Deceived

Isabella took a deep breath. For a moment she was poised on the brink and then there was no return.

“I want you to marry me,” she said.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS DOWNRIGHT OUTRAGEOUS.

Marcus John Ellis, seventh Earl of Stockhaven, had been waiting for an opportunity like this for twelve long years. He had not expected it to present itself in the Fleet Prison.

Marcus was accustomed to dealing with the unforeseen. Eight years spent in His Majesty’s Navy before unexpectedly coming into a distant cousin’s earldom had given him a wide and colorful experience of life. This, however, was something that he could never have anticipated. It was ironic, amusing, extraordinary. And it should have been out of the question, of course. But it was also remarkably tempting.

“You are twelve years too late, my love,” he said sardonically, and watched the color rush into Isabella’s cheeks at his casually cruel use of the endearment that had once meant so much.

“The church was booked, the bridegroom in attendance, the only thing that was missing was the bride—if you recall.”

He watched her thoughtfully. She looked almost the same and yet heartbreakingly different from the debutante of seventeen who had jilted him at the altar. In the dank confines of the prison, she seemed hopelessly out of place. It made no odds that she had taken steps to disguise her appearance with a plain black cloak and practical boots. For a start, she was a great deal cleaner than anyone else who had set foot in his cell during the past three months. Then there was the fact that she smelled not of rank sweat and tobacco but innocently of jasmine. He remembered that scent on her skin and in her hair. Autumn hair, he had once told her, layered with hues of gold and copper and russet like fallen leaves. The memory sharpened an edge of hunger in him. He felt his body harden in response to images that were as potent now as they had been twelve years before. Isabella naked in his arms, his hands on her, dark against the paleness of her skin, her gasp of shocked delight as their bodies touched, famished, desperate, forgetful of everything but the shimmering desire that burned between them. He had taken her fiercely, with no consideration for her virginity, and she had responded with unguarded passion. Then, afterward, in the intimate dark of the summerhouse…

“I should not have been so wanton….” She had sounded astonished at her own behavior and the capacity for pleasure that he had unlocked within her. He had drawn her damp body close to his and kissed her with humility and a blissful disbelief that had echoed her own.

“You are lovely and I will always love you.”

It had been sentimental, boyish stuff and it had been ripped apart brutally when she had left him standing at the altar and married someone else. Yet infuriatingly, no one had ever compared to Isabella in his eyes, not in all the long years since he had last seen her.

They had met as often as they could in the gardens of Salterton House. The secrecy had added an edge of excitement to their trysts that seemed well nigh unendurable. He had burned up with the need to possess her, each time more potent than the last, each caress a brand on her skin that was echoed in his heart. There, in the cool darkness of the summerhouse, he would pull her to him, his hands feverishly pushing aside the lace and silk of her clothing, kissing her with savage fervor, invading her body with his in a heated tangle of desire and need. The turbulent emotions she aroused in him had driven him to near madness.

Marcus blinked to dispel the memories and tried to rein in his galloping imagination. Such images were not conducive to clear thinking. But it was no wonder that he lusted after her even now. He had been a long time without a woman, for the whores who plied their trade in the Fleet held no interest for him. Besides, this woman would be enough to tempt a saint.

“Your love,” she said, and the ragged anger in her tone quenched his desire as sharply as a bucket of cold water. “I was never that, was I, Marcus? You married India quickly enough after you lost me. One cousin or the other—it seems it mattered little to you which.”

Marcus felt a violent flare of fury. He had been waiting twelve years to have this very subject laid bare between them and now she dared to put the blame on him?

“I was never so careless as to lose you, as you put it,” he said. “You discarded me when your prince made a better offer—”

She made an instinctive gesture of protest and he broke off. His heart leaped. For a second he had been convinced that she was about to refute his claim and say something of profound importance. He waited, in hope and sharp anticipation. Then her eyes went blank and he could feel the moment slip frustratingly away.

“You are correct,” she said. “That was precisely what I did. But that was a long time ago and this squabbling avails us nothing. It was foolish of me to think that you would be more inclined to help me than a stranger would. I imagine that the reverse is true.”

It was true. To see her now brought all Marcus’s feelings of anger and betrayal flaring into life again. For her to admit to being as venal as he had believed, with such barefaced lack of regret, seemed almost impossible. And yet it was all of a piece with her behavior. She had married for advantage, scorning him when a more promising offer had come along. She had cheated her cousin India out of her inheritance. And now she needed money again and she was prepared to bargain for it with the same ruthless lack of sentiment.

Only this time it appeared that he held all the cards. She needed his help. She was in his power.

“Sit down,” he said abruptly. The demand came out more harshly than he had intended and he saw her jump. She was as tense as a wild animal on the edge of flight. It was implicit in the way her fingers were locked together to prevent them from shaking visibly, and in the determination and anxiety he could read in those dark blue eyes. Evidently she was in such dire straits that even she felt nervous.

She looked startled at his request, as though she had assumed he would refuse her and tell her to be gone. He could see that she was anxious to leave now but he wanted to detain her. He had been given a second chance, unexpected and startling as it was. He had been given the opportunity for revenge.

It would not be simple. He would have to lure her into trusting him, but she was desperate and so he had a good chance of success. She must be desperate to even think of petitioning him for marriage, with what stood between them. He could tell that she was driven to extreme measures. He could read it in her uneasiness. So it was time to take advantage.

He gestured to the chair, moderating his tone.

“I beg your pardon. Will you not take a seat, Isabella?”

Her eyes widened a little at his use of her name. It appeared that she was about to give him a setdown for his familiarity. That was revealing. Very few women rebuffed Marcus Stockhaven. Mostly they encouraged any intimacy he was prepared to grant.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I prefer to stand.”

He understood instinctively that she had no wish to be put at a disadvantage by sitting while he had perforce to remain on his feet, there being only one chair in the cell. She was feeling vulnerable already and did not wish to give him the upper hand. Most decidedly she was a challenge. He felt his interest quicken.

“We could both sit down together over there,” he said, gesturing to the mattress in the corner.

There was a flash of disdain in her eyes. “I think not, sir. I do not seek to share your bed.”

“Not this time.” Marcus allowed his dark gaze to sweep over her once again. He kept all bitterness from his tone. “You merely want my name this time, or rather, my alias, since I imagine that anonymity suits your purpose as well as it suits mine. I am assuming that you wish to take advantage of my imprisonment for debt?”

He paused. A slight inclination of the head was her only reply.

“So.” He thought about it. “You owe money. A considerable sum.”

He saw a flicker of what looked like anger in her eyes but again she merely nodded.

“Your plan is to marry a debtor who agrees to take on your liability as well as his own. There is nothing your creditors can do to recover the money. Meanwhile your husband languishes in here for the foreseeable future and you are free to do as you wish. Do I have it aright?”

“In every detail.” She matched him in coolness, although he was certain that beneath the facade she was nowhere near as dispassionate as she appeared. He gave a short laugh, incredulous. It seemed that she never changed. It had all been about money before and so it was again.

“You certainly have the effrontery to carry it off, madam.”

“Thank you,” Isabella said sweetly.

There was a short silence, sharp with defiance. She raised her brows.

“So? Do you accept my proposal?”

Marcus almost laughed at her audacity. He was tempted to capitulate—she was walking straight into his trap, running even—but if he was to find out the things he wanted to know, he realized that he had to press his advantage first.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but there are certain things I must know before I consider granting you the protection of my name.”

She gave him a dry look. “I misjudged your situation then, sir. Are you in a position to be any more selective than I?”

Infinitely. Marcus did not say the word aloud, but he thought it. Isabella was not to know that, of course. She had assumed, not unnaturally, that he was confined in the Fleet because he was in debt. All indications suggested it, but it was in fact far from the truth. And since she had not asked him outright, Marcus was not about to tell her.

“How much do you owe?” he inquired. He pulled the chair toward him and sat astride it with his arms along the back, training his gaze on her face.

Her chin came up. She looked haughty. He read in her expression that she did not like the situation she was in and the measures she was obliged to take. She put him straight immediately.

“I owe nothing on my own account,” she said. “My late husband ran up debts of twenty thousand pounds in my name. I was abroad and had no notion of it. It was only when I returned to this country that I discovered the extent of my difficulty.” She stopped, biting her lip to quell the anger that was so evidently bubbling inside. Marcus smiled at the snappish tone. So she was furious with Prince Ernest Di Cassilis for landing her in such a predicament. She was proud and she hated her situation. Proud, beautiful and bankrupt. A damnable combination.

“How very annoying for you when Prince Ernest used to be such a rich man,” he said affably. “Such misfortune can overset anyone’s plans.”

Her eyes flashed. She understood all the things that he was implying. That she had jilted him because he was poor. That she had married Ernest for his title and his money. That everything that had come upon her was poetic justice.