"And to marry," Isabella said dryly.
"Perhaps you have a sister?"
"I do," Isabella said, "but she has no money."
Mr.
Casson
looked most downcast.
The Assembly boasted dandies, rakes, men on the make, half-pay officers, rich widows, poor widows, debutantes, wives. . .it was like London in miniature. Isabella talked and smiled, asked questions and danced with a few fortunate gentlemen, and all the time she was conscious of Marcus across the room. He had not requested the first dance and she felt a little sorry at the fact. An earnest young man had buttonholed him and seemed to be trying to persuade him of something.
She sat out the next dance beside an ancient sea captain who, far from boring her with his tales of maritime adventure, told her that gardening was now his passion and asked her opinion on the new strain of rose that was being developed by a local
horticulturahst
. And still Marcus did not come to her side and Isabella was obliged to remind herself that she was the one who had requested the marriage in name only. She was doing her duty here at the Assembly—they both were. They had appeared in public together and then gone their separate ways for the evening. It was expected. It was the
tonnish
thing to do. It made her miserable.
"Your servant, Lady Stockhaven." A gentleman was bowing before her, soliciting the pleasure of the next dance. She recognized him as a Mr. Owen, one of the summer visitors whom Mrs.
Bulstrode
had introduced earlier in the evening. Marcus was still deep in conversation and dancing appeared to be the last thing on his mind. Isabella smiled at the newcomer and gave him her hand.
"Thank you, sir. I should be glad to join the country dance."
As they took their places in the set, she found herself wondering how Mr. Owen was able to dance at all. He was
evidentiy
in Salterton for the sea cure, for there was a waxy pallor about his skin that suggested he was far from well. His gray eyes were dull and expressionless and he had a pronounced limp. She imagined that he could be little older than she was and yet he did not look as though he would make old bones. He smelled of mothballs and cordial, and there was some underlying element about him that made her shudder. It was nothing to do with his illness, but something far more unwholesome. Worse, there was something faintly and disturbingly familiar about him. She wished that she had not agreed to dance with him.
"Do you take the sea waters, sir?" she asked him, more to make conversation than out of genuine interest. Mr. Owen nodded.
"I suffer from the rheumatics, Lady Stockhaven, as well as having a nervous complaint and a touch of biliousness. Sea air and frequent dipping are the only cures."
Isabella remembered her aunt once saying that doctors and sea cures encouraged people to imagine that they were ill. She repressed a smile.
"I am sorry," she said.
Mr.
Owen's
glassy gaze fixed upon her. He gave her a faint, wintry smile. "I must confess that you seem rather too well for this place, Lady Stockhaven, but I feel sure that you will catch an ague in no time from the sea breezes."
"You reassure me, sir," Isabella said.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Marcus was at last attempting to draw away from the earnest young man and there was a small frown creasing his brow as he looked in her direction. There was hardly a healthier looking man in the room. Isabella found herself wanting to pounce on him and carry him off to celebrate their mutual rude health and shake off the scent of the sickroom in a way that would shock half the occupants of Salterton into an early grave. She met Marcus's eyes and he broke off his conversation, raising a brow in interrogation at whatever it was he saw in her face. Isabella's lips parted as she stared at him. Her breath caught in her throat Their gazes locked with a sharp awareness and Marcus's attention focused on her in a way that made her shiver. It was intense, concentrated and wholly personal. Here, in the Assembly Rooms at Salterton, his entire stance told her that he wanted to ravish her within an inch of her life. He started to move toward her.
The music was drawing to a close. Isabella dragged her mind and her gaze away from Marcus and forced out another smile for the unwholesome Mr. Owen.
"Thank you for the dance, sir. May I assist you to a chair? You seem a little short of breath."
Owen nodded, leaning heavily on her arm. "I apologize for not being able to conduct you on the customary stroll around the room, Lady Stockhaven."
"Please do not regard it," Isabella said, depositing him on a rout chair with a certain relief. The skin on the back of her neck was prickling. She knew that Marcus was close.
"You must excuse me, sir," she said. "I believe that I am engaged to dance the next—"
"With me," a voice said at her elbow. Marcus extended a hand to her, bowing slightly. The expression in his eyes was for her alone and made her feel weak, though he still managed to cover the courtesies even as his gaze told her how much he wanted her.
"Good evening, Owen," he said, pulling Isabella close to his side. She spread one hand against his side, feeling the thunder of his heart against her palm.
Mr. Owen gave an invalid's loud sigh. "Evening, Stockhaven. I trust you are suffering no gout or seizures this evening?"
"No," Marcus said. Isabella could feel him shaking with silent laughter. "I thank you, sir. I am quite well."
He turned to Isabella as though he could wait no longer. "Come, my dear. I am sure we are both strong enough for a waltz. And then I think we should retire—before we exhaust ourselves too much."
Isabella had not realized that it was the waltz and she was a little surprised to find them playing it here, in conservative Salterton society. Only the most daring and fit of the village's inhabitants were attempting it. The others stood back with a mixture of envy and disapproval to see who had the courage to join in.
"I hope you are enjoying the evening, Marcus," Isabella said lightly, as they took their places. She was intensely aware of his presence but she was also conscious of the crowd of people about them. Somehow she had to try to get through this dance without betraying her feelings in public.
"I have found it a rather bruising experience, truth to tell," Marcus observed with a wince. He too appeared to be having difficulty in concentrating on small talk.
"I have been twitted for my lack of civic pride, considered a miser for refusing to invest in the pier, and overheard the Goring female's view that I was not good enough for my wife! Whereas you—" he turned and gave her an assessing look "—were feted by one and all. It is remarkable that you remembered Mrs. Goring after all these years. She seemed most gratified."
Isabella's mouth turned up in a little smile. "I had no notion who she was when she greeted me," she whispered, "but she seemed so pleased to see me that it would have been rude to confess I did not know her from Adam."
Marcus smiled. "One would not have known. How accomplished you are. And how kind." He hesitated. "They tell me that you sent them books and musical instruments for the school. That you wrote to people when your aunt passed on news of births, marriages and deaths. That you made welcome any visitors who ventured as far as Cassilis in their travels and that you used your influence to help those who would never normally have a chance to gain work or connections or education. You astound me, Isabella. I had no notion."
Isabella smiled inwardly. She rather liked the idea of surprising Marcus. He had made a great many assumptions about her and it was good to shake them. Shortly she hoped that she would shake him once again. But first there was the waltz to enjoy.
The music started.
Isabella had not waltzed with Marcus before and it was entirely delightful. More than that, it was sinful and sensual and seductive. She could feel the warmth of his palm against her back and the ripple of the muscle in his thigh against the silk of her dress. Her mind clouded and her body filled with a melting pleasure and she did not fight the sensation. There were no two ways about it—this dance was dangerous. It should be banned. As for vows of celibacy, of denying herself the pleasure of her husband's lovemaking, well. . .evidently she had not been thinking straight and the glasses of wine she had consumed that evening had certainly helped her to see sense.
"Bella." Marcus spoke softly in her ear and Isabella shivered to feel his breath against her skin.
"
Mmm
?"
"Who was that man?"
Isabella dragged herself from the sensual haze and tried to focus on Marcus's face. "Which man?" She cleared her throat. "I mean to whom do you refer?"
Marcus laughed. "You sound somewhat distracted. Are you not attending, Bella?"
"Not particularly." Isabella smoothed her fingers over the curve of his shoulder.
Marcus slanted her a quizzical look. "Then what were you thinking about?"
"I was thinking about making love with you."
Marcus missed his step. For a moment, Isabella wondered whether he would be taken aback by her brazen declaration, but then she saw the mixture of amusement and raw desire in his eyes.
"Generally or specifically?" His voice too had fallen to a rough whisper.
"Specifically. In about five minutes," Isabella whispered back.
She had pushed it too far. Marcus released her at once, but only to take her hand and pull her off the dance floor and toward the door. It seemed to take an interminable amount of time to make their farewells. There were Mrs.
Bulstrode's
concerns to deal with; that matron had thought that Isabella's hasty departure must owe something to a sudden indisposition, which was true but it was not the same condition that Mrs.
Bulstrode
had in mind. Marcus swept the good lady aside with the promise that he would take care of his wife. Isabella dealt with Mrs. Goring's pressing invitation to take tea with summary thanks. All she wanted was to be alone with Marcus in the intimate dark and feel his hands on her. Eventually they were in the coach, the door clicked shut, and she fell into his arms with a little moan of relief, welcoming his hungry mouth on hers.
She parted her lips, trying to breathe, as Marcus crushed his mouth to hers, sliding his tongue deep. His hands tangled in her hair. The kiss was hard but seductive, possessing her but then allowing her tongue to dance with his, to parry and tease and subdue. She was as eager and as eloquent as he.
Marcus slipped his hand into the bodice of her gown and cupped her breast. Isabella pressed closer, arching against his questing fingers. Her mind was blurred with desire. Again, she vaguely remembered that she had wanted to wait before giving herself to Marcus once more, but then she realized that she loved him and to her dazzled mind this seemed reason enough.
In a very short time, she found herself naked from the waist up, facing Marcus, her legs sprawled over his thighs. His hands were braced on her waist and Isabella leaned her head back and sighed with pleasure while he used his mouth on her breasts. He was raking his teeth gently over the tip and circling it with his tongue and she. . .well, she was drowning in pure sensation and never wanted it to stop.
The carriage jerked to a halt and she almost fell off Marcus's lap.
"Damn it," Marcus said, "we really must plan to make this a longer journey in future."
He swiftly helped Isabella to rearrange her gown and provided a steadying hand as she stepped down and felt her legs buckle beneath her. She wanted him to scoop her up and carry her inside, up the stairs and to the bedchamber. But he was scrupulously careful. In the faint light of the carriage lamps, he turned to her and spoke very quietly.
"Bella, if you have changed your mind then I shall let you go in now. I must do, or I will never allow you to sleep alone."
Isabella grabbed his arm. "I do not want you to," she said urgently.
There were no more words. Marcus slid an arm about her waist and drew her up the steps to the front door, pulling her with him into the hall. The excited laughter bubbled up in Isabella's throat. She could feel the urgency in his hands and the ardent desire in his touch. In a moment they would be safe in her bedchamber and they could tear each other's clothes away and fall into the feather mattress and take each other with all the fierce passion that she could feel sweeping through her. . . .
She stopped dead, all thoughts of racing up the staircase to bed abruptly banished.
A quantity of luggage was piled up at the bottom of the stairs and from the drawing room came the sound of upraised voices.