A Perfect Scandal. Tina Gabrielle
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father stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at her, and as their eyes met, a flash of fury crossed his face. Several heartbeats later, he pivoted on his heel and disappeared, his footsteps echoing down the marble hall like a general leading his troops into war.
She bit her lip and rushed to her room. Shutting the door, she threw her reticule on the four-poster. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the corner of the bedchamber, beneath a window, where an easel with a half-completed landscape beckoned. Beside the painting was a small table which held a jar crammed with brushes, several water bowls, and a dozen tiny, hard cakes of soluble watercolor.
Not permitted a room in the house for a designated studio, she had made use of the corner of her bedroom. Since she was the daughter of an earl, her father had initially paid for basic art lessons to contribute to a well-rounded education befitting a debutante of her station. But when she had expressed an interest in furthering her studies, he had adamantly refused, stating that “a young woman should focus her energies on Almack’s marriage mart.”
She strode to the easel, picked up a cake of pale blue watercolor, dipped it in water, and rubbed it on an oyster shell with her Asiatic martin brush. The landscape was of a section of Hyde Park she most enjoyed, showing the Serpentine River at springtime. She had been putting the finishing touches on the sky this morning, but this time, with each stroke of her brush, instead of finding a familiar sense of inner calm, her nerves remained tense and brittle. Her brush strokes were jerky rather than flowing, and the clouds formed a distorted shape on the paper.
Dear Lord, not even painting could soothe her anxiety tonight. A soft knock on the door stopped her in midstroke.
“Yes.”
The door opened and her maid, Kate, entered. A plain-looking woman, Kate had thin brown hair, brown eyes, and a wagging tongue. Her inquisitive nature was the last thing Isabel desired tonight.
“Your father is asking for you, Lady Isabel.”
“Where?”
“In his library.”
Not the library! she thought. She had never seen him as furious as she had tonight, and she dreaded the confrontation to come.
She reassured herself that all would work out as planned. Walling would never have her now. What suitable man in England would? No doubt Lady Yarmouth was already flapping her overzealous lips to every influential society matron within a ten-mile radius of London. Isabel would be free to leave for Paris.
She should be happy, thrilled, relieved—yet all she felt was an unexpected void.
Her thoughts wandered to Marcus Hawksley. She experienced a strange curiosity—an unfamiliar pang of longing. What would become of him? What was he doing now? And most surprisingly, what did he think of her? She was disturbed to realize that she cared about his opinion. He must think her a conniving jade, a spoiled tart.
An odd twinge of disappointment settled in her stomach. She’d likely never see him again. He was not a regular attendee of ton functions, and she would no longer be one after tonight. She would be in Paris, where scandalous behavior was prized rather than ostracized.
Still, questions raced through her mind like quicksilver. Why would Dante Black seek so urgently to blame Marcus Hawksley for the art theft? Would Marcus attempt to learn the identity of the true thief? But would a working stockbroker be able to afford a private investigator? From what everyone had said, Marcus’s funds were limited.
She shook her head at her thoughts. She must think about the future, her future. Even though she had used Marcus, she had helped him by giving him an alibi.
She shouldn’t feel guilty.
With firm resolve, Isabel raised her chin. “If I must meet my father, then please help me change, Kate.” She wanted to get past her father’s haranguing speech and plan for tomorrow.
She chose a modest gown of gray muslin, with a high collar and long sleeves. She opened her bedroom door and again the aroma of lamb and roasted vegetables from the dining room made her mouth water. If her watercolors could not ease her tension, then perhaps food would. She prayed the lecture wouldn’t take long.
Straightening her spine, she hurried down the hall and entered the library.
Her father was sitting behind his massive desk. At her entrance, he looked up and adjusted his spectacles on his nose.
“Sit, Isabel.”
She took a chair by the fire and folded her hands in her lap. A movement from the corner of the room drew her attention, and she started.
Marcus Hawksley stood rigid, his obsidian eyes boring into her. He strode forward, into the firelight, and her breath caught. He dominated the room with his attitude of self-command and rugged masculinity. There was a firm resolve in him, a hardness in his features that made him look like a predator studying his prey, and she was completely alarmed by his presence.
What was he doing in her father’s library?
“Good evening, Lady Isabel.” He chose a chair beside hers and crossed his long legs in front of him.
“Good evening, Mr. Hawksley.” She had trouble meeting his gaze, and she ended up studying her hands.
“Well, Isabel,” her father said. “Is there anything you want to say?”
She looked up, suddenly flooded with a sense of shame. “I’m sorry for any trouble I caused you, Mr. Hawksley. I can only hope that I helped you with my testimony.” She turned to her father. “I’ll pack my bags first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Your bags? For what?” Edward asked.
“For Auntie Lil’s, of course.”
“Auntie Lil’s? You think I would allow you to go there?” His expression was incredulous.
“Why not? Lord Walling won’t have me now.”
A muscle twitched near her father’s right eye. He appeared even more furious than when she had sat beside him in the carriage on the journey home.
“I think I understand,” Edward said, his lips a thin line. “Mr. Hawksley was telling the truth, wasn’t he? Your impetuous nature has finally ruined you. You are recklessly impulsive and never think things through. No doubt dreams of Paris, Auntie Lil, and male models were flashing through your mind when you plotted this catastrophe. As my eldest child, I’ve indulged you, Isabel. I’ve let you twist me about your finger, but no longer. I’ll not speak around the subject. You and Mr. Hawksley must marry.”
“Marry!” She felt the blood drain from her face.
Edward turned his attention to Marcus. “I’m uncertain what part you played in all of this, Mr. Hawksley. Whether you were a willing participant in my daughter’s foolish plan or not, I still hold you partly responsible. You are older and worldlier than Isabel, and I would expect a gentleman to exhibit more restraint than to be found alone with an innocent woman in a room surrounded by inflammatory artifacts. Notwithstanding my beliefs, however, I do hope you will follow through on your word and do the honorable thing.”
“I gave my word, Lord Malvern. And despite what you said earlier, I’m good for it.”
“Isabel has a dowry, and although I feel it is my right under the circumstances, I’ll not withhold it.”
“There’s no need. I’ll not take a shilling,” Marcus said, his voice firm.
Isabel came to her senses and sprang to her feet. “Do not speak as if I were not present. I will not marry Mr. Hawksley, or anyone for that matter.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You have no choice in the matter, Isabel. You sealed your fate when you failed to consider the full consequences of your foolish actions. Thank goodness you and Lord Walling were not yet engaged. A scandal will result, no doubt, when Lady Yarmouth blabs to her influential friends. But after you and Mr. Hawksley are married, the scandal will blow over and will become lessened over time.