They both moved at once, colliding, drawn tight into each other's arms. The atmosphere between them had changed now, slowed down, cooled almost into tenderness. Almost, but not quite. This time when they kissed it was with remembrance as well as passion. The poignancy made Isabella's eyes sting with tears.
"So much haste," Marcus whispered. "The buttons of your jacket are done up in the wrong holes." He was smiting at her and she raised her hand to unfasten them. The skirt followed. She was naked once more and to cover the slight return of self-consciousness, she stepped close to him, running her fingertips over his broad muscled chest and down across his abdomen to the top of his breeches. His skin was like slightly rough satin and when she bent her lips to kiss his chest she could taste the salt on his skin. She heard him draw his breath in sharply and then he had scooped her up again and laid her on the ancient chaise longue that had been pushed into a corner, covered and abandoned. He pulled the sheet off and Isabella lay back, remembering the way that the yielding cushions had embraced her body before. That had been so long ago. The laughter bubbled up inside her.
"Marcus, there are probably spiders' nests. . ."
"There can be mice for all I care." He had joined her on the bed and was entangling his hands in her hair, tilting her „ face to his. "We shall not notice them."
All consciousness of spiders, mice and anything else fled beneath the sensation of his lips and his hands. Isabella stretched out beneath him, arching in helpless surrender to the fingers that slid over her, stroking with such skillful reverence. He caressed her breasts, cupping their fullness with possessive pleasure, before lowering his mouth to tease her nipples and graze them gently with his tongue and teeth. Isabella entwined her legs with his and drew him close, smoothing her hands over his back and down over the curve of his buttocks.
She felt his body jolt and opened her eyes. In the shadows of the summerhouse, his face was hard and dark with desire. It blazed in his eyes. Yet there was tenderness there as well and it made her heart ache.
With infinite gentleness he stroked over the curve of her hip and slid his hand between her legs. Old anxieties mixed with Isabella's desire and for a brief second she stiffened. Marcus felt it.
"Sweetheart. . ." He kissed her, his mouth soft against her own.
Her fears subsided, her body relaxed a little. Marcus stroked the inside of her thigh and, gradually, beneath the soothing of his caresses, Isabella felt her stiff muscles start to uncoil. Marcus's other hand slid to her bare shoulder and brushed the hair from the damp skin of her neck. Isabella moved slightly.
"
Mmmn
. I am sorry, Marcus."
"There is nothing to apologize for." Marcus's hand stole down over her breast and her eyes opened wide. "Slow is good."
It was. Marcus's voice was as gentle as his fingers, smooth, languorous. His hand swept across her stomach and Isabella shivered beneath his touch. He kissed the curve of her shoulder and she trembled, catching her breath. He moved the damp hair aside and stroked his tongue delicately down the line of her neck.
"You are mine," he murmured against her skin. "You were from the beginning. Nothing else matters."
He rolled over, trapping her beneath him again, and her body moved against his with instinctive need.
"Remember what it was like for us," he said in her ear, his breath sending the shivers coursing along her nerves. "Remember. . ."
She did remember. She remembered the heat and the urgency and the raw need and the love and the explosive passion. Her body softened. Marcus was kissing the sprinkling of freckles at the base of her throat now. His hair brushed her breast. She could feel the hard press of his arousal against her thigh and moved slightly in accommodation. He shook his head.
"No. Not yet. Remember. It was exciting for us, Isabella. Unbearably, intolerably exciting."
Isabella made a soft sound of surrender. She was quivering, melting beneath him with wild need. She felt his hand steal to part her legs again and this time she had no reluctance and opened to him with eagerness as his hand toyed amidst the springy hair, increasingly intimate, increasingly pleasurable.
"Sweetheart. . ."
Marcus was above her, parting her wide, sliding between her thighs, entering her with one hard, pulsing thrust. His face was hard in the shadowy light, concentrated, desire distilled.
"Oh!" Isabella arched, felt herself impaled. The heat pooled low within her. She grabbed his shoulders, scoring the muscle.
He rocked deeper inside her, moving faster now. Isabella's head spun as the pleasure built. The wild, sharp sensation burst through her, making her cry out and twist beneath him. Her whole body lit with an exquisite, aching sweetness. She knew that Marcus had deliberately put her pleasure first this time, as though in recompense for what had happened in London. She felt awed and moved and grateful. She lay still, catching her breath, reaching out to him.
"Thank you," she whispered. "But you. . ."
"Yes?" He kissed her tightly. He was caressing her stomach again with that deceptively gentle and soothing touch that nevertheless stirred something primitive in her. Isabella shifted, feeling astonishment and a renewed surge of desire. Then he was inside her again, slippery and warm. He thrust harder and faster until she could smell the mingled salt and sweat on him and see the glistening of it stick on his skin. He took her mouth, the plunge and retreat of his tongue echoing his movements inside her. His body jerked convulsively as he exploded into her and Isabella's mind splintered into a thousand dazzling pieces as she felt the spasms rack her again, felt the frantic beating of his heart against hers, and the tightness of his arms about her. They lay clasped close, with no sound but the raggedness of their breath.
Isabella had no concept of how long it was before Marcus shifted slightly. His breath stirred her hair.
"I have wanted you for a very long time, Isabella."
She moved within the circle of his arms so that she could look at him. His eyes were dark and grave and but a half smile was curving his lips.
"I thought," she said, teasing a little, "that you took what you wanted in London?"
His expression stilled and sobered. "No," he said. "I took something. At the time I thought it was all I wanted but it was worthless compared to what I have now." He kissed her possessively. "And now I want it all over again."
"Marcus!"
"I know. I am an old man these days but you push me to a degree I did not realize I could achieve. Allow me to prove the point." His mouth claimed hers. His hands were on her body. He slid down and touched his tongue to the aching central core of her and Isabella sighed and capitulated with pure enjoyment as he took her again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"Of course
I
always considered
the
Southerns
to be a rather
unfortunate
family," Mrs. Goring said comfortably, reaching for the teapot. She and Isabella were sitting in the glass-fronted coffee parlor at the circulating library, which afforded a splendid view across the esplanade to the sea. They had been there for two hours and so far Mrs. Goring had summarized events in Salterton during the twelve years of Isabella's absence and was moving on to general reflections on the inhabitants of the town. Isabella was happy to sit and listen, to watch the sea and to observe the visitors going about their business. One learned a lot from watching, as Pen had mentioned only the other day. For instance, she had seen the Misses Belling hanging from an upstairs window across the street in a most unsubtle attempt to attract Mr.
Casson's
interest; she had observed Mr. Owen limping along the quayside toward the inn—evidently taking efficacious waters of quite a different sort—and she had just seen Pen and Alistair walk by arm in arm, toward the jetty. It appeared that they had settled their differences.
"Poor Lord John being the younger son, you know," Mrs. Goring continued, "and then they had no money, and little Miss India dying so young. And then there was the difficulty of the child, of course. . ." She let her voice trail away discreetly. "No one thought any the less of Lord John, of course. Such things happen, even to the nobility. Especially to the nobility, if one believes the accounts in the newspapers. But even so, it was rather a shock when one knew him."
Isabella tore her gaze away from the esplanade and looked at her hostess in consternation. "I beg your pardon, ma'am? What child?"
Mrs. Goring looked flustered. "Oh dear, you look rather shocked, my love. I thought that you
knew."
She busied herself with the teapot, giving its contents a rather unnecessary stir. "Of course, you were quite young then—merely seventeen, if I have the dates correct, but even so, young girls are nowhere near as naive as people imagine them. And then word did get around, as these things do."
Isabella raised her hand. "Mrs. Goring, are you implying that my uncle had an illegitimate child?"
Mrs. Goring shuddered delicately at such frankness. "Well yes, my dear, I suppose I am. Everyone knew of it. Except you, evidently. It was the outcome of a dalliance with one of the maids, so I'm told. I am not precisely sure which one." Her brow wrinkled with disappointment as she realized she could not supply this detail of the tale.
"The child—it was a boy. . ." She paused. "Or was it a girl? No, I am sure it was a boy. . . . He was given to the gardener and his wife to bring up. They moved to London shortly after and the matter was never spoken of. But of course, everyone knew. . . . And Lord John so frail at the time." Mrs. Goring shook her head. "You would not have thought he had it in him! Still, one never knows with men. I suppose it took the last of his strength."
Isabella was silent, not with outrage, as her hostess might have supposed, but from sheer puzzlement. Lord John Southern had been devoted to his wife. There had never been the slightest hint of infidelity in all the years of their marriage, at least not as far as Isabella was aware. And then, as Mrs. Goring had intimated, Lord John had been a frail man in his last years and racked by recurrent illness. Such an image sat ill with the picture of a rampant old man chasing the housemaids.
"I had no idea," Isabella said slowly.
"No, well. . ." Mrs. Goring looked uncomfortable. "It was not a suitable matter for discussion with Lord John's niece, or his daughter for that matter. I am sure Miss India would have been very shocked had she known."
"What happened to the child?" Isabella asked.
Mrs. Goring looked surprised. "Well, do you know, I have no notion? He was never heard of again after the move to London. I imagine that Lord John provided for him, for he was a man who took his responsibilities seriously."
"Yes," Isabella said. "He was." She was thinking it odd that Mr. Churchward had told her of no encumbrance upon the Southern estate. There were no regular payments to anyone at all, beyond the annuities given to retired servants. Nor had Churchward hinted at any bar sinister in the family tree, which he would surely have told her when she'd inherited. She was no shrinking violet of a lady to be shocked by such worldly matters. Now that she thought about it, it seemed most odd. She wondered whether Marcus knew anything of the case and if so why he, too, had not mentioned it. It was as though this illegitimate son had disappeared as thoroughly as though he had never existed.
"More tea, my love?" Mrs. Goring urged. She waved the plate of Bath biscuits in Isabella's direction. "Do you see Miss Belling waving in that vulgar way at the gentleman? That hussy will stop at nothing to catch a husband. . . ."
Isabella smiled automatically and Mrs. Goring prattled on, but Isabella was not really listening. She was thinking about Lord John Southern and his illegitimate son. And despite all evidence to the contrary, Isabella could not shake her persistent conviction that her uncle had never fathered such a child at all.
P
enelope
S
tandish was most
dissatisfied.
For the last seven days, since she had arrived in Salterton in company with Mr. Alistair Cantrell, he had seemed at best preoccupied and at worst utterly uninterested in her. He had danced with her at the Salterton Assembly, but no more than with any other young lady; he had escorted her to the circulating library and on her walks along the promenade, yet he seemed more animated when discussing with Freddie his plans for the day or taking a drink with him at the
harborside
tavern. In fact—perish the thought—Pen had started to wonder whether it was actually
Freddie
who had always held Alistair's interest and he had only been paying court to her in London in order to get close to the true object of his affections.
So that morning when they stopped on the esplanade to take a look at the sea, Pen was unsurprised to notice that, rather than scanning the horizon, Alistair's opera glasses were focused on the corner of Quay Street, where Freddie's figure could be
ghmpsed
hurrying into the Ship Inn. She sighed, both at the depressing sight of her brother hastening toward his first bottle of the day but also for her lost hopes, for she was obliged to admit that she had held high hopes of Mr. Cantrell. And thinking on this, and the fool she had made of herself, lit her temper, so that she burst out, "It seems to me, Mr. Cantrell, that it is my brother rather than the beauties of nature that occupy your sights!"
She saw Alistair Cantrell jump and he straightened up, the hand holding the opera glasses falling to his side. There was a flush of color on his cheeks and he looked slightly embarrassed. In fact he looked guilty. Pen's temper soared.
"For myself," she said coldly, "I have no opinion about a man who prefers his own sex over the charms of the female. However, I do feel very strongly about a man who
deceives
others in the pursuit of his own happiness."
Alistair looked extremely startled. Well he might, Pen thought. They were standing in the middle of the esplanade and were attracting considerable attention.
"Miss Standish, I do assure you—"
"From the start you led me to believe that / was the object of your affections," Pen said. "I resent being used, Mr. Cantrell, as a means for you to get close to my brother, who—"
"Miss Standish—" Alistair said with increasing urgency.
"Who,"
Pen pressed on, ignoring his interruption, "has not the least interest in men, being given to low female company instead. It pains me to break this piece of news to you, but in order to spare you future pain, I must ask you to desist in your attentions to Freddie."
Alistair grabbed her by the arms, yanked her to him and kissed her violently. Her parasol clattered to the ground unheeded.
"I have not the least romantic interest in your brother, you little goose," Alistair said. He kissed her again before Pen could reply and she melted into an embrace that was only slightly less urgent than the last.
"From the very first moment I saw you," Alistair said breathlessly the next time he let her go, "I thought you the most beautiful and infernally sharp-tongued creature it had ever been my pleasure to meet."
Pen was so enchanted by this accolade that it was she who drew his mouth back down to hers this time.
"But I never thought that you would have the folly to imagine that I lusted after your brother," Alistair finished. He shook her very gently. "It is you that I have been wanting from the first," he said, smiling down into her dazed blue eyes. "That night at the Royal Institution I wanted to seduce you. The night in the inn at
Alresford
I wanted to ravish you. And right now I would like to—"
Pen grabbed him again before he articulated his fantasies and, regardless of the scandalized glances of the passersby, they kissed and kissed again on the promenade of what had previously been a most respectable resort.
Isabella was intent
on confronting her ghosts. She had been at her desk in the estate office all afternoon, for Marcus had that morning presented her with the deed of gift of Salterton and had, most gratifyingly, left her to get to know her new estate, saying only that he was there if she required his help. Yet no matter how Isabella tried to concentrate on milk yield and acreage, her thoughts returned with tiresome repetition to India Southern, her cousin and nemesis. In the end, she knew that she would have to act.
India was the final ghost of the past, the last thorn in her side. If Marcus was ever to be truly hers, Isabella would have to banish the shadow of her cousin and understand just what it was India had been to Marcus.
It was a long walk up four flights of stairs to reach the attics at Salterton House. Isabella knew that the housekeeper would have arranged for India's trunks to be brought down for her if she had asked, but she wanted no one to know what she was doing. Specifically, she had not wanted Marcus to know. Guilt and uncertainty nibbled at her. In truth she was not entirely sure
what
she was doing, other than that she had certain suspicions about India, and that she had to understand her cousin and what had driven her if she was ever able to lay her memory to rest.
As Isabella climbed higher, the stairs narrowed and, on the final flight, the thick red carpet was replaced by hard-wearing jute matting. It was hot up here. A fly buzzed at the windowpane and Isabella's footsteps echoed on the treads. The sounds of the rest of the house were muted. She could have been alone in the world.
Opening the door softly, she stepped into the dim interior of the first attic. The room was shuttered, dark and hot, smelling of dust and neglect. A shiver traced down Isabella's spine. She found the chests that Mrs. Lawton had mentioned. There were two of them, piled on top of each other in one corner, the most distant from the window. She crossed the floor and pulled the first one out.
It was like opening a window onto the past.
The trunk was full of clothes. Walking dresses, day dresses, evening gowns, shawls and gloves, all in pastel colors, stacked upon one another in a pile of lavender-scented cloth and accessories. Isabella remembered that India had always favored pale colors and modest styles. It was very strange to see her entire wardrobe stored here. It looked faded and lifeless, like the ghost of India herself. At the bottom of the trunk was a pile of improving books.
The second case yielded all the other bits and pieces that told the story of India's life. There were tumbles of silk stockings, petticoats embroidered with lace, bodices and stays. There was a scattering of sheet music, a little yellowed about the edges. There was a soft bag containing filigree necklaces in delicate silver and gold. There was an artist's box with the dried paint flaking around the edges and a tambour frame for needlework. Isabella felt her throat close unexpectedly with tears. How sad to see the remains of India's life spread out before her like this, a little worn and smelling faintly of mothballs. . .
There was no diary. Isabella had been hoping for a diary, for she had known that India kept one. Her cousin had forever been scribbling secretively in it when they were children. But perhaps Marcus had destroyed it when India died. Or perhaps Lady Jane had done so. The
Southerns
had always been so concerned of what other people thought that no doubt they would not want India's diary falling into the wrong hands.