Surrender Becomes Her (4 page)

“And you hotfoot it back to Sherbrook Hall just as soon as you decently can,” his mother murmured.

“Guilty! But the whirlwind of parties and balls that so appeal to you bore me to death. And as for chasing after opera dancers or playing deep in some hell on Pall Mall or drinking myself under the table…” He snorted. “Those rakish pastimes have never held any allure for me.” He smiled whimsically at her. “Don’t you see—I’m content with my life.”

Her gaze rested thoughtfully on him. “I don’t know that I’d want to settle for ‘content,’ if I were you.”

“What? You would have me miserable?” he teased. “Dissatisfied? Unhappy?”

She sighed inwardly. Marcus was everything a mother could hope for: affectionate, generous, honorable, a most worthy man, but…One could be
too
worthy. Staring at him, her heart couldn’t help but swell with love and pride. He was tall and broad-shouldered, yet leanly built, and she knew he commanded attention whenever he entered a room. Women admired him; she’d seen the speculative glances sent his way, glances he wasn’t even aware of, she thought dispiritedly. But for all the attention he attracted, he was not traditionally handsome. His features were too bold, his jaw and chin remarkably determined, but the frankly carnal curve of his full bottom lip made the female of the sex forget about those imperfections and dwell on the implicit promise of that tempting mouth. His mother often thought it a shame he hadn’t inherited the color of her own emerald eyes, but looking into those intelligent gray eyes his father had passed on to him, she was not displeased; they were striking in his dark face. But for all the intelligence in those gray eyes, he couldn’t see that there was something very wrong about a handsome, virile man being “content” to live the life of a monk, buried in the country! Her gaze narrowed. Of course, she could be wrong about the monkish part; her son, for all his virtues, was hardly likely to tell her if he kept a mistress in town.

“Oh, this is a silly conversation,” she said abruptly, putting aside her embroidery.

“And who, may I ask, started it?” Marcus asked, a twinkle in those gray eyes, as he stood up.

She smiled. “My turn to cry guilty.” Getting to her feet and shaking out the skirts of her gown, she asked, “Is it all arranged for us to leave next week for London? I received a letter from Lady Bullard yesterday. She writes that Parliament is in session and that the Season has already begun. I do not wish to delay our departure too long.”

“I have everything well in hand,” Marcus replied as he accompanied her from the room. “Provided you have all your
gowns packed and the weather holds we should leave on Tuesday.”

Events went as Marcus had planned. The following Tuesday, he escorted his mother, her companion, Mrs. Shelby, and several of the estate servants to London and saw them comfortably settled in the Sherbrook townhouse. The annual trip by his mother to town gave him an opportunity to visit his tailor and his boot-maker, resupply himself with those articles that could only be obtained in London, and show his face at White’s and a few other gentlemen’s clubs that he belonged to. He hadn’t lied when he said he enjoyed escorting his mother to London. He did, just as he enjoyed the clamor of the city, the color and the bustle; enjoyed greeting old friends and hearing the latest on-dits and even casting a considering eye on the latest crop of well-born females to flood the Marriage Mart. But a fortnight in the city was about all he could endure and late April found him once more at Sherbrook Hall.

Jasmine, the blaze-faced chestnut mare, and a sleek black mare that traced her ancestry directly to the Darnley Arabian, had not come back into season and Marcus accepted the fact that next March a pair of Tempest foals would be born on his estate. Despite his plans to breed the mares to his own stallion, Nonesuch, he was not displeased, but he was uneasy. There was no telling the outcome when dealing with Isabel.

Walking back from the stables to the main house that warm April morning, he considered his options. He could leave her in ignorance until after the foals were born or he could write her a note telling her that, if all went well, there would be two extra Tempest foals on the ground next year. Or, he could simply ride over to Manning Court and tell her in person. The note, he thought cravenly. The note would be easiest.

Yet when he found himself seated in his office, the blank
page of paper before him, the quill in hand, he discovered a disinclination to hide behind a mere note. Placing the quill in its stand, he pushed back from the cherrywood desk and stood up.

The day was pleasant, perfect for a ride, he told himself. There was no reason why he couldn’t ride over to Manning Court and tell Isabel the news. A faint smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. And watch her antics as she tries to bamboozle me out of the two mares.

Whistling cheerfully, he left the office and headed to the stables. Shortly, astride a handsome black gelding, he rode through the rolling countryside, enjoying the sound of the songbirds and the dappled shade afforded by the ancient oaks.

The Manning and Denham estates both adjoined the Sherbrook lands and the three families had always been good friends as well as neighbors. Lord Manning was Marcus’s neighbor on the north and Sir James, Isabel’s uncle, on the east, and beside the public road there were several private pathways crossing from one property to the other. Taking a shortcut through the forest, Marcus was soon riding on Manning land.

He was still some distance from the main house when he heard the sound of raised voices. He recognized Isabel’s voice instantly, even if the words were not clear. By the sound of it, she was angry and ringing a peal over some poor unfortunate, but there was something in her voice, some note that made Marcus kick the gelding into a trot.

As he rode nearer he heard Isabel say clearly, “And that’s the end of it! Do not approach me again. Next time, I’ll set the hounds on you and the devil be damned!”

There was the low growl of a man’s voice and then Isabel cried, “How
dare
you! Unhand me, you blackguard!”

Marcus rounded the bend in the narrow, leafy lane and came upon Isabel and a burly fellow he did not recognize standing in a small clearing off to one side. He recognized the type, though: former military, if the cut of his hair and jacket
and the arrangement of his cravat was anything to go by. A pair of horses was tied to a nearby tree.

It was immediately apparent to Marcus that this was no mere chance meeting. The two combatants were concentrating on each other and for a second neither was aware of Marcus’s approach. The man had one hand wrapped tightly around Isabel’s upper arm and she was struggling to escape. From the glimpse Marcus had of her face, she was more furious than afraid and yet there was something in her features that made Marcus’s gut tighten and aroused all his protective instincts.

His calm demeanor at odds with the spurt of hot rage that raced through him at the sight of the stranger’s grip on Isabel’s upper arm, Marcus said brusquely, “I believe that the lady made a request. I would suggest that you follow it.
Now
.”

Isabel’s gaze jerked in his direction and her eyes widened when she saw him just a few yards away sitting astride the big black horse. Embarrassment mingled with fear flitted across her features before she mastered herself and schooled her face into a polite mask. The embarrassment Marcus understood. But fear? Good God! She had no reason to fear
him
.

The stranger took Marcus’s measure, and whatever he saw in Marcus’s face made him drop his hand from Isabel’s arm and take a step away from her. Smiling, the stranger said, “There is no reason for you to be staring daggers at me. This is merely a misunderstanding between old friends.” He looked at Isabel and prompted in a silky undertone that raised Marcus’s hackles even more, “Isn’t that right, my dear Mrs. Manning?”

Isabel nodded, her eyes not meeting Marcus’s. “Y-y-yes. Major Whitley w-w-was Hugh’s friend in India. He was stationed near us in Bombay for a number of years.” A flush on her cheeks, she added hurriedly, “He recently retired from the Army and was visiting friends in the neighborhood. When he learned that I lived nearby he came to call.”

Isabel had never been a very good liar, but Marcus gave
her full marks for trying. He didn’t doubt that some of what she said was true, perhaps all of it, but she was leaving a great deal unsaid and that aroused his curiosity—that and Major Whitley’s threatening manner.
He
might bully Isabel all he pleased, Marcus decided instantly, but he damn well wasn’t going to allow anyone else that liberty. Swinging down from his horse and holding the reins lightly in one gloved hand, he walked up to where they stood.

Stopping a few feet from Whitley, Marcus drawled, “Ah, so you knew Mr. and Mrs. Manning in India, did you?”

Whitley inclined his head, his dark eyes watchful. “Yes. Hugh and I met while I was stationed in India.” He sent Marcus a man-to-man smile. “We were merry bachelors together in those days and I considered Hugh one of my boon companions. His marriage did not change our friendship and once Mrs. Manning joined him in Bombay, she frequently invited me to dine at their home.” He flashed a glance at Isabel. “For which I am forever grateful. Mrs. Manning was a most gracious hostess to a poor bachelor officer. She and Manning often entertained several of us stationed there.”

Whitley was a big and burly man and his dark hair was lightly peppered with silver. His black eyes were set under well-marked brows and at one time he might have been considered quite handsome, but lines of dissipation blurred and distorted his once chiseled features. Marcus disliked him on sight.

“An Army officer,” Marcus remarked politely. “Retired. Recently.” He looked perplexed. “How very odd. With Castlereagh at the War Department again and the gossip buzzing ’round the country about a possible invasion of the continent by Sir Wellesley this summer, I would have thought that the military would have use of an experienced officer like yourself. I vaguely remember a friend in the Army saying not long ago that the war with France was making advancement up the ranks easier and that for a career man it was a capital time to be in the service.”

Whitley ignored the implication that there was something unseemly about the timing of his retirement and shrugged. “I regret I won’t be part of the force that finally beats Napoleon, but after over twenty years in the military, I felt the need for a change.”

“Ah. And this, er, need for change brought you to Devon?” At Whitley’s nod, Marcus asked, “Do you intend to visit long in the neighborhood?”

Whitley’s eyes slid to Isabel. His gaze returning to Marcus, he smiled and said, “My plans are not firm yet. I find that there are, ah, certain attractions in the area not to be found elsewhere.”

“Really?” Marcus murmured, his skepticism insultingly overt. “Now, that I do find most odd, indeed! We have no particular geographical sites of interest nearby and while the Devon coast is spectacular in places, we are situated some miles inland from its charms.” The expression in his gray eyes unreadable, he said in a voice just shy of sarcastic, “Do you know, I have lived here all my life and I cannot at the moment call to mind those, er, ‘certain attractions’ that would hold the attention of a seasoned traveler like yourself. Perhaps you would care to share specifics with me? Especially since I seem to have overlooked them.”

Whitley did not like either Marcus’s tone or the persistent questioning, but he wasn’t going to let the other man rattle him. Seeking guidance in dealing with this tall, formidable gentleman, he cast Isabel a glance. But there was no guidance to be found from that quarter; her pretty mouth half open, her eyes wide and startled, Isabel was staring at Marcus as if she had never seen him before.

If she didn’t know better, Isabel thought incredulously, she’d swear that Marcus—staid, sober, excruciatingly polite
Marcus
—was determined to provoke a fight with an utter stranger! Uneasily, she stared at that rigid jaw and those cool gray eyes, wondering where the cordial, amiable, oh, and
sometimes infuriating, gentleman she had known most of her life had gone.

Since Isabel was no help, Whitley said lightly, “I find that strangers to an area are more likely to see gems all around…gems that are overlooked by those who pass them by every day.”

“That may be true,” Marcus agreed. “But I’d still like to know of which gems you speak.”

Whitley’s lips tightened. Was the man obtuse? In no mood to continue to exchange veiled remarks with an irritating stranger, Whitley considered his next move. Ordinarily, in the face of the blunt hostility radiating from the stranger, he might have retreated and returned at a better time, but Isabel’s show of spirit needed to be dealt with immediately. If she thought she could fob him off so easily, she would soon learn to her cost that such was not the case! He slanted another assessing look at the newcomer and stifled an oath. Unless he missed his guess the fellow wasn’t going to give ground anytime soon. So who the devil was this country bumpkin? Realizing that the stranger had never introduced himself, Whitley said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you gave me your name.”

“I am Marcus Sherbrook,” Marcus answered, no sign of his normal friendliness in his voice.

“Not the ‘clutch-fisted, monster guardian’ who drove our dear Mrs. Manning from England?” exclaimed Whitley, an expression of astonishment crossing his face.

Unsmiling, Marcus glanced at Isabel, who dropped her eyes and had the grace to blush. Looking back at Whitley, he bowed and said coolly, “The same. Although, I believe that ‘
former
clutch-fisted, monster guardian’ would be the correct title these days.”

“I must say,” Whitley remarked, “that I am most happy to make your acquaintance. Since my dear Mrs. Manning spoke of you so often, why, I feel that I know you already.”

A derisive gleam in his eyes, Marcus murmured, “How fortunate for me that my reputation goes before me.”
And if this black-eyed knave,
Marcus thought grimly,
calls Isabel “my dear Mrs. Manning” in that smarmy tone of voice one more time…
His hand formed into a formidable fist and the satisfying image of that same fist smashing into Whitley’s face whipped through his mind.