Deceived (21 page)

Alistair did not speak. He covered her hand again in a most comforting gesture, and this time he did not let her go immediately.

"Bella only married Ernest Di Cassilis in the first place because our father faced financial ruin," Pen continued, "and she was unhappy for all those years, and when she came back it was to find that Ernest had left her bankrupt, but as to why she married cousin Marcus—" She broke off as she ran out of breath. Alistair was still holding her hand and it felt warm and very pleasant.

"I know that they were once very fond of each other," Pen finished. "I was barely more than a child at the time, but children notice things, don't they? I am almost certain that they were madly in love. It was going to be the perfect wedding. But something went awry and Bella married Ernest and Marcus married India, and now—" She shook her head.

Alistair's grip tightened. She felt comforted but she freed her hand to take a sip of her coffee—and almost choked on the cloying sweetness.

"Oh!" Her eyes were streaming but through them she could see that Alistair was laughing at her.

"Another cup, as you appear to have ruined that one?"

"I do not think so," Pen said, "but a dish of chocolate would be very pleasant, thank you."

The drink arrived. Pen had noticed that Alistair was most adept at organizing things with a minimum of fuss. She started to feel a little more relaxed. Alistair was watching her across the table. His hazel eyes were very shrewd.

"Miss Standish, will you promise not to sell any further stories to the press?"

Pen slumped a little more. She knew she could never do it again, but she was terrified at the thought of having no money.

"Of course. I could not. . ." Her voice wavered. "Oh dear. . ."

"It is your brother, I suppose," Alistair said. A shade of steel had come into his voice.

Pen looked defensive. "Please, I cannot discuss it. Freddie does his best, but he has never been very good with money."

Pen knew Alistair wanted to say something else, something scathing, and only his courtesy held him silent. After a moment he said, "If you are in urgent financial need then I am sure we could come to an agreement."

"Mr. Cantrell!" Pen was so startled that she upset the dregs of her chocolate.

"I meant," Alistair said, his eyes twinkling, "a loan. Naturally."

"Oh, naturally." Pen wrenched her gaze away from a couple seated in the bow window who were entwined in each other's arms, oblivious of the crowd about them. No doubt it was the
louche
air of the place and the unusual excitement engendered by being out at night with a gentleman that was leading her thoughts astray.

"That is very kind of you," she added.

Alistair got to his feet. "I think that I should escort you home now, Miss Standish," he said. "I will procure us a hack. The streets are becoming a little rough but I assure you, you will be perfectly safe with me."

"I imagine so," Pen said with a sigh.

She watched as Alistair paid the bill, went to the doorway and summoned a hackney carriage with his customary orderly precision. She watched the line of his shoulders and the turn of his head and the way that his body moved beneath his neat and unostentatious garb. She had always been more struck by the written word than the visual image but now she felt hot and immodest and astounded at herself. How very frustrating. Here was Mr. Cantrell offering her his protection in the most innocent way imaginable and here she was, suddenly realizing that security was the last thing that she wanted from him.

"Shall we go?" Alistair offered her his arm.

"Thank you," Pen said, casting her gaze down like the demure spinster she no longer resembled, "you are all that is gentlemanly, Mr. Cantrell."

"At your service, Miss Standish." There was nothing but sincerity in Alistair's tone.

Pen sighed. She knew she was pretty and she knew Alistair Cantrell thought her so and she also knew that he would do nothing about it whatsoever. She could travel in a closed carriage with him from London to Canterbury and he would likely do no more than point out places of interest along the way and order refreshments up ahead. He would not pounce on her or try to ravish her or even press a chaste kiss on her hand. She felt ridiculously safe, entirely dissatisfied and utterly frustrated in a way she had never felt before, a way her mother had told her no lady ever should.

How
absolutely frustrating
. Alistair Cantrell stood outside the small house in
Pimlico
and looked up at the lit window on the first floor where he was certain Miss Penelope Standish was even now unfastening her dress, loosening her golden hair from its pins and unlacing her chemise in preparation for going to bed. He could not see any of these intriguing probabilities, for the curtains were tightly drawn and of thick material, but he did not need to see in order to imagine. He could visualize Penelope's thick, tumbling fair hair, her small but perfectly formed breasts and the slenderness of her body beneath the enticing transparent shroud of her chemise. Of course, for all he knew he could be staring at the window where Freddie Standish was no doubt snoring with a bottle of brandy clasped in his arms, but really it made no difference. Pen was in the house and he wanted her and he was so close but in truth ineffably far.

She trusted him. She was a lady in need and she had confided in him and he should be honored to have that trust rather than thinking of breaking it in the most shocking way imaginable. He could not—
could not
—encourage her to rely upon him and then use that closeness to lead her astray. But oh, he wanted to. He ached to. He was exploding to do so.

He knew Miss Standish had a reputation as a bluestocking with a tongue like a dose of vinegar. He was certain she would not hold back from administering a
setdown
to anyone whom she regarded as a fool, and there were plenty who would fit that description. Yet he had seen her softness and vulnerability, the way she cared for her sister and the guilt that riddled her when she thought of betraying Isabella's trust. He knew how difficult it was for a gentleman in dire financial straits to make his own way, so he could imagine the frightening prospects that faced a woman in such a predicament. And he was pledged to help her, not seduce her.

Under the circumstances, it was fortunate that it had started to rain. It dampened his ardor slightly and his clothing a great deal. If he did not wish to contract the ague, he knew he should return home and cease staring up at Penelope's window like a
lovestruck
youth. Nevertheless a part of him wished there was a balcony and a sturdy climbing rose, while another mocked him with the thought that if there were, he would fall off it and require medical assistance. Should Miss Standish require practical help—the summoning of a hackney carriage, the procurement of a cup of chocolate—then he was the very man for the job, but should he be called upon to perform some romantic endeavor then he would only fall flat on his face.

Even so, he continued to stare at the bright square of window until the light was doused.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"W
here should
I
start
?" Isabella asked politely.

"The beginning is always a good place," Marcus said. "Why did you jilt me?"

Isabella huddled deeper within the leather embrace of the armchair. She wanted its capacious interior to swallow her up. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to feel safe. Instead she had to talk and try to make Marcus understand. Her heart quaked at the prospect.

"You left me standing at the altar," Marcus said. His tone was very controlled. "You refused to see me when I tried to find you. You did not even write. You never told me what happened." His voice kindled into feeling. "The first I knew of what was happening was reading the report of your marriage in the papers and then you sent back my ring—" He broke off. Isabella saw the shutters come down in his face. Once again the fire was banked down.

"Explain," he said now, expressionless. It was not an invitation.

"There is not much to tell," Isabella said. She kept her gaze fixed on the embers of the fire so that she did not have to look at him. That hurt too much.

"It was for my family, Stockhaven. Or perhaps it was for money. You will decide for yourself, I am sure."

She looked up briefly. Marcus's face was very still, but there was about him a controlled intensity, an anger that she suspected burned very deep. Now that the moment of truth had come, she merely wanted it all to be over and Marcus to leave her alone. She would make this as quick as possible.

"I was not aware when I was young that Papa was in serious financial difficulty," she said. She shrugged a little. "Children are often unaware of these things. They think that matters will always be the same, always safe." She sighed. "When I grew older, I discovered that Papa was forever in and out of debt, making a small fortune, losing it again, gambling, investing in dreams, unable to be prudent. . . . When he died, he had lost all his money, which is why Freddie is obliged to work and Pen has such a pittance on which to live."

Marcus had not moved an inch since she'd started speaking. He was sitting across from her in the leather armchair and he was very still, but with a watchful stillness that was reflected in his eyes as he studied her. His expression was cold and remote. Isabella felt chilled to see it and curled herself deeper in her own chair for comfort.

"At the time that Ernest offered for me, Papa was within an ace of ruin. Ernest was a rich man then, of course. He offered to save Papa from the debtor's prison." She laughed a little bitterly. "I was part of the arrangement. In order to save my family from ruin, I was obliged to accept Ernest's suit. It mattered nothing that I was about to marry you. Their security was dependent on my acceptance." She broke off, staring into the heart of the fire, where the embers glowed bright.

She would say nothing of how it had felt. Nothing of her father, exposed as a weak man who could not protect her, blustering and ordering her to accept Ernest's hand in marriage; her mother, ripping her little embroidered handkerchiefs to shreds in her restless fingers; Freddie, his face blank but the expression in his eyes so desperate; Pen, catching her hand and asking her if it was true, and would she let them all starve. She had been too young to make those agonizing decisions but she had made them anyway.

"So you agreed," Marcus said tonelessly.

Isabella felt the anger rip through her. That he could sit there unmoved, condemning, when after twelve years she could still feel the despair and the hopelessness that had possessed her. . .but Marcus did not know any of that. For all he knew, she might have seen Ernest as the goose laying the golden eggs.

"It was not an easy choice," she said quietly. "I was in love with you. I was completely besotted." Emotion crept into her voice. "We were to be married the next day! It was a . . . shock . . .to be obliged to see matters differently."

"You could have refused," Marcus said. His mouth was a hard tine. "You could have insisted on marrying me and told your father to go hang."

Isabella thought about it. She could have run to Marcus but she had been young and alone and terrifyingly uncertain of what to do. She had wanted Marcus—ached for him to be there to protect her—and yet she had known with finality that in choosing him she would be condemning her entire family to ruin. She had been torn apart.

I needed you so much. . .

She bit back the words. She would not tell him that now, not when he had sufficient bitterness for them both. Once it had been so very different. She felt a sharp pain at the bright simplicity of their time together. She had given herself to him because she was in love and had been heedless of the consequences. At seventeen she had been rash, reckless and unmindful of all the tenets of behavior that she had been brought up to believe in. But then the consequences had
followed—
her parents, Freddie, Pen—and her daughter, Emma. Their futures all depended on her making the right decision. So she had chosen their well-being over her happiness with Marcus and learned the hard way that unfettered passion and careless disregard might feel blissful at the time but that there was always a price to pay. She had paid every day in memories and regrets.

And now Marcus would blame her for her choice. He was looking at her broodingly. She knew there was no sympathy or understanding there for her. She swallowed hard.

"I suppose," he said, "that it was too dangerous for you to take a risk on me even though I might have been able to help you all. I had no money and no prospects then, and Prince Ernest was a rich man—"

"Don't you dare to suggest that I married him for his fortune!" The words broke from Isabella before she had chance to stop them. It was instinctive, straight from the heart. She had not wanted to rehearse all the anguish in front of Marcus but she could not help herself from letting this much emotion show. She saw his eyes widen at the irrefutable sincerity in her voice.

"But you did," he said slowly. "You
did
marry him for his fortune, albeit to save your family."

Isabella turned away. What had she expected—that he would hear her explanations and draw her to him with all the strength and the lost love and the warmth that she had cherished in him before? That that was exactly what she had wanted, secretly, not even admitting it to herself. But life was never so simple as that.

"Yes," she said. "I married him for his money because my family needed it. He bought me." She looked at Marcus defiantly and spoke with deliberate hardness. "Even had you and I married, Marcus, there is no guarantee that we would have been happy. We were young and so wrapped up in our feelings and so thoughtless of the future."

"True," Marcus said. He smiled faintly. "I do believe we were quite swept away in discovering such a consuming desire for each other."

Isabella had been. It had been new and exciting and utterly overwhelming. She had had no thought for tomorrow and no shame for today. Just the memory of it made her ache with a poignant mixture of longing and regret.

"Such strong desires have a habit of burning themselves out," she said, "leaving little behind. They are best left in the past where they belong."

Marcus did not reply. He looked at her as he had done in the prison, from the paste diamond pins in her hair to the silver slippers peeping from beneath the hem of her skirt, and she knew he was thinking of the wedding night she had agreed to give him. She shivered with raw emotion.

Marcus shifted a little. "You could at least have offered me an explanation," he said. "You could have written to me via the Admiralty." His mouth twisted with grim humor. "It would have been polite to explain the circumstances to me, especially given what we had been to one another."

Isabella gave a half shrug. "I could not begin to think how to tell you," she said, and that was the truth.

Marcus's gaze branded her. "I was your
lover,
Isabella! You were once able tell me anything. I thought—"

Once again, there was a taut silence. Isabella felt the tension between them stretch so tightly it would snap with the least provocation. There was no point in waiting for absolution. Marcus would never give her that. Suddenly all she wanted was for him to be gone so that she could sleep.

"So," she said. "You have your explanation. I know it is too little and too late but—" She shrugged her shoulders. That was all she was prepared to give. She felt empty.

Still Marcus did not reply. Isabella fidgeted.

"And now," she said, as the silence lengthened, "I want you to let me go."

Marcus did not answer at once. It was frighteningly plausible. All the assumptions that he had made about Isabella's desire for a tide and a fortune could be turned on their head. Isabella at seventeen, alone, obliged to make the kind of choices that one hoped never to make in a lifetime . . .she must have felt desperately lonely and afraid.

Everything had happened so quickly between them, from the first secret, incendiary look they had shared to the raw passion that had driven them together, to the final cold fate that had pulled them apart. Time enough, and yet no time at all. . .

His certainties wavered. Isabella was looking very pale and tired, but he could discern no emotion on her face. She had spoken with such composure, almost as though she had rehearsed what she was going to say. And yet he could not discount the sincerity in her voice when she had protested the charge of marrying for a fortune.

There was another allegation to lay at her door, however, and he would do well to remember it. She was not exonerated. Not yet.

"What about India?" he said harshly. "I can see why you might have made the choices you did with regard to me, but she. . ." He shook his head. "What did she ever do to incur your dislike?"

Isabella had been waiting for his answer, tension in every line of her body. Now he saw the puzzlement creep into her eyes and a tiny frown crease between her brows.

"India?" The bewilderment was clear in her voice. "I do not understand what you mean."

Once again he felt the force of her sincerity. His interpretation of the facts told him one thing but his instincts told him quite another. He wanted to believe her false and yet her honesty seemed to thwart him at every step.

"Turning her mother against her." Marcus cleared his throat. He had never overcome the guilt that he felt toward his late wife. He had married her for all the wrong reasons and they had never been able to make each other happy, which made him all the more determined to see justice meted out. It was too late for India, perhaps, but he could lay Isabella's sins at her door and make her admit her culpability. He got to his feet and paced across the room with a caged anger.

"Throughout your visits to Salterton and your letters to Jane Southern you deliberately undermined your cousin's position." He turned to look at her. "India told me that her mother frequently goaded her with the fact that she wished she had a daughter like you. You set out to take Salterton from India. She and Lady Jane had a monstrous disagreement about it. Jane disinherited her as a result."

Isabella's eyes had widened in horror and disbelief. She was sitting stiffly in the chair now, upright, her hands clenched on the arms. She shook her head slightly. "But I knew nothing of this! I swear I never said or did anything to damage India's relationship with her mother, least of all to see her disinherited!"

Marcus thrust his fists into the pockets of his jacket. "Then why would India swear that you did? She had no reason to lie to me."

He saw Isabella's expression change and before she could turn away he caught her to him, pulling her to her feet. He held her hard and close.

"It is true, isn't it? There was something you did."

Isabella had whitened. "It is true that I made no secret of my love for Salterton," she said stiffly. "I did write, and I did tell Aunt Jane how much I missed the place. If that is a sin—if that was what led Aunt Jane to disinherit India—then I must plead guilty. But none of it was deliberate. I could no more hide my love for Salterton than I could have—" She stopped.

Than I could have hidden my love for you.

Marcus heard the words as though she had spoken them aloud. For him too the memories and feelings he had for Salterton were inextricably tied to the time he had spent with Isabella there. Once again he felt a wave of disloyalty to India, followed by shame.