Authors: Tina Gabrielle
Isabel stiffened as a stab of jealousy pierced her like a sharp blade. She boldly faced her nemesis. “Ms. Winston, we have already heard about the recovery of the painting. It is regrettable that you have wasted your time in coming today,” Isabel said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Simone arched a brow. “Nonsense. I’m sure Marcus wants to know all of the details that I have heard.” She tilted her head and gave Marcus a flirtatious smile. “Isn’t that so, Marcus?”
Marcus drew his lips in thoughtfully. “She may have useful information.” He motioned for Simone to follow him into the library, and without a backward glance, he shut the door behind them.
Isabel stood stunned as anguish seared her heart.
I cannot believe he has the audacity to shut himself in a room with his former mistress in our own home!
She stared unblinking at the closed library door until she heard the tap of footsteps on the marble floor, and she became aware of Mrs. McLaughlin standing beside her.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Hawksley. I never would have allowed that woman to cross the threshold, but one of the new maids had allowed her entrance,” Mrs. McLaughlin said, wringing her plump hands in agitation.
Isabel’s thoughts were jagged and painful as she looked at the housekeeper. “Never mind, Mrs. McLaughlin. Clearly, my husband is not disturbed by Ms. Winston’s presence.”
The look of pity in the housekeeper’s gaze made tears well within Isabel’s eyes. Biting her lip to keep from crying, she fled up the stairs.
Isabel pushed a hand-knit shawl into one of three overstuffed portmanteaus on the floor of her bedroom. “I’m finished with him. Paris cannot come fast enough.”
“Oh, Isabel,” Charlotte said, sitting forward on the bed as Isabel rushed about gathering clothing and personal items. “I am going to miss you terribly.”
“You shall have to visit as planned.” Isabel bent over to pick up a pair of silk stockings and tossed them on the bed. Her movements were jerky, her mood sour. Try as she might, she could not erase the image of Marcus escorting a smug Simone Winston into his library office yesterday afternoon. She’d spent most of last night packing her belongings and cursing herself for acting the fool.
How could I have allowed myself to fall in love with him!
Charlotte interrupted her thoughts. “I’m afraid I gave you false advice.”
Isabel stopped in midstride, holding a fistful of bonnets and a pair of drawers, and looked at Charlotte. “Whatever do you mean?”
“About Marcus…about the Hawksley men. I all but told you Marcus was trustworthy and good and was worth fighting for, but I was horribly wrong.”
“About Marcus or Roman?”
Charlotte flushed miserably. “Both, I suppose.”
“I thought you were getting along quite nicely with Roman. From what I saw in the dining room at your mother’s birthday ball, you were conversing in an overly familiar fashion.”
“I was wrong to do so,” Charlotte snapped. “Roman Hawksley turned out to be arrogant, overbearing, and ridiculously stubborn.”
Isabel laughed. “He sounds exactly like his brother.”
Charlotte sighed and slid off the bed. “When Roman told me that you had been attacked in our gardens by that wretched criminal during the ball, I realized I had led you astray. Your first instinct to go to Paris was correct. Marcus has inadvertently put you in great danger. He has offered you nothing in return for your heart, especially after your one night of passionate lovemaking.”
It was Isabel’s turn to color hotly. Dropping the bonnets and drawers on top of the rising pile of clothing in a portmanteau, she said, “We spent more than one passionate night together.”
“What? When?”
“The night of the ball, after I hit Robby Bones over the head with the shovel and fled.”
“Right after? Where, for goodness’ sake?”
“In your father’s prized horticultural conservatory.”
Charlotte’s mouth floundered open and closed, and then she burst out laughing. “I have lived vicariously through your impulsive behavior for so long, I’ve decided that I must finally experience some wicked adventures for myself.”
Isabel reached out and clutched at Charlotte’s hand. “You must never utter a word to your stepfather.”
Charlotte hastily drew her hand from Isabel’s grasp and shrugged. “You needn’t worry about that. He has all but left us. He has indulged himself in an entirely new wardrobe, probably to impress his next mistress and rarely comes home.”
“Must all men be so selfish?” Isabel said tersely.
“I’ve come to that conclusion.”
Isabel hesitated, then smiled mischievously. “Marcus said Roman has asked about you.”
Charlotte froze, a flustered expression crossing her face. “Truly?”
Isabel started to answer when a knock on the door interrupted her.
“Yes,” Isabel called out.
Jenkins opened the door. Dismay crossed his gaze as he took in the overstuffed trunks. “Lord Roman Hawksley is waiting downstairs in the receiving room, Mrs. Hawksley.”
Isabel’s thoughts scampered vaguely around. “I’m sure Marcus will be pleased.”
“He has asked for you, Mrs. Hawksley, and is aware that Marcus had left earlier for his office on Threadneedle Street,” Jenkins said.
“I see,” she said, even though she was confused by Roman’s arrival. “Please tell him I will be down shortly.”
Charlotte rushed to the door, stumbling over a pair of Isabel’s shoes in her haste. “Oh, I have to leave!”
“No, stay! We have seen so little of each other lately,” Isabel protested.
“No. I’m not dressed properly and my hair,” Charlotte sputtered, patting her abundance of blond curls. “Perhaps if I rush out, he won’t see me in such a state.” She left the bedroom and walked briskly down the hall.
Isabel rushed to keep apace. “But you look beautiful.”
“You don’t understand. Roman and I haven’t exactly been civil,” Charlotte huffed as she sped for the stairs.
“What happened between you two?”
Charlotte ignored her and began to descend the staircase with Isabel on her heels.
Halfway down, Charlotte came to an abrupt stop; Isabel nearly crashed into her friend’s back.
“Charlotte, what are you—”
“Hello, Miss Benning.”
At the sound of the deep, masculine voice, Isabel peered around Charlotte and spotted Roman. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. His heated gaze was riveted on Charlotte’s face.
Charlotte stood still as a statue, her slender frame trembling.
Isabel nudged her friend in the shoulder, and Charlotte finally came to life. “You have nerve, my lord,” she burst out.
Roman merely grinned, flashing straight white teeth. “So I have been told.”
“I was just leaving,” Charlotte said.
He waited until they reached the bottom of the stairs, then raised Charlotte’s hand to his lips. She snatched her hand back and glared at him.
He chuckled, his green eyes bright. “I did not know that you would be here, Charlotte, but I am thrilled to see you again. You look even lovelier than the last time I saw you at your mother’s ball.”
Charlotte inhaled sharply at Roman’s flattering words, and a faintly eager look lit her blue eyes. Something intense flared between the pair.
“May I call on you in the future then?” A confident smile curled the edges of Roman’s mouth, a hint of masculine arrogance about him.
Charlotte stiffened as if coming to her senses. “Do not trouble yourself, my lord.”
“Roman,” he corrected.
“Do not trouble yourself,
Roman
.”
Roman grinned again as Charlotte whirled to leave, his eyes riveted upon her with unmasked interest. She marched outside without a backward glance as Jenkins held open the door.
Isabel looked away, feeling the suffocating sensation of loneliness well within her breast. Despite their strange twist in behavior, especially Charlotte’s uncharacteristic coldness and rigid propriety, they were clearly drawn to each other, a perfect match. Isabel was certain that whatever battle of wills they were currently fighting, the startling sparks of attraction between them would overcome. They did not have myriad complications which would prevent them from being together. Roman did not punish himself for a bitter past, a madman was not trying to put him in prison for theft, nor was a killer stalking Charlotte. Theirs
should
be a simple romance without entanglements, murder, or heartbreak.
Roman turned his attention to Isabel as if nothing untoward had just occurred. “I was hoping to speak with you, Isabel.”
“I don’t know what has occurred between you two, but I don’t think Charlotte will ever be the same. I hope your intentions toward my friend are honorable,” Isabel said with cool authority.
He offered her a forgiving smile. “I like Charlotte very much, and I insist on choosing my own wife.”
“Ah, pressure from your father?”
Roman winked. “I’m starved. Have you eaten luncheon?”
Isabel eyed him suspiciously. “I see you are avoiding my question, but I will allow it this time. Luncheon sounds fine.”
He followed her into the dining room and politely held out a chair for her before taking one himself.
She snapped open a crisp white napkin, placed it on her lap, and then looked at him. “I cannot imagine you came all this way just to socialize and eat luncheon with your sister-in-law. Why are you really here?”
“To speak about Marcus.”
She straightened, instantly on guard. “There is nothing to speak about. He has made his wishes perfectly clear to me.”
“You love him?”
Her breath caught. The thought to lie crossed her mind, but when her lips parted, the painful truth burst forth. “Yes, but it makes no difference.”
“You still intend to leave for Paris then?”
Her lips puckered with annoyance. “Despite what you may think of me, I am not a complete idiot. Marcus wants me gone. The sooner the better.”
“He loves you more than any woman he has ever known, but he is too frightened to acknowledge his feelings.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said in a choked voice.
At that moment, a maid entered carrying two plates of mutton stew and biscuits. She placed the plates before them, then departed as quietly as she had come.
“Isabel, there are things about Marcus’s past that you do not know,” Roman said. “Things that have carved his character and have made it difficult for him to accept the notion of unconditional love.”
Isabel twisted the napkin in her lap. “I’m aware he was spurned by a woman in his youth, but I find it hard to believe that something so inconsequential that occurred years ago could affect his behavior toward me now.”
Roman leaned forward, his green eyes sharp and assessing. “You’re wrong. It was not inconsequential, at least not to him. There are also other factors that have made Marcus the man he is today. His behavior is a lifetime in the making.”
“Then tell me,” she said, her voice full of entreaty.
“From the moment Marcus was born, he had a rough path to travel. Our father—the mighty Earl of Ardmore—is a hard man, and he disliked Marcus on sight. He had the heir to the earldom already and treated Marcus harshly. Our mother tried to defend him, but she had been a meek, quiet woman who was dominated by our father, and she died when we were children.”
“The earl’s attitude toward Marcus makes no sense. What about the old adage of ‘an heir and a spare’?” Isabel asked.
Roman’s lips twitched with distaste. “Nothing about our father makes much sense. He is an arrogant man who was born into wealth and luxury and truly believes he is entitled to everything he has inherited and that God would not dare strike down his only heir.”
Isabel vividly recalled her wedding night when Randall Hawksley, the Earl of Ardmore, and her own father had surprised them by arriving at their door for dinner. The animosity that oozed between father and son had been shocking.
“For his entire lifetime our father told Marcus he was the worthless younger son,” Roman said. “We were close brothers as children, but when I left for school, Marcus remained behind and soon he began to believe our father’s ranting. It became a self-fulfilling prophecy, and as he grew older, he started drinking, gambling, and womanizing. Then he met Bridget, the pretty, flirtatious daughter of a wealthy merchant whose family did not socialize with the
beau monde
. I still do not know who seduced whom, and I warned Marcus to end the liaison, but he refused to listen. Then Bridget became pregnant, and Marcus came to me for advice. I told him he had a financial responsibility to care for the girl and unborn babe. But unbeknownst to me, Marcus decided to marry Bridget. He thought to fix all the wrongs done to him by our father and treat his child with the kind of unconditional love he had never received.”
“Did they marry?”
“They decided to elope,” Roman said, “but when Marcus showed up at their arranged meeting place, Bridget never appeared. He went to her house and banged on the door, and when no one answered, he went inside and found Bridget hanging from the rafters. She was still alive when he cut her down, but he was not able to save her, and she died in his arms. With her last breath she told him she would rather be dead than marry and birth the child of a penniless younger son. You see, she was not acquainted with the titled members of the ton and had mistakenly thought Marcus was the heir to the earldom. She had deviously contrived the pregnancy with the hopes of trapping him into marriage. Too late she had learned that she was enceinte with the wrong brother’s child, and her condition had enraged her father. When I learned of her death, I’m ashamed to say I blamed Marcus, and we had a terrible fight. I was angry that he did not listen to me, that he did not end the affair as I had advised. Worse, I did not believe his story—that Bridget could be so cunning and naïve at the same time—or that he did indeed plan to marry her. I thought he had abandoned Bridget. I could not understand why a pregnant woman, a commoner at that, would commit suicide when she was offered marriage. I was terribly wrong,” Roman said, his voice cracking.
Isabel felt tears well in her eyes as she pictured a younger, vulnerable Marcus finding Bridget. The woman’s ultimate betrayal must have reinforced his father’s cruel opinions regarding his worth.
She leaned forward in her chair. “It wasn’t your fault, Roman.”
Roman’s eyes looked bleak. “I failed my only brother when he needed me most. He sees love as a weapon to be wielded against the weak, just as our cold-hearted father used it against him as a child, and as Bridget used it against him as a young man.”
“You made a mistake, but you are his brother, and he has forgiven you,” she said.
Roman nodded. “It has taken years to rebuild our relationship. After Bridget’s death, Marcus drank himself senseless for weeks. But then he snubbed our father and society altogether by entering trade as a stockbroker. He immersed himself in work and, against all odds, climbed his way to enormous success and financial stability. He started acquiring expensive art, and I have often heard him say that ‘money and art don’t betray you; only people do.’ Until you came along, he was a recluse and valued only his business reputation. He cared naught what the judgmental society ladies or the mamas of the ton thought of him.”
“He must have loved Bridget a great deal,” Isabel whispered.
“He cared for Bridget, but he did not love her. Her betrayal and malicious cunning destroyed whatever fondness he had held for her. He grieved more for the death of his unborn child.”
A disturbing thought pierced her mind, and she bit her lip. “He must think me just as manipulative as Bridget. I sought to use him for his tainted social reputation to avoid an unwanted betrothal. Because of my reckless and thoughtless behavior, Marcus was forced to marry me.”