel had no reason to doubt her sources—then Marcus was not interested in Simone Winston. Marcus was too possessive to tolerate his mistress taking another lover.
A sudden doubt nagged her. “Perhaps there is another woman Marcus is interested in,” Isabel said.
“I have heard nothing to suggest so.”
“Marcus is a private man, Charlotte. How would your mother or her friends learn of it?”
“Marcus may not whisper a word, but the women always do,” Charlotte said. “I spoke with Mother, and Marcus has not been seen with or approached any other female since your betrothal.”
If it was not another woman, then was the blasted note the sole reason Marcus wanted her off to Paris? Could it be that the stubborn man was trying to protect her, rather than revert to his bachelorhood?
Charlotte reached out to squeeze her hand. “Mother has agreed to send me to Paris when the Season is over. She’s aware that I have had interested suitors each year—this Season it is the assertive Mr. Peter Andrews—but all have failed to stir my heart. Thankfully, Mother will not force me to marry without love. I believe she does not want me to end up like her, and since there are no prospects for a love match in England, she hopes to find me one in France. She also wants to find herself a Parisian lover. She is quite certain my stepfather is having an affair, and she refuses to be outdone.”
“Are all men so hedonistic? I’m sorry for your mother, but I am relieved you will be visiting me in Paris. We will have such fun.” Isabel’s voice sounded dull to her own ears.
The dining room opened, and Marcus appeared by her side to escort her inside. As she sat next to him, she was keenly aware of the warmth emanating from his body.
Dozens of footmen brought forth savory dishes certain to appeal to every discernable palate. Copying the Regent’s own French chef, an elaborate sugar sculpture of a Chinese maiden served as a stunning centerpiece. The Bennings had clearly spared no expense tonight. Yet Isabel had no appetite for the sumptuous food; rather, the man beside her captivated her attention.
Marcus was maddeningly attentive, quick to wave to a footman to refill her wineglass as soon as she took the last sip. He smiled, laughed, and made sure to include her in whatever conversation he was having with the guests around him. Confusion flooded through her, and she wildly wondered at his game.
Biting her lip, her gaze traveled down the table to search for Charlotte.
She spotted her friend seated beside Marcus’s brother, Roman. To Isabel’s surprise, the couple were amicably conversing. She watched as Roman laughed heartily, leaned to the side, and brushed Charlotte’s sleeve with his arm. Charlotte in turn giggled and gazed up at him adoringly.
Isabel’s eyes widened at the exchange.
“You see it, too,” Marcus whispered in her ear.
A shiver passed down Isabel’s spine as his lips came close. “Although I had tried to introduce them before at our wedding breakfast, I never really thought they would be so…agreeable.”
“Attraction between a man and a woman cannot be predicted. It is animalistic in nature and does not follow the rules of logic.”
She raised her gaze to his. His eyes were filled with a curious deep longing. Her heart lurched, enthralled by what she saw.
He’s right. Logic has nothing to do with it!
“What shall we do?” She referred to Charlotte and Roman, but as the words left her lips, she realized they could just as easily refer to their own relationship.
He did not miss her meaning. “When the attraction is that strong, there is little the couple can do to refrain.”
“Then they must exercise all caution. Especially if one of them is irrational.”
His mouth twitched with amusement. “I take it you mean the woman, since the female of the species is known for thinking with her heart instead of her brain.”
In a flash, she stabbed his hand with her fork, then returned it to her plate.
He stiffened, no one around them the wiser, and grinned. “Animalistic, indeed!”
A loud laugh farther down the table diverted their attention to where Lord Frederick Gavinport sat next to his beautiful young wife, Olivia.
Gavinport was engaged in a heated discussion with Horatio Ponsby, a decorated Royal Naval Captain, seated directly across from him. Olivia sat unmoving, her face devoid of animation, looking exceedingly bored. Even seated, she was a full six inches taller than her elder husband.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened. Hatred emanated from him in waves, and he looked like a man who would call out across the table and challenge his nemesis to a duel.
Alarm erupted within her. “Whatever are you planning?”
His hard stare never left Gavinport’s face. “It no longer concerns you, Isabel.”
Gone was the flirtatious, attentive husband of the evening. In his place returned the coldhearted man who wanted no part of her or their marriage.
A determined avenger.
“Please do not do anything tonight, Marcus. Not here,” she implored.
“Don’t fret, Isabel. I promise not to cause a scene.”
The rest of the meal progressed painfully slowly. When the last course was consumed, Isabel rose with relief and left the dining room without a word to Marcus.
The tension had taken its toll, and her temples began to throb. Fearing the beginnings of a headache, she sought the solace of the cool evening air. She headed for the nearest open French doors and escaped the crush of heavily perfumed bodies.
The terrace was blessedly empty. She leaned on the railing as a refreshing breeze soothed her heated skin. Muted strains from the orchestra spilled through the doors. A full silver moon hung low in the sky, a giant gleaming orb. Glancing below at the meticulously manicured gardens and maze, she could see the blazing torches from the Chinese pagoda, and the distant iron-and-glass horticultural conservatory.
Seeking further escape, she went down the stairs and stepped into the gardens. The sound of running water drew her, and she strolled toward a pond filled with tiny, colorful fish. Several minutes passed as she watched exotic blue, yellow, and orange fish dart beneath the smooth rocks that lined the bottom of the pond. Only after the threatening knot in her temples eased did she turn to go back inside.
The sounds of voices made her stop midstride.
The last thing she wanted was to come face-to-face with a pair of clandestine lovers. They would undoubtedly enter the maze for privacy. Skirting the maze, she followed a stone path that wound through the rest of the gardens. When the couple was well hidden in the shrubbery of the maze, she could backtrack and return to the ballroom.
She came to a bench sheltered behind an ancient oak and sat. The soles of her satin slippers were not made for extensive walking outdoors, and the stones bit into her now tender feet. Taking off a slipper, she rubbed her arch.
Low voices came from the shadows. She raised her head, surprised that the pair had followed her down the stone path rather than enter the secluded maze. She put her slipper back on, stood, and looked beyond the oak tree.
The faint silhouettes of two figures appeared. Not a male and female, but two men.
“I expected my blunt, yer lordship. When ye didn’t pay, I ’ad no choice but to track ye down ’ere.”
At the sound of the distinctive, raspy voice and gutter accent, shivers of alarm raced down her spine.
It was the demon of her nightmares.
The killer. The man who had threatened her not once, but twice. First when she had come face-to-face with the skeleton-thin criminal at the moment Marcus and Roman were interrogating Dante, and then when he had stalked her outside the window of her studio and aimed a pistol at her head.
And he was here. In the Bennings’ gardens.
She strained to make out the second man, but the towering trees blocked the moon’s light. Pressing the front of her body flush against the thick trunk, she winced as the rough bark bit into the soft flesh above her bodice. She put the discomfort from her mind and listened to their conversation.
“How dare you confront me here, Robby Bones.”
“If ye’d paid, I wouldn’t ’ave ’ad to.”
“You’ll get your money when you finish the job.”
“It’ll cost ye, yer lordship. Ye still owe me fer dealin’ with Dante.”
“Do not speak to me with such insolence, Bones. I never wanted Dante killed. He’s no use to me dead.”
“I ’ad no choice. ’E refused to move the painting like ye wanted. ’E could’ve gone to the constable.”
“Finish with Hawksley and they’re be extra in it for you.”
The criminal’s name was Robby Bones. An apt name for his emaciated appearance. The second man gave the orders, most likely the mastermind that Marcus insisted existed. Her eyes strained to see who it was, but she could only make out shadows. She dare not venture closer for fear of discovery.
One thing was certain. Whoever “his lordship” was, he was not Lord Gavinport. This man was taller, not as lanky nor as thin as Bones, but larger nonetheless. Gavinport’s distinctive short stature was not present.
The question was: Who was he?
Something about him was vaguely familiar, but she could not place it. She struggled with a nagging unease, and she knew deep in her gut that she had met his lordship before.
A squirrel jumped from a higher branch to one just above her head. The movement startled her, and she gasped.
“What was that?”
Bones hissed.
“Go find out. I must return before I’m seen.”
Mercy! Heavy footsteps came her way, and she darted from behind the oak to a dense hedge of bushes off the stone path. Crouching low, she wedged her body between the hedges. She was thankful she had chosen the emerald gown for it blended with the shrubbery and helped conceal her in the shadows.
Booted feet crunched on stone, coming closer.
Her heart pounded, and panic rioted within her. What had started out as a walk for solitude and respite had turned into a remarkably foolish decision. Her thoughts spun wildly, and she realized with dismay that no one knew of her whereabouts.
Marcus, I need you!
her inner voice cried out.
The distinctive scrape of a knife leaving its scabbard rent the air.
“Come out. I won’t ’arm ye,” Bones rasped.
Sheer black fright swept through her. She knew with pulse-pounding certainty that if Robby Bones recognized her, he would kill her. If she stayed where she was, he would eventually stumble across her. But if she tried to run, dressed as she was with voluminous skirts and satin slippers, he would easily catch her. She wouldn’t even make it far enough to scream for anyone to hear.
She scanned the area, frantic for an alternative. Lanterns from the horticultural conservatory bobbed in the distance. If she could get inside, lock herself in, maybe she could buy herself time.
She crawled from beneath the bushes, branches scraping her face and arms and bramble snagging her skirts. Sweat trickled between her breasts as she made her way toward the distinctive shape of the iron-and-glass conservatory.
The sounds of footsteps came closer. “Come out…come out wherever ye are,” Bones taunted.
She was running out of time. She looked up, gauging the distance to the conservatory.
If she sprinted, she could make it…
Grasping her skirts in one hand, she leapt to her feet and dashed for the entrance.
Please God, let the door be unlocked!
Bones immediately spotted her. “Stop, bitch!” His boots crashed through the shrubbery in pursuit.
Isabel’s blood pounded in her ears, and her breaths came in great gasps. Her chest felt as if it would burst in her tight bodice.
She reached the glass door and turned the handle.
Locked.
She pumped the handle furiously before giving up and scrambling around the side of the conservatory, overcome with panic. Out of time.
She thought of Dante Black.
Her throat would be slashed, her bloody body left behind for the gardener to stumble over.
Then she saw it. A sliver of moonlight reflected off a gardener’s shovel, leaning against the glass structure. She picked up the shovel and raised it above her head. Her arms trembled from its weight, but the blood rushed to her limbs just as Robby Bones reached the front of the conservatory.
She turned the corner, swinging the iron shovel with all her might, and struck the side of his head with a deafening crack.
He screamed and fell to his knees, clutching his head.
She fled, running like a madwoman toward the stone path that led back to the ballroom.
Low tree branches and shrubs tore at her skirts and bare arms, but she did not slow. The foliage was dense; the moon shifted behind a cloud and failed to illuminate a clear path. She spotted the distant lights from the Chinese pagoda, and sprinted in their direction until she ran into a solid, impregnable wall.
She fell, landing on her backside with jarring force, the wind knocked from her chest.
“Isabel!”
Marcus fell to his knees beside her. “My God! Are you hurt?”
She rose on her arms, never more relieved to see anyone in her life.
He was not alone. Roman knelt beside them, his face etched with worry. “What happened?”
Marcus cradled her in his arms. She clutched his shirtfront, desperate to inhale his comforting scent.
He pulled back, his eyes missing no detail of her disheveled hair, the abrasions on her face, chest, and arms. He swore beneath his breath.
Large hands cupped her face, his gaze intense. “Tell me what happened.”
She touched his hands, wanting him to embrace her once again. “The criminal…Robby Bones is his name…met with another man deep in the gardens. I went for a walk…must have wandered too far…I tried to hide but Bones saw me…I hit him in the head with a shovel and ran into you.”
Marcus gently shook her. “Where? Where did you leave him?”
She shivered, unnerved by his intensity. “By the conservatory.”
Marcus stood. “Stay with her, Roman,” he demanded. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol.
Her eyes widened. “Marcus, no!” she shouted, but he was already gone, running in the direction of the conservatory.
Struggling to rise, she looked to Roman. “It’s not safe! Bones is a hardened criminal, the assassin who murdered Dante Black. He has a knife!” Fear for Marcus knotted inside her, and she fought to maintain her fragile control.
Roman’s green gaze glittered in the moonlight as he helped her to her feet. “Don’t worry. Marcus can take care of himself.”
She clutched his arm. “Go after your brother, Roman. Please.”
“Marcus would have my head if I left you. Besides, he is a crack shot, and Robby Bones is a wounded criminal, thanks to you. You are a courageous woman, Isabel. No wonder my brother is so enamored.”
She ignored his remark. “Why were you with Marcus? Why was he armed?”
“Marcus had asked me to help him.”
“Why? I thought you two had differences.”
Roman smiled. “We have a past, but we have been working on making amends. Marcus planned on confronting Frederick Gavinport tonight in the gardens.”
“Gavinport! But the man I saw tonight with Bones was definitely not Lord Gavinport.”
Footsteps drew their attention. Marcus’s familiar frame came into view.
Isabel flew to his side and clutched his sleeve. “Thank God!”
Marcus scowled and took her hand in his. “The bastard was standing, cradling his head, when I approached. You must have hit him hard,” he said, eyeing Isabel. “He ran off when he spotted me. I chased him all the way to the end of the Bennings’ property, to the side road, where he jumped into a waiting hack and disappeared.” His grip on her fingers tightened. “Are you certain you are unhurt?”
“I’m shaken up, but fine.”
His gaze raked her form. “Do you want to go back inside?”
She looked down at her torn jade dress and muddy hem, noting the scrapes on her chest and deeper cuts on her hands and arms. She became aware of the stinging as if seeing the injuries firsthand brought on the pain. Her once white satin slippers were ruined. Her elegant hairstyle had come loose, and her hair curled around her face in frizzy disarray from the July humidity.
“No,” she whispered. “I cannot return to the ballroom looking as I do. It would ruin Leticia Benning’s party to learn that a criminal had assaulted one of her guests. I have no desire to be gawked at either.”
Roman spoke up. “I shall go inside and have Marcus’s carriage brought around to the side road. You will have to wait in the gardens as it will take some time. Will you be all right?”
Marcus nodded. “We shall stay deep in the gardens. If by chance we are seen, no one will think twice about a newly married couple seeking privacy. How will you get home?”
“I can return to the party on foot and claim my own carriage,” Roman said.
“Charlotte will inquire about my whereabouts,” Isabel said. “You will have to tell her the truth. She will be alarmed, but please assure her that I am unharmed and that I shall speak with her tomorrow.”
Roman’s tense expression relaxed into a leisurely grin. “It shall be my pleasure to discreetly speak with Charlotte Benning.”
A faint smile touched Isabel’s lips. “Perhaps my friend has a reason to stay in England after all.”