A Perfect Scandal (13 page)

Isabel paid the driver of the hackney cab and alighted without waiting for assistance. She lifted her chin a notch at the stares she received walking alone down St. James’s Street. She had lied about her whereabouts this afternoon, saying she was shopping with Charlotte, and had evaded Kate’s hovering presence.

This was not the type of visit in which a chaperone was desired.

She spotted the popular male establishments, Brooks’s, Boodle’s, and White’s. Despite the early afternoon hour, men were in the bay window of White’s, liquor glasses in hand.

Isabel recalled her conversation the prior evening with Lady Ravenspear, which had been both surprising and enlightening. Victoria had said the earl had sold the town house on St. James’s Street—a prestigious and popular address for a wealthy bachelor’s home—to Marcus.

Victoria had also claimed Marcus Hawksley was not only well-to-do, but “filthy rich.”

Could it be true?

It would explain Marcus’s unusual behavior: He had rejected her dowry; he had hired an investigator; he had never, at least to Charlotte’s knowledge, asked his family for money; and he was an avid art collector.

Isabel’s curiosity was piqued, and she felt compelled to learn the truth. She spotted the town house, and her inquisitiveness grew with each step she took.

She reached the porch and lifted the heavy brass knocker.

The door swung open, and a butler with a somber expression opened the door and looked down at her.

“Lady Isabel Cameron to see my betrothed, Mr. Hawksley.”

The butler’s face immediately softened at the sight of the future mistress standing on the porch. “My lady, what a pleasure.” He stepped back and opened the door wide. “I will inform Mr. Hawksley at once.”

Isabel stepped inside. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the black and white marble floor, elegant chandelier, and grand long-case clock in the corner. She handed her cloak to the butler, her eyes never leaving the well-appointed vestibule.

“Would you like refreshment while you wait, my lady?”

“No thank you Mr….”

“Jenkins, my lady. Mr. Hawksley calls me Jenkins.”

She smiled. “Then Jenkins it is.”

She turned to follow Jenkins to a formal receiving room, when Marcus strode into the vestibule. He was carrying a sheath of papers, and stopped short when he spotted her.

“Isabel! What a surprise.”

She couldn’t discern by his tone whether he was pleased or not, but she smiled at him just the same.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hawksley.”

Marcus walked forward with a grin of amusement. “Welcome to
your
future home.”

He took her elbow and looked back at the butler. “Jenkins, please have Mrs. McLaughlin bring tea for the lady.” Taking her elbow, Marcus led her not to the receiving room, but to the library instead.

It was a large room, and from the stacks of papers piled high on a massive desk, it was clearly his office as well.

Row after row of books bound in supple leather lined the walls. Massive mahogany shelves on one side of the room held art history and picture books, only some of which she recognized. Matching shelves on the opposite wall held books pertaining to the London Stock Exchange and economics in general. Two wheeled ladders hung on runners so they could be wheeled back and forth, ensuring access to the top shelves. The desk and a leather hammer-head chair sat in front of a wide bay window, and she assumed Marcus spent many hours here conducting business. A pair of smaller leather chairs were situated before a fireplace.

Isabel knew books were costly, and the furnishings in the room combined with the content on the shelves clearly pronounced that it was an affluent man’s library office.

But affluent did not mean “filthy rich.”

Marcus tossed the sheath of papers in his hand onto a stack on the desk. He then led her to one of the chairs before the hearth and sat beside her.

“I’m glad you came,” he said. “I want to thank you for accompanying me to the Ravenspears’ home last evening. Blake is like a brother to me, more so than my own.”

She tilted her head, looking at him uncertainly. “I thought you would be upset with my loose tongue at dinner.”

“You mean when you brought up a list of my enemies?” he said, a faint glint of humor in his eyes. “You had reason to be upset.”

Isabel knew he was referring to Simone Winston’s dreadful visit.

“I also realize the sherry was partly responsible for your haranguing speech,” Marcus said.

She grimaced and rubbed her temple. “You may be happy to learn I woke with a pounding headache.”

He gave her a smile that sent her pulses racing. “I had wondered about your physical state this morning.”

She smiled back. “A truce then?”

“How could a man refuse?”

He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. His lips were whisper soft, his kiss chaste, and yet she inhaled sharply at the contact. His clean and manly scent wafted to her, and her heartbeat skyrocketed.

He raised his head, his dark, unfathomable eyes meeting hers. Something passed between them, a vaguely sensuous light…a thread of attraction that was as mesmerizing as it was dangerous.

The door opened suddenly and an older, matronly woman entered carrying a tray laden with a silver teapot and china. A crisp uniform strained against her ample bosom, and her steel gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Walking into the library, she placed the heavy tray on an end table beside Marcus. At the sight of Isabel, her wrinkled face creased into a friendly smile.

Marcus cleared his throat and made the introduction. “This is my devoted housekeeper, Mrs. McLaughlin.”

Isabel stood. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Your services will be invaluable to me after we marry. I hope you do not mind when I look to you for all manner of advice.”

Mrs. McLaughlin beamed. “I would be honored, my lady. I speak on behalf of the entire staff, and we all look forward to your arrival as mistress.”

The housekeeper departed, and Marcus chuckled. “You seem to have charmed both Jenkins and Mrs. McLaughlin easily enough.”

“You may find it surprising, but most people like me.”

“I never doubted you, my dear.” He picked up a gleaming silver teapot from the tray and made to pour her a cup.

Isabel shook her head. “Perhaps later. I would much rather first see your home, especially your art collection.”

Marcus set the teapot down. “That is a splendid idea. It is rare that I have the opportunity for an artist to view my collection.”

She followed him out of the library and three doors down into a spacious room that had been converted into his private gallery. He opened the door, and she strained to see behind him. She glimpsed an array of canvases on the walls and stone pedestals that held busts and sculptures in the center of the room. Bright sunlight streamed in from the windows. The only furnishings, a chaise and a dainty cherry wood table, sat in a corner.

Isabel pictured Marcus sitting on the chaise, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, admiring his collection.

They walked farther into the room, and as the canvases came into focus, she started, instantly awed by the beautiful artwork he had acquired. There were oils, charcoals, watercolors, and artifacts, each piece obviously chosen with care. There were works by sporting artists, showing the fine lines and majestic breeding of stallions. Others were landscapes of glorious faraway places and exotic beaches. But to her surprise, there were no portraits.

“I thought you were a connoisseur of Thomas Gainsborough’s work.”

He met her eyes and nodded. “I am.”

“But I don’t see any portraits here, and Thomas Gainsborough was known as a portrait painter.”

“True, but his real love was painting landscapes. Painting the nobility was merely a way to support himself. That’s why I wanted to acquire the
Seashore with Fishermen
. It was one of a set of coastal scenes he had displayed at the Royal Academy in 1781 which had been painted from sketches made in Ipswich, the seaport town where he and his young wife had resided. The painting is said to be so realistic that you can almost feel the spray of the ocean on your face as you gaze upon it.”

She sighed. “I heartily wish I had a chance to view it before it was stolen.”

“So do I,” he said with light bitterness.

“May I keep looking?”

He motioned with his hand. “Of course.”

An imposing oil on the far wall caught her eye. “This is an exquisite replica of Rembrandt’s
Shipbuilder and His Wife.
”

“How did you know it was a copy?”

“I know because the Regent himself bought the original three years ago, in 1811, at an auction for five thousand guineas. Prinny hung it in the Blue Velvet Room of Carlton House.”

Marcus laughed. “Bravo! You truly are more knowledgeable than most. Lord Stafford saw my copy and believed it to be the original, despite my protests, until he viewed the real painting at Carlton House himself.”

“It is a remarkable reproduction.”

“What do you think of my watercolors?”

She turned to study another wall in which Marcus’s watercolors were grouped together. Most were landscapes and still-life paintings, but a few were of country folk conducting activities of daily life. “They are breathtaking.”

He moved to stand beside her, his body mere inches from her. A ripple of awareness passed through her, and she realized how much she was drawn to him…how much she enjoyed talking with him about their common love of art.

His eyes caught and held hers. “Tell me why you prefer watercolors,” he said.

“I am only an amateur in need of further instruction,” she said, “but I fell in love with watercolors over oils because they can be carried out with complete freedom. Watercolors blur the boundary between painting and drawing. When I paint, my brush flows onto the paper swiftly and inspires me to capture the moment with fierce spontaneity.”

“Free, spontaneous, impulsive, and beautiful…that does describe you perfectly.”

Heat throbbed in her cheeks. He was not the type of man to flatter a woman. Compliments did not roll off his tongue like the popinjays of the ton. He meant every word, and his admission stirred her. The thought crossed her mind that, as a mischievous and impish twelve-year-old girl, she would have given her front teeth to hear such praise from him.

His appeal was devastating, and it was too easy to get lost in her emotions and forget their agreement. Uncomfortable with her feelings, she said the first thing that came to mind. “Lady Ravenspear told me you were ‘filthy rich,’ but I doubted her word.”

“What?”

“Seeing your home, your collection, for the first time, tells me she was right.”

“You thought I was poor?” he asked.

“You never led me to believe otherwise.”

His lips twitched with amusement. “I didn’t think my financial status was of concern to you when you had first propositioned me for a salacious affair, or afterward when we agreed to a marriage of convenience.”

“Nonetheless, you could have informed me.”

He grinned. “I’m not accustomed to discussing my wealth, and unlike the Bennings, I do not feel the need to openly display it to inflate my ego.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thank goodness for small blessings.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I am glad you came today. I have something for you, my dear.” He moved to the table beside the chaise. Opening a slender drawer, he pulled out a cigar-sized box.

He came up to her and handed it to her. “Please open it.”

Curiosity swelled in her breast. She glanced at him, then reached for the lid. She opened the box, and gasped.

A radiant ruby ring the size of a pigeon’s egg surrounded by brilliant diamonds lay nestled in folds of black velvet. Beside the ring sat a miniature artists’ palette of handcrafted silver. Precious jewels of opal, ruby, emerald, sapphire, onyx, and a yellow diamond represented the colors in the palette.

She looked up at him, at a loss for words.

“I realize that you did not seek to get married, but I wanted to give you a betrothal ring, and at the same time, the artist’s pallet is to remind you of your life-long dream.”

A vibrant chord hummed throughout her body at his words. The ruby was as extravagant as it was stunning, but it was the symbolic thoughtfulness behind the miniature artist’s pallet that brought tears to her eyes.

“Oh, Marcus. They are both lovely. Thank you.”

She threw her arms around his neck, the box clutched in her right hand behind him. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his in a brief kiss.

She felt him stiffen and thought he would move back, but instead his arms swiftly encircled her, one hand in the small of her back, holding her tight against him.

She looked up, and a compelling eager look flashed in his eyes. In that instant, the undeniable magnetism that had been building between them seemed to intensify a hundredfold, and she felt the blood surge from her fingertips to her toes.

“Sweet Lord, Isabel. What have you done to me?”

His mouth swooped down to capture hers. His kiss was urgent and hungry at once, like the soldering heat that joins metals. In wicked remembrance, she parted her lips in eager anticipation of his ravishment. He took full advantage, eagerly exploring her mouth. Her tongue touched his, tentatively at first, until a delicious shudder heated her body, and she boldly returned his kiss. The box slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor with a loud thump.

She jerked back. “The jewels—”

“Forget them,” he growled. Holding her head captive with firm fingers, he reclaimed her lips.

She grasped his shoulders, his muscles hard slabs beneath his shirt. Succumbing to an overwhelming impulse to touch him elsewhere, her fingers grazed over his arms, and she was exhilarated by his tightly coiled power. Her roaming hands moved to his chest, and she reveled in the strength and warmth of his flesh and the pounding of his heart through the thin cotton fabric.

He groaned low in his throat at her touch. His lips left her mouth and traced a sensuous path down her neck. He nipped at her ear, then sucked the sensitive lobe full into his mouth.