The Stranger I Married

Chapter 8

Isabel shut her boudoir door quietly behind her, and made her way to the staircase. Gray remained sprawled in the bathtub, his beautifully etched mouth curved in a triumphant, contented smile. He thought she was well and truly seduced, and perhaps she was. Certainly she moved differently, her body was relaxed and languid. Sated. Demented.

She wrinkled her nose. What a dreadful mire.

Now keeping him at bay would be difficult at best. He knew what he could do to her, how to touch her, how to speak to her to make her mindless with lust for him. He would be insufferable from here on out, no doubt. Merely removing herself from the bed had been a chore. The man was insatiable. If Gray had his way, she was certain they would never leave it.

Her sigh came out like a low, pained moan. The first few months of her marriage to Pelham had been similar. Even before they said their vows, he had snared her in a web of seduction. The rakishly handsome earl with the golden hair and wicked reputation had appeared to be everywhere, showing up at all the venues she did. Later, she realized those had not been random acts of fate, as her stupid heart had believed. At the time, however, it seemed they were destined for one another.

The smiles and winks he had given her created a feeling of familiarity, a sense that they shared some secret. She had assumed it was love, silly girl that she was. Fresh from the schoolroom, Pelham’s amorous attentions completely overwhelmed her, sweet gestures such as paying her abigail to deliver notes to her.

Those single lines written in a bold masculine scrawl had been devastating.

You look ravishing in blue.

I miss you.

I thought of you all day.

After they wed he fucked her abigail, but at the time Isabel had taken the girl’s adoration of the dashing peer as a sign that he was the right choice for a husband.

The week before her coming-out ball, he climbed the elm outside her bedroom balcony, and snuck boldly into her room. She was sure only pure love could goad him to take such a risk. Pelham had whispered to her in the darkness, his voice raw with lust as he stripped away her night rail, and loved her with his mouth and hands. I hope I am caught. Then you will for certain be mine.

Of course, I’m yours, she whispered back, awash in the glory of orgasm. I love you.

There are no words for what I feel for you, he returned.

A sennight of midnight liaisons and decadent pleasure had garnered her total supplication. The consummation on the seventh night had guaranteed she was his. She had entered her first Season completely off the market, and while her father would have preferred a peer of higher station, he did not gainsay her choice.

Only enough time for the reading of the banns was allowed before they married, and then they’d fled the city for a blissful honeymoon in the countryside. There she had been overjoyed to lie in bed with Pelham for days on end, rising only to bathe and eat, wallowing in carnal delights as Gray wished to do now. The similarities between the two men could not be ignored. Not when the thought of both men made her heart race and her palms damp.

“What the devil are you doing, Bella?”

Isabel blinked, quickly regaining her awareness of her surroundings. She stood at the top of the staircase, her hand on the rail, lost in thought. Her mind was sluggish from lack of sleep, and her body was sore and tired. Shaking her head, she stared down into the foyer and met the scowling countenance of her older brother, Rhys, Marquess of Trenton.

“Is it your intention to hang about up there all day? If so, I consider my obligation to you met, and I will be off to find more pleasant adventures.”

“Obligation?” She descended to him.

He smiled. “If you have forgotten, do not look to me to remind you. It’s not as if I wish to go.”

Rhys’ hair was a dark mahogany, an absolutely glorious color that set off his tan skin and hazel eyes. The ladies went a bit batty around him, but occupied with his own pleasures, he scarcely paid them any mind. Unless he found them sexually attractive. The simple fact was, he was very much like their mother when it came to the opposite sex. A woman to him was a physical convenience, and when she was no longer convenient, she was easily discarded.

Isabel knew that neither her mother nor brother had any malicious intent. They simply could not see why any of their lovers would fall in love with an individual who did not return the sentiment.

“Lady Marley’s breakfast,” she said, as she remembered. “What is the time?”

“Nearly two.” His jaded gaze raked her from head to toe. “And you are just rolling out of bed.” His mouth curved knowingly. “Apparently, the rumors of your reconciliation with Grayson are true.”

“Do you believe everything you hear?” Reaching the marble foyer, she tilted her head back to look up at her brother.

“I believe everything I see. Reddened eyes, bruised mouth, clothing you chose without thinking clearly.”

Isabel glanced down at her somewhat simple muslin day gown. It was not what she would have selected had she remembered her schedule for the day. Of course, thinking back on it now, Mary had questioned the garment, but Isabel had been so anxious to leave the room before Gray accosted her again that she had waved off the soft query.

“I will not discuss my marriage with you, Rhys.”

“Thank God for that,” he said with a shudder. “Deuced annoying when women start discussing their feelings.”

Rolling her eyes, she requested her pelisse from the nearby servant. “I do not have feelings for Grayson.”

“Quite sensible.”

“We are just friends.”

“Obviously.”

As she secured her hat with a hat pin, she shot him a sidelong glance. “What did I promise you again, in return for your escort? Whatever it is, it is worth more than your company.”

Rhys laughed, and Isabel silently acknowledged his appeal. There was something about men who could not be tamed. Thankfully she had grown out of the fascination for such hopeless sport long ago.

“You are introducing me to the lovely Lady Eddly.”

“Ah, yes. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t agree to such a blatantly obvious pairing, but in this case I think you two are perfect for one another.”

“I definitely agree.”

“I am having a dinner party…eventually. You and Lady Eddly are both invited as of this moment.” Having Rhys there would help to calm her nerves. And she would need all the assistance in that regard as she could muster. The mere thought of surviving a dinner with Gray and a bevy of his former paramours made her stomach roil.

Sighing at her predicament, Isabel shook her head. “Horribly uncouth of you to use your sister in this manner.”

“Ha,” Rhys scoffed, collecting her pelisse from the returning maid and holding it out for her. “Dreadful of you to drag me along to a breakfast, and at the Marley residence no less. Lady Marley always smells of camphor.”

“It is not as if I wish to go either, so cease your whining.”

“You wound me, Bella. Men do not whine.” With his hand on her shoulder, he spun her to face him. “Why are we attending if you doubt your enjoyment of the event?”

“You know why.”

He snorted gently. “I wish you would disregard what others thought about you. I personally find you the least annoying woman I know. Straightforward, pleasant to look upon, and capable of witty discourse.”

“I suppose your opinion is the only one that matters.”

“Is it not?”

“I wish I could ignore the gossip,” she grumbled, “but the Dowager Lady Grayson feels the need to bring it to my attention as often as possible. Those horrid notes she sends infuriate me. I wish she would just spit her venom out, rather than attempt to hide it beneath a thin layer of civility.” Isabel stared into her brother’s resigned features. “I have no notion how Grayson grew up sane with that harridan as a mother.”

“You do realize that women who look as you do often have trouble with other females? Catty creatures that you are. You cannot bear it when one woman attracts excessive masculine attention. Not that you have ever experienced that particular kind of jealousy,” he finished dryly. “You are always the woman attracting the regard.”

She had experienced other kinds of jealousy though, such as the kind a wife experiences when the bed her husband ruts in is not her own.

“Which is why I associate with men more so than women, though that has its pitfalls, too.” Isabel was aware that other women found her appearance off-putting, but there was nothing she could do about that. “Let’s be off then.”

Both of Rhys’ brows rose into his hairline. “I must pay my respects to Grayson. I cannot simply abscond with his wife. The last time I did that, he gave me a brutal pummeling in the pugilist rings at Remington’s. The man is much younger than I, take pity on me.”

“Write him a note,” she said curtly, shivering at the image of her husband with his hair still damp. Just thinking of it reminded her of the night before and the way he had taken her.

“Don’t have feelings for Grayson, indeed.” Rhys’ hazel gaze was blatantly skeptical.

“Wait until you marry, Rhys. The need to escape occasionally will become all too clear.” With that in mind, she gestured impatiently toward the door.

“I’ve no doubt about that.” He offered his arm, and retrieved his hat from the waiting butler.

“You are not getting any younger, you know.”

“I am aware of my advancing years. Therefore, I have made a list of suitable spousal prospects.”

“Yes, Mother told me of your ‘list,’” she said dryly.

“A man must be sensible about choosing a bride.”

Isabel nodded with mock severity. “Of course, feelings should never be considered.”

“Did we not already agree to avoid a discussion of feelings?”

Smothering a laugh, she asked, “And who is at the top of your list, may I ask?”

“Lady Susannah Campion.”

“The Duke of Raleigh’s second daughter?” Isabel blinked.

Lady Susannah was indeed a sensible choice. Her breeding was exceptional, her deportment flawless, and her suitability for the rank of duchess could not be denied. But the delicate blonde girl had no fire, no passion. “She would bore you to tears.”

“Come now,” he demurred. “She cannot be as bad as that.”

Her eyes widened. “You have yet to meet the girl you are considering marrying?”

“I’ve seen her! I would not marry a chit sight unseen.” He cleared his throat. “I simply have not had the pleasure of speaking with her yet.”

Shaking her head, Isabel felt again like she did not quite fit in with her sensible family. Yes, falling out of love was a dreadful experience, but falling into it wasn’t so bad. She was certainly a far wiser and better-rounded individual than she had been before meeting Pelham. “Thank heaven you are coming with me today, for Lady Susannah will certainly be at the breakfast. Be certain you speak with her.”

“Of course.” As they left the house and approached his waiting phaeton, Rhys adjusted his long-legged stride to hers. “This might be just the thing to make dealing with an angry Grayson worthwhile.”

“He will not be angry.”

“Not with you perhaps.”

Her throat tightened. “Not with anyone.”

“The man has always been a trifle touchy where you are concerned,” Rhys drawled.

“He has not!”

“Has, too. And if he has truly decided to exert his husbandly rights, I pity the man who intrudes. Step lightly, Bella.”

Releasing a deep breath, Isabel kept her thoughts to herself, but the butterflies in her stomach took flight again.

Gerard gazed at his reflection, and heaved a frustrated breath. “When is the tailor scheduled to arrive?”

“Tomorrow, my lord,” Edward replied with obvious relief.

Turning to face his longtime valet, Gerard asked, “Are my garments truly that dreadful?”

The servant cleared his throat. “I did not say that, my lord. However, removing dirt clods and repairing torn knees are not exactly a full utilization of my many talents.”

“I know.” He sighed dramatically. “I did consider dismissing you on several occasions.”

“My lord!”

“But since tormenting you was often my only entertainment, I resisted the urge.”

The valet’s snort made Gerard laugh. Leaving the room, he mentally arranged his schedule for the day. His plans started with a discussion with Pel about redecorating his study and ended with her once again sharing his bed. He was content with that schedule until his foot met the marble floor of the foyer.

“My lord.”

He faced the bowing footman. “Yes?”

“The Dowager Marchioness has arrived.”

His hackles rose. He had managed a blessed four years without seeing her, but he would have gone a lifetime if that had been possible. “Where is she?”

“In the parlor, my lord.”

“And Lady Grayson?”

“Her Ladyship departed with Lord Trenton a half hour past.”

Normally, Gerard would take exception with Trenton, as he did with anyone who deprived him of his wife’s company without telling him first, but today he was relieved to spare Isabel his mother’s visit. There could be a hundred excuses for why his mother had come, but the truth was simply that she wished to berate him. She took such pleasure in it, and now she had four years’ worth of bile to vent. It would be unpleasant, no doubt, and he steeled himself inwardly for the trial ahead.

He also took a moment to acknowledge what he’d avoided seeing before, that he had always been slightly jealous of those who stole Pel’s attentions. The feeling of possessiveness was only exacerbated by his deepened interest in her.

But he did not have time to contemplate what that meant at the moment, so Gerard nodded to the servant, took a deep breath and headed in the direction of the parlor. He paused a moment in the open doorway, studying the silver strands that were now weaved liberally through the once dark tresses. Unlike Pel’s mother, whose love for living preserved her beauty well, the dowager marchioness simply looked tired and worn.

Sensing his presence, she turned to face him. Her pale blue gaze raked him from head to toe. Once, that look would have withered him. Now, he knew his own value. “Grayson,” she greeted, her voice tight and clipped.

He bowed, noting that she still wore widow’s weeds even after all these years.

“Your clothes are a disgrace.”

“It is lovely to see you, too, Mother.”

“Do not mock me.” She sighed loudly, and sank onto the sofa. “Why must you vex me so?”

“I vex you just by breathing, and I’m afraid I am not willing to go to the extent of stopping to please you. The best I can do is to give you a wide berth.”

“Sit, Grayson. It is rude of you to stand and force me to strain my neck looking up at you.”

Gerard sank into a nearby wooden-armed chair. Sitting directly across from her, he was able to study her in depth. Her back was ramrod straight, painfully so, her hands clenched in her lap until the knuckles were white. He knew he took after her in coloring-his father’s portrait was of a man with brown hair and eyes-but her bone-deep rigidness was far removed from his own ability to bend when necessary.

“What ails you?” he asked, only superficially concerned. Everything ailed his mother. She was simply a miserable woman.

Her chin lifted. “Your brother Spencer.”

That caught his attention. “Tell me.”

“Completely lacking in any sort of male authority, he has decided to adopt your way of living.” Her thin lips pursed tighter.

“In what way?”

“In every way-whoring, drinking to excess, complete irresponsibility. He sleeps all day and is out all night. He has made little effort to support himself since leaving school.”

Scrubbing his hand across his face, Gerard struggled to reconcile the image she presented with the fresh-faced brother he had known four years ago. It was his fault, he knew. Leaving any child in the care of their mother was bound to lead to a preoccupation with the pursuit of oblivion.

“You must speak with him, Grayson.”

“Talking will accomplish nothing. Send him to me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gather up his possessions, and send him to me. It will take some time to straighten him out.”

“I will not!” His mother’s spine stiffened further. How that was possible, he could not say, but it did. “I will not have Spencer under the same roof as that harlot you married.”

“Watch your tongue,” he warned with ominous softness, his fingers curling around the carved arms of his chair.

“You have made your point and embarrassed me utterly. End this farce now. Divorce that woman for adultery, and do your duty.”

“That woman,” he bit out, “is the Marchioness of Grayson. And you know as well as I that a successful petition for divorce would include evidence of marital harmony prior to the adultery. It could also be said that my own inconstancy drove her to hers.”

His mother flinched. “To wed a mistress. For heaven’s sake, could you not have wounded me alone, and not the title as well? Your father would be so ashamed.”

Gerard hid the way that statement cut him with an impassive face. “Regardless of my reasons for choosing Lady Grayson, it is a choice I am quite content with. I hope you can learn to live with it, but I am not overly concerned if you do not.”

“She has never once honored her vows to you,” the dowager said bitterly. “You are a cuckold.”

His breath was harshly drawn, his pride stung. “Am I not culpable for that? I have not been a husband to her in anything but a fiduciary capacity.”

“Thank God for that. Can you imagine what kind of mother that woman would be?”

“No worse than you.”

“Touché.”

Her quiet pride made him feel guilty. “Come now, Mother.” He sighed. “We are so close to ending this lovely visit without bloodshed.”

But as always, she could not quit while they were ahead.

“Your father has been dead for decades, and yet I have been true to his memory.”

“Is that what he would have wanted?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I am certain he would not have wanted the mother of his sons to fornicate indiscriminately.”

“No, but a genuine companion, a man who could offer the comforts women long for-”

“I knew what I promised when I said my vows-to do honor to his name and title, to give him and raise fine sons who would make him proud.”

“And yet we never do,” Gerard said dryly. “As you so often point out to us, we are constantly shaming him.”

Her brows drew together in a glower. “It was my responsibility to be both a mother and father to you all, to teach you how to be like him. I realize you think I have failed, but I did the best I could.”

Gerard held his retort, his mind filling with memories of whippings with leather straps and hurtful words. Suddenly eager to be alone, he said, “I am more than willing to take Spencer in hand, but I will do so here, in my house. I have my own affairs to attend to.”

“‘Affairs’ is an apt description,” she muttered.

He put his hand to his heart, deflecting her sarcasm with his own. “You disparage me unjustly. I am a married man.”

Her gaze narrowed as she assessed him. “You have changed, Grayson. Whether that is a good thing or not remains to be seen.”

With a wry smile, he rose. “I have a few arrangements to make in anticipation of Spencer’s arrival, so if we are done…?”

“Yes, of course.” His mother fluffed out her skirts as she stood. “I have my doubts about this, but I will present your solution to Spencer and if he agrees, so will I.” Her voice hardened. “Keep that woman away from him.”

His brow arched. “My wife does not have the pox, you know.”

“That is debatable,” she snapped, departing the room in a flounce of dark skirts and chilly hauteur.

Gerard was left with both relief and a sudden longing for the comfort of his wife.

“I warned you.”

Rhys looked down at the top of his sister’s head. Standing beneath a tree on the Marley rear lawn, they were alone and apart from the other milling guests. “She is perfect.”

“Too perfect, if you ask me.”

“Which I did not,” he said dryly, but silently he agreed with Isabel’s assessment. Lady Susannah was poised and collected. She was a beauty, and yet when he had spoken to her, she reminded him of a moving statue. There was very little life in her.

“Rhys.” Isabel turned to face him, her dark red brows drawn together beneath her straw hat. “Can you see yourself being a friend to her?”

“A friend?”

“Yes, a friend. You will have to live with your future wife, sleep with her on occasion, discuss issues relating to your children and household. All of these things are much easier to accomplish when you are friends with your spouse.”

“Is that what you have with Grayson?”

“Well…” The line between her brows deepened. “In the past, we were close acquaintances.”

“Acquaintances?” She was blushing, something he had rarely seen her do.

“Yes.” Her gaze drifted, and she suddenly seemed very far away. “Actually,” she said softly. “He was a very dear friend.”

“And now?” Not for the first time, Rhys found himself wondering what the arrangement was between his sister and her second husband. They had always seemed happy enough before, laughing and sharing private looks that said they knew each other well. Whatever their reasons for seeking sex outside of their marriage, it was not because of lack of charity with each other. “The rumors suggest that you may soon have a marriage that is more…traditional.”

“I do not want a traditional marriage,” she grumbled, her arms crossing beneath her bosom, her attention coming back to the present.

He held up his hands in self-defense. “No need to snap at me.”

“I did not snap.”

“You did so. For a woman who just rolled out of bed, you are remarkably testy.”

Isabel growled. He raised his brows.

Her glare lasted a moment longer and then it faded into a sheepish pout. “I am sorry.”

“Is Grayson’s return so trying?” he asked softly. “You are not yourself.”

“I know it.” She released a frustrated sounding breath. “And I have not eaten since supper.”

“That explains a great deal. You were always grumpy when hungry.” He held out his arm. “Shall we brave the throng of dour biddies, and fetch you a plate?”

Isabel covered her face with a gloved hand and laughed.

Moments later she stood opposite him at the long food tables, loading her small plate unfashionably high. He shook his head and looked away, hiding his indulgent smile. Moving a short distance from the others, Rhys pulled out his pocket watch and wondered how much longer he would have to bear this odious affair.

It was only three o’clock. He closed the golden door with a click and groaned.

“It is the height of bad taste to look as if you cannot wait to depart.”

“I beg your pardon?” He spun about, searching for the owner of the lyrical feminine voice. “Where are you?”

There was no reply.

But the hair at his nape was suddenly on end. “I will find you,” he promised, studying the low hedges that lined his left and rear sides.

“To find implies that something is hidden or lost, and I am neither.”

Gads, that voice was sweet as an angel’s and sultry as a siren’s. Without care for his tan-colored breeches, Rhys plunged through the hip-high shrubs, rounded a large elm, and found a small sitting area on the other side. There, on a half-circle-shaped marble bench sat a petite brunette with a book.

“There was a pathway a little further down,” she said without looking up from her reading.

His gaze raked her trim form, noting the worn toes of her slippers, the slightly faded hem of her flowered gown, and the too-tight bodice. He bowed and said, “Lord Trenton, Miss…?”

“Yes, I know who you are.” Snapping the book closed, she lifted her head and studied him with the same thorough perusal he had given her.

Rhys stared. He could not do otherwise. She was no great beauty. In fact, her delicate features were unremarkable. Her nose was pert and covered with freckles, her mouth just as any other female mouth. She was not young or old. Nearing thirty would be his guess. Her eyes, however, were as pleasing as her voice. They were large and round and a startling blue with yellow flecks. They were also filled with keen intelligence, and even more intriguing, a mischievous sparkle.

It took him a moment to realize she said nothing.

“You are staring,” he pointed out.

“So are you,” she retorted with a straightforwardness that reminded him of Bella. “I have an excuse. You do not.”

His brows raised. “Share your excuse with me. Perhaps I can make use of it as well.”

She smiled, and he suddenly found himself uncomfortably hot. “I doubt that. You see, you are quite the handsomest man I have ever seen. I confess it took my brain a moment to reclassify my previous notions of manly beauty, in order to fully process yours.”

He returned her smile in full measure.

“Stop that,” she said with a chastising wag of an ink-stained finger. “Go away.”

“Why?”

“Because you are affecting my ability to think properly.”

“Don’t think.” He moved toward her, wondering what she smelled like and why her clothes were worn and her fingertips stained. Why was she alone, reading, in the midst of a gathering? The sudden flood of questions and the overpowering need to know the answers puzzled him.

As she shook her head, glossy dark curls drifted across her pink cheeks. “You are every bit the rake they say you are. If I did nothing to sway you, what would you do?”

The impertinent chit was flirting with him, but he suspected it was unintentional. She was truly curious, and that unabashed quest for knowledge piqued his jaded interests. “I am not certain. Shall we find out together?”

“Rhys! Damn you,” Isabel muttered from a short distance away. “You will not collect from me if you have run off.”

He stopped mid-step and cursed under his breath.

“Saved by Lady Grayson,” the girl said with a wink.

“Who are you?”

“No one important.”

“Is that not for me to decide?” he asked, entirely too reluctant to leave her.

“No, Lord Trenton. That was decided long ago.” She stood, and collected her book. “Have a good day.” And before he could think of a reason for her to stay, she was gone.