Surrender Becomes Her (9 page)

He stared at Isabel, the realization that there would be no escape, no ending of their engagement apparent in the ex
pression that crossed his face. In a voice devoid of emotion, he said, “It would make my mother very,
very
unhappy if the engagement were to end. She would be devastated….” His gaze dropped to the ring on her finger. “Many people,” he admitted reluctantly, “especially those dearest to us, will be hurt and disappointed if we do not marry.” A shudder went through him. In a low voice he added, “Call me a coward if you like, but given the choice, I believe I would rather face a fire-breathing dragon empty-handed than tell my mother that we do not suit and have changed our minds.”

Isabel smiled bitterly. “Exactly.”

Marcus’s gray eyes met hers. “I suppose this is what you wanted to talk about?”

Isabel nodded. “I thought,” she said quietly, “that we might be able to brush through this entire…situation, without incident.” Her voice thickened. “You were not there and did not see how ecstatic both my father-in-law and son were with the news of our engagement. It would be cruel to play out this farce knowing…” She fought for composure. Her eyes dark with emotion, she said, “I cannot mislead them in such a heartless fashion.”

Marcus agreed. It would indeed be cruel to lead everyone to believe there would be a marriage between them knowing full well that they planned nothing of the sort. The engagement would have to stand…and eventually they would marry. The sensation of a noose tightening around his neck assailed him for just a second, but then he shrugged it off. Marriage to Isabel would not be so very bad. And if he
had
to marry…A crooked smile curved his long mouth. “It would seem, my dear,” he said wryly, “that we are well and truly engaged and that instead of planning the ending of our engagement, we will be planning our wedding.”

She hadn’t been aware of how important his reaction to the knowledge that they could not just blithely call off the engagement had been to her, but at his words, a great sense of relief rushed through her. She’d known that he was an hon
orable man and she’d been certain that he would not cut up rough. He’d already indicated he would marry her if events warranted it, she’d reminded herself, but it was one thing to speak hypothetically and another to actually carry through and there had been a tiny nagging doubt at the back of her mind. It cheered her to know that she had not been mistaken in his character and that he understood precisely the reasons why they could not end their engagement.

But this was only the first hurdle they faced, she thought tiredly, her relief vanishing as if it had never been. Thinking of her marriage to Hugh and the promise she had made as he lay dying, panic flooded her. The other hurdle might not be so easily cleared….

Unwilling to dwell on the future and what it held, she forced herself to meet Marcus’s smile, and say lightly, “And I hope that you have learned the wisdom of thinking before you speak.”

A genuine laugh escaped from him. “Of that I think you can be safely assured.” Lifting her hand, he bent his head and pressed a soft, warm kiss to the back of it. Holding her fingers in his, his eyes searched hers. “This isn’t what either of us planned, but I think we shall do well together, you and I.”

She wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that they would have a good marriage together, but inwardly she quaked. No, marriage wasn’t what either of them had planned and their marriage, she thought miserably, would be a great deal less than he could conceive.

Dinner was a pleasant, if not entirely comfortable, affair. In addition to Mrs. Appleton, resplendent in a shot silk gown in pleasing shades of soft blues, Isabel’s uncle and aunt, Sir James and Lady Agatha, had also been invited. Edmund, looking very adult in a dark blue jacket and a neatly tied cravat, had been allowed on this special occasion to join the adults for dinner. Isabel’s only admonishment had been that he would have to content himself with lemonade instead of
the champagne everyone else would be drinking. He made a face, but then he grinned at her. “I’ll wager Mr. Sherbrook would let me drink champagne.”

She’d smiled back at him, her heart aching just a little at how much he looked like his father in that moment. “Perhaps,” she said lightly, caressing his cheek. “But he isn’t your stepfather yet. Until he is, I make the rules.”

With his usual sunny nature, Edmund accepted her decree and was on his best behavior throughout the evening.

Naturally, everyone was astonished by the news of the engagement, and during much of the meal, in between the various toasts that were drunk to Marcus and Isabel’s health and their future together, there were exclamations of surprise from the other diners.

“Oh, but aren’t you just the sly one,” said Lady Agatha, her dark eyes full of speculation, and perhaps just a touch of malice, as they rested on Isabel’s face. “Keeping secrets and hiding behind the fiction that you couldn’t abide each other. It was very clever of you; no one had any idea that an engagement was in the offing.”

Even in her youth, Agatha Paley had been a handsome woman rather than a pretty one. Tall and thin, with black hair, her features were almost mannish, her nose long, her chin pronounced and her eyes deep set under heavy dark brows and as she approached her fiftieth year not even age had softened her looks. In Isabel’s opinion, Agatha had always been a cold, unfeeling woman and her marriage to Sir James had changed nothing. There was a long history of discord between the two women: before marriage to Sir James, Agatha had been Isabel’s governess, and the longing to escape from Agatha’s rigid rules had been partially responsible for Isabel’s rash marriage to Hugh Manning.

Returning to England as Hugh’s widow and taking her place with her son in Lord Manning’s household had saved Isabel from finding herself once more under Lady Agatha’s thumb. It had also prevented the inevitable open conflict be
tween the two women. In the intervening time, Isabel had worked hard at making some sort of peace with the other woman and making certain Edmund knew his great-uncle and the house his mother had grown up in. Agatha and Isabel would never be fond of each other, but they had managed to form a polite relationship; but every now and then, Agatha’s claws still showed. Isabel could not help showing some of her own.

Forcing a smile, Isabel glanced at her aunt and murmured, “Yes, we were very careful; one does so hate to be the object of gossip and innuendo. I’m certain you of all people understand.”

Isabel’s reason for keeping the courtship quiet was remarkably similar to the one Agatha had given out when her sudden marriage to Sir James fifteen years ago had caused a nine days’ wonder in the neighborhood. Beyond a tightening of her lips, Agatha gave no other sign that the barb had found its mark.

Aware of the strained relationship between the two women, Clara Appleton rushed in, saying brightly, “Oh, I just think it is so romantic!” She sent a warm glance toward Marcus. “Your mother, I know, will be delirious with delight once she learns of the engagement. If she’s said it once, she’s said a hundred times how happy she will be when you marry and set up your own nursery.”

Marcus smiled at her. “And of course, we all know that I live to please my mother.”

“Oh, la, don’t you take that tone with me,” Clara replied, shaking a teasing finger at him. “Your mother has told me often enough what a wonderful son you are.”

“It’s a fine match, no doubt about it,” remarked Sir James, his pleasure obvious. Well into his seventies, with his merry blue eyes and chubby pink cheeks and only a few tufts of white hair circling his bald pate he had always reminded Isabel of an adorable little cherub. They made an odd couple: Sir James rotund, Agatha thin, and because of his short
stature, his nearly bald head barely bobbed above his wife’s shoulders. In fact to Isabel’s mind, Agatha towered over him like a black, thin-legged stork next to a round little partridge.

Raising his glass high, Sir James said, “Another toast! May the pair of you have a long and happy life together.” He smiled warmly at Isabel. “Ah, my dear, your father would have been delighted at this happy turn of events. So everyone drink up: to Isabel and Marcus—long life and happiness.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Lord Manning, a broad grin on his face. In fact, Isabel didn’t think he, or Edmund for that matter, had stopped smiling since they’d learned of the engagement. She’d had no intention of ever marrying again, but now that fate had conspired against her, she was glad that her coming nuptials had given the people she loved joy.

The toast having been duly drunk, Lord Manning set down his glass and asked, “When is the wedding to be? I presume sometime this summer?”

“Yes,” agreed Marcus.

“No,” blurted out Isabel.

Suddenly the cynosure of every eye in the room, Isabel flushed and muttered, “We, uh, haven’t decided yet.” Throwing Marcus a warning look, she said, “We intend to discuss it tomorrow, don’t we?”

Marcus grinned. “Indeed we do.”

The rest of the evening passed smoothly, but Marcus and Isabel had no time alone until he prepared to ride home. The other guests had departed several minutes ago; Edmund had retired hours ago and, with a wave of his hand, Lord Manning had bid them good night and discreetly disappeared upstairs.

Since Marcus’s horse was still tied to the lime tree at the edge of the garden and he had dismissed Isabel’s offer of a servant to fetch the animal, she accompanied him into the garden. As they walked through the quiet night, the black sky above them dotted with winking diamonds, Marcus said, “It went rather well, didn’t it? The only awkward moment
was when your father-in-law wanted to know when we are to be married.” He stopped and looked down at her. “So when are we to marry?”

“Perhaps sometime next summer?” she offered.

Marcus stared at her incredulously. “Next summer?” he said in tones of disbelief. “Absolutely not!”

Having awakened this morning with no idea of marriage to anyone, he was astonished to find that the idea of a long engagement to Isabel found no favor with him. “No,” he said decisively. When Isabel looked ready to argue, he said, “Please remember that putting off the date of our wedding does Manning and Mrs. Appleton no good.” Thoughtfully he added, “And if we delay the wedding too long, it will certainly cause speculation and gossip.”

Feeling as if she was standing on a crumbling cliff with only an unending expanse of wave-tossed seas below her, Isabel asked tightly, “Then when do you suggest?”

“Late July, early August,” he replied promptly.

“Are you mad? That’s only a few months away,” she said, aghast, her comforting little plan of postponing the wedding for as long as she could shot down in an instant.

He nodded. “I realize that, but the timing is perfect. We shall be engaged a decent enough time—what two, three months before the wedding? Everyone will have departed London by then and returned to their estates for the summer. The Little Season isn’t until September, so the wedding shouldn’t interfere with anyone’s plans.”

Her expression troubled, Isabel gazed up at him. “Marcus, I don’t think you understand…”

He stopped her from speaking by placing a finger against her lips. “Hush. You think I don’t know what you are about? You are trying to please your father-in-law and Edmund and yet avoid the one thing that would make them happiest: our wedding.” His gaze bore steadily into hers. “We will be married late July or early August, you may choose, but Isabel, it
will
be this summer.”

Her eyes glittered with temper. “I just remembered what an autocratic beast you can be at times,” she snapped. “I would remind you that I am not your ward any longer.”

“I have not,” he murmured, a note in his voice that she’d never heard, “thought of you as my ward for years.” His hands caught her upper arms and he propelled her gently against him. “Since this morning,” he said with his lips only inches from hers, “I find that I can only think of you as a most desirable woman.
Most
desirable.”

Isabel’s heart leaped at his words, but it was the touch of his lips on hers that sent her pulse rocketing through her body. His mouth was warm and knowing on hers, the sensation of his lips pressing against hers so seductive and beguiling that against her will she surrendered to his kiss; her arms crept around his neck and her lips parted.

Marcus groaned when her mouth opened for him, lust and delight mingling into one powerful emotion. He kissed her deeply, his tongue sliding into her mouth and rubbing suggestively against hers. She tasted wonderful, warm and intoxicating, and his grip on her arms tightened and he pulled her small frame closer to him. He’d meant only to bestow a friendly kiss upon her lips—at least that’s what he told himself—but Isabel was too yielding, her response too irresistible for him to abandon the drugging seductiveness of her mouth.

A man’s driving passion for one particular woman, and only one woman, rose up within him and he was blind to anything but how desperately he wanted her. His mouth fused with hers, his hands dropped to her bottom, lifting and guiding her lower body against his swollen member. It was unbearably arousing to feel her softness sliding against him and he was consumed with the sudden anticipation of the hot pleasure that would be his when he joined them together. Intent upon his goal, he bunched up her gown, his heart nearly exploding when his seeking fingers touched her naked flesh.

Drowning in his embrace, beset by emotions that had long lain dormant, Isabel was brought rudely back to reality by
the feel of his big warm hand caressing her naked buttock. Shocked by the spear of desire that went through her as he kneaded her flesh, and the stunning intimacy of the moment, she gasped and broke their embrace.

Catching him by surprise, she twisted her head away and shoved with all her might. He made no attempt to stop her escape; his hands immediately fell to his sides and half-sobbing she scrambled away from him. Her cheeks burning, with shaking fingers she frantically tugged and pulled at her gown, chagrin and embarrassment flooding through her. She would not look at him and her voice thick with tears, she said, “That should not have happened. I swore to Hugh that I would always…. I never should have—Forgive me!” And then she was gone, snatching up her skirts and running away from him as if her very life depended upon it.