Deceived

“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 attendance, 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 money 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, there 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 if 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.

It was never worth it.

Isabella did not say the words aloud, but for a disconcerting moment Marcus was sure that he had read them in her eyes.

“I cannot see the purpose of your impertinent questions,” she said sharply. “I do not care to speak of my marriage.”

Marcus raised his brows. “You do not think, then, that you owe me an explanation for what happened twelve years ago?”

She looked disdainful. “What can that matter now?”

He wanted to shake her. Of course it mattered. She had taken all his youthful dreams and hopes and crushed them beneath the heel of her dainty shoe. And she had done it in passing, as though it had been of no importance. She had stolen his illusions. He had been physically experienced when he had met her. He had been the seducer. He accepted that. Yet he had also been emotionally untried, with a youthful innocence and trust that had been entirely at her mercy. It was that which Isabella had ended and for that she owed him.

He thought of India. His wife. She had been Isabella’s cousin. He knew that he had married her for all the wrong reasons, grasping after something that Isabella had promised that had eluded him. India too had suffered at her cousin’s hands. Marcus had discovered how Isabella had set her family against one another in her quest for riches and status. She had been entirely driven by greed.

Now was the time to collect on the debt she owed him, but he had to bide his time. He could feel his anger increasing with every word and sought to control it with cool reason. It was true that cold-blooded revenge was more satisfying than a hasty reprisal. He would accept her proposal and then, although she did not know it, she would be in his power rather than the other way around.

There were still a few things that he needed to know. The more he knew of her plans, the easier it would be to thwart her.

He shrugged. “Perhaps you are right and what has passed between us no longer matters. After all, this is a matter of business. Explain to me how you envisage our agreement working.”

She gave him a suspicious look, as though she could not quite believe that he had let the matter go so easily, but then she capitulated. Evidently she was so anxious to secure her future that she was prepared to make concessions.

“This so-called marriage between us would be a short-term measure to see me over a temporary financial embarrassment,” she said. “Once I have sold my house and realized my inheritance, the debt will be paid off and the marriage annulled.”

Marcus frowned. “In that case, can you not simply wait for your money to come through? It would surely be easier than contracting a marriage you do not want.”

Isabella was shaking her head. “Matters of inheritance take time to resolve and it is time that I do not have. But in a little I shall be unencumbered by both debt and marriage.”

There was a pause. Marcus found that his pride revolted at the thought of being used and discarded, no matter that he was manipulating the situation as much as she.

“I dislike the idea of being married off and then dismissed at a whim,” he said slowly. “It is demeaning.”

Isabella smiled with genuine warmth this time. “Well,” she said sweetly, “you now know how it feels to be a woman.”

Touché. He felt the clash between them like a ripple of memory along the skin. This was how it had always been with Isabella. She would challenge him rather than placate him as most women were wont to do. She had been unpredictable and exciting, and the friction between them had driven his need to take and possess her. He had been besotted with her. He had proposed marriage; she had accepted. That last spring at Salterton, before she had returned to London, they had plighted their troth secretly in the gardens and he had promised to follow her up to Town with all speed and ask her father for permission to pay his addresses to her. Marcus had not been concerned about his lack of prospects. He was a man who took his opportunities and sought out new ones. It never occurred to him that he had nothing to offer.

Lord Standish had agreed to his suit with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm. If Marcus believed that he had prospects, his future father-in-law had not been so easy to convince. Marcus had been undeterred. He had remained undeterred up until the last moment when he had been waiting in the church of St. Mark’s in the Field—the fashionable St. George’s in Hanover Square having already been booked—and had noticed a suspicious lack of guests on the bride’s side of the nave. Time had ticked past and Isabella had failed to arrive. Even at the last, Marcus had been unable to believe that she had jilted him. He had tried to see her, only to be turned away from her house. He had sworn that he would not believe ill of her until he heard her reject him with her own words. But she had never offered him an explanation either way.

She had never spoken to him again.

Society had been quick to judge. When the absent bride married Prince Ernest Di Cassilis in a private ceremony by special license the very next day, scandal had burst over them in a tidal wave. Ernest carried his new wife off to Cassilis and Marcus had returned precipitately to sea. He had felt a great need to be occupied. And so he had pursued the French instead of women, had gained commendations of his superior officers for his reckless bravery and had never wanted to return to shore. It was only the unexpected inheritance of the earldom from his childless cousin that had obliged him to accept a different type of responsibility. He had taken up his estate reluctantly, gone up to London and met India Southern, Isabella’s cousin, at a ball…

But he would not think about that. Throughout his marriage to India, the ghost of Isabella had dogged their steps. He had never been able to forget her or dismiss the powerful feelings of recognition he had felt for her from the first. He felt the same attraction as before calling to him now, drawing him in. They looked at one another and the air between them was bright with the sparks of that old flame.

Marcus had not meant to stir up old memories. What he had meant to do was discover exactly what Isabella intended with this marriage of convenience. It was also important to know that there were no troublesome lovers hanging about who might jeopardize his plans. The fact that Isabella was here alone and unprotected in the Fleet suggested that she had no current lover, but he had to be certain.

He turned away from her, crushing down the attraction, feigning indifference.

“I do not understand why you needs must make a Fleet marriage,” he said. His voice was a little rough, betraying him. “Surely there are a dozen rich and respectable men queuing up to offer for you, Isabella? Twenty thousand is not so much to a man of means, particularly if he gains a beautiful wife into the bargain.”

Isabella did not appear to take this as a compliment. Marcus was interested since he thought it inevitable she must have been told many times that she was a beauty. People tended to tell princesses that even if it were not true.

“There is no one I wish to marry,” Isabella said, “and more to the point, no one who would wish to marry me.”

Her head was bent and she evaded his gaze. Marcus thought she seemed genuinely ruffled. He watched her, waited.

“I have…that is, my reputation—” She looked up suddenly and the expression in her eyes went straight through Marcus’s defenses like an arrow into the heart.

“You may not have heard it, but my reputation is ruined,” she said with a simplicity that reminded him of the girl she had once been. “No one respectable will offer me marriage now.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He had heard all the stories. He knew her name was soiled beyond repair. Prince Ernest Di Cassilis had been known as the Profligate Prince. His debauches in all areas of his life were legendary. It was inevitable that his wife should be tarred with the same brush.

Once again he allowed his gaze to travel over Isabella, itemizing the evidence as he went. Beneath the shadow of the hood, her gaze met his directly. Her eyes, wide and blue, were very clear. Although she was no debutante now, a youthful innocence had survived in her face. It was impossible—utterly impossible—to see her as a woman with a terminally tarnished reputation.