Deceived (2 page)

John Ellis placed the book on the table in front of him and looked up at her for a very long moment. There was a stillness about him that was striking. He did not say a word.

"Stand up when a lady enters the room," the turnkey snapped at him.

The gentleman allowed his gaze to travel very slowly and insolently down Isabella's entire body, from the peak of her hood to the tips of her shoes. Then, with equal deliberation, he removed his booted feet from the table and sat up a little straighter, but still he did not stand. There was an insolent appraisal in his eyes that brought the blood to Isabella's face and her chin up in haughty defiance. His gaze fixed on her face and he did not look away for a single instant. His eyes were hard, his expression that of a man who has seen and done too much and will never again feel any emotion stronger than indifference.

Recognition, shocking and instantaneous, hit Isabella in the stomach. The world closed in around her. She felt seventeen again and a heedless debutante, barely more than a child. She remembered how her eyes had met those of this gentleman, not across some romantically crowded ballroom, but prosaically, over the teacups in her aunt's shabby drawing room at Salterton.

"Who is that young man?" she had asked her aunt, Lady Jane Southern, and Jane had smiled and replied:

"His name is Marcus Stockhaven, my dear, and he is a lieutenant in the navy." Jane had frowned a little as she'd watched Isabella's expressive face. "Do not develop a
tendre
for him, Bella, for your mama would never allow the match. He is a nobody."

She had spoken too late, of course. The
tendre
had blossomed instantly as Isabella had sat there, her gaze locked with the direct dark one of the man in the doorway. She had felt excited and faint and deliciously helpless to fight against her fate.

"He has no money and no expectations and your mama wishes you to marry well," Jane had reminded her crisply, but her words of warning had been like an echo fading in the dark. Isabella had paid them no heed and had rushed headlong into first love. It had been a love that was going to end, quite properly, in a wedding. But then she had been obliged to marry Prince Ernest and everything had gone wrong. . . .

Now, as her gaze met and held that of Marcus Stockhaven in much the same way as it had done in that faded drawing room twelve years before, Isabella felt a stunning sense of awareness and loss. A longing seared through her that made both the love and the heartbreak feel sharp and alive, as though all the feelings he had thought were dead had merely been sleeping and were awoken to instant life.

Then Stockhaven spoke, and the shackles of the past were broken.

"A lady," he said thoughtfully, his gaze still resting on her. "I think you mistake. What possible reason could a lady have for coming here?"

One of the gamesters looked up and made a remark so coarse that Isabella winced. She raised a hand to stop the swelling indignation of the turnkey.

"Thank you," she said crisply. "I will deal with this. Please show. . .Mr. Ellis. . .and myself to a room where we may speak alone."

Her request caused some consternation. Evidently the jailer had not anticipated that she would require a private conversation and there were few facilities to deal with such an eventuality,

Marcus Stockhaven got to his feet. "You wish to speak privately with me, madam?"

"I do," Isabella said.

Stockhaven's
voice was smooth and cold and its tone was mocking. "Surely you are aware that the price of privacy is higher than rubies in a place like this, madam?"

"It is fortunate then that I have brought my emeralds with me," Isabella said, with composure. "Their price
is
higher than that of rubies."

She put her hand in her reticule and withdrew the emerald bracelet that Ernest had given her when their daughter was born. He had told her that had the child been a boy then the bracelet would have been of diamonds. The emeralds were second best, like her marriage. She had never quite measured up to Ernest's expectations, but at least his gift would come in useful at last.

In the dark light of the cell, the jewels glimmered with a deep radiance. The gamblers paused; one swore with awe and avarice.

"A private room," Isabella repeated to the jailer. "At once."

"At once, madam," the jailer repeated, adjusting his assessment of her from countess to duchess. He had not considered the possibility of a foreign princess because she sounded so English.

An empty cell was found in short order. It was bare but for a moldy mattress, one hard chair, a table and a slop bucket. It was also cold. The jailer grabbed the bracelet from Isabella's outstretched hand and it disappeared into his pocket quicker than a mouse down the throat of a snake. Marcus Stockhaven tucked his book beneath his arm and followed her from the one prison cell into the next with as little concern as though he were taking a walk in the park. Isabella admired his nerve at a time when her own feelings were in tatters. Her nerves were trembling; the conflict inside her echoed by a telltale quiver through her body.

The door scraped closed. There was a long silence, which Stockhaven did not break. He did not offer her the chair but took it himself, sitting watching her, his head at a slight slant, a quizzical look in his dark eyes. Isabella found it deeply unsettling. But then, he had always been able to disturb her with a mere glance.

"Well?"

Isabella jumped at the authoritative tone. Already it felt as though the balance of power in the interview was tilting away from her and that was all wrong. She needed to keep control of this. It was imperative that she dictate the terms. She struggled to regain the initiative.

"I—" Suddenly the words stuck in her throat. It was inconvenient to be troubled by scruples now. After she met with Churchward, she had gone straight out to the Doctors Commons to procure the special license. From there she had gone to the Fleet to purchase a husband. Desperation had kept her going and prevented her from questioning her actions too deeply. Whenever doubts had surfaced, she had fixed on the grim prospect of prison, and that had blotted out all else. But now, under the pitiless dark stare of Marcus Stockhaven, she was lost for words.

Stockhaven raised one black brow sardonically. "I have all the time in the world," he said, "but I would prefer you to state your business as soon as possible, madam. It is a surprise to see you after all this time, and not a particularly welcome one. So. . ." He shrugged, and said, "Say your piece and let me get back to my book."

Isabella swallowed hard. So he was not going to greet her with open arms. Of course not. How foolish of her to expect it when she had jilted him in the most painful and humiliating way imaginable. The shreds of their past passion mocked her.

"I thought that it was you," she said slowly. "I recognized your voice."

"How very flattering, after all these years," Stockhaven said dryly. He leaned his chin on his hand. "What are you doing here?"

Isabella glanced toward the door, where she imagined that the turnkey's ear was welded to the grille. There could be no names exchanged now if she wanted to preserve her anonymity, as presumably he wished to preserve his.

"I
was looking for someone," she said.

"But not me, I assume." Stockhaven came to his feet with a compact grace. He was tall and broad-shouldered and his presence seemed to dominate the shabby cell. There was latent power in every line of his body—power that the stuffy confines of the room could not stifle. Isabella found that she was instinctively backing away, though he made no move toward her. She took a deep breath and forced herself to hold her ground.

"No, I was not looking for you specifically," she said, "but now that I have found you—" She paused. Could she come out with the proposal now? No, that was a little too blunt, even for her. Besides, there were things that she wished to know.

"More to the point," she said, "what are
you
doing here, sir, under the name of John Ellis?"

She saw his dark gaze narrow on her acutely, and although his expression was blank a few seconds later, she read his feelings clearly enough. This mattered to him. He did not want her to give his true identity away and he would certainly have preferred that she had not stumbled across him in the Fleet of all places.

"Forgive me, but that is none of your business." His tone was clipped.

"I think it might be." Isabella took a step farther into the cell. There were a hundred and one doubts and reasons hammering in her mind, telling her that it was the worst possible idea in the world to petition Marcus Stockhaven to marry her. She ignored them. She had been offered a chance, the possibility of a bargain, and she was going to take it.

"I have a proposition for you, sir," she said, once again careful not to address Stockhaven by name. "Help me and I will. . .help you. At the least, I will hold my tongue and tell no one that I have seen you."

Marcus Stockhaven did not speak. There was a quality in his silence that intimidated her. She hurried on. "I do not suppose that anyone knows that you are here?"

Still he did not reply.

"I do not suppose that you
wish
anyone to know that you are here?" Isabella pursued.

This time she saw that her words had penetrated his silence. He gave an involuntary movement. Again that hard, dark gaze raked her. "Perhaps not."

"The disgrace of the debtor's prison—"

"Quite so," he interrupted her. "Are you seeking to blackmail me, madam?" His mouth twisted in an ironic smile. "I regret I cannot pay."

"I do not want your money," Isabella said. "I need a favor."

"A favor from me?"
Stockhaven's
smile deepened. "You must be desperate indeed to even think of asking."

"Perhaps so. As you must be to be here in the first place."

Stockhaven acknowledged the hit with an inclination
of the head. "So? In what way may we be. . .mutually. . .
helpful?"

There was an element in his tone that brought color to Isabella's cheeks. There had always been something about this man that cut straight through her defenses and made them as thin as parchment. She felt astonishingly vulnerable, deeply disturbed by his presence and the memories he stirred. She sought to disguise her nervousness.

She looked around the filthy cell, from the water seeping through the walls to the bare mattress boasting a single dirty blanket.

"In return for a favor from you, I will not only hold my tongue but I am prepared to make your stay here more comfortable," she said. "A room of your own, clean linen, good food and wine—" she looked at the book he had placed on the table "—more books to read.

Isabella saw his gaze narrow on her thoughtfully. She took a step closer to him in silent appeal. For a moment Marcus Stockhaven was silent. She could feel herself trembling as she waited for his response.

"How generous," he said. "So what is it that you want?" His tone was even but his dark eyes were very cold.

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
atten
-dance, 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 mon
ey
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, mere 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
i
f 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.

"As you say." Her tone was colorless. "It is most unfortunate."

He had to admire her coolness. She had shut the door firmly in his face and denied him the pleasure of provoking her.

"If Prince Ernest had a penchant for misusing your name, you might have wished to keep him under closer scrutiny," he said.

To his surprise, he saw a flicker of amusement in her face.

"I had no wish to be anywhere near Ernest, sir," she said. "In fact, I ignored him as often as possible. No one liked him very much and I was not the exception to the rule. I even had to bribe the servants to attend his funeral and pay them double to put on a pretense of grief."

Marcus could feel his interest becoming more acute. He could not seem to help himself. When he had first met. Isabella, he had been bowled over by her apparent sweetness. When she jilted him, it had been a profound shock. He had realized then that she was an adventuress. She had used that tempting body and wayward prettiness to entrap a rich and dissolute prince. Now she was using a different form of bribery to lure him into a marriage of convenience. Anger shook him. He wanted to make her admit her culpability. She was defiant and morally corrupt and ready to sell herself for gain. And he was no longer a green youth to be taken in.

He looked at her a little quizzically. "So it was not worth it in the end, then?"

Their eyes met.