A Perfect Scandal (3 page)

She reached out and touched his chest. “You may say such things, but your eyes tell another story. I know you felt something for me when we danced last night. I could feel it, and I’m guessing you did as well.”

Marcus’s throat tightened at her touch. Despite his reservations, his common sense, he was by no means blind to her face and form. His gaze dropped from her blue eyes to her full, bottom lip, and a trickle of sweat formed on his brow.

It’s this room,
he told himself.
Any man would be stiff as a board if he were propositioned by a beautiful woman in such an erotic environment.

He placed his big hand over her smaller one and moved it away. “You’re wrong. How would an innocent girl like you know how I felt last night?”

She stepped forward; he stepped back.

“I’m not a girl and you know it. I’m past the age of schoolgirl fantasies. I’m a real woman with interests and desires, and being married off to a dominating, old lord is not one of them.”

He continued retreating until he realized with dismay that they were closer to the round, satin-encased bed.

Damnation.

If she were an experienced lady looking for sport, he would oblige her and happily. But this was Isabel Cameron, an innocent lady whose influential father was an earl and a friend of Marcus’s father. Memories of her childhood antics were still pure and clear in his mind.

“Isabel,” he warned, his tone low and rough.

“I’m very persistent when I want something. Remember how I was as a young girl, Marcus? As a grown woman, I’m even more tenacious when I desire something.” Her voice was a velvet murmur.

She was so close he could see her irises grow in the dim light. She stared at him with longing, and he was completely taken by surprise. No one had looked at him that way in a long time, especially not a lady. He was an outsider, an outcast, whose own family looked down upon him. Here was a remarkably beautiful woman who gazed at him as if he were her
savior
, and a spark of unfamiliar need flared inside him so great he struggled to deal with the ravaging emotion.

His gaze fell to the creamy expanse of her neck, then lower still, to the rounded tops of her full breasts. When his eyes returned to hers, there was no maidenly innocence in the sky blue depths, only physical awareness of him as a man. Her invitation was a passionate challenge, impossible to resist. He had an overwhelming desire to hold her, taste her, trace her full bottom lip with his tongue…

His body grew hot; his heart hammered in his chest.

How much could a man resist?

After all, what harm could one kiss do?

He moved toward her, impelled involuntarily by his own lust. She glided into his arms and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Still, he held himself back and looked into her eyes. “Isabel, this is madness.”

“That’s what makes it perfect,” she whispered, and then drew his face to hers.

He was solid like a mountain. Isabel felt every hard muscle of his chest pressing into her body. His arms tightened around her, and she could feel the heat of his hands through the thin fabric of her gown. His mouth hovered above hers, his hot breath fanning her lips. A wild look flashed in his eyes, but he hesitated.

“For someone who claims to want a lover, I think you’re ignorant of men,” he said.

“That’s not true,” she protested.

“Have you ever been kissed before?”

“Of course. Three times to be exact.” When he looked at her with disbelief, she rushed to add, “On the mouth.”

“By whom?”

“Is that important? All I can say is that I’m a fourth-year debutante. I’ve had my fair share of spins around the dance floor and private walks in the garden.”

“Is that where it happened?”

“Where what happened?”

“The kisses. In the garden.”

She looked at him quizzically. “I don’t recall.”

“That’s odd. I would think you would remember every detail of those kisses, especially your first. Perhaps you’re overestimating your experience. You shouldn’t seek a lover after all. A husband sounds more appropriate,” he said, his tone harsh.

“That’s a falsehood conjured up by men. Auntie Lil says a woman must experience at least two lovers to be happy, neither of which should be her husband.”

“Does she now? Your aunt sounds quite unconventional.”

“Oh yes, she is. She’s wonderful in her forward way of thinking and behaving. She’s an artist, like me, only she tends to work with oils while I prefer watercolors. Either way, she lives a full and exciting life which includes many male artists and models, but no husband. I visited her last summer in Paris and can’t wait to return. Father doesn’t understand Auntie Lil’s progressive ideas. He thinks there is no alternative for me except to be suitably settled.”

“He’s right. As a child who thrived on mischief, you needed a strong hand. Nothing has changed.”

She met his gaze without flinching. “Why refuse me? I thought all men, married and bachelors, had affairs.”

“Wherever did you hear that?”

She shrugged. “Women talk, Marcus.”

“Well, it is not true. Some men have respect for the sanctity of marriage, and as a rule, gentlemen don’t have liaisons with titled debutantes.”

He dropped his arms from around her, and she felt a sudden inexplicable sense of loss.

For the first time since arriving at the Westley mansion, a flicker of apprehension coursed through her. She had been certain that Marcus would be a willing participant in her scheme. From what she had heard about men, their base needs always overrode their reason.

A sudden unbidden image of Lord Walling seared her brain. Depraved appetites in bed, Charlotte had said.

No, she could never imagine a life of wifely servitude to Walling. Isabel’s spine stiffened with resolve. No matter how crazy her plan sounded to Marcus, she had to find a way to convince him.

Wasn’t freedom worth the price? What was a scandal, a ruined reputation, compared to a lifetime of unhappiness?

She rested her hand against his jacket, and felt the strong beat of his heart through the fine material. “I’m not asking for a permanent relationship. A fleeting affair would be perfect.”

“No, Isabel—”

“We don’t have to disclose it to all of society as I had initially desired, just my father and Lord Walling.” She licked her lips.

His dark gaze fell to her mouth, and she sensed a vulnerability in him. Stepping close, pressing herself against his chest, she tipped her head to his.

“Are you certain?” she asked.

He pushed back a long lock of dark hair that brushed her shoulder, and his arms again closed around her. “God help me. You’ve talked nothing but complete insanity since you’ve walked in here, yet I can’t seem to come to my senses and leave this room.”

“Perhaps you will reconsider.”

Firm lips brushed her forehead, her temple. “No, Isabel. You deserve far better than me. I’m damaged, not worthy.” His mouth lowered to within an inch of hers.

Her lashes fluttered closed, and she awaited the touch of his lips.

The door burst open, crashing against the opposite wall.

Marcus stiffened and thrust her behind him.

Isabel stumbled back and fell onto the satin-encased bed.

“There he is,” a voice boomed.

A long-limbed man strode into view. Hairless, with pencil-thin brows and a pointed nose, he projected an air of haughtiness. He was flanked by two big, brawny men dressed entirely in black, their menacing expressions masks of stone.

“Where is it, Mr. Hawksley?” the lanky man who appeared to be in charge asked.

Marcus’s brow furrowed. “Where’s what, Dante?”

The man named Dante walked forward, eye to eye with Marcus. The pair of intimidating lackeys who looked like overgrown guard dogs followed in Dante’s wake.

“You know precisely what I’m speaking about,” Dante snapped. “The Thomas Gainsborough painting, what did you do with it?”

Marcus’s expression grew hard. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. As for the Gainsborough painting, I haven’t seen it since I walked into the Westley mansion.”

Dante snorted. His bald head glistened as if he had polished his scalp to add to his air of superiority. “Lying will not help your case. The auction was scheduled to take place over half an hour ago. I sent my guards”—he jerked a hand in the direction of the two men beside him—“to search the mansion when they discovered the painting was missing.”

“So? What does that have to do with me?” Marcus asked.

“You were the last person to view the painting. I’m aware of your fascination—your obsession—with Gainsborough’s work.”

“You’re mistaken,” Marcus said. “I never laid eyes on it. You gave me directions to this room, and as far as I can tell, there is no Gainsborough painting here.”

Dante shook his head. “I never led you here. I gave you specific directions to the room at the end of the hall past the library where
Seashore with Fishermen
was hanging in prominent display.”

“This is the only room I’ve been in, and I resent your accusatory tone that I’m the one responsible for the missing painting. Anyone in this mansion could have taken it,” Marcus said.

“I’m fully aware of the interests and tastes of every one of the prospective clients that I allow in my auctions. The only other that was interested in the Gainsborough painting was Lord Yarmouth, on behalf of the Regent himself. It would have sold for a hefty price. I realize that, as a working stockbroker, you may not have sufficient funds to bid on so valuable a piece of artwork. Perhaps your obsession clouded your brain, and you stole the painting. That is what a justice of the peace will call motive, Mr. Hawksley.”

Marcus’s face set in a vicious expression. “Listen here, Dante, because I’m only going to say this once. I never set eyes on the Gainsborough painting.”

“You can tell that to the constable.”

A muscle leapt at Marcus’s jaw. Fists clenched at his sides, he stepped toward the auctioneer.

The gargantuan guards blocked his path.

“Wait!” Isabel cried out.

Four pairs of eyes turned to her, Dante and the two guards seeing her for the first time. Sitting on the round bed, gripping the satin sheets, she had been concealed by Marcus’s large frame. But now that she had called attention to herself, she sensed the tension from each man in the room pierce her like a dagger.

She struggled to find her voice, her throat suddenly as dry as old parchment. “Marcus didn’t take the painting. I can attest to this fact.”

Dante’s stare drilled into her. “Who are you?”

Isabel felt her face grow hot. “Marcus did not steal anything.”

Marcus scowled at her. “Not another word—”

“Who are you?” Dante repeated.

Marcus stepped toward her. “Don’t say anything—”

“My name is Lady Isabel Cameron.” She shimmied off the bed, the slippery sheets sliding beneath her. It seemed a long way off the round bed with the attention of four intimidating men focused on her, but her feet finally touched the floor. She stood and, with damp palms, smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her skirts.

With confidence she did not feel, she directed her attention to Dante. “As I said, I’m Lady Isabel Cameron, daughter of Lord Cameron, the Earl of Malvern.” Her tone insinuated that any auctioneer worthy of his salt would be familiar with the titled nobility.

Dante blinked. “I must ask, Lady Isabel, how do you know Mr. Hawksley was not involved in the disappearance of the painting at issue.”

“I’m sure you can surmise the truth.”

Dante’s bold gaze raked over her figure, noting the low-cut bodice of her gown, the dark disheveled hair brushing her shoulders and flowing down her back. He smirked.

“No, Lady Isabel,” Dante said, “I dare not surmise anything without proof. But perhaps you’re mistaken. After all, the painting was insured by Lloyd’s of London, and the company will promptly send an insurance investigator who will want to take your statement, to question you. Your father, the earl, will undoubtedly be notified. Everyone will know, especially Lord Yarmouth, the Regent’s own art agent who wanted the painting for Carlton House. Even Lady Yarmouth, whom I understand is firmly entrenched in the ton, accompanied him today. Is that what you want, Lady Isabel?”

He’s trying to intimidate me!
she thought.

The implication was clear. Dante was threatening her with social ruin if she continued to act as Marcus’s alibi. But what the arrogant auctioneer didn’t know was that Isabel had planned and failed to achieve such a fate only moments ago.

Tossing her head, she eyed Dante with cold challenge. “Mr. Hawksley was with me the entire time. We are lovers, you see.”

“Isabel,” Marcus growled. He spun to face Dante. “She’s lying.”

“I am not.”

Dante’s cold eyes clawed her like talons, and his narrow, pinched face twisted in anger. She was taken aback at the auctioneer’s fury.

Shouldn’t he be relieved to know that one suspect was cleared and to start searching for another?

Alarm rippled along her spine. It was as if he
wanted
Marcus to be guilty of the theft.

“I see,” Dante said, an icy edge to his voice. “Since you are so eager to vouch for Mr. Hawskley despite the consequences to yourself, I must insist that you give a full accounting of what time you arrived and what transpired.”

“I have no objection,” she said.

“I do,” Marcus snapped.

“An informal statement will eliminate the need to call the constable. I’m certain the Lloyd’s investigator will find the information useful to eliminate Mr. Hawksley as a suspect. Unless of course, Lady Isabel has changed her mind.”

“I have not,” she said.

Dante’s eyes narrowed, and again she was struck by his anger. “Please follow me then, Lady Isabel,” he said, turning to leave.

It was a demand more than a request. The two burly guards escorted Marcus as they followed Dante out of the room.

Isabel averted her gaze from the erotic art as she hurried past. It seemed odd that the obscene nature of the statues hadn’t disturbed her when she had been alone with Marcus, but now that she was in the presence of Dante and his men, the artwork made her skin crawl.

They were led to the parlor of the Westley mansion, which was now empty after the auction.

Marcus gave her a penetrating look. “Don’t do anything until I get back.”

He then turned on his heel and followed Dante and the guards out of the room, leaving her alone.

She looked about the parlor. Remaining pieces of artwork that had not sold were sprawled around the perimeter of the room. Canvases rested against the wall, a copy of a Greek bust sat in a corner, and bronze bowls and crystal figurines were spread out on a table. Dust mites swirled in a stream of light from a nearby window. Isabel sneezed and rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled.

She sat in an armchair by the empty fireplace and waited for what seemed like a long time. A majestic long-case clock in a dark corner ticked by the seconds, and the sound echoed throughout the room. Her anxiety built with the passage of time, and she experienced a sudden, inexplicable urge to flee. It was as if the solitude in the strange room exposed the impulsiveness in her plan. To escape a loveless match by sullying her reputation now felt recklessly foolish. There had to be another way to ensure her freedom, to convince her father that Lord Walling was ill suited for her, and most importantly, that her fascination with art was not a woman’s passing hobby.

She stood, ready to flee the room, the mansion, and return home.

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

The door swung open, and Isabel lurched in surprise. Not only did Lord and Lady Yarmouth enter, but so did her father and Lord Walling.