Читать книгу A Perfect Scandal - Tina Gabrielle - Страница 11

It was dark outside by the time Isabel and her father returned home from the Westley mansion. Her head throbbed, and her back ached between her shoulder blades. Her father hadn’t spoken a word in the carriage the entire journey home. He had stared out the window in stony silence, his whole demeanor severe and angry. She had bitten her lip to stop from asking what had transpired between him and Marcus Hawksley.

By the time the carriage pulled up to their town house on Park Lane, a cold drizzle fell, washing out the May evening in a dreary blur that matched her mood. Isabel trudged behind her father up the front steps and entered the marble vestibule.

The delicious aroma of roast lamb wafted to her, and her stomach growled. She realized she had missed not only luncheon, but dinner as well. She wanted nothing more than to change out of the low-cut silk gown, have her maid deliver a dinner tray to her room, and seek the solace of her watercolors.

The butler took her cloak, and she turned to the winding staircase. Hand clutching the banister, she was halfway up the stairs when she glanced down.

Her father stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at her, and as their eyes met, a flash of fury crossed his face. Several heartbeats later, he pivoted on his heel and disappeared, his footsteps echoing down the marble hall like a general leading his troops into war.

She bit her lip and rushed to her room. Shutting the door, she threw her reticule on the four-poster. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the corner of the bedchamber, beneath a window, where an easel with a half-completed landscape beckoned. Beside the painting was a small table which held a jar crammed with brushes, several water bowls, and a dozen tiny, hard cakes of soluble watercolor.

Not permitted a room in the house for a designated studio, she had made use of the corner of her bedroom. Since she was the daughter of an earl, her father had initially paid for basic art lessons to contribute to a well-rounded education befitting a debutante of her station. But when she had expressed an interest in furthering her studies, he had adamantly refused, stating that “a young woman should focus her energies on Almack’s marriage mart.”

She strode to the easel, picked up a cake of pale blue watercolor, dipped it in water, and rubbed it on an oyster shell with her Asiatic martin brush. The landscape was of a section of Hyde Park she most enjoyed, showing the Serpentine River at springtime. She had been putting the finishing touches on the sky this morning, but this time, with each stroke of her brush, instead of finding a familiar sense of inner calm, her nerves remained tense and brittle. Her brush strokes were jerky rather than flowing, and the clouds formed a distorted shape on the paper.

Dear Lord, not even painting could soothe her anxiety tonight. A soft knock on the door stopped her in midstroke.

“Yes.”

The door opened and her maid, Kate, entered. A plain-looking woman, Kate had thin brown hair, brown eyes, and a wagging tongue. Her inquisitive nature was the last thing Isabel desired tonight.

“Your father is asking for you, Lady Isabel.”

“Where?”

“In his library.”

Not the library! she thought. She had never seen him as furious as she had tonight, and she dreaded the confrontation to come.

She reassured herself that all would work out as planned. Walling would never have her now. What suitable man in England would? No doubt Lady Yarmouth was already flapping her overzealous lips to every influential society matron within a ten-mile radius of London. Isabel would be free to leave for Paris.

She should be happy, thrilled, relieved—yet all she felt was an unexpected void.

Her thoughts wandered to Marcus Hawksley. She experienced a strange curiosity—an unfamiliar pang of longing. What would become of him? What was he doing now? And most surprisingly, what did he think of her? She was disturbed to realize that she cared about his opinion. He must think her a conniving jade, a spoiled tart.

An odd twinge of disappointment settled in her stomach. She’d likely never see him again. He was not a regular attendee of ton functions, and she would no longer be one after tonight. She would be in Paris, where scandalous behavior was prized rather than ostracized.

Still, questions raced through her mind like quicksilver. Why would Dante Black seek so urgently to blame Marcus Hawksley for the art theft? Would Marcus attempt to learn the identity of the true thief? But would a working stockbroker be able to afford a private investigator? From what everyone had said, Marcus’s funds were limited.

She shook her head at her thoughts. She must think about the future, her future. Even though she had used Marcus, she had helped him by giving him an alibi.

She shouldn’t feel guilty.

With firm resolve, Isabel raised her chin. “If I must meet my father, then please help me change, Kate.” She wanted to get past her father’s haranguing speech and plan for tomorrow.

She chose a modest gown of gray muslin, with a high collar and long sleeves. She opened her bedroom door and again the aroma of lamb and roasted vegetables from the dining room made her mouth water. If her watercolors could not ease her tension, then perhaps food would. She prayed the lecture wouldn’t take long.

Straightening her spine, she hurried down the hall and entered the library.

Her father was sitting behind his massive desk. At her entrance, he looked up and adjusted his spectacles on his nose.

“Sit, Isabel.”

She took a chair by the fire and folded her hands in her lap. A movement from the corner of the room drew her attention, and she started.

Marcus Hawksley stood rigid, his obsidian eyes boring into her. He strode forward, into the firelight, and her breath caught. He dominated the room with his attitude of self-command and rugged masculinity. There was a firm resolve in him, a hardness in his features that made him look like a predator studying his prey, and she was completely alarmed by his presence.

What was he doing in her father’s library?

“Good evening, Lady Isabel.” He chose a chair beside hers and crossed his long legs in front of him.

“Good evening, Mr. Hawksley.” She had trouble meeting his gaze, and she ended up studying her hands.

“Well, Isabel,” her father said. “Is there anything you want to say?”

She looked up, suddenly flooded with a sense of shame. “I’m sorry for any trouble I caused you, Mr. Hawksley. I can only hope that I helped you with my testimony.” She turned to her father. “I’ll pack my bags first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Your bags? For what?” Edward asked.

“For Auntie Lil’s, of course.”

“Auntie Lil’s? You think I would allow you to go there?” His expression was incredulous.

“Why not? Lord Walling won’t have me now.”

A muscle twitched near her father’s right eye. He appeared even more furious than when she had sat beside him in the carriage on the journey home.

“I think I understand,” Edward said, his lips a thin line. “Mr. Hawksley was telling the truth, wasn’t he? Your impetuous nature has finally ruined you. You are recklessly impulsive and never think things through. No doubt dreams of Paris, Auntie Lil, and male models were flashing through your mind when you plotted this catastrophe. As my eldest child, I’ve indulged you, Isabel. I’ve let you twist me about your finger, but no longer. I’ll not speak around the subject. You and Mr. Hawksley must marry.”

“Marry!” She felt the blood drain from her face.

Edward turned his attention to Marcus. “I’m uncertain what part you played in all of this, Mr. Hawksley. Whether you were a willing participant in my daughter’s foolish plan or not, I still hold you partly responsible. You are older and worldlier than Isabel, and I would expect a gentleman to exhibit more restraint than to be found alone with an innocent woman in a room surrounded by inflammatory artifacts. Notwithstanding my beliefs, however, I do hope you will follow through on your word and do the honorable thing.”

“I gave my word, Lord Malvern. And despite what you said earlier, I’m good for it.”

“Isabel has a dowry, and although I feel it is my right under the circumstances, I’ll not withhold it.”

“There’s no need. I’ll not take a shilling,” Marcus said, his voice firm.

Isabel came to her senses and sprang to her feet. “Do not speak as if I were not present. I will not marry Mr. Hawksley, or anyone for that matter.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You have no choice in the matter, Isabel. You sealed your fate when you failed to consider the full consequences of your foolish actions. Thank goodness you and Lord Walling were not yet engaged. A scandal will result, no doubt, when Lady Yarmouth blabs to her influential friends. But after you and Mr. Hawksley are married, the scandal will blow over and will become lessened over time. Had you been engaged to Walling, the outcome would have been too horrendous to fathom. The twins, Amber and Anthony, would never have been accepted by society, and their futures would have been tainted by your actions.”

“I still refuse.” She looked to Marcus, her eyes pleading. “You can stop this, please, before it goes any further.”

“I’m afraid it’s past my doing. I have my sense of honor.”

“Honor!” Her voice was shrill to her own ears. “This is a lifetime we’re speaking of.”

“No doubt.”

“Then speak up!”

“Your father is right. It’s the only reasonable course of action.”

She scowled at him, speechless.

Edward rose from behind his desk. “Perhaps Mr. Hawksley can convince you better than I, Isabel. I’ll leave you in private for a few minutes to talk things through.” He left the library without a backward glance.

As soon as the door closed, Marcus stood and went to the liquor cabinet. He pulled out two glasses and a bottle of her father’s favorite port. Pouring two fingers’ worth in both glasses, he picked up one, downed the glass, refilled it, and then turned to her.

“A celebratory toast, Lady Isabel?” he said, holding out the second glass of amber-colored liquor. “I do believe the occasion warrants one. It’s not every day I propose marriage to a young, titled lady.”

Isabel eyed him warily. His arm rested on the back of an armchair, his long, muscular frame, leaning to the side in an insolent manner. Broad shoulders strained against his tailored navy jacket—shoulders that she knew from firsthand experience were not padded like those of other men of her acquaintance. She vividly recalled the powerful muscles in his arms as he had held her and she had eagerly waited for his lips to touch hers…

Except they never did…

She frowned. Something about his resigned acceptance of her father’s demands disturbed her. He was not the type of man to easily relinquish control. To the contrary, he was a man who was used to following his own rules, not the dictates of society.

Hadn’t he left behind the lazy world of privilege to become a stockbroker in the London Stock Exchange?

A sudden realization dawned upon her. “You feel guilty, don’t you?”

Dark eyes narrowed, and he lowered the offered glass. “What?”

She forced her lips to part in a curved, stiff smile. “You feel a crushing sense of guilt because without my admission as to our ‘scandalous relationship,’ you would not have had an alibi for the Gainsborough theft. You feel as if you owe me. And your twisted sense of honor is telling you that the only way to repay me is to marry me and salvage my reputation, despite my firm and repeated objections.”

Marcus sauntered forward, hand clutching the glass, powerful body coiled. “You have me all figured out, don’t you?”

She stood and lifted her chin a notch. “Am I correct, Mr. Hawksley?”

“It’s Marcus.”

“Don’t evade my question. Am I correct?”

“Yes, I suppose you’re correct,” he ground out. “Contrary to what the gossips whisper about me behind my back, I do have a strong moral code…a sense of honor. Just so you understand, I do not condone the lies you told at the Westley mansion. I detest being manipulated in business or in personal matters. What you did was selfish and immature, and yet if you had not been where you were, if you had not plotted this ‘catastrophe,’ as your father called it, I would be at Bow Street as we speak being questioned by an underpaid and overly zealous constable. So, yes, Lady Isabel, I do feel guilty and somewhat responsible for your predicament. I am fully aware that by marrying the younger son of an earl and a working stockbroker to boot, you are stepping down in the eyes of society, but it will spare you from complete scandal. It is the least I can do for your father and your family since you do not seem overly concerned for them.”

Her mind fluttered away in anxiety at his determination to follow through with her father’s marital notions. “But I have plans, and marriage to you is not one of them.”

“I had plans as well, and although marriage was not in my imminent future, a relationship was.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “There’s another woman? Charlotte had assured me you were a sworn bachelor, and she knows everything.”

A mocking smile invaded his stare. “Whoever Charlotte is, she does not know everything.”

She shook her head regretfully. “I apologize. I never intended to cause trouble between a love match.” She felt a strange twinge of foreign emotion. Jealousy that Marcus Hawksley had a lover?

Ridiculous! she mused. You hardly know him.

He stepped forward and touched her hand. His fingers, warm and strong on her sensitive skin, sent a tingle of awareness up her arm.

She met his gaze, and the intense look in his eyes startled her.

“What’s done is done,” he said. “I’ll not change my mind. Your plans of Paris and Auntie Lil will have to be delayed.”

“Yes,” she murmured, her mind spinning. “Delayed…perhaps not all is lost.” She reached out to take the glass of port from him. “Perhaps we can agree to postpone our plans and not dismiss them forever. I’d drink a toast to that.”

“What are you scheming?”

“A marriage of convenience, Mr. Hawksley. A temporary marriage of convenience.”

“I’m listening, but I don’t think I like it—”

“It’s perfect. We agree to marry for six months until the scandal has passed and my twin siblings are not tarnished. Thereafter, we can go our separate ways. Me to Paris and you back to your lady friend. Many married couples among the beau monde lead separate lives, some on separate continents. Since neither of us desires to be shackled by marriage, it’s the perfect solution.”

“And what about intimate relations during those six months?”

She gave an anxious little cough. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Really?” he drawled. “Just a few hours ago that is all you had thought about.”

She ignored his sarcastic tone. “It must be a passionless relationship. It should be easy to maintain. Separate bedrooms are commonplace after all.”

“Ah, what do I get out of this fraudulent marriage?”

“It will assuage your guilt. Whatever your honor is telling you to do, then it should be satisfied.”

“My honor can be salvaged by a real marriage.”

At his firm resolve, she switched tactics. “But what of your previous life? Your lady friend? Your work? Everything will change if you marry me. As my husband, Father will expect you to limit, maybe even cease, your work at the Exchange.”

“I see.”

“If we agree to a temporary marriage, then you need only comply for six months. Surely that short amount of time is endurable.” Leaning forward, she eyed him with a calculating expression. “Most importantly, you would be assured access to the inner circle of the ton.”

“What makes you think I would want that?” he asked softly, mockingly.

“I presume you plan to seek out the true culprit of the theft of the Thomas Gainsborough painting? No one is more convinced than I that you are not the thief. Whoever the criminal is, he is most assuredly working for a member of the beau monde, someone who can afford expensive art, or at the least, someone who has the financial means to hire a crooked auctioneer such as Dante Black to frame you. As my husband, you would be on the guest list of every ball, party, masque, and soiree. You could move freely amongst them, listen to their conversations, and even search their houses for information. No one would be the wiser.”

“Lady Isabel, you never cease to amaze me. You’re correct in presuming that I will learn the identity of the true thief,” he said, his black eyes glowing with a savage inner fire. “I’m not convinced it’s Dante Black either, but another more influential and wealthy mastermind behind the ill deed.”

“We are in agreement then?” she asked.

“Ah, but you’re forgetting one thing.”

“What?”

“You may now believe you will never want to marry, but what if circumstances change?”

She tilted her head at him and smiled. “I don’t believe a woman must marry to find fulfillment or happiness. Auntie Lil never married and she is quite content, joyous really. But in the unlikely event that circumstances should change, then we could seek a divorce.”

Marcus shook his head. “Divorce is near impossible and requires a Private Act of Parliament. Only rare cases involving a wife’s adultery have been sufficient grounds of late. Legal separation is more available.”

She didn’t miss a beat, desperate to convince him. “Since we will not have children, and I truly have no desire to marry, separation suits us perfectly.”

“I commend your swift thinking, Lady Isabel. If half of the stockbrokers at the Exchange thought as quickly on their feet as you, I would have no clients left.”

She quickly raised her glass, lest he change his mind. “A toast to us then?”

“I have a better way to seal our bargain.” He plucked the glass from her limp hand and pulled her into his arms. “If I am going to embark on a passionless marriage of convenience, then I want to sample what I am giving up.”