The Stranger I Married (2 page)

Tink.
Tink.
Isabel woke up with a groan, knowing by the soft

purplish color of the sky and her exhaustion that is must be just after dawn. She lay there a moment, her mind groggy, trying to determine what had disturbed her sleep.

Tink.
Running her hands over her eyes, Isabel sat up and reached for her negligee to cover her nakedness. She glanced at the large-faced clock on the mantle and realized Markham had left only two hours before. She’d hoped to sleep until late afternoon, and still intended to do so, once she dealt with her recalcitrant swain. Whoever he was.
She shivered as she made her way to the window, where tiny pebbles hitting the glass provided the annoying sound. Isabel tossed open the swinging pane and looked down at her rear garden. She sighed. “I suppose if I must be disturbed,” she called out, “it’s best that it be for a sight as handsome as you are.”
The Marquess of Grayson grinned up her, his shiny brown hair disheveled and his deep blue eyes red-rimmed. He was missing his cravat and the neck of his shirt gaped open, revealing a golden throat and a few strands of dark hair. He appeared to be lacking a waistcoat as well, and she couldn’t help but smile back at him. Gray reminded her so much of Pelham when she’d first met him nine years ago. Those had been happy times, short-lived as they were.
“O Romeo, Romeo!” she recited, taking a seat on the window bench. “Wherefore art thou—”
“Oh, please, Pel,” he groaned, cutting her off with that deep laugh of his. “Let me in, will you? It’s cold out here.”
“Gray.” She shook her head. “If I let you in, this incident will be all over London by suppertime. Go away, before you are seen.”
He crossed his arms stubbornly, the material of his black jacket straining to contain his brawny arms and broad shoulders. Grayson was so young, his face as yet unlined. Still a boy in so many ways. Pelham had been the same age when he’d swept her off her seventeen-year old feet.
“I am not leaving, Isabel. So you may as well invite me in, before I make a spectacle of myself.”
She could tell by the stubborn set of his jaw that he was serious. Well, as serious as a man like him could get.
“Go to the kitchen, then,” she relented. “Someone will be awake to admit you.”
Isabel rose from the window seat, and retrieved the lined silk robe that matched her negligee, both made in bright white satin. She left her bedroom, and walked into her boudoir where she opened the curtains to let in the now pale pink light. The room was her favorite, decorated is soft shades of ivory and burnished gold, with gilt edged chairs and chaise, and tasseled drapes. But the soothing color scheme was not what most moved her. That distinction went to the only spot of obtrusive color in the room—the large portrait of Pelham that graced the far wall.
Every day she gazed upon that portrait, and allowed her heartbreak and loathing to rise to the surface. The earl, of course, was impervious, his seductively etched mouth curved in the smile that had won her hand in marriage. How she’d loved him, and adored him, as only a young girl could. Pelham had been everything to her, until she’d sat at Lady Warren’s musicale and heard two women behind her discussing her husband’s carnal prowess.
Her jaw clenched at the memory, all her old resentment rushing to the fore. Nearly five years had passed since Pelham met his reward in a duel over a paramour, but she still smarted from the sting of betrayal and humiliation.
A soft scratching came to the door. Turning the knob, Isabel opened the portal and met the frowning countenance of her hastily-dressed butler.
“My lady, the Marquess of Grayson requests a moment of your time.” He cleared his throat. “From the kitchen door.”
Isabel bit back a smile, her dark mood fleeing at the image she pictured of Grayson standing haughty and arrogant, as only he could be, while semi-dressed and at the delivery entrance. “Show him in, please.”
A slight twitching of a gray eyebrow was the only indication of surprise.
While the servant went to fetch Gray, she went around the room and lit the tapers. Lord, she was tired. She hoped he’d be quick about whatever was so urgent. Thinking of their earlier odd conversation, she wondered if he might not need some help. He could be a bit touched in the head.
Certainly they’d been unfailingly friendly with one another, and closer than mere acquaintances, but never more than that. Isabel had always rubbed along well with men. After all, she liked them quite well. But there had been a respectful distance between her and Lord Grayson, because of her ongoing affair with Markham, his best friend. An affair she’d ended just hours ago, when the handsome viscount had asked her to marry him for the third time.
In any case, despite Gray’s ability to stop her brain processes for a moment with his uncommon beauty, she had no further interest in him. He was Pelham all over again—a man too selfish and self-centered to set aside his own needs for someone else’s.
The door flew open behind her, startling her, and she spun about, only to be met head on with over six feet of powerful male. Gray caught her around the waist, and spun her about, laughing that rich laugh of his. A laugh that said he’d never once had a care in the world.
“Gray!” she protested, pushing at his shoulders. “Put me down.”
“Dear, Pel,” he cried, his eyes alight. “I’ve had the most wondrous news told to me this morn. I’m to be a father!”
Isabel blinked, growing dizzy from lack of sleep and the spinning.
“You are the only person alive I could think of who might be happy for me. Everyone else will be horrified. Please smile, Pel. Congratulate me.”
“I will, if you put me down.”
The marquess set her on her feet, and stepped back, waiting.
She laughed at his impatient expectation.
“Congratulations, my lord. May I have the name of the lucky woman who is to become your bride?”
Much of the joy in his blue eyes faded, but his charming smile remained. “Well, that would still be you, Isabel.”
Staring up at him, she tried to decide what in hell he was about, and failed. She gestured to a nearby chair, and then sat herself.
“You really are quite lovely with sex-mussed hair,” Gray mused. “I can see why your lovers would mourn the loss of such a sight.”
“Lord Grayson!” Isabel ran a hand over the tangles in her long tresses. The present fashion was close-cropped curls, but she preferred a longer length, as did her paramours. “Please, I must hasten you to explain the purpose of your visit. It has been a long night and I am tired.”
“It has been a long night for me as well, I have yet to sleep. But—”
“Might I suggest you sleep on this wild idea of yours? Rested, I think you might see things differently.”
“I won’t,” he said stubbornly, twisting to drape one arm over the back of the chair, a pose that was sultry in its sheer artlessness. “I’ve thought it through. There are so many reasons why we would be perfect for one another.”
She snorted. “Gray, you have no notion of how wrong you are.”
“Hear me out, Pel. I need a wife.”
“I don’t need a husband.”
“Are you certain about that?” he asked, arching a brow at her. “I think you do.”
Isabel crossed her arms, and settled into the back of the chaise. Whether he was insane or not, he was interesting. “Oh?”
“Think on it. I know you grow rather fond of your paramours, but you have to dismiss them eventually, and not because of boredom. You are not that type of woman. No, you have to release them because they fall in love with you, and then want more. You refuse to take married men to your bed, so all of your lovers are free and they all want to marry you.” He paused. “But if you were already married...” Gray let his words hang in the air.
She stared at him. And then blinked. “What the devil do you gain out of such a marriage?”
“I gain a great deal, Pel. A great deal. I would be free of the marriage-minded debutantes, my mistresses would understand that they’ll get no more from me, my mother—” He shuddered. “My mother would cease presenting marital prospects to me, and I shall have a wife who is not only charming and likeable, but one who doesn’t have any foolish notions of love and commitment and fidelity.”
For some strange, unaccountable reason, Isabel found herself liking Lord Grayson. Unlike Pelham, Gray wasn’t filling some poor child’s head with declarations of undying love and devotion. He wasn’t making a marital bargain with a girl who might grow to love him and be hurt by his indiscretions. And he was thrilled to have a bastard, which led her to believe he intended to provide for it.
“What of children, Gray? I am not young, and you must have an heir.”
His famous, heart-stopping grin burst forth. “No worries, Isabel. I have two younger brothers, one of whom is already married. They will have children, if we don’t get around to it.”
Isabel choked out a half-crazed little laugh. That she’d even consider the ridiculous notion...
But she’d said good-bye to Markham, much as she regretted that end. He was mad for her, the foolish man, and she’d selfishly tied him up for almost two years. It was time for him to find a woman worthy of him. One who could love him, as she could not. Her ability to experience that elevated emotion had died with Pelham on a field at dawn.
Looking at the earl’s portrait again, Isabel hated that she had inflicted pain on Markham. He was a good man, a tender lover, and a great friend. He was also the third man whose heart had been broken by her need for physical closeness and sexual release.
She often thought of Lord Pearson, and how emotionally destroyed he’d been by her rejection. She was weary of the hurt feelings, and often berated herself for causing them, but knew she would go on as she had been. The human need for companionship would not be denied.
Gray was right. Perhaps if she were already married, she could find and enjoy a true sexual friendship with a man without him hoping for more. And she’d never have to worry about Gray falling in love with her, that much was certain. He had professed a deep love for one woman, but maintained a steady string of paramours. Like Pelham, constancy and the ability to deeply love was beyond him.
But could she engage in similar infidelity after experiencing the pain it could bring?
The marquess leaned forward, and caught up her hands. “Say yes, Pel.” His stunning blue eyes pleaded with her, and she knew Gray would never mind her affairs. He’d be too occupied with his own, after all. This was a bargain, nothing more.
Perhaps it was exhaustion that stunted her ability to think properly, but within the space of two hours, Isabel found herself in the Grayson traveling coach on the way to Scotland.

Gerard watched the empty open doorway until his wife’s curvaceous form, which had just passed by, filled it again.

“Yes, Gray?” Isabel stepped into his study with an inquisitively raised brow.
“Are you free on Friday evening?”
She gave him a mock chastising look. “You know I am

available whenever you need me.”
“Thank you, vixen.” He leaned back in his chair and
smiled. “You are too good to me.”
Isabel moved to the settee and sat down. “Where are we
going?”
“To a dinner at the Middleton’s. I agreed to speak to
Lord Rupert there, but Bentley informed today that Lady
Middleton has also invited the Grimshaws.”
“Oh.” Isabel wrinkled her nose. “Devious of her to
invite your inamorata and her husband to an event you are
attending.”
“Quite,” Gerard said, rising and rounding the desk to
take a seat next her.
“That smile is so wicked, Gray. You really should not
let it out.”
“I can’t restrain it.” He tossed his arm over her
shoulders and pulled her close, breathing in the exotic floral
scent that was both familiar and stirring. “I am the luckiest
man alive, and I’m smart enough to know it. Can you imagine
how many peers wish they had a wife like mine?”
She laughed. “You remain deliciously, unabashedly
shameless.”
“And you love it. Our marriage has made you a figure
of some renown.”
“You mean ‘infamy’,” she said dryly. “The older
woman starved for the stamina of a younger man.” “Starved for me.” He fingered a loose tendril of fiery
hair. “I do like the sound of that.”
A soft knock on the open door had them both looking
over the back of settee at the footman who waited there. “Yes?” Gerard asked, put out to be interrupted during a
rare quiet moment with his wife. She was so often occupied
with political teas and other female nonsense that he was
hardly ever afforded the opportunity to enjoy her sparkling
discourse. Pel was infamous, yes, but she was also unfailing
charming and the Marchioness of Grayson. Society may
speculate about her, but they would never shut their doors to
her.
“A special post arrived, my lord.”
Gerard held out his hand and crooked his fingers
impatiently. As soon as he held the missive, he grimaced at the
familiar handwriting.
“Heavens, what a face,” Isabel said. “I should leave you
to it.”
“No.” He held her down by tightening his arm on her
shoulder. “It’s from the dowager, and by the time I am done
reading it, I will need you to pull me out of the doldrums, as
only you can.”
“As you wish. If you want me to stay, I will. I am not
due to go out for hours yet.”
Smiling at the thought of hours to share with her,
Gerard opened the letter.
“Shall we play chess?” she suggested, her smile
mischievous.
He shuddered dramatically. “You know how much I detest that game. Think of something less likely to put me to
sleep.”
Turning his attention to the letter, he skimmed. But as
he came to a paragraph written as if it were an afterthought,
but which he knew to be a calculated strike, his reading
slowed and his hands began to shake. His mother never wrote
without the intent to wound, and she remained furious that
he’d married the notorious Lady Pelham.

...a shame the infant did not survive the birthing. It was a boy child, I heard. Plump and well-formed with a dark mane of hair, unlike his two blond parents. Lady Sinclair was too slightly built, the doctor said, and the baby too large. She bled out over hours. A gruesome sight, I was told...

Gerard’s breathing faltered, and he grew dizzy. The beautifully handwritten horrors on the page blurred until he could no longer read them.

His chest burned, and he started in surprise as Isabel thumped him on the back.
“Breathe, damn it!” she ordered, her voice worried, but filled with command. “What the devil does that say? Give it to me.”
His hand fell slack, the papers falling to flare out on the Aubusson rug.
He should have been with her. When Sinclair had returned his letters unopened, he should have done more to support her than merely sending friends with second hand greetings. He’d known Em his whole life. She was the first girl he’d kissed, the first girl he had given flowers to, or wrote poetry about. He could not remember a time when the goldenhaired angel had not been in the peripheral of his existence.
And now she was gone, forever, killed by his lust and selfishness. His darling, sweet Emily, who had deserved so much better than he had given her.
Faintly, he heard a buzzing in his ears, and thought it could be Isabel, who held one of his hands so tightly within her own. He turned and leaned against her, his cheek to her bosom, and cried. Cried until her bodice was soaked, and the hands that stroked his back shook with worry. He cried until he couldn’t cry anymore, and all the while he hated himself.
They never made it to the Middleton’s. Later that night, Gerard packed his bags, and headed north.
He did not return.