She rested her hand against his jacket, and felt the strong beat of his heart through the fine material. “I’m not asking for a permanent relationship. A fleeting affair would be perfect.”
“No, Isabel—”
“We don’t have to disclose it to all of society as I had initially desired, just my father and Lord Walling.” She licked her lips.
His dark gaze fell to her mouth, and she sensed a vulnerability in him. Stepping close, pressing herself against his chest, she tipped her head to his.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
He pushed back a long lock of dark hair that brushed her shoulder, and his arms again closed around her. “God help me. You’ve talked nothing but complete insanity since you’ve walked in here, yet I can’t seem to come to my senses and leave this room.”
“Perhaps you will reconsider.”
Firm lips brushed her forehead, her temple. “No, Isabel. You deserve far better than me. I’m damaged, not worthy.” His mouth lowered to within an inch of hers.
Her lashes fluttered closed, and she awaited the touch of his lips.
The door burst open, crashing against the opposite wall.
Marcus stiffened and thrust her behind him.
Isabel stumbled back and fell onto the satin-encased bed.
“There he is,” a voice boomed.
A long-limbed man strode into view. Hairless, with pencil-thin brows and a pointed nose, he projected an air of haughtiness. He was flanked by two big, brawny men dressed entirely in black, their menacing expressions masks of stone.
“Where is it, Mr. Hawksley?” the lanky man who appeared to be in charge asked.
Marcus’s brow furrowed. “Where’s what, Dante?”
The man named Dante walked forward, eye to eye with Marcus. The pair of intimidating lackeys who looked like overgrown guard dogs followed in Dante’s wake.
“You know precisely what I’m speaking about,” Dante snapped. “The Thomas Gainsborough painting, what did you do with it?”
Marcus’s expression grew hard. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. As for the Gainsborough painting, I haven’t seen it since I walked into the Westley mansion.”
Dante snorted. His bald head glistened as if he had polished his scalp to add to his air of superiority. “Lying will not help your case. The auction was scheduled to take place over half an hour ago. I sent my guards”—he jerked a hand in the direction of the two men beside him—“to search the mansion when they discovered the painting was missing.”
“So? What does that have to do with me?” Marcus asked.
“You were the last person to view the painting. I’m aware of your fascination—your obsession—with Gainsborough’s work.”
“You’re mistaken,” Marcus said. “I never laid eyes on it. You gave me directions to this room, and as far as I can tell, there is no Gainsborough painting here.”
Dante shook his head. “I never led you here. I gave you specific directions to the room at the end of the hall past the library where Seashore with Fishermen was hanging in prominent display.”
“This is the only room I’ve been in, and I resent your accusatory tone that I’m the one responsible for the missing painting. Anyone in this mansion could have taken it,” Marcus said.
“I’m fully aware of the interests and tastes of every one of the prospective clients that I allow in my auctions. The only other that was interested in the Gainsborough painting was Lord Yarmouth, on behalf of the Regent himself. It would have sold for a hefty price. I realize that, as a working stockbroker, you may not have sufficient funds to bid on so valuable a piece of artwork. Perhaps your obsession clouded your brain, and you stole the painting. That is what a justice of the peace will call motive, Mr. Hawksley.”
Marcus’s face set in a vicious expression. “Listen here, Dante, because I’m only going to say this once. I never set eyes on the Gainsborough painting.”
“You can tell that to the constable.”
A muscle leapt at Marcus’s jaw. Fists clenched at his sides, he stepped toward the auctioneer.
The gargantuan guards blocked his path.
“Wait!” Isabel cried out.
Four pairs of eyes turned to her, Dante and the two guards seeing her for the first time. Sitting on the round bed, gripping the satin sheets, she had been concealed by Marcus’s large frame. But now that she had called attention to herself, she sensed the tension from each man in the room pierce her like a dagger.
She struggled to find her voice, her throat suddenly as dry as old parchment. “Marcus didn’t take the painting. I can attest to this fact.”
Dante’s stare drilled into her. “Who are you?”
Isabel felt her face grow hot. “Marcus did not steal anything.”
Marcus scowled at her. “Not another word—”
“Who are you?” Dante repeated.
Marcus stepped toward her. “Don’t say anything—”
“My name is Lady Isabel Cameron.” She shimmied off the bed, the slippery sheets sliding beneath her. It seemed a long way off the round bed with the attention of four intimidating men focused on her, but her feet finally touched the floor. She stood and, with damp palms, smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her skirts.
With confidence she did not feel, she directed her attention to Dante. “As I said, I’m Lady Isabel Cameron, daughter of Lord Cameron, the Earl of Malvern.” Her tone insinuated that any auctioneer worthy of his salt would be familiar with the titled nobility.
Dante blinked. “I must ask, Lady Isabel, how do you know Mr. Hawksley was not involved in the disappearance of the painting at issue.”
“I’m sure you can surmise the truth.”
Dante’s bold gaze raked over her figure, noting the low-cut bodice of her gown, the dark disheveled hair brushing her shoulders and flowing down her back. He smirked.
“No, Lady Isabel,” Dante said, “I dare not surmise anything without proof. But perhaps you’re mistaken. After all, the painting was insured by Lloyd’s of London, and the company will promptly send an insurance investigator who will want to take your statement, to question you. Your father, the earl, will undoubtedly be notified. Everyone will know, especially Lord Yarmouth, the Regent’s own art agent who wanted the painting for Carlton House. Even Lady Yarmouth, whom I understand is firmly entrenched in the ton, accompanied him today. Is that what you want, Lady Isabel?”
He’s trying to intimidate me! she thought.
The implication was clear. Dante was threatening her with social ruin if she continued to act as Marcus’s alibi. But what the arrogant auctioneer didn’t know was that Isabel had planned and failed to achieve such a fate only moments ago.
Tossing her head, she eyed Dante with cold challenge. “Mr. Hawksley was with me the entire time. We are lovers, you see.”
“Isabel,” Marcus growled. He spun to face Dante. “She’s lying.”
“I am not.”
Dante’s cold eyes clawed her like talons, and his narrow, pinched face twisted in anger. She was taken aback at the auctioneer’s fury.
Shouldn’t he be relieved to know that one suspect was cleared and to start searching for another?
Alarm rippled along her spine. It was as if he wanted Marcus to be guilty of the theft.
“I