What Isabella Desires (14 page)

“So you will marry her, then?”

Ice gripped his heart.

“Marcus?”

“One has nothing to do with the other,” he said coldly.

“Have you asked her that?”

“She’s the one who initiated this.”

James raised his brows.

“Ask her. I’m not going to discuss it.”

The room was silent for a tense moment.

Marcus raked a hand through his hair. “I need to go over plans for the next few days. Are you with me in this?”

They all nodded, Stephen more slowly than James and St. John.

“Stephen, I need you to take your seat and mine.”

While Stephen gaped, Marcus plotted. This was actually going to be a good plan on several fronts. He needed Stephen to become more involved in the House so that when he was unable to serve, Stephen could at least grudgingly do so.

“James, Sinjun, you’ll need to help him.”

“I don’t need help.” Stephen sounded outraged for once.

James gave him a sardonic look. “You don’t even like being a duke. If you didn’t care about people so much, I’d be concerned about your dependents. As it is, your estates are quite healthy, everyone on them is happy, but the political prestige of your title rests solely in Roth’s hands.”

Stephen wielded power, they all did, but Stephen’s power was of a different kind. He could fleece a miser out of all his money yet leave him smiling at having lost every penny. His power was in dealing with people, not paper, and Marcus knew he would be a force in Parliament if they could persuade him to sit in the sessions.

“Roth enjoys that type of intrigue,” Stephen said to James. “He doesn’t want me stepping in and thinking for myself on the House floor. And neither do I. We share the same views, he’s just willing to play. I’m quite happy having him as my proxy.”

“Well, I’m not going to be able to serve as your proxy for much longer,” Marcus snapped. “You’ll have to be mine.”

They all looked at him.

Damn.

Stephen’s gaze was most piercing. “Why is that?”

Marcus made sure his face was set in careless lines. “Payback. If I’m off playing with Isabella’s heart and keeping her out of reach of the villains who want everyone near me dead…you get to do this in my stead.”

He reviewed his words and frowned. “I don’t think any of you will be targeted. Injuring peers is too risky. But watch your backs.”

St. John tossed his head arrogantly, the distinctive white streak settling back across his eyes. “As if we’d do otherwise.”

Stephen stuck his thumb out toward St. John. “Give Sinjun the House tasks.”

“No, he and James already play. And I already speak partially in your name. I need you to take my part. I have everything you’ll need at my house. These two will help with the rest.”

Stephen sighed. “Very well. But I’m registering my vote against all of this.”

Isabella penned the notes of regret with the help of Bertie and her housekeeper, who held all the correspondence. “She regretted to inform them she was retiring from town earlier than first thought. Something unexpected had come up. She would see them upon her return.” And so forth.

She penned an additional note to her mother, telling her she’d been invited on a trip and would write again soon. She knew her mother would worry otherwise. She felt a pang of guilt. Her mother would worry anyway. There weren’t enough details in her note to satisfy—and her mother wasn’t stupid.

She’d probably get an earful when next she saw her.

She had achieved in one week what she thought it would take months to do—retire from London with Marcus. She wasn’t so sure of her own charms or naive enough not to question the haste—or the reason why there were currently five other people in her house who clearly had some other purpose for being here than to see Marcus and her off on some spontaneous trip.

Hopefully, during their trip he would confide in her. She was in the middle of the game, and he was clearly holding the most material on the board while her queen scurried about.

She would have to move her pieces cautiously until she could get a firm handle on his new strategy.

She intended to win.

She unfolded the coach blanket on her seat and shook out the tidy creases before draping it around her shoulders.

The door opened and Marcus stepped inside. The tails of his coat brushed her knees, and she pulled the edges of the furry blanket more tightly around her.

He ran his fingers through his dark hair as he sat down, but the haphazard locks refused to look anything other than skillfully arranged. There were darker smudges under his eyes, but they just added to the overall dangerous gleam within. Did the man never look bad?

He leaned back and closed his eyes briefly, then trained them on her. Golden predatory eyes surveying their prey.

“You look tired.”

“Tired? I look wretched. Being told to pack after midnight, then bustled into a carriage before the sun is up, tends to promote a less than desirable mien. The waning hours are rarely kind to us mere mortals—our eyes grow pinched like dried fruit, our skin turns gray as if drained by leeches, our disposition is less than sunny.”

The demon across from her smiled.

As the coach began to move, she positioned herself in place from long practice.

“I didn’t say you didn’t look desirable. Merely tired.”

“It was implied.”

He reached over and tucked a loose edge of the blanket under her thigh. The skin burned beneath. “Sleepy eyes, rumpled clothing, and tousled hair can be both desirable and a sign of tiredness.”

She put a hand to her hair to smooth it. “What did you do with Bertie?”

“She’s in the other carriage, have no fear.”

Isabella had relinquished her fears along with her baggage an hour ago when she’d finally become too tired to care.

She wondered if she could just nod off sitting upright, the way the elderly ladies occasionally did at balls. She envied the way Marcus lounged on the seat across from her. Her stays would in no way permit such an action. And there was no Bertie to lean against.

But there was Marcus.

“Since we are now on our way, will you tell me why you so suddenly decided to visit your seaside estate?”

“Will it not be easier to conduct an affair there?” His voice held a teasing note, but his eyes were serious.

Ire bit into her. She was in over her head—floundering while he made jokes and controlled the reins. Spiriting her off to the country was all well and good—definitely good for conducting an affair—but did it have to be at dawn? An ache from the lack of sleep settled behind her eyes. And where in Mary’s name was her pillow? Bertie couldn’t have forgotten her pillow, could she? She needed her pillow.

She looked around the coach, her eyes coming back to rest on Marcus. He looked as if he expected a response. Oh, right. “Yes, I suppose it might,” she said grudgingly.

He raised a brow. “You don’t seem so keen all of a sudden, Bella.”

She waved a hand. It was well-known in her household that no one interfered with her sleeping hours if they didn’t want a cranky mistress. Her thoughts began to slip into the haze. She’d find out answers to whatever it was she wanted to know later. “Budge over.”

His brows lifted, but he slid left. She pushed off her seat and settled next to him. His shoulder was soft, the feel of the cloth comfortable against her cheek.

He chuckled, the low vibrations strumming through her as she drifted off to sleep.

She didn’t feel the long fingers brushing the hair from her face, the lips that grazed the top of her head, or the blanket securely tucked around her.

Isabella woke to gentle rocking, her cheek pressed against something warm and firm. She tried stretching her legs, but pain radiated near her hip and her left leg felt tingly, as if it had long since fallen asleep.

Her right hand pressed into her pillow. It was round and long. What had gotten the goose down feathers into such a state? It was as if she were sleeping on a leg. A hard leg.

She opened her eyes and lurched upward. Papers fluttered to the floor.

She tried to sit upright, but her stays thought otherwise, and her pained hip and deadened leg remained firmly in place. Unable to maintain the precarious position, she slipped and fell right back into his leg.

A muffled chuckle met her reddened ears. Mortified, she put her hands on his leg to prop herself up, one hand higher than proper, if putting a hand on any part of a man’s leg could be deemed proper. His laughter ended abruptly.

She pushed upward. Just before she was fully upright, his hands scooped under her arms and lifted her, much like a cat about to be chastened. Or cuddled.

“You looked so uncomfortable after an hour or two that I thought this would be better.”

He settled her onto the seat. She had been quite capable of settling herself, she thought grumpily.

“My dignity begs to differ.”

“You fall so gracefully, though.” He leaned forward and pushed the ruffled curls back from her face. “And if I’m to have lips so near my…leg…would that they were yours.”

She was horrified to feel the heat rise, red hot and licking, to her skin.

She was saved from answering by a rap on the door. “My lord, my lady. We have arrived at The Green Man.”

Isabella hastily tried to tidy herself. Marcus smiled. He gave her a few moments before opening the door.

Bertie was anxiously peering around the groom. Marcus helped Isabella down, then her maid took charge, directing her to a room where she could freshen up.

Her legs were so stiff that she tried her best not to hobble inside.

As soon as they were shown to the room, Bertie began fussing.

“Oh, my lady. What have you done?”

Isabella looked in the tall mirror. Her hair was mussed on one side from sleeping, her clothing in disarray, and there was a rose print on her left cheek from pressing against Marcus’s shoulder and leg.

She looked as if she had experienced half an orgasm. One only on her left side.

She giggled, then hobbled over to the table mirror and chair so Bertie could put her to rights.

“You can’t even walk! What did that man do to you?”

Bertie had never sounded so scandalized.

“Oh, Bertie, settle down. I think it’s quite obvious what happened.”

Her maid looked even more horrified. “Are you hurt badly? Is there any bleeding?”

“Bertie! I slept the entire way.” She pointed to her hair, cheek, and clothing. “On my left side. Honestly, woman. What are you thinking?”

“That you were alone in a carriage with Lord Roth, whom you’ve fancied forever, and came out rumpled like a demirep the morning after,” she said baldly.

“Yes, well…” She busied herself fiddling with a comb on the table. “I can assure you that I am rumpled from sleep, and that is all.”

“If you say so, my lady.”

“Bertie, in all the many years you’ve known me, have I ever been less grumpy than when I haven’t slept?”

“No.” Bertie set to removing the pins from her hair.

“And this morning when I entered that carriage?”

“Grumpy.”

“And when I exited the carriage?”

“Well-sexed.”

“Bertie!”

“Fine,” she said grudgingly. “Less grumpy.”

“There you have it.”

“As if the attentions of the gentleman in question wouldn’t rouse you to wakefulness and settle your grumpiness.”

“I thought you said just the other day that I was the grumpiest sleeper you knew?”

Her maid mumbled as she repositioned the pins and patted her hair into place.

Her cheek returned to her normal shade, and her traveling dress was shaken out and straightened.

Marcus was determined to travel to his estate in Deal in one day, and seemed to have a network of fresh teams in place to do just that.

After a light meal they were off again, silent companions in small quarters. In addition to the lingering discomfort from the previous ride, her nerves were on edge. There was nothing for it. They were alone—and awake—no family, friends, or acquaintances to interrupt, push, or cast a shadow. Bertie was in the other carriage, probably chewing her nails and wailing silently about the state of her baby.

“Would you like to play?”

She looked up sharply to see him pulling a portable chessboard from his valise.

“Yes.”

They set up the board, Marcus giving her his beloved black pieces and claiming white.

“Do you have a sudden fascination for the valiant side?” she asked.

He shrugged, a smile hovering on his lips. “Heaven forbid that I do something nice.”

He moved his pawn forward for the king’s gambit.

She raised a brow and accepted the move. “Do play the same way you did in our last game. I know exactly how to beat you this time.”

“I wouldn’t dream of giving you a boring game, Bella. Never you.”

“I know you wouldn’t. ’Tis why I choose to play with you. You are why I keep coming back to the board.” She gave him a playful smile, but his eyes regarded her seriously.

She waited for him to say something, but he moved his pawn to take one of hers.

Her fingers brushed against his as she moved her pawn in a mirror move. The top of her fingers brushed beneath his pads, leaving shimmers in the wake.

“Will you play for me when we reach Grand Manor? I remember you saying you had purchased one of the new Broadwoods.”

He toyed with his bishop. “It’s an exceptional instrument. Seven octaves. There is nothing better on which to play Beethoven. The Viennese Stein in the town house is excellent, of course—the best for playing Mozart.”

“So you plan to brood in Deal?”

“Beethoven doesn’t brood. He struggles. He triumphs.”

She moved her knight. “Do you struggle, Marcus? It seems to me you more often triumph.”

He noticeably paused over his own knight, to her surprise. “Some struggles don’t end in triumph.”

“Of course they don’t. But you are not one for whom struggle is a daily word.”

“Am I not?”

His eyes grew darker and more brooding. The carriage wheels hit a rut and the board jostled precariously.

“Do you have a cursed illness? Are you poor in friends? Can you not afford a crumb of bread?” she asked lightly.

“I have not forgotten your husband. He was very sickly, was he not?”

She jerked, and the piece she had been about to move clattered to the floor. She bent to retrieve it, but he deftly picked it up and handed it to her, his fingers letting it go after a minute tug.

“George was ill toward the end, yes,” she said, moving her piece and only glancing up at him after.

He looked as if he were debating something.

“I heard from Stephen that you were donating a large sum to the Botanical Society in your husband’s name,” he finally said.

That hadn’t been what he was going to say, she was sure of it.

“Yes. We both loved to garden. His love of it carried him through to the end.”

“That, and his love of you.”

She remained silent and made another move.

“You should have told me you were donating so much. I will donate as well.”

She looked up sharply. “You hate gardening. You are the only person I know that dislikes flowers—every single variety of them.”

“But you like them.”

Her heart beat faster. “You know I do.”

He said nothing. She wished he would.

Another bump jarred the carriage, and he moved the board more securely onto his lap.

His silence unnerved her.

“Are you finally going to share why we are in such haste?”

“No.”

“No?”

Heavy lids concealed his eyes as he studied the board. “There were a few problems in Parliament. Too many new hotheads in both Houses. It was a good time to leave.”

“When have problems and hotheads ever rattled you? And why would either necessitate leaving London as we did—stealing away in the early morning?”

He didn’t answer for a minute. His hand caressed his queen.

“I could have stayed in the city. But I wanted to ply my fingers over that beautiful…Broadwood.”

His fingers flexed and his eyes studied her. She wanted the real answer, but was willing to wait him out. Especially when he looked at her like that.

“I’m sure the Broadwood can’t wait for you to play her,” she said, heat traveling down her limbs.

He shifted the board again to compensate for the rocking.

She moved four pieces closer to his territory in the next turns.

The board was nestled in his lap. So close as to almost be touching his stomach. Yet there were several good uncovered inches between.

Looking at the uncovered space and then up at his pensive expression, her hand strayed nearer. His expression changed. Tightened. Grew fierce. He was moving his pieces around the board in a strange fashion, giving her access to his king, but allowing his king to shift. Just a square one way or the other, always staying near the center back. Always giving her reason to move her pieces closer, circling, in order to capture him.