A Perfect Scandal (20 page)

Isabel’s eyes feasted on Marcus’s naked torso as she knelt before him. He was heavily muscled and perfectly proportioned. His shoulders were a yard wide and sleek, molded bronze. A light sprinkling of dark hair covered his chest and narrowed down to his waistband where the mysterious part of him had swelled to an alarming proportion. He looked, quite simply, like a flesh-and-blood version of one of the Greek statues at the museum she had always found fascinating.

Tonight, in her most terrifying moments, she had feared never experiencing his touch. When the soulless eyes of the criminal had stared at her through the window, and when he had aimed a gun at her head, the vow of a passionless marriage she had made with Marcus seemed ludicrous, shallow, and meaningless.

Facing her mortality had proved one thing: She refused to go a day longer without knowing Marcus Hawksley as a man.

For what if tomorrow never came—just like it had for Dante Black? Or just as unfathomable, what if Marcus was unexpectedly wounded…or killed?

She glanced at Marcus’s face. The inky blackness of his eyes and his firm, sensual features made her breath catch. He was an intense man who she knew would be just as passionate with his lovemaking as he was ambitious with his work. As a child, she was captivated by him; but as a woman, she was enthralled.

She knew little of what transpired between a man and a woman, but her inherent recklessness outweighed her caution, and she wanted to see the rest of him unclothed. He would no doubt be magnificent.

No man of her acquaintance had ever compared with Marcus Hawksley.

At her silence, he chuckled. “If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be able to control myself.”

She smiled evocatively, eager for his touch once more. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

He swept her into his arms, and their lips met over and over as if they were starved for the feel and taste of each other. He exuded a masculinity that jolted her senses, and each time his tongue stroked hers, she became more overwhelmed until she was panting and her nails were digging into his hard biceps.

His hands moved to her shoulders, peeling away her wrapper, and she lowered her arms to help him. The fabric swished, and the flimsy silk skimmed down her arms. Cool air brushed her skin, and she shivered.

He pulled her to him once more, nibbled her ear with his teeth in a way that made her senses whirl. His lips then seared a path down her throat, her shoulder, and the swell of a breast.

She clung to him. “Marcus,” she gasped. “That feels so good.”

“Yessss,” he hissed against the bodice of her nightgown. His hot breath moistened the silk, and she writhed in his arms. She had a fierce need to rid herself of her remaining clothing and craved to feel his mouth on her naked breasts.

Her hands restlessly moved to her nightgown, but he stopped her.

“Easy, sweetheart. Let me.”

He held her away from him as he pushed the sleeves down her arms. The silk lowered down her throat and caught on her upthrust breasts. With a mere touch of his finger in her bodice where the gown gaped, the fabric rippled down her hips, exposing her breasts to his hungry gaze.

His eyes glittered with lust, and she reveled at his savage reaction.

“My God,” he whispered. “You’re so fair.”

She watched in fascination as he reached out to gently cup a full breast and brush her hardened nipple with a thumb. A spurt of hungry desire spiraled through her, and her lids slid halfway closed.

At her sigh, he dipped his head to lick a pink nipple, then sucked the whole crown into his hot mouth. Soldering heat rushed in between her thighs. She arched backward, digging her fingers into his hair, drawing him closer. When he turned his attention to her other breast, she moaned, urging him on.

“Damn,” Marcus breathed against the side of her breast. “I was going to carry you upstairs to my room, but I can’t wait that long. I need to see you, Isabel. All of you.”

His large hand went to her hip, and with one smooth motion her nightgown fell to the carpet, revealing her naked body to his hungry gaze.

His pupils dilated and a look of awe crossed his handsome face. “Botticelli’s
The Birth of Venus
does not compare.”

At the reverence in his tone, her heart leapt in her chest.

He looked around, and roughly pushed the chair she had been sitting on to the side. He laid her down in front of his desk, and the thick carpet tickled her back and buttocks. He lowered himself on his elbows, and she gasped as his bare chest brushed her sensitive breasts.

It was wondrous—flesh against flesh—and passion inched through her veins.

She had a need to kiss him again, so her lips and tongue slid up the column of his throat. She licked him, tasting the rain and the power of the storm on his hot skin.

He groaned and kissed a path down her throat and lavished more attention on her breasts until the world tilted. His hands lowered to her hips and his mouth followed, kissing a path down her belly. His tongue stopped to swirl in her navel, and a fierce need built in her that made her restless for more.

As if sensing her silent plea, he spread her thighs and cupped her sensitive mons. When his finger parted the tight curls between her legs and brushed against her sensitive nub, she arched off the carpet into his hand. He slipped a finger inside, and she felt a honeyed warmth flood her loins. When his finger was slick with her arousal, he stroked in and out of her body, then across her nub until her need grew to a fevered pitch. Her nails raked his muscled back as she soared higher and higher, until waves of ecstasy throbbed through her, and she thought she would die from the pleasure.

Her eyes cracked open, and the faintest thread of moonlight through a crack in the curtains caught a rivulet of sweat on his brow. She became aware of his rigid manhood burning against her thigh. She felt deliciously wanton, sprawled naked beneath him while he still wore his trousers. She knew there was much more to lovemaking and that he had held himself back for her sake. He thought to comfort her…to pleasure her…even though it meant denying his needs.

But she wanted more, she wanted all of
him
, and she restlessly shifted her hips against his manhood.

His eyes were compelling as he hovered above her. “Isabel, I want more than anything to make love to you, but I shall not take advantage of you. I can still walk away if that is what you want.”

“You feel so big.”

“Isabel,” he groaned. “That won’t work to get a man to leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave. I want to experience everything. I want
you
, Marcus.”

His dark gaze was so hungry and full of raw need that a knot rose in her throat.

He stood, and took off his trousers. Leaning back on her elbows, Isabel watched. The crisp hair on his chest narrowed downward, and her eyes widened as his cock jutted from a nest of dark hair. He looked alarmingly large, but with an inherent knowledge as old as Eve, she knew she was woman enough for him.

He came to her then, and his muscled legs pressed against her soft thighs. The hard length of him pulsed against her soft core, and she opened her legs to feel the delicious pressure. His palms cupped her bottom cheeks and raised her until the tip of his cock entered her body. His hardness electrified her, and her arousal grew fierce.

Then slowly, inch by inch, he pressed forward. She thrashed her head from side to side, wanting, needing more until he thrust fully into her satin sheath. She froze at the stab of pain, but then became aware of his luxurious fullness and felt the pulse of his heart within her body.

He began to move slowly at first, then faster, his rock-hard length thrusting in and out of her body. She began to move with him with a desperate urgency of her own, completely abandoning herself to the whirl of sensations flooding her body, and then she cried out as the world exploded and she soared higher and higher to a great, shuddering climax.

Marcus went rigid with her cry and withdrew from her body, his white hot seed scorching her thigh. His breathing was ragged, his heart thundering against hers.

Finally he rolled to the side and made to enfold her in his arms, but his elbow bumped the desk and a cascade of papers flittered about them. They both laughed and looked each other in the eyes.

He kissed her forehead. “I had fantasized of making love to you for weeks now, but never on the floor of my office.”

Isabel stretched a hand out and grasped a piece of paper. “I wonder if this will improve your performance.”

He cocked a dark eyebrow. “In bed or at the Stock Exchange?”

“Both.”

“I was right. You are a saucy piece of baggage, Lady Hawksley.”

She reached up to caress his cheek. “Only for you.”

His expression grew serious. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“For what?”

“For gifting me with your innocence, your self.” He sat up and reached for his shirt. With careful ministrations, he cleaned her thighs.

She yawned, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t suppose we can sleep here all night?”

“Jenkins is very discreet, but Mrs. McLaughlin would have my head for debauching my new wife in such a manner.”

She picked up her nightgown. “Will you spend the night in my room?”

He eyed her carefully. “Are you afraid of the storm?”

Isabel looked to the window. Even with the curtains drawn, she knew from the soft sound of the rain against the glass that the violence of the storm had passed. “I’m not afraid.”

“Isabel, tomorrow morning you may regret what has happened between us.”

She clutched her nightgown to her chest and adamantly shook her head. “I won’t regret it.”

“Are you certain? Lust has a way of robbing one’s reason.”

She felt an odd hurt at his words.
He said lust, not love!

But when had she ever sought his love? She had wanted to experience him, not make him fall in love with her. Perhaps it was
he
who regretted what they had shared? A heaviness centered in her chest as she was torn by conflicting emotions.

He was studying her, waiting for her response, and she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “As I said, I have no regrets as our plans don’t have to change.”

A brief shadow flickered across his face, but then he nodded and smiled. “Of course not. Shall I help you to your room?”

He assisted her with her nightgown and donned his trousers. He then swept her into his arms and, walking barefoot, silently carried her up the staircase.

Marcus ran his hand across Isabel’s smooth hip and then along her taut stomach. His fingers came to rest beneath the swell of her breasts. His body spooned the back of her naked length, and her head lay on his arm. She was asleep, and in the predawn light of her room, she looked ethereal.

Ebony hair curled around her shoulders, her breasts, and brushed his chest. He blew a silken curl off her shoulder, kissed her warm skin, and listened to her deep breathing. He lay still for a long time afterward, studying her bewitching profile.

He was still reeling from their lovemaking in the library. She hadn’t cared about his blackened reputation, his sordid past, but had wanted him for who he was. And she was glorious in her passion. He had once thought Isabel Cameron would be as impulsive and reckless in bed as she was out of it.

He had been right, but there had been so much more…

She was giving and generous and had eagerly opened her arms to welcome him in her embrace and gift him with her innocence.

Just like a loving wife…

What had happened between them last night had been miraculous, and he felt more alive than he had in years. Her intelligence and courage…her passion for art and for life enraptured him. All the women in his past, including Simone Winston and the doomed Bridget Turner, paled in comparison.

Isabel sighed between parted lips and eased closer to him in her sleep. Pink nipples thrust through her hair, and her luscious bum cheeks pressed against his groin. His body’s reaction was instantaneous, but also was his heart’s unfamiliar swelling with tenderness and reverence.

After Bridget’s duplicity, her suicide, and the destruction of their unborn child, he had never intended to marry or consider a serious future with any woman. Rather he had planned to ruthlessly further his career and obtain whatever expensive art that caught his eye. Then Isabel had come along and asked him to dance at Lady Holloway’s ball, a Thomas Gainsborough painting was stolen, and his life as he had meticulously planned it had started to unravel.

He was put in an impossible situation. Now that he had made love to her, his lust hadn’t been sated, but had only heightened. Worse was his inexplicable need to keep her beside him, to see her blue eyes widen in wonder whenever she saw a piece of priceless artwork, and to experience her vivacious smile whenever she thought of the spare room in his home that now was her studio.

For a startling instant he wondered if it was love, but then dismissed the thought as fancy. He was too jaded, too cynical, to fall prey to such an unselfish emotion. His feelings for her were nothing more than lust commingled with admiration as he was genuinely fond of her. It made sense, he reasoned, that he was enthralled by her. What breathing man wouldn’t stiffen at the notion of the spirited Isabel Cameron in his bed?

Even if she was willing to become his
real
wife in every sense of the word, he was not in a position to offer her what a proper husband should—security and safety. His past had caught up with him once again, and a lord of the realm had attempted to frame Marcus for theft.

As an avid art collector, Lord Gavinport would have known that Marcus sought to acquire Gainsborough’s works. When the
Seashore with Fishermen
was up for auction, Gavinport had seized the opportunity to steal the painting and blame another. After all, who would trust the younger son of an earl when it was public knowledge that his own father scorned him?

Isabel’s alibi had foiled Gavinport’s well-laid plans. The authorities did not suspect Marcus for the crime, yet Marcus would not rest until the man who had attempted to frame him was punished. He had planned on finding the stolen painting, alerting Bow Street, and having Gavinport arrested. But instead of resolving the mystery, Marcus had only succeeded in putting Isabel through horrid experiences.

Neither time had she been secure or safe.

How could he expect Isabel to embark on a future with him when criminals were glaring at her through windows, and he took her to establishments where she stumbled over corpses?

Then there was a promise that stood between them…a pact to let her walk away after half a year…flee to her aunt and two anticipated lovers.

Damnation.

Isabel’s words in the library came back to him:
I have no regrets as our plans don’t have to change.

He had been taken aback, but had been quick to disguise his disappointment. She was right, of course. She had been forthright and honest with her desires, and remaining in London was never in her plans. He had been the one to suggest she immediately leave for Paris. The thought of her having nightmares over Dante’s murder or, worse, the thought of her in danger was unconscionable. He’d never forget her fear and panic as she ran from her studio after spotting the derelict outside.

His temper flared at the image. He would find the criminal and tear the bastard apart with his bare hands. He vowed to put an end to the mystery surrounding the Gainsborough theft. He owed it to Isabel just as much as to himself.

Dante Black was already dead. But he would see to it that Gavinport and everyone else responsible would pay.

“You did what?” Charlotte gasped.

Isabel sat across from Charlotte in one of the Bennings’ opulent receiving rooms. Isabel looked behind her to make certain the door was shut and no servant had entered with a tea tray.

“I told you, after that horrible criminal appeared, I decided to be with Marcus last night.”

Charlotte’s blue eyes were as wide as saucers. She ran a nervous hand over her frizzy blond curls. “I don’t know what’s more shocking. That you tripped over a famous auctioneer’s corpse, that a madman tracked you down and aimed a gun at your head, or that you made love to Marcus Hawksley after vowing not to.”

“It has been an eventful two days,” Isabel said dryly.

“Eventful! Have you gone mad?”

Isabel sighed and shook her head. “Living through such terrifying experiences such as falling on top of Dante Black’s corpse and being threatened by the demon that most likely killed him has dramatically changed my beliefs. Life is too precious to waste it wondering ‘what if.’ Patience has never been one of my virtues, and what if I had been shot last night? I must seize every opportunity.”

Charlotte reached out to embrace her. “Oh, Isabel.”

A hot ache grew in Isabel’s throat, and she bit back unwelcome tears.

Charlotte pulled back to look in her eyes. “Have you spoken with Marcus about what occurred?”

“I never had the chance. I woke up alone. At first I thought I had dreamed the entire experience, but then I turned to the side and saw the indent in the pillow where Marcus had slept. He held me all night and must have left very early. By the time I went down for breakfast, he had already gone to the Stock Exchange, but he left a note for me with Jenkins.”

“A note? What did it say?”

“He apologized for leaving early and explained that he had an important client meeting this morning. He requested that I meet him at his office on Threadneedle Street at noon. He wants to take me to luncheon at the Ship and Turtle on Leadenhall Street, which is known for its famous turtle soup. He said many brokers celebrate good fortune there. He also said…that he missed me.”

Charlotte cocked her head to the side. “Isabel, he is your husband. Have you ever considered that being Marcus Hawksley’s wife, his
true
wife, is your calling? After all, you have been infatuated with the man since you were a young girl. Perhaps Paris, Auntie Lil, and art classes are not your destiny.”

Isabel felt her world spin. The truth was, since Marcus Hawksley had reentered her life, she had thought less and less of Paris and Auntie Lil. She still loved to paint, but her artistic impulses were commingled with her stirring interest in her new husband. The fact that he was an avid art collector made him a perfect match for her. He understood her passion and respected her aspiring talent by presenting her with her own art studio, something she had desperately wanted, but never been permitted while living under her father’s roof.

Still her plans of Paris had been set for as long as she could remember…

“Paris is what I have sought for a long time,” she mumbled.

Charlotte sighed. “And I have sought to marry for true love for as long as I can remember. My mother, in her own way, has strived for the same thing and is on her fourth marriage to my stepfather, Harold Benning, in her quest to find it. Love is the rarest, most precious gift anyone could wish for. You are lucky enough to have stumbled upon it.”

“Lust is not love! Marcus hasn’t uttered a word of love in my ear.”

Charlotte’s eyes were aglow. “But have you allowed him to? You said yourself you told him nothing has to change between you.”

“Yes, but still…”

“Have you passion?”

The memory sent Isabel’s spirits soaring. “Yes, there was passion.”

“My mother’s most religious acquaintance, Lady Up-stance, says a wife’s duty is perhaps the most painful, distasteful act she must endure and told her daughter to mentally catalog the pantry while her husband does the deed,” Charlotte said.

Isabel’s face grew hot. “Catalog the pantry! I couldn’t think of anything but him.”

Vivid images of their lovemaking burned her mind. For as long as she breathed, she would cherish what had happened on the floor of his library and didn’t think she would ever look at a shelf of books the same way again. The problem was she wanted to be with Marcus again. She craved to leisurely explore his powerful body and hungered for the feel of his hands on her sensitive flesh.

Charlotte’s lips curled in a devilish grin. “Tell me, Isabel. Tell me everything.”

Just then, the door opened and Harold Benning entered pushing a tea tray. A steaming sterling silver teapot and china for two rattled as he came forward.

“Isabel, my dear!” Benning’s flabby face spread into a smile. “When I heard you were visiting, I chased the maid away so that I could see you myself. How is your new home as a married lady?”

Isabel stood to greet Harold Benning and tried not to gape at his ostentatious lime green double-breasted jacket with matching shirt and shawl collar. His striped trousers had a thread of the same green color, and his short boots had a three-inch heel. Harold Benning made the famous dandies of the ton, like Beau Brummel, look as masculine as a sweaty boxer at Gentleman Jackson’s.

She curtsied, managing at the same time to hide her amusement. “I am faring quite well, Mr. Benning.”

He picked up a copy of
The Morning Chronicle
from the tea tray and waved it in the air. “It’s plastered all over the papers that the former Bonham’s auctioneer, Dante Black, was found murdered on Lombard Street. Wasn’t he the auctioneer who had accused Mr. Hawksley of stealing the painting?”

Isabel’s hand fluttered to her chest. It was not difficult to look surprised for she truly was taken aback that the body was discovered so soon.

Thankfully, Charlotte had the good sense to look stunned as well.

“I had no idea,” Isabel said. “Mr. Black had initially
claimed
Marcus was involved, but he was wrong, of course. I wonder if Marcus knows of his death. Murdered, you say?”

A glint of excitement pierced Harold Benning’s eyes. “The details of his death were quite ghastly, and I can only assume the man was immersed in illegal activity. What was most shocking is that the murder occurred on one of Lord Gavinport’s properties. According to the paper, Gavinport claimed the property was vacant and Dante Black had been living there without his consent. Bow Street does not consider Gavinport a suspect.” Benning hesitated, then shook his head in utter disbelief. “Lord Gavinport and I go to the same clubs, and I am curious if there is a connection between the two men. Perhaps Mr. Hawksley should further inquire.”

A sliver of alarm ran through her at Benning’s inquisitiveness. “I will be sure to mention it to him,” Isabel said, careful to keep an even tone.

Then Benning shrugged and dropped the newspaper, and his attention flitted back to the tea tray. He poured two cups of tea and handed them to Isabel and Charlotte as if they had been discussing the latest horticulture article rather than a man’s murder.

“Did Charlotte remind you of her mother’s upcoming surprise birthday ball the first weekend of July? It’s not really a surprise since Leticia insists on having a hand in planning the party, but it will be the event of the Season.”

“The invitations were delivered weeks ago,” Charlotte said, “but I haven’t yet had a chance to discuss the details with Isabel.”

“I had mentioned it to Marcus, and we are looking forward to attending. Your balls are always spectacular,” Isabel said, raising her teacup to her lips.

Harold Benning beamed. “We look forward to seeing the newlyweds together.” He kissed Isabel’s cheeks with a flourish before leaving the room and shutting the door.

Charlotte set down her teacup. “Did you know Dante Black’s murder was in the papers?” she whispered.

Isabel shook her head. “By the time I woke up this morning and made my way downstairs, the newspapers had been long gone. I can only assume Marcus saw the news before he left for the Stock Exchange.”

“I’m surprised Benning read the papers. If an article doesn’t have to do with fashion or frivolity, he’s usually not interested,” Charlotte said sarcastically.

“Perhaps Dante’s name caught his eye.”

A painful expression crossed Charlotte’s face. “Mother thinks he’s having an affair.”

Isabel was flabbergasted. “With a woman?”

Charlotte grimaced. “Ah, you suspect his tastes run toward the same sex?”

“I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

“Don’t be. I’ve wondered for years. I’ve never uttered a word about it to Mother.”

“What makes her think Mr. Benning is having an affair?” Isabel asked.

“He has been absent for longer and longer periods of time. He claims he’s at the clubs or at his tailor, but Mother is suspicious.”

“What will she do?”