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the friction between them had driven his need to take and possess her. He had been besotted with her. He had proposed marriage; she had accepted. That last spring at Salterton, before she had returned to London, they had plighted their troth secretly in the gardens and he had promised to follow her up to Town with all speed and ask her father for permission to pay his addresses to her. Marcus had not been concerned about his lack of prospects. He was a man who took his opportunities and sought out new ones. It never occurred to him that he had nothing to offer.
    Lord Standish had agreed to his suit with a remarkable lack enthusiasm. If Marcus believed that he had prospects, his future father-in-law had not been so easy to convince. Marcus had been undeterred. He had remained undeterred up until the last moment when he had been waiting in the church of St Mark's in the Field—the fashionable St. George's in Hanover Square having already been booked—and had noticed a suspicious lack of guests on the bride's side of the nave. Time had ticked past and Isabella had failed to arrive. Even at the last Marcus had been unable to believe that she had jilted him. He had tried to see her, only to be turned away from her house. He had sworn that he would not believe ill of her until he heard her reject him with her own words. But she had never offered him an explanation either way.
    She had never spoken to him again.
    Society had been quick to judge. When the absent bride married Prince Ernest Di Cassilis in a private ceremony by special license the very next day, scandal had burst over them in a tidal wave. Ernest carried his new wife off to Cassilis and Marcus had returned precipitately to sea. He had felt a great need to be occupied. And so he had pursued the French instead of women, had gained commendations of his superior officers for his reckless bravery and had never wanted to return to shore. It was only the unexpected inheritance of the earldom from his childless cousin that had obliged him to accept a different type of responsibility. He had taken up his estate reluctantly, gone up to London and met India Southern, Isabella's cousin, at a ball. . .
    But he would not think about that. Throughout his marriage to India, the ghost of Isabella had dogged their steps. He had never been able to forget her or dismiss the powerful feelings of recognition he had felt for her from the first. He felt the same attraction as before calling to him now, drawing him in. They looked at one another and the air between them was bright with the sparks of that old flame.
    Marcus had not meant to stir up old memories. What he had meant to do was discover exactly what Isabella intended with this marriage of convenience. It was also important to know that there were no troublesome lovers hanging about who might jeopardize his plans. The fact that Isabella was here alone and unprotected in the Fleet suggested that she had no current lover, but he had to be certain.
    He turned away from her, crushing down the attraction, feigning indifference.
    "I do not understand why you needs must make a Fleet marriage," he said. His voice was a little rough, betraying him. "Surely there are a dozen rich and respectable men queuing up to offer for you, Isabella? Twenty thousand is not so much to a man of means, particularly if he gains a beautiful wife into the bargain."
    Isabella did not appear to take this as a compliment. Marcus was interested since he thought it inevitable she must have been told many times that she was a beauty. People tended to tell princesses that even if it were not true.
    "There is no one I wish to marry," Isabella said, "and more to the point, no one who would wish to marry me."
    Her head was bent and she evaded his gaze. Marcus thought she seemed genuinely ruffled. He watched her, waited.
    "I have. . .that is, my reputation—" She looked up suddenly and the expression in her eyes went straight through Marcus's defenses like an arrow into