The Marquess of Grayson grinned up at 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 chest hair. He appeared to be lacking a waistcoat as well, and she could not help but smile back at him. Gray reminded her so much of Pelham when she had 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 open my door to you, this incident will be all over London by supper time. 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 such as him could be.
“Go to the front, then,” she relented. “Someone will be awake to admit you.”
Isabel rose from the window seat, and retrieved her white satin dressing robe. 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 in 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 space—the large portrait of Pelham that graced the far wall.
Every day she gazed upon that likeness, and allowed her heartbreak and loathing to rise to the surface. The earl was impervious, of course, his seductively etched mouth curved in the smile that had won her hand in marriage. How she had loved him, and adored him, as only a young girl could. Pelham had been everything to her, until she had 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. Isabel called out and the portal opened, revealing 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 service 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. “I am at home.”
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 weary. She hoped he would 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 had been unfailingly friendly with one another, and beyond 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 closest friend. An affair she had 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 arrest 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 another’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 fortunate 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 discern what 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 will not,” 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 do not 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 due to 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 wish 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 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.
Six months later…
“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.
…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.
Emily.
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.”
