Deceived by Nicola Cornick

sometimes, but he would dispute that he had ever pined for her. His mouth twisted in bitter amusement. He was not a man to dwell on those things that might have been. He was not cut out to be a martyr. Bur while he had always believed that he had put the entire matter of his ill-fated, youthful love affair behind him, he now knew that was not so. Now he knew he wanted Isabella and he wanted a reckoning.
    Marcus rubbed a hand across his eyes. He had tried very hard to shut Isabella out of his mind and his life, but he had not been able to ignore the tales entirely. Her husband's name had been a byword for depravity, especially in his later years when he had traveled through Europe trailing a raffish court behind him like a wayward comet and taking with him a wife whose name was inevitably ruined by association with his debauchery. Marcus thought of Isabella and the crippling blow that her late husband had dealt her. Twenty thousand pounds was an immense debt to burden her with, but no doubt the feckless Prince Ernest had cared as little for that as he was reputed to have cared for his wife. And one could argue that it was only just that Isabella, who had married for money, should in her widowhood be crippled by debt.
    Marcus shifted, trying to achieve a more comfortable position on the hopelessly uncomfortable mattress. Isabella had chosen to marry Prince Ernest and she was now reaping the consequences of that decision. She had jilted Marcus heartlessly to marry a rich and titled man. That was the simple truth. Marcus had fallen for the charms of an adventuress.
    He had not wanted to feel anything for Isabella Di Cassilis when he met her again. He had wanted to look at her and feel nothing—no love, no hatred and certainly no desire. He had failed singularly. It had taken him all of ten seconds to realize that he still wanted her and, when she had trembled under the onslaught of his kiss, he had forgotten the grim surroundings of the Fleet and ached to take her there and then on the cold stone floor of the chapel.
    No indeed, indifference was the last emotion on his mind.
    Marcus got to his feet and walked over to the small grille that covered the window. Tantalizing brightness flooded in, promising all the things that he had given up—light and liberty and the freedom to do whatever he wished. He had gone voluntarily into the Fleet for a most particular purpose and Isabella's assumptions about his financial state, while logical, could not have been further from the truth. He could buy up her debts three times over and not notice the difference.
    He paused, staring at the small square of light. What did he want from Isabella Di Cassilis? She had chosen him for no more reason than that he was a convenient husband in the same way that she had made a calculated decision to marry Prince Ernest all those years before. Marcus had given her the freedom to escape her debts. He owed her nothing more. But she. . .she owed him an explanation of the past as well as a reckoning for the present. When he paid off her creditors, she would owe him a great deal more.
    His work here was almost complete. He had been intending to call for his release in a week's time anyway, but that could easily be brought forward by a few days. It was probably preferable to leave now anyway. Isabella's visit, and her largesse, had made him a figure of curiosity and that he could not afford. Already there was a buzz in the air, talk of his wife's beauty and speculation about her true identity. Secrets could not be kept in a place like this.
    Marcus stared up at the small blue square of sky above his head. He did not deceive himself that Isabella would be pleased to see him at liberty. If there was one thing he had learned from their interview, it was that Princess Isabella Di Cassilis—or more accurately, the new Countess of Stockhaven—did not wish for a husband in anything more than name.
    Marcus grinned. Too bad. She was about to get one. There was business