What Isabella Desires (8 page)

Marcus whirled away from James, not caring that his behavior might be noticed and commented on by others. At the moment he couldn’t have cared less.

Which was stronger: his desire to see Isabella happy, or his desire to see no one else make her light up the way—

“Roth.”

He didn’t stop. The last person he wanted to talk to was Stephen. Cheery bastard. Probably wanted to express his thoughts about Isabella, and gloat too. Perhaps he could slip past him. He’d hate to be the one to kill Stephen after so many failed attempts by others.

“Marcus.”

He pushed through the crowd to the terrace doors, happy that the ballroom was on ground level.

“Damn it, stop walking.”

Marcus didn’t want to talk. He had a meeting with his contact in ten minutes, and he wanted to focus on the matters at hand.

“You know, you are acting more emotional than my wife. And she has the excuse of being pregnant.”

Marcus stopped next to a large potted fern and tapped a foot. “What do you want, Stephen? I don’t have time to dillydally.”

“Obviously, if your flight from the ballroom was any indication. Should get Calliope to caricature it. ‘Flight from a ballroom’ is a great title.”

He looked down his nose at his friend. “I’m going to kill you slowly. Without using my hands, so as not to dirty them.”

Stephen held up a hand and smiled. “Fine. I’ll stop baiting you. But I have information on the note you gave me.”

Marcus discharged his general irritation, automatically reaching for his center to calm himself. He succeeded only partially. “What did you find?”

“The man who wrote the note is in printing. There are dustings of printer’s ink on its back.”

Marcus nodded slowly. “Fletcher’s body was found near Ackermann’s. Have you talked to anyone there?”

“Actually, I thought I’d take Calliope with me. Do you mind?”

Calliope had many contacts there, having sold her caricatures almost exclusively to the print shop. “No. Just make sure James knows. He’ll kill you before he kills her.”

Stephen smiled. “I know.” He hesitated. “Marcus, about the other, maybe—”

“No.”

Stephen looked disgruntled. “How do you know what I was going to say?”

“That sentence was going to end with something nauseating like, ‘We need to speak’ or ‘You should heed your emotions’ or ‘You should take a wife.’”

“Er.”

“Probably the former. Does Audrey ever get tired of wearing the breeches between the two of you?”

Stephen winked slyly. “I never get tired of her wearing them.”

“Please never say something like that to me again. Have a good night, Stephen.”

His friend laughed and strolled inside. The lights from the ballroom winked, the yellow and white and gold blending in a soft glow.

A soft glow that grew ever dimmer.

Marcus’s headache returned full force. Or he at least let himself remember it.

The red of a rose, the blue of a pair of fine eyes. Would he still remember the brilliance and hue when he could no longer view them?

The layout of the gardens shifted before him.

Fifteen steps to the edge of the terrace, two potted plants and a garden table to avoid, ten steps to the ballroom door. From there it would be a crush of bodies, but he had the inside layout firmly implanted already.

He despised this weakness. Despised the eventual end it would bring. Despised what it would cause him to lose—and what he could never hope to gain.

“My lord?”

He spun around. Kurp was a shadow against the garden wall, partially hidden behind a short pine. He had been completely wrapped within himself, a sure way to die or get someone else hurt.

“Kurp.”

“Finley’s missing.”

“I know.” Another funeral to attend. Another family to console. He felt old, so old, all of a sudden. He retrieved a sheaf of papers. “Here are your instructions. Set up a meeting at the usual place for the day after tomorrow. Hopefully we will have more to go on at that time and can start planning.”

Kurp took the documents and nodded, bravery etched in the lines of his face.

“Be careful tonight, Kurp.”

He looked up sharply, and Marcus grimaced. It seemed his newly discovered odd behavior was once again reasserting itself.

“I’m fine, Kurp. We’ve all had a rough week. That is all. Good night.”

Kurp slipped back into the shadows as Marcus carried his shadows inside. A glimpse of color lit his vision, and he stopped a moment, watching, weighing. There was only one way to deal with this.

He strode toward shimmering scarlet crowned by black.

If only the man she was wishing for wasn’t ignoring her so completely…

So here she was, hours later dancing the night away with one gentleman after another. Some the more mundane type of widow hunter, and some more surprising. Men who had previously been interested in friendly chatter suddenly had a different gleam in their eyes.

She chastised herself. How many times had she told a debutante—look like you are interested and having fun and others will want to have fun with you? When had she forgotten to apply this to herself? Had marriage changed her so much?

George had been gone for three years, but she had immersed herself in too many projects to take a good look at herself.

Some men, just like women, were looking for a friend. Some were looking for a companion. Some were looking for—

“Lady Willoughby, you are well turned out tonight,” her partner said.

“What a handsome compliment.” It could use some work.

“Your dress makes me think of the fires of hell.” He stepped on her foot in his need to move closer.

“Why thank you, Mr. Burns.”

“Do you think I might taste that hell tonight?”

—some were looking for something a little quicker than companionship.

The music, thank Mary, stopped and she forced a cracking smile onto her face. “I think not, Mr. Burns. Thank you for the dance.”

He executed a neat bow and took himself off to see if the next woman was more willing. At least he made no pretense about what he was interested in—and didn’t seek to pester her when she wasn’t.

If only—

“Is this next dance taken?”

She licked suddenly dry lips at the smooth voice. “No, it isn’t.”

He came into her view, all sinful dark hair and caramel eyes. “May I have it, then?”

She tilted her head. Her heart started beating faster as his eyes traveled down her neck. “You may.”

His hand curved around her waist as the first violin began to play. A soft heat spread from where his palm rested and his fingers curled. She put her hand in his and a tingle shot up her arm. They held that position for a few beats as the other couples started whirling around them. And then the lights and colors rushed by as he began twirling her too.

“You have been absent much of tonight,” she said.

This was the first time they had spoken to one another since he had packed her into a carriage, inebriated and delivering all sorts of embarrassing—and true—confessions.

“Have I? I feel as if I’ve been haunting the edges of the ballroom all night.”

She swallowed. Watching her? “Is that so?”

He looked above her head. “Yes, there are some important matters happening in the government.”

Crushing disappointment hit her and she tried to rein it in. “Oh.”

His eyes tightened and she wondered at what he was looking. “You haven’t been haunting the edges of the ballroom, though. I’ve rarely seen you off the dance floor.”

“Oh?” Her heart picked up again.

He focused on her. “That dress is…interesting.”

“Your compliment brings me to my knees, my lord.”

He didn’t smile. “Do you suddenly desire to give the male half of the town visions in the night?”

She swallowed. “That one was much better.”

“I aim to please.”

“Do you?”

His arm tightened around her. His expression didn’t change, but his voice was light. “Only on Tuesdays.”

The short piece ended and he bowed to her, his fingers slipping under hers, the pads trailing as he let her go and melted into the crowd.

The confusion continued. Dance after dance she would catch sight of him, only to lose him in the crowd. There was something darker and more dangerous about him tonight. He was like a hunter prowling on the edges of the forest floor.

Her nerves were screaming by the tenth set. The dancers moved apart for a moment and she caught sight of Marcus lounging next to the terrace doors. He was talking to Giles Pepper, a man of considerable political influence. However, his hooded, brooding golden eyes were trained on her.

Her breath caught, but the dancers took a step forward and she lost sight of him.

“Lady Willoughby, you look smashing tonight.”

She refocused on the man who had just joined her and smiled, trying to still her racing heart. “Thank you, Mr. Sethy.”

“I was wondering if you could help me catch Miss Cross’s attention?”

Her smile grew and she regained a semblance of sanity. It seemed some things would never change, no matter how she dressed. “Of course. Why don’t we talk over there?” She pointed to a few unoccupied chairs set apart from the others but still in full view of the entire room.

He sported a relieved grin, somewhat crooked in shape, and escorted her over. Though really escorted was a pleasant way for saying hustled. Thirty minutes later Mr. Sethy stood and skipped off to draw up a list of unusual romantic notions, as she’d suggested—something beyond flowers and poetry. She wondered, not for the first time, what a young man like Mr. Sethy was doing at a party like this.

She patted her hair and discreetly checked the ballroom for Marcus, who was once again nowhere in sight. Unfortunately, Ellerby was, and he was headed toward her, determination set in every line of his face. She withheld a sigh. It would take him a few minutes to reach her, and she wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t just slip out of the room first. She didn’t know what Ellerby’s agenda was, other than the obvious, but he unnerved her with his bold advances.

She prepared herself for a bout of playing off his words and discouraging his roaming hands, as she’d been doing prior to Mr. Sethy asking her to dance and chat—bless him. She didn’t know if dealing with Ellerby was worth watching Marcus vacillate between ignoring her and staring broodingly at her while he stalked the edges of the floor like a feral beast.

A shadow fell across her. Her breath caught.

She felt him, felt his presence behind her, and knew he was mere inches away—she could feel him breathing.

“Giving the honorable Mr. Sethy nightly visions?”

She tensed but stared straight ahead. “Just some friendly advice.”

“Must have been quite some advice. He seemed most caught up in whatever it was you were telling him.”

“It would be most poor of me to give away his secrets, would it not?”

“And what are your secrets, Isabella? What dark mysteries lurk behind those clear blue eyes?” His voice was low and deep.

Marcus stepped closer. The hairs on the back of her neck stood as displaced air moved between them. So close.

“Nothing so sordid, I assure you. My thoughts are of a most mundane variety.”

But her breath was coming out in short bursts. Her voice higher than usual. Her thoughts anything but mundane.

He was here. With her.

“Silver lies again, Marie?”

His fingers grazed the nape of her neck.

“It’s my middle name.”

“I know. I know everything about you.”

She turned to face him. His eyes were a dark gold beneath slashing brows, his expression serious. “Not everything.”

His eyes traced her face. “No.” He paused, as if unsure of himself for once. “Your little revelation last night was unexpected. I never expected you to say such a thing.”

Her heart beat more quickly. Acknowledgment. Where would they go from here?

Something tugged at her awareness. There had been a nearly imperceptible hesitation in his voice. “You didn’t expect me to say such a thing?”

His eyes tightened. “No.”

“You didn’t expect me to say such a thing, but you knew, didn’t you?” she asked, a hitch to her voice.

He looked over her shoulder toward the dance floor. Something passed across his face that she couldn’t read.

“Marcus, did you know?”

His eyes locked with hers and he took a step back. And then another, his gold gaze burning into her as he slowly walked backward. She felt an invisible hook in her center as more ground opened between them. He walked too slowly to be leaving her completely, his eyes pulling her forward. She felt the tug, like a rope tautly stretched and seeking a return to a comfortable state. She stood then, as if mesmerized, and followed him as he skirted around the chairs without even looking behind him.

As if he had their layout memorized. Which was a ridiculous notion, of course.

The tug didn’t dull her wits completely. The one question on her mind—the question that might change everything—still lingered in the air.

“Were you aware?” she asked again, her tone more persistent as they performed some strange parody of a dance without touching, but with him leading her forward.

His eyes stayed with hers, and she watched the gold darken further. She followed his path, step for step, eyes locked together until she found herself in a hallway with him. Abruptly, he reached out and tugged her into an alcove.

Shivers streaked through her.

“Did you already comprehend—” she started again, as if asking a thousand different ways would somehow produce an answer.

He touched a curl that lolled along her shoulder blade.

“What would you have me say, Bella?”

You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known or Let’s retire from this ballroom to pursue a more wicked pastime or I’ve loved you forever.

Yes, that last one.

“The truth.”

She looked into his eyes and saw scrutiny, anger, and the fond look he always reserved for her. The one given to a dear friend or little sister.

She moved back a step. “No. You don’t need to say anything, Marcus. Forgive me for a drunkard’s ramblings.”

He fingered the curl and something shifted in his eyes—disappointment or relief? “So you didn’t mean it?” he asked.

Her eyes tried desperately to close, but his gold gaze pinned her. Standing here, in front of him, in a silent alcove, the portraits on the wall leaning closer to hear, and having to choose whether to bare part of her soul or to play safely and laugh it off.

“What would you have me say, Marcus?”

A dark brow lifted above a golden eye. “The truth.”

To be left with a decision, a declaration or not. That whatever she said would determine the course of future events. That he would either continue to look at her as a friend, safe and secure. Or that something else might happen. That his eyes might show relief for her confession to be true, instead of relief for it to be false.

She took a deep breath.

“I meant every word.”