About this, she hadn’t lied. She didn’t want marriage—not the trappings, not the expectations and erasures of self that followed once vows were spoken.
Butfor some reason, she wanted Everard Trentham, neither tipsy nor pickled.
And that fact would not be ignored.
The memory arrived unbidden: the baron’s terrace washed in silver, moonlight catching Merevale full on, his eyes a grave woodland green, his mouth set as though softness were a habit he’d never learned. The scar along his jaw flashed briefly, a small imperfection that made him startlingly real, solid in a way no nobleman ever had. He’d stood taller than any man she’d danced with, broad across the shoulders, his presence unshowy yet impossible to overlook.
She couldn’t help finding him the handsomest man in attendance.
The most intriguing by far.
He wasn’t like anyone she’d met before, and the way he looked at her stirred a curious awareness she suspected had less to do with their arrangement than with desire. It would have been easier had he not remained such an astonishing enigma—gorgeous and fascinating, a combination difficult to ignore. Isabella was, without doubt, the most inquisitive member of her family, and she was bored to tears with merely observing. Her longing to know everything about Merevale—Ever—his secrets, the sound of his voice when restraint finally failed, whether the rumors of his skill were earned, was far from innocent.
The countess, gossip insisted, had been very,veryhappy indeed.
Isabella was so wrapped up in inexplicably novel sensations that she didn’t see the Marquess of Ireton lounging against her waiting carriage as she exited the shop. Her steps slowed, her lips lifting in the most dishonest smile of her life. “Lord Ireton, how nice to see you.”
Halting before him, she made an unfair, if unavoidable, assessment.
Ireton was shorter than she remembered, his shoulders rounded rather than broad, his body softened where she had newly come to value strength. His hair had begun a quiet retreat, leaving his face exposed in a way that suggested not ease but entitlement, confidence unearned and poorly concealed. He smiled too readily, the expression carrying an expectation she disliked, and for the first time she felt the lack of self-possession she hadn’t known to look for before. Beneath it flickered a faint, unwelcome memory of a moment when he had not been a gentleman, and she had learned to be cautious of him.
For all Merevale’s intensity, hecalmedher.
Ireton straightened from his negligent slouch, his gaze traveling over her with an unstudied thoroughness that left her unsettled once more. “I missed you at Brewerton’s musicale last night.”
She halted a few paces away when she could have—by society’s rules—drawn closer. Her maid, Lottie, long-suffering but discreet, peeked through a slit in the carriage curtain, lingering until Isabella gave the smallest nod to assure her all was well.
“A megrim,” she murmured, brushing her gloved fingertip across her brow.
He tipped his chin. “You never had them before.”
Impatience warmed her cheeks. “And you know me this well to say?”
“I do know you, Lady Isabella. I’ve made it my business of late, given our close association. I require a marital settlement to shore up the absurd expense of a title, but do you imagine I’d marry just anyone, even for the blunt?” He rocked back on his heels and nodded toward the shop behind her. “This is your fourth delivery to Lefèvre’s this month. Remarkable enough that I followed the proprietress after the third, as she delivered your embroidered treasures to a rather interesting establishment in Covent Garden. Atleast you’re clever enough not to stitch your name into them.”
Isabella held his gaze, her heartbeat trilling in her ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His smile was eager but malicious; she wondered how she’d missed this before. “Wouldn’t it be something for your family—the Duke of Mercer, say—to hear you’re supplying intimate bits to a disorderly house? Maybe outrageous enough to get a mention in theRake Review, the first female awarded the dishonor.”
“What do youwant, my lord?”
He relaxed, shoulders lowering. So—he had terms. That at least gave her room to bargain. He wasn’t merely planning her ruin. “I want you to rid yourself of the Earl of Merevale, swiftly, as though his name alone were enough to blister. Then our courtship may continue uninterrupted.”
“And then?” she asked, her voice perfectly composed when she wished to murder a marquess.
He chuckled, brushing his hand across hers in calculated flirtation. “We become better acquainted before announcing our betrothal in the summer. My mother prefers a fall wedding. Something sentimental about the month she wed my father. She’s also quite keen to be in closer contact with a duke. Don’t look stricken. You are my first choice, even with this absurdity.”
“After this extortion, how could I marry you?”
Ireton slid his hands into his trouser pockets, his delight fading. “Aside from your striking looks, darling girl, you know nothing of attracting a man. Not to put too blunt a layer of icing on this cake, but you’re out of choices. This morning’s column in theGazettecalled you…what was it? A firebrand. If you would only see reason, you’d understand I’m doing you the kindness of a lifetime. Home, children, husband,marchioness. What you all want. What you need.”
Mercifully, Isabella did not slap him—or say something that would make the situation beyond repair. Instead, she agreed to end things with Merevale and promised to attend the Fisher-Hawthorn garden party in two days’ time on the arm of a man she despised.
It was, of course, a lie.
Chapter Six
Where a Rake Turns Protector.
