Once a Duchess (17 page)

At the warmth in his expression, Isabelle’s heart kicked. “You did not
bore
me to sleep, Marshall.”

“Darling, you’re blushing. Don’t tell me you’ve turned maidenly now, not after the luscious vixen I so recently encountered.” He playfully pinched her bottom. She giggled, enjoying their banter. Maybe things would be different now, after all. Maybe their coupling had meant as much to Marshall as it had to her.

She turned onto her left side again and let her eyelids drift closed. Marshall idly ran a hand up her flank and chest. Isabelle relished the simple delight of his touch. Each pass of his fingers left a mark that scorched its way to her soul, more memories to cling to and examine later.

His hand paused below her right breast, his fingers pressed into the skin. She felt his whole body stiffen.

“What is this?”

“Hmm?” She opened her eyes again and rolled onto her back. Marshall’s hand followed, probing harder against her side. His brows knit together, as though he was thinking very hard about what his fingers had discovered.

“Isabelle, what is this place on your side?” The gentle banter had vanished from his tone.

“Oh, the lump, you mean?” She’d lived with it for so long now, she scarcely thought about it. “That’s where I broke my rib when I fell off of Davey Boy that day.” At the dark expression that crossed his face, she hurried, “It doesn’t hurt. The bone healed, just not evenly.”

He laid his hand flat over the place where she’d been injured, then squeezed lightly. As his fingers again encountered the lump in her rib, Marshall grimaced. He suddenly looked so sad. Her heart lurched at his concern on her behalf.

Without thinking, she lifted her head and kissed him.

He pulled back as though startled, his expression growing more serious.

“Don’t tell me
you’re
turning maidenly,” Isabelle ventured, hoping to regain their easiness.

Marshall shook his head. “Isabelle … ” Something in his voice made her nervous.

He sat up and held a hand out for her. Her hopes faltered and crashed back to earth at the impersonal civility of the gesture. Whatever affection he’d expressed this afternoon must have only been his male urges talking. Now that they’d been satisfied, she already felt him receding from her. He gathered her clothes. She desperately searched his face for any remnant of emotion as he handed them to her. He met her gaze dispassionately.

Isabelle turned her back and dressed as best she could, while unshed tears burned her eyes. What a fool she was! She silently berated herself while she wrestled with her dress.

“Allow me.” Marshall’s voice held a modicum of tenderness, but he was a gentleman, after all, and undoubtedly did as much for any of his paramours. She stood ramrod straight while he fastened the buttons.

When he finished, Marshall gave her shoulders a little squeeze. Isabelle wrested away from his touch. She retrieved her slippers and stood on one foot to put one on, and then the other, shaking so badly she nearly fell over. Marshall steadied her with a hand on her elbow.

“Isabelle?”

She looked up at him. Dressed once more in his gardening garb, he looked every bit as handsome and composed as he had a couple hours ago, before her heart had been turned inside out. He blinked and opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again.

She wanted to fling her arms around his neck and kiss him until the warmth returned. She wanted to drag him back to the tarp and spend the whole day making love. She wanted to pretend their divorce never happened. But he didn’t. It had been nothing more than a diversion for him.

“I can’t do this again.” It was a small victory that her voice trembled only a little.

She shook her head, turned, and ran all the way back to the house. She couldn’t let him destroy her again. Time to collect Lily, go back to London, and forget Marshall Lockwood existed.

“The provisions, Your Grace?” Perkins said.

Marshall blinked. His secretary held the list toward him with an expectant look on his face.

“Oh, yes,” Marshall said. “Thank you. Put it there.” He gestured to a pile of papers on his desk. “I’ll look over it later.” He cast around and picked up a book sitting on the corner of the desk. “After I sign these things.” He distractedly flipped through an atlas of South America.

“As you say, sir.” Perkins cast him a dubious look before bowing out of the study.

Marshall sighed and closed the book. It wasn’t any use trying to get work done. He hadn’t been able to concentrate in the three days since he parted ways with Isabelle.

He struggled to put her out of mind. Things here demanded his attention
,
he thought, glowering at the express packet sitting in the middle of his desk. Anxiety gnawed at his middle. The hastily scrawled missive from his steward at Helmsdale had been waiting for him when he returned to town from Bensbury. It described the eerily familiar poisoning of one of his brood mares and the substance found in front of the horse’s stall.

The message rang loud and clear: Thomas Gerald had returned to England, and he was angry. Not that Marshall could blame him — were the situation reversed, Marshall would hate the man who had robbed him of his youth. “Well done,” he muttered. “You’ve created a criminal in truth.”

He’d sent an express back to Helmsdale, summoning Roden, his longtime stable master, to come to London with the jar. There was no doubt in his mind that the sticky matter was the same formula involved in the accident with his father’s mare all those years ago, but he needed both Roden and the poison here to present to an investigator. The matter had become urgent. He could not allow a vindictive convict to run loose, killing his horses and plotting God only knew what other kind of revenge.

A rustle of silk and the flash of color in the hall caught his attention. “Naomi,” he called. His sister stepped into the room, greeting him with her usual cheerful smile. He rose to meet her.

After a brief exchange of small talk, Naomi leveled a shrewd look on her brother. “What’s on your mind, Marshall?” At his raised eyebrow she explained, “You’ve commented on the weather twice in the space of five minutes. Something has you distracted.”

It was no good prevaricating; Marshall came right to the point, although he attempted to mask his interest in the subject by casually straightening his papers as he spoke. “Have you heard from Isabelle?”

Naomi shook her head. “Not since our return to town.” She settled herself in an armchair in front of Marshall’s desk. “I’ve wanted to speak with you about her.” She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirt with both palms. He waited for her to continue. “I was afraid you were angry with me for inviting her to my party and, well, I suppose I didn’t want to raise the issue.” She blushed prettily and looked down at her hands.

Marshall sat with one thigh on the edge of the desk, and the other foot on the floor. “Why?” he asked, bewildered. “Afraid I’d lock you away in a tower? Am I really such an ogre?”

Naomi’s wide eyes flew to his face. “Oh, no, nothing like that! It’s just that I knew you wouldn’t approve. It was wrong of me to do it behind your back and Mama’s. I apologize.”

He resisted the urge to ruffle her hair. Young ladies of eighteen didn’t appreciate childish gestures. Instead, he nodded. “Thank you. It was, indeed, improper of you to invite her, but I accept your apology.”

His sister breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. However, I do want to discuss Isabelle further.” She drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin to look him squarely in the eye. “It was really too bad of Grant to treat her so abominably.”

“I agree,” Marshall conceded.

“And it was wrong of him to treat me so abominably, too. He tried to ruin my party.”

Marshall nodded firmly. “I agree with that point, as well. I’ll speak to him.”

“Isabelle rescued me from humiliation. Did you try the menu she prepared, Marshall? Every bit as good as any chef in London.”

“She is quite remarkable.” A smile touched his lips as he recalled her furiously whipping dishes together. “Would you believe I never knew about her culinary talents until recently?”

Naomi’s eyes narrowed appraisingly. “Yes,” she said at last, “I would believe that. I think there is a great deal about Isabelle you either don’t know or have misjudged.”

Marshall blinked. He was not used to being rebuked by his younger sister. His throat tightened a fraction. “That’s possible.”

“In any event,” Naomi said with a wave of her hand, “Isabelle did me a great service, and ultimately you, as well. It would not do for word to get ’round that the Duke of Monthwaite’s guests were left to go hungry. Lady Lucy wouldn’t like hearing that,” she said pointedly.

Marshall shifted in his seat. Not long ago, he felt confident about pursuing Lucy Jamison. Then Isabelle came along and mucked up all his neat logic, just as she’d always done. Lucy was still the sensible choice, but he had increasing difficulty picturing a lifetime with her. “Isabelle saved us all from unkind gossip,” Naomi continued. “I should like to do something to thank her, but I won’t proceed without your permission.”

“That’s a reasonable request,” he said, somewhat begrudgingly. Why did Isabelle have to reappear in their lives? “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh!” Naomi exclaimed. She blinked in surprise. “I haven’t gotten that far! I didn’t think you’d actually agree.”

Marshall smiled wryly. “Well, I do. We owe Isabelle a debt of gratitude, and it would be remiss to not acknowledge her efforts on our behalf in some way. I’ll see what I can think of, and you do the same, all right?”

Naomi nodded happily. She rose, kissed his cheek, and departed to go on a round of calls with their mother.

When she’d gone, Marshall exhaled loudly and dropped into the chair she’d vacated. He propped his elbows on the arms and rested his chin against his steepled fingers, his long legs stretched in front.

As much as Thomas Gerald concerned him, he’d given that matter only a fraction of the attention it deserved, because his mind kept wandering back to Isabelle.

I can’t do this again,
she’d said. What couldn’t she do?

Marshall’s thoughts were in a whirl, and his stomach in such knots he could barely eat these last few days. When Isabelle showed up at his greenhouse, looking like some sort of woodland nymph stepping out of a storybook, he’d been utterly enchanted and as aroused at the sight of her as he’d been the night before in the rose garden. He’d played on her innate sense of fairness and roped her into assisting him, just to keep her with him for a little while.

Time at her side hadn’t been good enough — he’d found himself completely obsessed with the idea of making love to her again. And when he saw her standing in front of him, her beautiful body as glorious in the little clearing as Eve in the Garden, and as sweet and tempting as a forbidden fruit, he’d been driven to his knees with lust.

Being with Isabelle again brought back more than the memories of their sweet nights of wedded bliss; he’d been reminded again how she’d held him utterly captivated, besotted, very nearly in love. And now those same emotions all came rushing back.

But those feelings brought a friend with them this time: guilt. For there was something else Marshall had discovered during the course of their love play — Isabelle’s broken rib.

She’d told the truth. The day his mother saw her in the Hamhurst cottage with Justin Miller, his wife had been injured, not in the throes of committing adultery. When Caro described seeing Isabelle in a shocking state of undress with Miller’s arms around her, he had been wrapping her torso with strips torn from her petticoat, not tupping her.

At the time, he’d innately
known
that the truth was other than it seemed, but he didn’t trust his own judgment. He was still reeling from his father’s sudden death and overwhelmed by his new responsibilities as duke. Caro’s letter denouncing Isabelle stunned him. When he returned to Hamhurst and learned Miller had been there with his wife, it was too easy to believe the worst. Isabelle was the scheming adventuress Caro had warned him about. The “broken rib” seemed like a paltry lie.

If only he had calmed down and listened when she tried to explain, mayhap they could have avoided this mess. If only he hadn’t taken Mr. Miller’s disappearance as proof of guilt. A thousand other if-only’s tumbled through his mind. He groaned and pressed a hand to his eyes.

He’d divorced his wife on false pretenses. He had ruined an innocent woman, just as he’d ruined the innocent Thomas Gerald. In both matters, his own lack of awareness had led to disastrous results, ones he wished with every fiber of his being he could undo. The pain cut deep.

He put his mind to what could be done to rectify the matter. The fact was that she drove him to distraction. Isabelle spelled nothing but trouble for Marshall. He was as physically attracted to her as he’d ever been — perhaps even more so. As long as she and he were both unwed, he didn’t trust himself to keep away. She was a loose end in his mind, flailing about to catch him off guard time and again.

The answer had to lie in tying up that loose end. Like all other unwed females of marrying age, Isabelle must have come to London to find a husband. Successfully doing so would be no easy task for a divorced woman. Socially, she was so beyond the pale, she might as well be branded with an “A” as the Puritans were wont to do in the old days.

If he could help her, though … He frowned in intent concentration; his fingers tapped a rapid beat against the desk.

Helping Isabelle marry again would serve multiple purposes. First and foremost, seeing her well settled would alleviate his new and profound sense of guilt. Ending their marriage had robbed Isabelle of all the comfort and security to which she had been entitled as his wife. Restoring her to a similar situation would go a long way toward reparation.

Second —
but just as important
, he thought ruefully — an attached Isabelle would be unavailable. Having previously been the betrayed party (or so he’d thought), Marshall reviled the very notion of cuckolding a husband. Seeing Isabelle with another man’s ring on her finger would effectively quench his sexual desire for her. If not, his own marriage to Lady Lucy should put the nail in that coffin. His potent contempt for infidelity ensured that he would never be unfaithful to his spouse, even if he had no illusions of receiving the same loyalty in return.