Isabella did not reply. She closed the door very quietly.
"My lord," Churchward said, when he had recovered his breath, "that was not well done."
Marcus appeared not to hear him. He was shaking his head abruptly as though awakening from a dream. He looked at the rejected piece of paper lying on the desk. "She will agree," he said. "She has no choice."
Churchward looked at him steadily. He wondered whether the earl knew his wife at all.
Churchward's
experience was small but one scarcely needed Lord Byron's encyclopedic knowledge of women to realize that Marcus had made a tactical error. He had laid down his demands. His wife had rejected them. The game was not over. In fact, it had barely begun.
S
he had nowhere to run
, nowhere to hide and no one to help her. Yet she was damned if she would give up the fight.
Isabella sat alone in the Di Cassilis box at
Sadlers
Wells Theater. She heard barely a note of
The Marriage of Figaro.
The witty tale of love, betrayal and forgiveness seemed rather too appropriate that evening. Except, for Marcus and herself, the love was gone, the betrayal complete and the forgiveness a mere dream.
She could not forget the look on Marcus's face when Mr. Churchward read out the terms of the settlement relating to Salterton. She had wondered before if Marcus was doing this out of pride and revenge, but the look of grim satisfaction on his face as he took her inheritance from her suggested that his motives ran deeper than personal reprisal. He was paying her back, not only for her betrayal of him but also for something to do with her cousin India. She was sure of it.
The promise of Salterton had been her salvation. She had not minded what else she lost as long as she could retire to the place of those happy childhood memories and recapture some of that peace. It had been naive in the extreme for her not to realize what would happen. With her marriage, all her property belonged to her husband, Salterton included. She had nothing left of her own now. It was Marcus's property and so was she.
She felt sick and cold and afraid to think of how he might assert his mastery. There were plenty of ways to humiliate her. He had already stripped her of her property and her dignity with his demands. She was fairly sure that he was not the sort of man to force her to the marriage bed—in spite of their hostility to one another, he would not use physical strength to get what he wanted. That did little to reassure her. She was worn down with the confusion of how she could dislike a man so intensely and yet at her very core feel the tug of an affinity that told her that, despite everything, they were intended to be together and always had been.
The curtains at the back of the box shifted as a figure came through the aperture and took the seat beside her. The Di Cassilis box had not only a private entrance but also a secret passageway connecting it to the dressing rooms. Prince Ernest had always enjoyed the privilege of greeting his favorite performers directly after the show, and persuading them to a different sort of performance expressly for him. Tonight Isabella had appreciated the secrecy for a different reason; it enabled her to get into the theater alone and unseen. Now, though, she did not even need to turn her head to know who was beside her.
"Congratulations, my lord," she whispered, discreetly lowering her voice so as not to distract from the performance. "I assume you are here to lay claim to the only piece of Di Cassilis property that has yet escaped you?"
Marcus laughed. "Touché my lady. I confess I was deeply impressed when I discovered that your late husband possessed his own private box at every theater in London."
"
To see and be seen," Isabella murmured.
"Naturally." Marcus stretched his long legs out and reclined comfortably in the deep velvet seat. "Which is precisely why I am here tonight."
"I imagined you must have a reason. I did not rate a love of Mozart amongst your interests."
Marcus shifted slightly. His voice hardened. "You know nothing of my interests, madam."
Isabella plied her fan. "Nor do I need to. We may be married but we do not need to bore each other with our interests—or our company. In fact—" she made to stand "—I believe that the performance has lost its charm for me. I think I shall retire."
Marcus's hand closed warm and hard over her gloved wrist, compelling her to sink back into the seat. "I think not. As the announcement of our marriage is to be in the papers tomorrow, I wish us to be seen together tonight."
"That is what you order."
"That is what I ask." There was precious little courtesy in his tone, Isabella thought. It was in no way a request.
"And if I choose not to meet your
request?"
She gave the word sarcastic emphasis. "What then?"
Marcus sighed. "My dear Isabella, you are far too intelligent not to realize that it will be more comfortable for both of us if you accede to my wishes. Why fight me? You know that I hold all the cards."
Isabella felt the anger seethe through her. "What is it that you want?" she hissed.
"I told you last night at the ball." Marcus seemed unmoved. "I want you as my wife—in every sense. I want public recognition of the fact that we are married and I want a private reckoning with you. After that, perhaps, we may consider a legal separation."
The cold callousness of it made Isabella's heart clench. The settlement that he wanted was nothing short of outright revenge.
"You want public recognition because I jilted you before," she whispered.
"Yes."
"And private reckoning—" She paused. "Because of India as well as yourself."
She felt him jump. He turned to look at her fully for the first time and his eyes were dark with some emotion she did not recognize.
"You mean that you
admit
it? You really were that calculating and corrupt?"
The knife twisted in Isabella's heart. Venal, calculating, corrupt. . . His opinion of her could not have been lower.
"I have no idea to what you refer," she said, keeping her tone level. "I am merely guessing that you hold something against me on India's part as well as your own and are determined to extract retribution for it."
She heard Marcus sigh in the darkness. On the stage, the aria swelled to a crescendo. Isabella kept her gaze fixed on the brightly colored figures in the tight. She made sure that she was looking directly ahead as though Marcus simply did not exist.
She was as tense as a bow, yet strangely, as the opera built toward its height, she felt the power of the music sweep her away, transcending for a moment the misery inside. She felt Marcus's grip on her wrist gentle almost to a caress. His fingers entangled with hers. His touch was light now, but with a casual possessiveness that stirred a curious feeling within her. She knew she should move away and make it clear that he had no right to make this claim on her, but she could not.
Marcus held her hand for the rest of the performance and gradually her awareness of him changed from a tingling feeling in her wrist to a deep physical consciousness that seemed to suffuse her whole body. She felt hot and restless and aroused. She was sure that the telltale color stung her cheeks. She was barely able to keep still. When the music died away and the applause erupted, the sudden noise made her jump. She looked at Marcus to see that he was watching her. The hardness of his gaze had softened now and his dark eyes were full of something that looked dangerously close to tenderness. Isabella's heart fluttered. She opened her mouth to speak but then the lights came up in a harsh glare and she blinked and pulled back, dragging her hand from Marcus's.
The audience was already stirring. Boxes were designed for their occupants to be seen and plenty of people had looked up and noticed Marcus beside her now. The crowds in the stalls were making an undignified stampede for the Di Cassilis box.
Marcus turned to her. His tone was his own once more, cool and a little hard.
"We will stay here and receive them."
"No," Isabella said. The brief moment was shattered, spoiled by the pleasure she saw in Marcus's eyes at the prospect of the two of them putting on a display for the
Ton.
"You may receive whomsoever you wish, my lord. This is, after all, your theater box now. But I am leaving."
And before he could protest, she had slipped behind the curtain and taken the secret stairs to the dressing rooms. She had always known that Ernest's penchant for seducing actresses would come in useful one day.
"What the
devil?"
Marcus was standing in the Reading Room at White's, staring in blank horror at the announcement in the
Times.
He had gone there to meet with Alistair, who had left a message to say that he would be a few minutes late. In the meantime, a club servant had brought around the morning papers and Marcus had eagerly turned the pages to find the notice of his marriage to Isabella. To see a public announcement felt in some way the first step toward legitimizing the relationship and making it real in the eyes of the world. Marcus was full of anticipation.
It was there in print, staring him in the eye. First there was the declaration of the wedding:
The Earl of Stockhaven is pleased to announce his marriage to the Princess Isabella Di Cassilis. . . .
All well and good. But beneath the announcement—directly beneath it—someone had inserted the following statement:
The Princess Di Cassilis wishes it to be known that she will henceforth keep the title of princess in preference to that of countess, it being the superior rank She also wishes to make it clear that she married the Earl of Stockhaven for his money.
There was a strange buzzing sound in Marcus's ears, as though he were seeing the rest of the world from underwater. A couple of his acquaintances passed by with a jocular remark and a slap on the back. Marcus barely noticed them as he read and reread the lines. It had to be Isabella's doing, of course. He had made the mistake of telling her about the announcement in advance and she had immediately resorted to
coun-termeasures
. His feeling of triumph withered and died.
Marcus could see Alistair Cantrell in the doorway now with a couple of other men. Lord Lonsdale and Mr. Carew had been among his wife's admirers the previous day at the melee in Brunswick Gardens. His mouth turned down grimly as they approached.
"One scarce knows whether to congratulate or commiserate with you, old fellow," Lonsdale said. "Such frankness! Very brave of you to admit she only wants you for the money."
"You provide the funds, old man, and we'll keep the princess happy in other ways," Carew began, before Marcus grabbed him by the throat and squeezed.
"Steady on, Stockhaven!" Lonsdale objected. "Marriage of convenience and all that."
"I will not give my name to another man's brats," Marcus ground out. He loosed his grip and Carew staggered back, shaking his head like a wet dog. "Stay away from my wife," Marcus said. "Stay away or I'll—"
"Marcus."
Alistair caught his arm and practically dragged him away before he could plant a blow in Lonsdale's grinning face. "Leave it. They mean only to provoke you."
The simmering cauldron of fury inside Marcus seemed to settle a little. He let his hand fall to his side as Lonsdale and Carew backed off. They were still grinning maliciously, for all that Carew was fingering the bruises on his neck. Hell and the devil, he was a laughingstock. His wife had made him so. Why had he assumed that she would simply accept his strictures? Why had he not realized that she would want to
setde
the score?
Freddie Standish came through the door, and Alistair cursed under his breath at the appalling timing. Marcus thought for a moment that his brother-in-law was going to ignore him completely. Freddie was no hero. It was unlikely he would provoke another confrontation.
The atmosphere in the room was incredibly tense. Everyone was watching. And Freddie Standish did not walk past, but came directly up to Marcus.
"Congratulations, Stockhaven," he said. He did not offer Marcus his hand. He sounded as though the words hurt him. His gray eyes were incredibly cold. "First you marry my cousin and now you marry my sister. You are more fortunate than you deserve." He paused, and the emphasis of his words was like a hammer on metal. "I do not ever wish to hear that Isabella is unhappy or I shall call you out."