Marcus was frowning when he arrived home several minutes later and entered the house. He'd spent the intervening time as he'd ridden his horse through the darkness toward Sherbrook Hall considering Isabel's reaction. She'd not been repulsed by his actions and she'd been a willing partic.i.p.ant in their embrace, he knew that much. So why had she run away? He had no quarrel with her wishing to stop things before they went much farther, and he was secretly appalled at how close he'd come to completely losing his head, but surely she hadn't needed to disappear like that. And what the devil did she mean by those cryptic words? Especially the part about Hugh?

Having told Thompson not to wait up for him, Marcus threw his riding gloves on the marble table in the elegant foyer, picked up the candle his butler had left burning for him, and wandered into his office. After lighting several candles, he spent a few minutes coaxing a fire into being in the fireplace that dominated the far wall. A thoughtful expression on his face, he poured himself a brandy from the tray of liquors and gla.s.sware Thompson kept filled and ready on a tall mahogany chest and walked over to his desk.

He set down his brandy on the corner of the desk and then stood staring blankly at the snifter, his thoughts on Isabel. Part of him was enormously satisfied by the way she had reacted to his kiss, but the ending...He scowled. Hugh Manning was not, he decided grimly, going to be a part of what went on in their bedroom. Marcus would allow no ghosts in his marriage bed.

Hugh Manning had been dead for ten years or more and Marcus found it impossible to believe that Isabel was still in love with her husband. She hadn't responded, he reminded himself, like a woman whose heart belonged to a dead man. She'd been warm and willing; the memory of her arms clasped around his neck and the way her lips had parted beneath his confirmed his opinion. So what had gone wrong?

That pa.s.sionate interlude had startled Marcus. Since they were to be married, naturally he'd hoped that they'd find pleasure in each other's arms. He just hadn't expected to be so completely overwhelmed by the most basic, intense desire to possess a woman that he'd ever experienced. It occurred to him, and with no little unease, that for the first time in his life, he'd been controlled by his emotions. If Isabel had not brought things to an end he might very well have crossed the line, and that knowledge annoyed him. He should have handled the situation with far more finesse. Instead, he thought irritably, he acted like a randy youth with his first woman.

Marcus hadn't reached the age of nine and thirty without having become adept at the art of dalliance. He might have been discreet about his conquests, but he'd never been a monk and there had been more than one little opera dancer who had enjoyed his protection over the years. But while he appreciated the charms and the sensual gratification to be found in the arms of the various women he kept, his emotions, beyond l.u.s.t and perhaps amus.e.m.e.nt at their antics as they coaxed another expensive bauble out of him, had never been touched. His mistresses had satisfied a physical need and, while he took pleasure in their company and bed, he likened it to the same pleasure and enjoyment he took in an exceptionally delicious meal or a particularly fine bottle of liquor: something relished for the moment and then forgotten. He doubted that, if he lived to be a hundred, he'd ever forget that blaze of pa.s.sion that had ignited within him the instant his mouth had touched Isabel's. What had happened tonight with Isabel made him realize that until he'd kissed her, held her in his arms, he had never experienced true desire-and it unnerved him.

With Isabel ardent and willing in his embrace, the world had receded and he'd been oblivious to anything but how wonderful she felt in his arms; been aware of nothing but of the potent sweetness of her kiss and the arousing softness of her body crushed against his. Marcus made a face, not liking that he'd been fully at the mercy of his most basic instincts. He'd been immune to everything but a pounding desire to push aside those concealing skirts and mate; and mate, he admitted uncomfortably, was the only way to describe the primitive emotions that had reigned over him. If Isabel hadn't brought their embrace to an end, he conceded with a little bit of shock, well, he wouldn't have been responsible for what would have happened next. He frowned, knowing full well what would have taken place: he'd have possessed her fully there in the garden and d.a.m.n the devil!

He shook his head. Something must be very wrong with him, he decided. He'd gone from placidly expecting each day to follow the rhythm and routine of the day before to rashly announcing to an utter stranger that he was engaged to a woman he'd avoided like the plague for the past decade. What's more, he'd discovered that the idea of marriage to her wasn't at all distasteful. No, he thought, not distasteful at all, remembering her sweet mouth beneath his and the feel of her bare little b.u.t.tocks in his hands. His body reacted instantly to images that flashed across his mind, his blood running hot and thick through his veins, the organ between his legs suddenly swollen and heavy, and he wondered wildly if he was turning into a satyr and or libertine like his grandfather, the Old Earl....

Horrified at the idea of following in the Old Earl's footsteps, Marcus resolutely kept his mind off of anything remotely connected to matters of the flesh. His face set in grim concentration, he shrugged out of his form-fitting dark blue jacket and tugged loose the starched white cravat, tossing both items over the oxblood leather settee that faced the fire. Seating himself behind the desk, after taking a sip of brandy, he pulled out several pieces of paper and began to write.

His mother should hear of the news first, he decided after a moment's thought. He took a deep breath and then quickly and decisively wrote, giving her little more information than the fact that he was engaged to marry Isabel Manning and that the wedding would be held sometime in late July or early August. That first, most difficult message completed, he settled down to write the remainder. Eventually there was a pile of notes on the edge of his desk, all essentially repeating the same information he'd written his mother. He paused in his efforts, reviewing the names of the people who should hear of the engagement directly from him.

The Weston clan was large and far flung, and, although Marcus was closest to his cousins Julian, the Earl of Wyndham, and Charles, and to a lesser extent his young cousin the Honorable Stacey Bannister and Stacey's mother, his mother's youngest sister, there were other relatives. Many other relatives, he admitted, wincing, some he probably didn't even know about. He sighed. The Old Earl had been known for his prodigious number of by-blows scattered from one end of the British Isles to the other and Marcus was grateful he could safely ignore all those relatives born on the wrong side of the blanket. But that still left three other aunts and who knew how many cousins?

Deciding that he needed only to notify his other aunts, leaving it up to them to spread the news to their children, he once again began to write. The last three letters written, he stared with satisfaction at the pile. His mother's he would have hand delivered by a servant to London; the others could be sent by post.

He eyed the pile of notes for a long time. His fate was sealed. Not only had the engagement been announced tonight at Lord Manning's, but once these notes were received, the news would spread like wildfire through the ton.

Pushing back his chair, he sipped his brandy and contemplated the future. Within a matter of months he'd be a married man and his life would never again be the same. But, he reminded himself, Isabel would be in his bed every night. A distinctly carnal expression crossed his face. Marriage, he decided, would have its benefits.

Roaming the confines of her rooms at Manning Court, Isabel couldn't think of one good thing that could come of her marriage to Marcus Sherbrook. In fact, she saw only disaster ahead.

Wearing a nightgown of the finest cambric, she paced in front of a pair of long windows that overlooked the gardens, her gaze kept firmly away from the direction of the rose arbor. One thing she did not want to think about was what had occurred when she had lost her head in Marcus's arms. With the same steely effort she had exercised over her life since Hugh's death, she forced her thoughts away from that pa.s.sionate interlude and considered her future.

How could her life have changed so dramatically, so disastrously, within twenty-four hours? There'd already been trouble enough on her horizon, but nothing that she couldn't handle-and nothing approaching the magnitude of her marriage to Marcus! She'd awoken this morning knowing she'd have to deal with Whitley, but she'd never expected to end the day engaged to Marcus! A half-hysterical laugh bubbled up inside of her. Whitley she could handle, but Marcus...Pain twisted in her heart. Unable to think of Marcus without feeling like bursting into tears, she considered the situation with Whitley.

Whitley was a problem, no denying it. She already knew that it had been a ghastly mistake to pay him any money in the first place and that she dared not pay him one penny more-no matter what he threatened.

Rubbing her head, Isabel sank down on her bed. And I wouldn't have paid the b.a.s.t.a.r.d even two days ago if he hadn't caught me by surprise, she thought bitterly. A chill blew through her when she remembered looking up from the roses she'd been cutting in the garden to find Whitley standing in front of her, that well-remembered, annoying little smirk on his face. While living in India, she had often itched to smack that same smirk right off his face, and she discovered that the itch had not gone away. She'd never understood Hugh's friendliness for Whitley and she had always been wary of him and his poking and prying.

An expression of distaste flitted across her face. How often, all those years before, she wondered, had she caught him snooping around the house, even one time pawing through the papers on Hugh's desk? How many boring afternoons had she sat through the sweltering heat of India listening to the wives of Hugh's colleagues gossip about Whitley's ceaseless nosing about. Her lip curled. The wives might gossip about him, but all of them invited him to their homes and acted as if they considered him quite charming. Even I did, Isabel admitted with disgust. But she'd never liked him, not even when Hugh had first introduced her to him, and she'd never fallen for Whitley's facile charm.

The English society in Bombay had been small and insular and, like all such societies, much of their entertainment had come from speculating on the doings of each other. Most of it had been innocent and not unnatural considering the situation, but there had always been, in Isabel's opinion, something decidedly nasty about Whitley's interest in the happenings amongst his friends and neighbors. Even before Hugh had died and she had returned to England, she'd come to believe that Whitley was dangerous and no friend to Hugh or herself.

A quiver of fear went through her. And dear G.o.d, I was right! Her hands suddenly felt clammy thinking of that original meeting with Whitley in the garden. She'd not been happy to see him, but she hadn't been frightened, at least not at first.

It had taken her a second to realize that Whitley was alone; no servant had escorted him to her and he had bypa.s.sed the normal route, avoiding being seen by any of the inhabitants of the house. He'd been sneaking and creeping around again, she thought disgustedly.

Her dislike boiling to the surface, in a sharp voice she had asked, "Did no one answer the door?"

Whitley's smirk had grown and he'd said, "I thought it best if we had a moment or two of private conversation before you introduced me to your father-in-law. We have much to discuss, you and I: old events in India, events I doubt Lord Manning would find interesting." His cold eyes locked on her face, he had drawled, "There's no need for him to know everything that happened in Bombay, now is there?"

Dread had filled her. Face white, she had stammered, "W-w-what are you talking about?"

"I think you know very well what I'm talking about." He looked sly. "Of course, I don't really have to speak with Lord Manning and tell him about those days of old, now do I? There's no reason to upset an old man by letting him learn that his son was not the paragon he thought or that you are not quite as you appear. I suppose," he said carefully, "if someone made it worth my while, I could just leave the way I came and ride away with no one the wiser that I had even been here."

Her thoughts scrambling like squirrels around a tree, Isabel had latched onto the most important part of his statement. He would go away. For money. "Wait here," she said breathlessly. "Don't let anyone see you." Throwing down her tools and the woven straw basket half-filled with roses, she'd dashed to the house.

It had taken her a few moments to gather up what ready money she could lay her hands on. She thanked G.o.d that she still had a large portion of the generous pin money that Lord Manning gave her every quarter, and to that, in her desperation, she'd even added in a diamond necklace and earrings. In those first frantic minutes, she'd have given Whitley anything he'd wanted simply to make him go away.

And that, she decided angrily, had been her first mistake. If she'd faced him down, she'd have ended the situation then and there, but had she done that? No. Like a scared little ninny-hammer, she'd panicked and thrown the money at him. He'd kept his word-gone away, all right-but like a tiger having tasted blood, he'd come back for more. And he'd keep coming back, she realized soon enough...unless she did something to prevent it.

She stared down at her clenched hands in her lap. I made a mistake, but I didn't repeat it. I stood up to him the next time, she reminded herself. I told him he'd not get one penny more.

Her mouth thinned. She'd been frightened but determined when she'd ridden out to meet Whitley this morning. Whitley had, she reminded herself, no proof of anything. He had to have been fishing, bluffing, she told herself repeatedly. He had to have been hoping to either startle the truth out of her or scare her into giving him money.

A mirthless laugh came from her. Well, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had succeeded on one level: she'd given him money. But never again, and she cursed her foolishness for letting Whitley panic her in that manner. She should have stood firm and laughed in his face, or offered to introduce him to Lord Manning. Taking him to meet her father-in-law would have been a calculated risk, but it would have been worth the gamble. Whitley could know nothing for certain; she and Hugh had been so very careful, knowing that the stakes were enormous and that one slip, one mistake, would be tragic. There was no proof, she told herself again, but even knowing that no proof existed, it did not, could not, dispel the anxiety that clawed in her breast or lessen her terror.

Whitley's reaction to her refusal to give him more money hadn't surprised Isabel. She'd known that he could be violent. She'd seen him lose his temper once with one of his native servants and take a whip to the poor fellow. Isabel felt certain that only Hugh's quick intervention had saved the man's life.

Thinking back on the confrontation with Whitley this morning, she realized that she should have been better prepared. It was unlikely that Whitley would be fool enough to strike her or harm her in any measurable way, but she could see that the situation had been dangerous. Isabel grimaced. I should have brought one of Hugh's pistols with me and shot the b.l.o.o.d.y blackguard. For a moment, she dwelled on the satisfying image of Whitley lying dead on the ground, a bullet hole between his eyes.

She smiled grimly. She could have done it. Hugh had been uneasy with leaving her and Edmund alone in a foreign country for weeks, sometimes months at a time, while he traveled on the company's business. They'd had no near neighbors and, with only unreliable native servants around for her to turn to in unsettled times and a countryside rife with deadly predators and poisonous vipers, Hugh had made certain she knew her way around a firearm. When he was home, on countless sultry mornings before the heat of the day became unbearable, he'd taken her into the relative coolness of the jungle to practice with a variety of pistols. A bittersweet ache bloomed within her. Those had been some of the most pleasurable times she'd spent in India. Hugh had been proud of her, and after a difficult start, and Lord knew it had been difficult, the possibility of a happy marriage had loomed on the horizon. Her lips drooped. And then a king cobra had ended everything.

Shaking off the depressing thoughts, she stood up and began to pace again. She hoped that the situation with Whitley had been defused, but she suspected not. He wouldn't give up easily and she knew that, while he may have gone to ground at the moment, he'd circle around and come back again and try to frighten her into running like a terrified sam-bar doe in front of a stalking tiger. She snorted. That wasn't going to happen. She was prepared now and wouldn't let her guard down.

Isabel rubbed her forehead, the headache she'd been fighting all evening becoming more insistent. How she'd managed to keep that insipidly happy smile on her face all through dinner mystified her. I must be a better actress than I realize, she mused, because heaven knows I never felt less like smiling in my life. And tonight, she thought wearily, was only the beginning....

During the coming weeks and months there were going to be many occasions like tonight. She and Marcus would be constantly in each other's company, constantly under the eyes of interested friends and relatives. The whole neighborhood would be excited about their wedding and, through it all, she would have to smile and nod and pretend that she wasn't terrified of the future, terrified of forgetting and losing herself in Marcus Sherbrook's embrace.

A tremor of half fright, half pleasure coursed through her at the memory of his warm mouth on hers. His kiss had been everything she'd ever foolishly dreamed that it would be, and for those brief treasured moments she'd been able to forget why it was madness and simply revel in his embrace, revel in the power of his kiss, in the hot, sweet sensations that raced through her, but then...then she'd come to her senses and remembered....

Bleakly, she stared out into the darkness. Oh, Hugh, she thought miserably. How could you die and leave me alone this way? What am I to do?

The news of the engagement of Mrs. Hugh Manning and Marcus Sherbrook swept through the neighborhood with all the speed and wonder a.s.sociated with a shooting star blazing across the night sky. Marcus had known that it would cause talk; he just hadn't expected it to cause that much talk, nor that everyone from the lowliest scullery maid to the loftiest member of the aristocracy in the area would find the news so very interesting. By the time his engagement was five days old, he was heartily sick of it. Glaring out the window of his office on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, he swore that if one more of his male friends or neighbors expressed their astonishment that he was going to marry Isabel Manning of all people, they'd discover just how handy he was with his fives. As for the female portion of the neighborhood, they were all clamoring to know the date of the wedding. He scowled. And that was the one question he couldn't answer.

His scowl deepened. And Isabel! The little wretch! Just what game was she playing? Every time he brought up the subject of setting the date of their wedding, she'd vanished like a puff of smoke. One minute they were talking and the next-poof!-she was gone and he was left talking to air. In fact, he thought grimly, since their betrothal had been announced, she had proven irritatingly elusive. It wasn't, he argued, that he intended for them to live in each other's pocket, but he'd certainly a.s.sumed they'd see each other more than they had these past days. They had things to discuss, a wedding to plan. There were decisions to be made, living arrangements to be decided upon, and blast her! She was always in a hurry to be somewhere else and simply did not have a moment to give him-or so she said. Why, he'd wager that since their engagement he hadn't spent more than twenty minutes at a time in her presence, and always, he reminded himself, his scowl deepening, with someone nearby. If he didn't know better he'd think she was afraid to be alone with him.

The sound of several vehicles and horses pulling up to the front of the house caught his attention and, still scowling, hoping it wasn't more curious friends or neighbors coming to call, he strode from the library. Like the well-trained servant he was, Thompson was already in the foyer ahead of him preparing to open the heavy oak doors.

"It is your mother, sir," Thompson said, smiling. "One of the gatekeeper's boys took a shortcut through the park and just came rushing into the kitchen with the news."

Marcus knew very well why his mother had come home, but he was still startled that news of his engagement had compelled her to leave London at the height of the Season. Touched by this sign of maternal devotion, he strolled out of the house to greet her.

His bad mood lifted as he caught sight of the entourage that awaited him. In addition to the large and lumbering family barouche drawn by four elegant grays, there was a coach that held several servants and behind that there were two heavily laden vehicles. His mother was notorious for the number of items she felt were absolutely necessary for her comfort when away from Sherbrook Hall and, looking at the a.s.semblage before him, he smiled. His cousin Julian was of the mind that an invading army could probably get by with less than Aunt Barbara took for a few months' stay in London. Marcus tended to agree with him.

Even though he knew why she had left behind the delights of London and had returned home, he was still a trifle surprised at her unexpected arrival. His mother never traveled anywhere without an armed male escort, convinced that bandits and highwaymen lurked behind every tree, and Marcus had been half prepared for a summons to London for the express purpose of accompanying her on the journey home. That she had foregone such precautions was astounding and made him wonder if she had finally accepted his oft-repeated a.s.surances that no self-respecting bandit or highwayman would dare hold up such a large party.

The mystery of his mother's sudden boldness was solved when he noticed a tall, fashionably attired gentleman in the act of dismounting from a restive black horse. She'd found an escort. Studying the man, Marcus frowned. Except for the black hair curling from beneath a rolled-brim beaver hat, Marcus could tell little about the man. He appeared to be a stranger, and yet there was something familiar about him, something about the lean-hipped, broad-shouldered build...

Puzzling over the stranger's ident.i.ty, Marcus strolled toward the barouche. He and the stranger reached it at the same time and when the man grinned at him, Marcus stopped as if he'd been poleaxed. He still didn't know the man, but he'd have recognized those features anywhere: except for the difference in eye color, the man bore a striking resemblance to the face Marcus saw every morning in his shaving mirror. The man was clearly a Weston. He had the same black hair, the same rugged features, right down to the swooping black eyebrows, deep-set eyes, strong jaw, and wide-lipped mouth. Only the nose was a bit more aquiline, but the olive, almost swarthy, complexion was all definitely Weston. His heart sank. Had his mother befriended one of the Old Earl's by-blows?

Grinning at him, the stranger said, "You don't recognize me, do you? I'm not surprised, I doubt we've met a half-dozen times and then only briefly. I'm Jack Landrey."

"Aunt Maria's oldest son?" Marcus asked cautiously. "The one who was in the Army?" Jack nodded and as they shook hands, Marcus said, "Heard you got shot up in Egypt. A leg, wasn't it? Battle of Alexandria back in '01?"

"Not one of my more gratifying moments, I can tell you," Jack answered with a smile.

Smiling back, Marcus said, "I can imagine. But wait, that's not the only time you were wounded, was it? Didn't I hear from someone that a couple years later you nearly lost an arm fighting in the West Indies?"

Jack shrugged. "Yes, but one of those dashed island fevers was the worst of it."

Morbid curiosity prompted Marcus to say, "Seems to me I remember that you were also wounded last year at Copenhagen with Sir Arthur, weren't you?"

Jack shook his head and admitted sheepishly, "It was a horse that caused me grief that time. Rank beast unseated me in the midst of fighting and I broke my leg when I fell." He made a face. "After that, I decided perhaps fate was trying to tell me something. I sold out my commission and came home. Arrived back in England in January."

"What your cousin is completely failing to mention," said Barbara in exasperated tones as Marcus opened the door of the barouche and prepared to help her down, "is that he is no longer plain Mr. Jack Landrey. He is now Lord Thorne, Viscount Thorne."

Jack laughed. "Forgot."

"Newly inherited?" Marcus asked, liking a man who could forget being elevated to the ranks of the Peerage.

"Very. Not two months ago," Jack admitted. "Distant cousin, second or third, died without issue, and I woke up one morning to find myself a viscount. Gave me a queer start, I can tell you. Mother is in the boughs over it and, of course, my brothers and sisters are thrilled." Jack made a face. "I'm still not certain how I feel about it. Old fellow left plenty of blunt to go with the t.i.tle, but the estate and farms have been allowed to fall into rack and ruin. First day at Thornewood, I put my foot through the dining room floor." He shook his head. "I foresee a great deal of money and work being expended on the place to bring it up to snuff."

Putting her hand on Marcus's arm as they walked toward the house, Barbara gave Jack a fond look and said, "Yes, and you shall enjoy every moment of it. Your mother wrote me that you have been like a caged beast since you've come home to England. She thinks overseeing the rebuilding of the estate will give you something to do-and keep you out of mischief." Turning her gaze to her son, Barbara's brow lifted and she said, "Speaking of mischief: you have been very busy while I've been in London, haven't you?"

Marcus grinned at his mother's understatement but there was no time to reply; they had reached the house and Thompson was greeting his mother. Leaving Barbara happily issuing a mult.i.tude of orders to Thompson-rooms for Jack and his valet, the disburs.e.m.e.nt of trunks, bandboxes, and valises from the wagons-Marcus bore Jack off to his office.

Offering Jack a gla.s.s of hock, Marcus said, "Thank you for escorting my mother home. I appreciate it. I hope it didn't disrupt your plans too much."

"Good G.o.d, no!" exclaimed Jack, taking a seat on the oxblood leather settee. "I'd rather face a horde of savages intent upon my demise than the hallowed halls of Almack's."

Marcus laughed. "I don't blame you. London has its amus.e.m.e.nts but Almack's is not one I find to my liking."

Jack took a swallow of his hock. "From what Aunt Barbara said, it appears that you managed to get yourself engaged with no help from the matchmaking mamas that haunt London this time of year." He grinned and added, "She's ecstatic, by the way."

Though cousins, they were virtually strangers to each other and there were a few awkward moments, but these were soon left behind. Jack's mother, the sister next to Barbara in age, the Honorable Maria Weston, as she had been known then, had outraged her family when at seventeen she had run away and married an impecunious lieutenant in the Navy. The Old Earl had not been happy with the match and Maria and her lieutenant had received a chilly welcome the few times they'd returned to Wyndham Manor. Proud and very much in love, Maria had turned her back on her family, and contact with the main branch of the Westons for the past thirty years or so had been scanty at best. Even though the Old Earl had died decades ago, and the young lieutenant had gained the rank of Vice-Admiral before her husband's death three years previously, the estrangement that began during the Old Earl's lifetime created a breach that remained somewhat to this day. Marcus thought it interesting that his mother appeared to have taken Jack under her wing.

Deciding that if Jack had his mother's approval, and liking his first impressions of him, Marcus set himself out to put his cousin at ease and soon the two men were conversing as if they had known each other for years. Though Maria and her brood had remained at a distance, she had maintained some contact with her siblings, mostly through letters, and Jack and Marcus were able to find some common ground. By the time Barbara stuck her head around the door to his office, Marcus and Jack were quite at ease with one another.

At Barbara's entrance, Jack set down his empty gla.s.s and rose to his feet. Smiling from mother to son, he said, "I'm sure that the pair of you have much to discuss. If you will direct me to my room, I shall give you some privacy."

Once Jack had been borne away by Thompson and Barbara had settled herself comfortably in an overstuffed leather chair, she looked up at her son and said simply, "Tell me. All."

Lying was not Marcus's forte, but he'd known this moment was coming and he'd prepared himself. Not quite meeting his mother's gaze, he said, "Before you left for London, you made it clear that I should make some changes in my life. Decided marriage would be one way. Knew you liked Isabel. Offered for her. Accepted me."

Barbara stared in dismay at her tall handsome son, her heart sinking. Instead of the love match she'd dreamed of, it was obvious that Marcus, in his usual unemotional way, she thought irritably, had chosen a marriage of convenience. She frowned. She could understand Marcus's motives, but what of Isabel's?

Thoughtfully, Barbara studied her son. Marcus's actions, while vexing, she could understand, but Isabel's had her puzzled. It had not escaped her attention that Marcus and Isabel's marked avoidance of each other was a little too obvious. She'd long suspected that the pair of them were attracted to each other, but both were too stubborn and proud to act on that attraction-or acknowledge it. Perhaps Isabel had realized that she didn't really dislike Marcus after all? In fact, quite the opposite?

Barbara sighed. Whatever Isabel's reasons, it was her son's that concerned her most. She'd so longed for Marcus to fall wildly, madly in love that she hadn't cared who the woman was; if Marcus loved her, Barbara would have welcomed a milkmaid into the family. But if she'd had to choose a wife for her son, Isabel would have topped the list. She'd had never simply wanted her son to marry, she'd wanted him to be helplessly, pa.s.sionately in love with the woman he eventually married-which, it was apparent, he was not.

Well, it might not be a love match, she admitted resignedly, but she had hopes for the future. Married, they'd have to be in each other's company and propinquity was known to make miracles.

Forcing a smile, she looked at Marcus and asked, "So when is the wedding to take place?"

Chapter 6.

Marcus nearly groaned aloud. Trust his mother to ask the one question he could not answer! Reluctantly he said, "We haven't set a precise date yet, but we've agreed that the wedding will take place in either late July or early August."

Barbara glanced down at her hands in her lap. Well, that sounded promising. At least there didn't seem to be a long engagement in the offing and she'd been half prepared for that. And, she thought pleased, Marcus seemed unhappy with the delay in setting a date for the wedding. Perhaps his emotions were more involved than she realized? Had she detected a note of impatience in his voice?

She glanced up to see him studying her, a quizzical expression on his face. "What?" she asked. "Why do you look at me so?"

"Unless you're a fortune teller," he said, smiling faintly, "when you left for London, you had no idea that I planned to marry, and I'll wager that Isabel Manning would have been the last woman you'd expect me to marry, yet you don't seem the least surprised."

Barbara shrugged and said, "You are my only child and I have tried very hard not to be an interfering mother. I raised you to be self-sufficient and you're old enough to make your own decisions and have been for years. I have long thought it is past time that you married and started your nursery but I a.s.sumed you would marry when it suited you. Obviously that time has come." She smiled. "As for Isabel being the woman you've chosen to marry...why not? She's an eligible, wealthy, attractive young woman from a respectable family. You've known each other all your lives, you come from similar backgrounds, and you've some interests in common-horses come to mind-and you even like her son, so why shouldn't you marry each other? Your marriage seems quite timely and practical to me."

His mother's words p.r.i.c.ked him. There was nothing wrong in what she said but hearing her lay out all the logical reasons for his marriage annoyed him. When he thought of marriage to Isabel-and he'd thought of little else since the night of their betrothal-he didn't think in such prosaic terms as eligibility or common interests. No, there was nothing prosaic about his thoughts about Isabel. When he wasn't thinking of strangling her, he was aware of the emptiness that consumed him when he was away from her, or he was imagining her smile, her laugh; but mostly, he admitted, he was thinking of how very much he wanted her in his arms and in his bed.

A frown on his face, Marcus said, "So the marriage doesn't bother you?"

"Good heavens! Why should it? I am very fond of both Isabel and Edmund." She flashed him a wide smile, saying truthfully, "I am thrilled that you are going to marry Isabel; she will be good for you."

"You make her sound like a mustard foot bath," he said dryly.

Barbara laughed. "She will certainly be a spring tonic for you. Now, how do you feel about hosting a small dinner party on Friday evening to introduce Jack? With so many of our friends in London, we will be quite thin of company, but I think we can put together a pleasant table. Naturally, we'll invite Isabel and Lord Manning, as well as several others, like Clara Appleton, who eschewed the Season this year." She smiled slyly. "And perhaps by then you and Isabel will have decided upon a date for the wedding and it can be announced."

Marcus doubted the latter, but he agreed with his mother's plans to introduce Jack to their circle of friends. They spoke on the matter for several moments before Marcus inquired about his mother's trip to London and Barbara in turn asked after local events.

A glimmer of a smile in his eyes, Marcus asked, "Did my news disrupt your plans in London terribly?"

She laughed. "No, truth be told, London was extremely tiring. I find that I like my familiar things around me and my normal routine."

"Hmmm, seems to me that you've scolded me often enough for saying the same thing."

"Hush!" she said, her eyes dancing. "As a respectful and dutiful son, you are to do as I say, not as I do." Leaning forward, Barbara demanded, "Now tell me: what do you think of Jack?"

Marcus shrugged. "On the basis of our short acquaintance, he seems a decent enough fellow. I think he will prove to be an enjoyable companion."

"My impression exactly! He was a delightful and entertaining escort during the trip from London. And if half of what I hear from his mother is true, he has led a most exciting life. The adventures he has had for a young man not yet five and thirty!"

Feeling a trifle ruffled by the wistful, almost envious note in his mother's voice, Marcus muttered, "Aunt Maria is probably well used to learning that he is lingering near death's door."