What Isabella Desires

Anne Mallory

To all of the lovely readers who read Masquerading
the Marquess or Daring the Duke, and wrote to ask
for Roth’s story. I hope you enjoy the tale.

Women whispered that Marcus Stewart, Lord Roth, was a fallen angel. With his dark hair and whiskey eyes, his lush lips and artistic hands, she had never believed otherwise.

He nodded politely to one of the friendlier couples of the ton; the other man standing taller, the woman growing more animated as the conversation continued. Even from her vantage point across the room, she could see a small smile curve Marcus’s beautiful mouth and a warmer light enter his usually cold and distant eyes.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry in the moist late spring air. She had been privy to his real smile, the one that reached all the way to his eyes and lit up his face, the one that caused her to forget her own name and her body to lean closer to his. Silk felt smoother and chocolate tasted better when he unleashed that smile. And she was selfish and wicked enough to want it all to herself, to taste him as his mouth curled, to feel his long, lean fingers curve around her waist and into her hair as he drew her forth.

She saw him moving on into the crush of people and watched full lips thin into a dangerous smirk as he said something cutting to a man she knew he disliked. That was the danger with fallen angels, she had always thought—they could show you all the delights of heaven or easily deliver you into the fires of hell. Most women found the dichotomy all the more exciting, and though she might scoff aloud, in the darkness of her bedroom, ensconced beneath her covers, left to her dreams, her mind agreed.

He finally stopped his forward momentum at a foursome of the fashionable and notorious. As he joined their conversation, his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally; unnoticeable to anyone else, but she hadn’t spent years observing him for naught. The Angelfords and Marstons were his closest friends. Friends with whom he could relax and dispense with the facade that society demanded; friends who generated more than their own share of gossip.

That his two best friends were now happily married had society poised for Marcus’s capitulation as well. But he was not the least bit interested in marriage, and although the reasons for his feelings were secret, the actual matter of his opinion was not.

That had not stopped every matchmaking mama with daughters of a marriageable age from throwing their daughters in his path. Oh, no. The Roth title was distinguished and enduring, more so than many of the dukedoms. Marcus had power, lots of it.

That, coupled with his looks and brooding nature, made for no shortage of young misses, or married women, ready to fall at his feet. All of them wishing to be the one to tame him.

He carried a darkness that only dissolved when he unleashed one of “those” smiles. And perhaps, more desirous than the feeling of the smiles turning her to goo, she longed to see the shadows behind his eyes banished and his inner light relit.

She wanted to be more than just his chess partner and friend. She wanted—

Pain crashed through her foot, causing her to jerk upright and look to the side. Her mother, her handsome features highlighted by her upswept hair, continued to look straight ahead at the stuttering young man conversing with them, acting as if she hadn’t just deliberately crushed her daughter’s toes to dust.

Isabella, Lady Willoughby, quickly contained her mortification at being caught staring. Not that it mattered overly, since she wasn’t one on whom the ton kept close tabs. She was just nice, plain Isabella Willoughby, widow of an equally nice and plain member of society. And like the pretty but unremarkable paper that covered the walls of the ballroom—she belonged in the scene but was eminently forgettable.

No one expected much from her besides pleasant conversation and a convenient way to introduce their daughters into society. Her spotless reputation and the fact that she genuinely liked to make outings easier for the young debutantes in their first seasons had ensured the ton matrons’ continued benevolence in the ten years since Isabella’s own debut.

Of course, a single whiff of scandal would grind all past benevolence to dust. Thus spoke society.

The man talking to her mother excused himself, allowing her mother to pin her with a knowing gaze. Isabella tried to look contrite, but her mother shook her head in exasperation. Polite exasperation, of course. After all, they were still in the public eye.

“Isabella, you need to stop woolgathering. One day someone other than your mother is going to catch you staring.”

Isabella cringed. Sometimes her mother could still make her feel fourteen. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, Mama.”

Charlotte Herringfield tapped her fan and sighed. “Don’t apologize, dear. I still don’t know if your father and I did the right thing by pushing you into marriage with a man that wasn’t…” She waved her fan in Marcus’s general direction.

Isabella swallowed. “You didn’t force me to marry George. And it was the right decision. George was a…was a good friend,” she finished softly.

“But you didn’t love him.” Her mother’s shrewd eyes missed little.

“No, I loved him, you know I did.” And she truly had, even though she had never been in love with him. He had been a good companion and friend. They had been comfortable. Her stomach had never clenched and the sheer thrill of life had never occurred in his presence, but then those were not necessarily the things on which to base a marriage. Still, she had never experienced that extra spark with George, and had always felt that she’d somehow slighted him. That she was the one who had denied him love. He had scoffed lightly at her confession on the day he had asked for her hand, instead joking and making her laugh.

“Not the type of love we are talking about.” Her mother’s look was slightly censorious. They had beaten around the topic many times since his death.

“George always said that we shared something better,” she explained. “Friendship. Respect. The gardens.” She laughed, but it was slightly strained. “He was just so ill much of the time, especially there at the end…”

Her mother had a faraway look in her eyes. “Oh, Isabella. I just wanted you to be happy.” She sighed and looked toward Marcus, who ironically was now chatting amiably with Isabella’s father. “I still do, of course.”

“I was, Mama. I am.”

“Hmmm…”

Isabella narrowed her eyes. “Don’t hmmm me, Mama. I’m no longer in leading strings.”

Her mother patted her arm, somewhat sadly. “No, indeed you are not.” She straightened. “Will you be coming with us to Devonshire?”

The season was nearly over, and her parents were always eager to return to the country. Her gaze shifted back to Marcus and her father. “Perhaps in a few weeks.”

“Mmmm…”

“You are losing your vocabulary, Mama. Need I be worried?”

Her mother swatted her with her fan. “When I’m old and infirm, I will still be able to match wits with you, my dear.”

Isabella briefly rested her head on her mother’s shorter shoulder, breaking a rule of etiquette and for once not caring. “I know you will.”

Her mother harrumphed, but looked pleased all the same. Her father was making his way toward them through the crowd and Isabella blinked, realizing that she had lost sight of Marcus. Perhaps that was for the best.

“Francis is on his way over, so I’m sure we will be leaving for home soon. Dreadful crush, and we don’t want to be stuck with thirty carriages in front of us and nothing to do about it. We’ll call on you before we leave town, of course.” She paused, as if wrestling with something. “And perhaps it is time you pull one of your dreams into reality, dearest. A woman in your position is accorded more freedom than you had when you were eighteen or even twenty-one. Just don’t do anything too far beyond the pale.”

She grimaced, and Isabella grinned. Her mother was very straitlaced about certain things, so for her to suggest something daring like that nearly defied imagination.

“Why, Mother, you wound me.”

“I will wound you if you get into trouble,” she muttered. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Isabella gave her a squeeze, and her father winked as he joined them. “Did I miss something?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to repeat what her mother had said—her mother’s glare only a minor deterrent. “Mother is just worried about what you two will do inside a carriage for an hour while you wait in the queue to leave. Shall I find you a deck of cards?”

“I’m sure we can find something to occupy the time.” Her father waggled his dark brows and her mother’s face tinged pink.

Charlotte Herringfield gave a sniff, pressed her empty cup into Isabella’s hand and turned to walk away, but Isabella noticed that she stayed close to her father’s body as they left.

Her parents’ marriage was a love match by any standard. She wondered if that aspect of life would have been different if she had been reared by parents who were distant and cold. Would she still pine for love and all it entailed?

She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear—as usual, her too heavy hair strained to be free.

Turning back to the crowd, she nodded as one of the more timid debutantes passed by and smiled. No, she was not unhappy with her lot in life, no matter what the pitter patter in her heart said when she brushed Marcus’s hand while playing chess or cards. At least she was still able to be near the one she loved.

The dance floor had grown even more crowded, the young bucks and maidens eager to catch their final dances. She watched a risqué widow capture the attention of the men on the edges of the floor as she expertly whirled in her partner’s arms, the train of her rose-lavender dress swirling about as she arched her back to expose more of her décolletage. Isabella had to keep from arching a brow as the men salivated. They would assuredly vie for the widow’s hand in the next dance.

Isabella looked down at her own demure ball gown. A bright blue, not the perfect shade for her skin, but adequate and within the fashion dictates of the season, which edged into the brighter colors. It was unfortunate that the bold, deeper colors she looked best in were not currently in fashion. Oh, every color could be made fashionable, but the character she played in society would never be dressed in something daring or risqué.

She bit her lip. And yet, there was a tiny part of her—all right, more than a tiny part—that wanted to whirl and twirl and transform into a butterfly instead of a passable moth.

She compared the dresses of the other married and widowed ladies in the crowd to her own gown. Yes, she was definitely one of the more modest ladies in attendance. Being on the edge of fashion had never been one of her aims. Just being in fashion was enough. She’d much rather be tending her garden, or playing chess, or speaking with Marcus, than worrying about what to wear. However, if she wanted to be seen as more than just a friendly face, she knew she would have to rearrange her priorities.

She sighed. She had fallen in love with him ten years ago, and even now, at twenty-eight and a respectable distance from widow’s weeds, she still found him the most entrancing man she’d ever met.

He, of course, had never returned the sentiment.

She continued to survey the ballroom and nearly dropped her mother’s cup. Marcus was looking straight at her, his whiskey and gold eyes connecting with hers. He smiled, but there was no heat in his gaze, no glint of passion. She swallowed heavily and smiled warmly in return. She was well-practiced by now at keeping her real emotions hidden. She looked away, pretending interest in a raucous group near the corner.

She was a coward. A complete and utter milksop. What if she showed her interest and his eyes turned cold or disappointed? She had seen that expression on his face for others. She didn’t know if she could bear it being turned on her.

And if that wasn’t a cowardly thought…

Yes, it was definitely time to take her courage in hand. She just couldn’t take this any longer. She would make a few changes and see what happened. She just wanted to—

A warm whisper of wind caressed her ear, and she knew who it was before his husky, sinful voice formed words. “Good evening, Bella.”