Surrender Becomes Her Read online

  Of course, Manning didn’t consider having Isabel and her son underfoot a burden. Their arrival, Marcus admitted, had probably saved the baron from simply wasting away with grief. Through a series of dreadful events, Lord Manning lost his eldest son, Robert, and his son’s pregnant wife in a boating accident and then, not four months later, news of Hugh’s death in India reached him. The letters, each with their terrible news, had likely crossed each other on the ocean. The old man had been shattered and Marcus feared his will to live had died with his two sons.

  Isabel and Edmund’s return to England had brought about a remarkable change in Lord Manning. Though grieving over Robert’s death and Hugh’s demise from a cobra bite while in the back country of India inspecting goods destined for the East India Trading Company warehouses in Bombay, Lord Manning had been beside himself with joy to welcome Hugh’s widow and only child into his home. Isabel’s fortune would have allowed her to live where she pleased, but there had never been any question of her living anywhere but at Manning Court with her late husband’s father. She’d wanted to return to the neighborhood of her youth, and her son, Edmund, was the elderly baron’s heir and sole link with his dead son; he adored the boy. And there was no denying that Edmund was the very picture of his father at the same age. Marcus’s expression softened and his mouth twitched. And as charming a blond-haired, blue-eyed scamp as he’d ever seen, he thought affectionately.

  When she wasn’t disrupting his well-ordered life, and putting aside the tragic loss of her husband, Marcus considered Isabel’s return to the neighborhood ten years ago a happy occurrence for his neighbor. Like a welcome spring breeze, she and Edmund had swept into Manning Court and pushed out the crushing sadness and heavy shadows that would have, no doubt, sent Lord Manning to the grave. Within weeks of her arrival, there was a spring in milord’s step once again and a twinkle in his faded blue eyes and Marcus was grateful for that. He scowled. But he bloody well wasn’t grateful for Isabel’s unwarranted intrusion into his carefully arranged life!

  “Are you going to tell me what Isabel has done?” asked his mother, interrupting his thoughts, “or are you simply going to stand there glaring out the window?”

  “I was not glaring,” Marcus said austerely. “I was merely admiring the view.”

  “Of course you were,” his mother agreed, smiling. “But tell me: what has Isabel done now to put you in such a taking?”

  He sighed, his anger dissipating “It’s that horse of hers—Tempest. He jumped the fences, the same fences I have warned her needed to be raised if she was going to keep a stallion in that paddock, and I found the beast this morning sporting with a half dozen of our mares. Worse, Jasmine, the chestnut with the wide blaze that I intended to have bred this afternoon to Nonesuch, had already fallen to his charms. It’s possible Tempest may have covered another mare or two, there’s no telling at this point.”

  His mother kept her eyes on her needle. “I seem to remember, oh, years ago, you mentioning that you wished you’d bred him a few more times before you sold him to Isabel when she returned from India.”

  He shrugged. “I would have, but once she returned to England, I didn’t have much choice but to turn him over to her—immediately!”

  “Well, it was the only fair thing to do; after all, she did discover him first.”

  “I know that, Mother,” he said dryly. “I would have suggested she buy him from me myself once she settled into Manning Court, if she’d given me a chance to do so.”

  Something suspiciously like a giggle escaped Mrs. Sherbrook. “If you could have seen your face when she found out you owned him and stormed in here accusing you of stealing him while her back was turned.”

  Marcus grinned. “She was in rare form, wasn’t she? I had to feel the top of my head afterward to make certain I still had hair and that I hadn’t been scorched bald.”

  Selecting a pale green thread, his mother rethreaded her needle. “What did she say when you told her about Tempest, ah, sporting with your mares?”

  His lips thinned. “She was not a bit sorry or contrite! Looking down her nose at me, she very graciously told me that if any of the mares turned up in foal that she’d be happy to either buy any mare that became pregnant from Tempest’s, ah, visit or the foal when it was weaned—whichever I preferred.”

  “And you told her?”

  He sent his mother a look and this time she did giggle. “Oh, Marcus! If you only knew how happy I am to know that something can shake the stuffiness from you.”

  “Stuffy!” he exclaimed, ruffled. “Why is it that just because I don’t flaunt a different opera dancer on my arm every week, habitually drink myself under the table, gamble my fortune away, or spur my horse up the steps of the chapel, that everyone thinks that I am a dull fellow? Is there something wrong with preferring a calm, well-ordered life? Or something deviant to liking peace and tranquillity and seeking not to have one’s life constantly in an uproar?”

  He looked so mystified that Mrs. Sherbrook shook her head in despair. Her tall, handsome son was nearly forty years old, and even she thought it unnatural that he had never caused her a moment’s despair. There had been no wild scrapes or daring romps even when he had been a young man. He had been ever affectionate, courteous, and dutiful and could be depended upon to do the right thing and keep a calm head in the midst of crisis, for which she was devotedly thankful ... most of the time. He was a son to be proud of, and she was. Very. The problem was that she rather thought that he should have, at least once in his life, thrown caution to the wind and plunged into some sort of scandalous escapade. Not so very scandalous, she reminded herself cautiously, just enough to add a little excitement to his life and shake him from the staid, stolid path he seemed destined to follow. When he continued to stare at her with that same mystified expression, she admitted, “No, there is nothing wrong with wanting the familiar. And I am truly blessed that you have never caused me to hide my face in shame. Quite the contrary, I have always been very proud of you, but Marcus, you are not in your dotage. Yet you have always behaved and acted like someone twice your age.” Almost wistfully she asked, “Have you never wanted to escape from the humdrum of country life? Ever longed for adventure or felt a need to kick over the traces and leave behind the common, the routine?”

  “Are you saying you want me to be a libertine?” he demanded incredulously. “Shall I set the neighborhood gossiping by risking life and limb by racing my curricle against the mail coach and fill the house with rakes and gamesters and squealing bits of muslin while you hide yourself away upstairs to avoid being accosted in your own home? A fine fellow I should look!”

  “No! Oh, no,” cried Mrs. Sherbrook, horrified by the image he conjured up. “Of course not,” she said more calmly a second longer. “It is merely that you have always been such a good son—I could not ask for one better—but your father’s death when you were so young and the responsibilities it placed on you ...”

  “I was twenty-three, Mother, not a schoolboy.” He smiled at her. “Old enough to know my own mind. If I had yearned for the delights of London there was nothing stopping me from enjoying them.” He grinned at her. “And I have from time to time. Enjoyed them immensely.” He sat down on the sofa beside her. Taking one of her hands in his, he kissed it. “Mother, why is it that you, everyone—Julian and Charles included—find it so hard to believe that I am quite content with my life?” he asked, puzzled. “Understand me: if I were not, I would change it. You must believe me when I swear to you that I enjoy living in the country. I even enjoy escorting you on your yearly trek to London for the Season and—”

  “And you hotfoot it back to Sherbrook Hall just as soon as you decently can,” his mother murmured.

  “Guilty! But the whirlwind of parties and balls that so appeal to you bore me to death. And as for chasing after opera dancers or playing deep in some hell on Pall Mall or drinking myself under the table ...” He snorted. “Those rakish pastimes have never held any allure for me.” He sm
iled whimsically at her. “Don’t you see—I’m content with my life.”

  Her gaze rested thoughtfully on him. “I don’t know that I’d want to settle for ‘content,’ if I were you.”

  “What? You would have me miserable?” he teased. “Dissatisfied? Unhappy?”

  She sighed inwardly. Marcus was everything a mother could hope for: affectionate, generous, honorable, a most worthy man, but ... One could be too worthy. Staring at him, her heart couldn’t help but swell with love and pride. He was tall and broad-shouldered, yet leanly built, and she knew he commanded attention whenever he entered a room. Women admired him; she’d seen the speculative glances sent his way, glances he wasn’t even aware of, she thought dispiritedly. But for all the attention he attracted, he was not traditionally handsome. His features were too bold, his jaw and chin remarkably determined, but the frankly carnal curve of his full bottom lip made the female of the sex forget about those imperfections and dwell on the implicit promise of that tempting mouth. His mother often thought it a shame he hadn’t inherited the color of her own emerald eyes, but looking into those intelligent gray eyes his father had passed on to him, she was not displeased; they were striking in his dark face. But for all the intelligence in those gray eyes, he couldn’t see that there was something very wrong about a handsome, virile man being “content” to live the life of a monk, buried in the country! Her gaze narrowed. Of course, she could be wrong about the monkish part; her son, for all his virtues, was hardly likely to tell her if he kept a mistress in town.

  “Oh, this is a silly conversation,” she said abruptly, putting aside her embroidery.

  “And who, may I ask, started it?” Marcus asked, a twinkle in those gray eyes, as he stood up.

  She smiled. “My turn to cry guilty.” Getting to her feet and shaking out the skirts of her gown, she asked, “Is it all arranged for us to leave next week for London? I received a letter from Lady Bullard yesterday. She writes that Parliament is in session and that the Season has already begun. I do not wish to delay our departure too long.”

  “I have everything well in hand,” Marcus replied as he accompanied her from the room. “Provided you have all your gowns packed and the weather holds we should leave on Tuesday.”

  Events went as Marcus had planned. The following Tuesday, he escorted his mother, her companion, Mrs. Shelby, and several of the estate servants to London and saw them comfortably settled in the Sherbrook townhouse. The annual trip by his mother to town gave him an opportunity to visit his tailor and his boot-maker, resupply himself with those articles that could only be obtained in London, and show his face at White’s and a few other gentlemen’s clubs that he belonged to. He hadn’t lied when he said he enjoyed escorting his mother to London. He did, just as he enjoyed the clamor of the city, the color and the bustle; enjoyed greeting old friends and hearing the latest on-dits and even casting a considering eye on the latest crop of well-born females to flood the Marriage Mart. But a fortnight in the city was about all he could endure and late April found him once more at Sherbrook Hall.

  Jasmine, the blaze-faced chestnut mare, and a sleek black mare that traced her ancestry directly to the Darnley Arabian, had not come back into season and Marcus accepted the fact that next March a pair of Tempest foals would be born on his estate. Despite his plans to breed the mares to his own stallion, Nonesuch, he was not displeased, but he was uneasy. There was no telling the outcome when dealing with Isabel.

  Walking back from the stables to the main house that warm April morning, he considered his options. He could leave her in ignorance until after the foals were born or he could write her a note telling her that, if all went well, there would be two extra Tempest foals on the ground next year. Or, he could simply ride over to Manning Court and tell her in person. The note, he thought cravenly. The note would be easiest.

  Yet when he found himself seated in his office, the blank page of paper before him, the quill in hand, he discovered a disinclination to hide behind a mere note. Placing the quill in its stand, he pushed back from the cherrywood desk and stood up.

  The day was pleasant, perfect for a ride, he told himself. There was no reason why he couldn’t ride over to Manning Court and tell Isabel the news. A faint smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. And watch her antics as she tries to bamboozle me out of the two mares.

  Whistling cheerfully, he left the office and headed to the stables. Shortly, astride a handsome black gelding, he rode through the rolling countryside, enjoying the sound of the songbirds and the dappled shade afforded by the ancient oaks.

  The Manning and Denham estates both adjoined the Sherbrook lands and the three families had always been good friends as well as neighbors. Lord Manning was Marcus’s neighbor on the north and Sir James, Isabel’s uncle, on the east, and beside the public road there were several private pathways crossing from one property to the other. Taking a shortcut through the forest, Marcus was soon riding on Manning land.

  He was still some distance from the main house when he heard the sound of raised voices. He recognized Isabel’s voice instantly, even if the words were not clear. By the sound of it, she was angry and ringing a peal over some poor unfortunate, but there was something in her voice, some note that made Marcus kick the gelding into a trot.

  As he rode nearer he heard Isabel say clearly, “And that’s the end of it! Do not approach me again. Next time, I’ll set the hounds on you and the devil be damned!”

  There was the low growl of a man’s voice and then Isabel cried, “How dare you! Unhand me, you blackguard!”

  Marcus rounded the bend in the narrow, leafy lane and came upon Isabel and a burly fellow he did not recognize standing in a small clearing off to one side. He recognized the type, though: former military, if the cut of his hair and jacket and the arrangement of his cravat was anything to go by. A pair of horses was tied to a nearby tree.

  It was immediately apparent to Marcus that this was no mere chance meeting. The two combatants were concentrating on each other and for a second neither was aware of Marcus’s approach. The man had one hand wrapped tightly around Isabel’s upper arm and she was struggling to escape. From the glimpse Marcus had of her face, she was more furious than afraid and yet there was something in her features that made Marcus’s gut tighten and aroused all his protective instincts.

  His calm demeanor at odds with the spurt of hot rage that raced through him at the sight of the stranger’s grip on Isabel’s upper arm, Marcus said brusquely, “I believe that the lady made a request. I would suggest that you follow it. Now.”

  Isabel’s gaze jerked in his direction and her eyes widened when she saw him just a few yards away sitting astride the big black horse. Embarrassment mingled with fear flitted across her features before she mastered herself and schooled her face into a polite mask. The embarrassment Marcus understood. But fear? Good God! She had no reason to fear him.

  The stranger took Marcus’s measure, and whatever he saw in Marcus’s face made him drop his hand from Isabel’s arm and take a step away from her. Smiling, the stranger said, “There is no reason for you to be staring daggers at me. This is merely a misunderstanding between old friends.” He looked at Isabel and prompted in a silky undertone that raised Marcus’s hackles even more, “Isn’t that right, my dear Mrs. Manning?”

  Isabel nodded, her eyes not meeting Marcus’s. “Y-y-yes. Major Whitley w-w-was Hugh’s friend in India. He was stationed near us in Bombay for a number of years.” A flush on her cheeks, she added hurriedly, “He recently retired from the Army and was visiting friends in the neighborhood. When he learned that I lived nearby he came to call.”

  Isabel had never been a very good liar, but Marcus gave her full marks for trying. He didn’t doubt that some of what she said was true, perhaps all of it, but she was leaving a great deal unsaid and that aroused his curiosity—that and Major Whitley’s threatening manner. He might bully Isabel all he pleased, Marcus decided instantly, but he damn well wasn’t going to allow anyone el
se that liberty. Swinging down from his horse and holding the reins lightly in one gloved hand, he walked up to where they stood.

  Stopping a few feet from Whitley, Marcus drawled, “Ah, so you knew Mr. and Mrs. Manning in India, did you?”

  Whitley inclined his head, his dark eyes watchful. “Yes. Hugh and I met while I was stationed in India.” He sent Marcus a man-to-man smile. “We were merry bachelors together in those days and I considered Hugh one of my boon companions. His marriage did not change our friendship and once Mrs. Manning joined him in Bombay, she frequently invited me to dine at their home.” He flashed a glance at Isabel. “For which I am forever grateful. Mrs. Manning was a most gracious hostess to a poor bachelor officer. She and Manning often entertained several of us stationed there.”

  Whitley was a big and burly man and his dark hair was lightly peppered with silver. His black eyes were set under well-marked brows and at one time he might have been considered quite handsome, but lines of dissipation blurred and distorted his once chiseled features. Marcus disliked him on sight.

  “An Army officer,” Marcus remarked politely. “Retired. Recently.” He looked perplexed. “How very odd. With Castlereagh at the War Department again and the gossip buzzing ’round the country about a possible invasion of the continent by Sir Wellesley this summer, I would have thought that the military would have use of an experienced officer like yourself. I vaguely remember a friend in the Army saying not long ago that the war with France was making advancement up the ranks easier and that for a career man it was a capital time to be in the service.”

  Whitley ignored the implication that there was something unseemly about the timing of his retirement and shrugged. “I regret I won’t be part of the force that finally beats Napoleon, but after over twenty years in the military, I felt the need for a change.”