or even justice, but an ignominious part of him wanted her to be unhappy and to suffer for her betrayal of him. Yet at the back of his mind was the smallest flicker of sympathy for her. He denounced himself as a fool. She was a witch and he cursed his susceptibility.
“Put back your hood,” he said abruptly.
She paused. It was evident that she had grown more accustomed to giving than receiving orders. But then she complied and pushed back the hood of her cloak.
The impression of virtue was reinforced when he could see her properly. She had the sort of face that had been pretty in youth but had matured into beauty as she grew older. Her hair was dark gold, straight and fine, simply confined by a blue ribbon. Thick black lashes shadowed the line of her cheek. There was strength as well as beauty in the bones of her face; he looked again and amended that to resilience. Something—or someone—had made her suffer and she had learned to endure it and be strong. Marcus knew a little about how that felt. For a moment he experienced an odd mix of curiosity, protectiveness and anger at the thought of anyone hurting her. The love he had had for her had run deep and it was difficult to forget.
Damn it. Damn her. He was turning soft at the very moment he had to be ruthless.
Isabella raised one dark brow in ironic query and he realized that he had been staring. Truth to tell, it was difficult not to. He wanted to kiss her. No, he would not stop at mere kissing. He would do a great deal more. He wanted her very much.
“Well?”
It was her turn to snap the question. Marcus reflected ruefully that she might have a mouth lush and made for kissing but her tongue was as sharp as a seamstress’s needle.
He shook his head.
“I cannot believe you would receive no offers,” he said. “Surely you exaggerate—”
“No.” She shut her lips very tightly. It was evident that no further information would be forthcoming on that topic. Their eyes met and held. He could feel the tension in her. She was desperate but she would never beg.
Marcus let out a long, careful breath. He could turn her away, in which case she would be ruined and left to molder in the debtor’s prison herself. He would like to see that happen. It would be a poetic revenge.
On the other hand, he could marry her and exact a different and rather more satisfying form of retribution.
Isabella was not taking the delay well. He was pleased to see that she was barely able to control her impatience. Good. He needed her to be so on edge that she would snap up his offer when he finally made it.
She walked over to the table and picked up the book that he had been reading, holding the spine to the light so that she could see the title. “Theoretical Naval Architecture,” she read aloud. “It would need to be theoretical since I am told that you are likely to spend the rest of your days in here, sir.”
Marcus cocked a brow.
“So?” he said. “What is your point?”
She flicked him a glance. “My point is that according to the jailer you owe a great deal of money. More than you are ever likely to be able to pay. Your family and friends are apparently unwilling to help you. Or perhaps—” she put the book down and looked up to meet his eyes “—as I suggested earlier, they do not even know that you are here? I am guessing that that is why you use the name of John Ellis. It is a sop to your pride and to keep your shame from being known in the Ton. So…you would not wish me to tell anyone your true whereabouts, or make your disgrace known…”
Her blackmail made him smile inwardly. It seemed she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted. But there was a problem. She had stumbled very close to the truth through making all the wrong inferences. It was certainly the case that no one knew he was in the Fleet and that he could not afford for the information to become public. It was not because he was ashamed of his debt, though. He was running a complicated operation and no one could know about it. Isabella could not be permitted to tell the world what she had deduced.
Even so, he would play the game by his rules, not hers.
“So you seek to persuade me to change my mind by offering to keep my presence here a secret if I agree to marry you?” He arched an eyebrow. “It seems an unequal bargain, even with some books and food and wine thrown in to sweeten the pill.”
He saw her fingers clench on her reticule. She could not conceal it—she was shaking. Oddly, the sight unsettled him. He could feel her desperation and he did not want it to touch him. He did not want to feel sympathy for her.
He did not care what happened to her. He would not care. He could not.
Isabella was watching him, trying to interpret his expression.
“You are not in a strong position to strike an agreement, are you, sir?” she said steadily.
“Neither are you,” Marcus countered swiftly. “How long would you survive in a hellhole like this, Isabella? For it is surely where you will end if you cannot pay your debt.”
He saw her shudder but she met his eyes with defiance. “My state is not as parlous as yours,” she said. “I can find another candidate for my hand.”
“A candidate for your debts,” Marcus corrected. “Do not dress it up as something it is not.”
His anger was seething again now, whipped to a rage by her blatant determination to buy herself a husband with the last of her money and prostitute herself. He held his fury in check by the merest thread, but she could sense it.
Her eyes sparked with a fury to match his own. “Very well. If you refuse me, I shall buy myself another debtor. Is that plain enough for you?” She whirled around on him.
“And then I shall tell everyone of your disgrace, sir. A peer of the realm incarcerated in the Fleet for debt and so ashamed that he would rather hide his identity than accept the censure of the world! What would the scandalmongers make of that, I wonder? Reputation is so fragile, is it not?”
Marcus caught her wrist and pulled her around to face him. “If anyone knows the answer to that, then it is you! What would the Ton make of a disgraced princess trying to buy a debtor to save her skin?”
There was a silence heavy with challenge. Beneath his fingers Marcus could feel the racing of Isabella’s pulse. Her skin was very soft. She felt warm and sweet. Temptation stirred, slicing through him like a knife. Instinctively his grip tightened, pulling her toward him. In another second she would be in his arms, her mouth crushed beneath his.
This time she was the one who stepped back, freeing herself from his grip. “I do not see why this needs must take much more time,” she said. “I have made a business offer and I am awaiting your final response. If you refuse me I shall simply proceed to the next man in here who will agree.”
That was direct. Marcus felt a certain admiration for her. And he knew she would have no trouble in finding a man. They would be running a sweepstakes for the privilege of taking her on, debts notwithstanding. The thought of her proposing marriage to any of his cell mates impaled him with an intense and entirely inappropriate jealously. Damnation, he must be addled in his wits, or at the very least be led astray by some other far more basic part of his anatomy.
“You will have no difficulty in finding a man if you are not too particular,” he agreed unpleasantly. “There are plenty such hopeless souls in here.”
At last he had driven her to breaking point. He saw the moment when Isabella’s composure snapped.
“I am desperate, too, you know!” The words burst from her and she could not erase a quiver of grief from her voice. “I am very tired of struggling—” She stopped, and Marcus saw her make a huge effort to steady herself. She was turning away, shielding her vulnerability from him. She pressed her hands together tightly. “This is nothing to the purpose.” Her voice was muffled. “I think that I should leave.”
Marcus put his hand on her arm. It was too late. It had been