The Stranger I Married (Historical #2)

The Stranger I Married (Historical #2) Page 8

Markham stared at him for a long moment, and then gestured to the seat opposite him. “May I?”

“Certainly.” Gerard set aside his reading, as the viscount settled into his chair.

“You look altered.”

“I would like to think I am.”

“I would say so, if your apology was sincere.”

“It was.”

The viscount ran a hand through his dark blond locks, and smiled. “My marriage is pleasant, which eases the sting immeasurably. But tell me this, as I’ve wondered for years, did she set me aside for you?”

“No. Honestly, you were our only connection up until the moment we spoke our vows.”

“I fail to understand. Why deny my suit, but accept yours, if there was nothing between you?”

“Does any man discuss the reasons why his wife married him? Does any man ever know? Whatever her impetus, I am a most fortunate man.”

“Fortunate? You have been absent for four bloody years!” the viscount cried, studying him. “I almost did not recognize you.”

“A great deal can happen in that time span.”

“Or not happen,” Markham said. “When did you return?”

“Yesterday.”

“I spoke with Pel the day before, and she said nothing to me.”

“She was not aware.” Gerard gave a mirthless laugh. “And, unfortunately, she is not as pleased as I would wish.”

Markham settled more comfortably into the big chair, and gestured to a nearby footman for a drink. “I am surprised to hear that. You two always rubbed along famously.”

“Yes, but as you noted, I have changed. My tastes are different, as are my goals.”

“I wondered how it was that you were immune to Pel’s charms,” the viscount said, laughing. “Fate does have a way of balancing the scales, if given enough time. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t pleased to see you suffer a bit.”

Gerard gave a reluctant smile. “My wife is a mystery to me, which deepens my dilemma.”

“Isabel is a mystery to everyone. Why do you think so many wish to possess her? The challenge is irresistible.”

“Do you remember her marriage to Pelham?” Gerard asked, wondering why he had never bothered to inquire before. “I would like to hear of it, if you do.”

Markham accepted the mug offered to him by the attendant, and nodded. “There is not a peer my age who has forgotten Lady Isabel Blakely as she was in her youth. She is Sandforth’s only daughter, and he doted on her. Still does, as far as I know. It was known that her dowry was substantial, which attracted the fortune hunters, but she would have been popular, regardless. We all awaited her coming out eagerly. I had plans to offer for her even then. But Pelham was wily. He did not wait. He seduced her fresh out of the schoolroom, before any of us had a chance at wooing her.”

“Seduced?”

“Yes, seduced. It was obvious to everyone. The way they looked at one another…Theirs was a grand passion. Whenever they were in close proximity, the heat was palpable. I envied him that, the worship of a woman so obviously ripe and willing. I had hoped to have that with her, but it wasn’t to be. Even after he began to stray, she still adored him, although it was clear it pained her greatly. Pelham was a fool.”

“Hear, hear,” Gerard muttered, silently examining the flare of jealousy he felt.

Markham chuckled, and took a long drink. “You remind me of him. Or rather, you did before. He was two and twenty when he married her, and just as cocky as you. In fact, Pel used to note often how much you reminded her of Pelham. When you married, I assumed that was why. But then you kept on with your distractions, and she with hers. You confounded all of us, and angered more than a few. It seemed a waste to have Pel finally remarried, only to have it be to a man who had no interest in her.”

Gerard stared down at his hands, which were reddened and callused from hard work. He twisted the thin gold band he wore, a piece of jewelry he and Pel had bought as a lark, jesting that it would never see the light of day. He wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to wear it, but now that it was on, he found he liked it. It was an odd feeling, the feeling of belonging to someone. He wondered if Pel had felt it when she wore the ring he’d bought her this afternoon, and if that was why she had rejected it so summarily.

The viscount laughed. “I really should hate you, Gray. But you make it damn difficult.”

Gerard’s brows lifted into his hairline. “I’ve done nothing to stop you from hating me.”

“You’re thinking, and brooding. If those are not signs that you have changed, I’ve no notion what would be. Cheer up. She’s yours now, and unlike myself or Pearson or any of the others, she cannot set you aside.”

“But there is Hargreaves,” he reminded.

“Ah yes, there is that,” Markham said with a broad grin. “As I said, fate does have a way.”

“I am horribly disappointed that your errant spouse is not at home,” the Duchess of Sandforth complained.

“Mother.” Isabel shook her head. “I cannot believe you hastened here simply to ogle Gray.”

“As if I wouldn’t.” Her Grace smiled with the wide grin of a naughty cat. “Bella, you should know by now that overwhelming curiosity is one of my vices.”

“One of many,” Isabel grumbled.

Her mother ignored that. “Lady Pershing-Moore came to call, and you cannot imagine how dreadful it was that she knew every minute detail of Grayson’s appearance, while I did not even know he was in town.”

“The only dreadful thing is that woman.” Isabel paced the length of her boudoir. “I’m certain she has filled as many gossip-hungry ears as she could manage in one day.”

“Is he as fine as she says?”

Sighing, Isabel admitted, “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“She swore the way he looked at you was indecent, is that true as well?”

Isabel paused, and stared at her mother, gazing into eyes of rich, dark brown. The duchess was still considered a great beauty, though her auburn hair was now liberally shot with silver strands. “I am not discussing this with you, Mother.”

“Why not?” Her Grace replied, affronted. “How delicious! You have a stunning lover, and a young husband who is even more stunning. I envy you.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Isabel sighed. “You should not envy me. This is a disaster.”

“Ah ha!” Her mother leapt to her feet. “Grayson does want you. About time, if you ask me. I was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t a bit touched.”

He was touched in the head, in Isabel’s opinion. They had known one another for years, and lived together for six months with nary a spark. Now it was a conflagration whenever she merely laid eyes on him. On second thought, perhaps she was touched, too. “I need to find him a woman,” she muttered.

“You are not a woman? I was certain the doctor assured me you were.”

“Mother, good grief. Be serious, please. Grayson needs a mistress.”

Moving to the window, Isabel moved aside the sheers, and stared out at the small side garden. She could not help but remember the morning he’d stood below the window of her townhouse, and begged her to admit him. Then begged her to marry him.

Say yes, Pel.

Another memory, one fresher in her mind, was from yesterday afternoon when Gray had stood behind her in this exact spot, and made her want him, which had ruined everything.

“How does his need for a mistress relate to his wish to bed you?” the duchess asked.

“You would not understand.”

“You are correct about that.” Her mother came over, and set her hands on her shoulders. “I thought you had learned something from Pelham.”

“I learned everything from Pelham.”

“Do you not miss that passion, that fire?” Her Grace spread her arms wide, and spun around with the exuberant carelessness of a young girl, her dark green skirts twirling around her. “I live for it, Bella. I crave those indecent looks, and thoughts, and actions.”

“I know you do, Mother,” Isabel said dryly. Her parents had long ago decided to find their romances outside the marital bed, a state of living they both seemed quite content with.

“I thought perhaps you had set aside those silly dreams of lifetime love when you began to take your own lovers.”

“I did.”

“I don’t believe so.” Her mother frowned.

“Simply because I think fidelity is a sign of respect, does not mean I attach it to love, or the hope for love.” Isabel moved back toward her escritoire, where she had been working on menus and a guest list for her upcoming dinner.

“Bella, my sweet.” Her mother sighed, and returned to the chaise where she poured a cup of tea. “It is not in a husband’s nature to be faithful, especially handsome and charming husbands.”

“I wish they would not lie about it,” Isabel said crossly, shooting a glance at the portrait on the wall. “I asked Pelham if he loved me, if he would be true to me. He said, ‘All women pale in comparison to you.’ And foolish chit that I was, I believed him.” She threw up her hands.

“Even if they have the best of intentions, it is impossible for them to resist all the light-skirts who fall into their beds. Wishing for beautiful men to act against their nature will only lead to heartbreak.”

“Obviously I have no desire for Gray to act against his nature, or I would not be actively working toward procuring him a mistress.”

Isabel watched her mother drop three lumps of sugar and a ridiculous amount of cream into her tea. She shook her head when her mother lifted the pot in silent query.

“I fail to see why you do not enjoy his attentions while he is willing to give them to you. Good heavens, the way Lady Pershing-Moore persisted about his appearance, I think I would take him myself if he were interested.”

Closing her eyes, Isabel released a long-suffering sigh.

“You should take lessons from your brother, Bella. He is far more practical about such matters.”

“Most men are. Rhys would be no exception.”

“He has made a list of marriageable females and—”

“A list?” Isabel’s eyes flew open. “Now that is too much!”

“It’s perfect. Your father and I did the same, and look how happy we are.”

Isabel held her tongue.

“Is it tenderness for Hargreaves that holds you back?” her mother asked softly.

“I wish it were. This would be so much simpler.” Then she could disregard Gray’s sudden preoccupation with her, and deal with him the way she dealt with any overzealous swain—with a smile and a dash of humor. She found it very hard to smile and be humorous when her nipples ached and she was damp between the thighs.

“We rub along well, Gray and I. I like him, he’s great fun. I could live with great fun, Mother. For a lifetime. I could not live with a man who had wounded me in some fashion. I am softer than you, and bear scars from Pelham.”

“And you think finding Grayson a mistress will make him less appealing? No, don’t answer that, darling. I know you find attached men unattractive. An admirable scruple.” Her Grace rose, and came to her, setting her slender arm around her daughter’s waist and perusing the notes. “No, no. Not Lady Cartland.” She gave a delicate shudder. “I would wish a pox on a man before I’d wish her on him.”

Isabel laughed. “Very well.” She dipped the quill and drew a slash across the name. “Who then?”

“Was he not with someone when he left? Besides Emily Sinclair?”

“Yes…” Isabel thought for a moment. “Ah, I remember. Anne Bonner, an actress.”

“Invite her. He left for reasons other than boredom, so perhaps there is still something there.”

A sharp pang of loneliness took Isabel off guard, and her hand paused above the parchment long enough to create an ink drop. “Thank you, Mother,” she said softly, grateful, for once, to have her parent with her.

“Of course, Bella.” The duchess leaned over, and pressed their cheeks together. “What are mothers for, if not to help their daughters find mistresses for their husbands?”

Isabel lay on her bed and attempted to read, but nothing could hold her attention. It was just after ten, and she had remained at home as Gray had asked. The fact that he had not redeemed his requested boon was his error, and if he thought he could collect later, he was sorely mistaken. She would not be affording him the option again. Canceling her plans for one evening was enough of an imposition, especially when he didn’t have the courtesy to show up.

This was, of course, what she had hoped for, that he would find his pleasures elsewhere. This was exactly what she wanted. Everything was going well. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to hold a homecoming dinner after all. What a relief. She could set aside the planning, and direct her attentions to living her life as she had before her husband returned.

She released her breath, and considered retiring when she heard a sound from the boudoir. Surely it wasn’t excitement she felt, as she tossed aside the book. She was simply investigating. Anyone would if they heard strange noises in their suite.

Isabel ran into the next room, and threw open the hallway door. Then gaped.

“Hello, Pel,” Gray said, standing in the gallery in only his rolled-up shirtsleeves and trousers. Bare feet, bare throat, and bare forearms. With his thick, dark hair damp from a recent bath.

Dastardly.

“What do you want?” she grumbled, upset that he would come to her dressed, or undressed as the case may be, in that fashion.

He arched a brow, and lifted his arm, bringing a small basket up to her eye level. “Supper. You promised. You cannot withdraw now.”

She stepped back to allow him entry, and attempted to hide her blush. Failing to see the obvious basket because she was ogling him was mortifying. “You missed dinner.”