“I gain a great deal, Pel. A great deal. I would be free of the marriage-minded debutantes, my mistresses would understand that they will receive 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 wed. They will have children, should we neglect the task.”
Isabel choked out a half-crazed little laugh. That she would even consider the ridiculous notion…
But she had said good-bye to Markham, much as she regretted that end. He was mad for her, the foolish man, and she had 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 close-ness and sexual release.
She often thought of Lord Pearson, and how emotionally destroyed he had been by her dismissal. 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 would 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 would 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.
“Isabel, a moment of your time, if you would, please.”
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 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. “Where are we expected?”
“Dinner at the Middletons’. I agreed to speak to Lord Rupert there, but Bentley informed me 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 to her.
“That smile is so wicked, Gray. You really should not let it out.”
“I cannot 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 am 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 the 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 unfailingly 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 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 had married the notorious Lady Pelham.
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 you!” 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 Em. When Sinclair had returned his letters unopened, he should have done more to support her than merely sending friends with secondhand greetings. He had 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 golden-haired angel had not been in the periphery of his existence.
And now she was gone, forever, killed by his lust and selfishness. His darling, sweet Emily, who 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 could not cry anymore, and all the while he hated himself.
They never made it to the Middletons’. Later that night, Gerard packed his bags and headed north.
He did not return.
