Once a Duchess (22 page)

“Considering what Isabelle just said,” Alex finally replied, “I don’t think that would be wise.” He pulled a hand from his pocket and rubbed the flat of his palm against his jaw.

Marshall grimaced at the knowledge that Isabelle’s brother found him unworthy of her. “I understand.” But he didn’t. Being found lacking by others was a new experience. He despised it. Yes, he’d done wrong, but he would fix everything.

Fairfax turned to leave again.

“I meant what I said — I’m going to apologize,” Marshall stated. The other man slowly pivoted to face him. “If that’s not enough, if Isabelle still won’t see me, I want to make amends. Her settlement, from our marriage contract,” he touched his fingertips to his chest “I want her to have it.”

Fairfax’s jaw slackened. “The money, you mean?”

Marshall nodded.

“A quarter million pounds, if memory serves?”

Marshall nodded again.

Alex’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why not write a draft for it now?”

“Ah.” Marshall smiled briefly. “I’d like to have the chance to give it to her properly.”

Fairfax’s brow shot up. “You mean to marry her, then?”

The thought of marriage still made him skittish; but marry he must, and it might as well be to the only woman he’d ever thought of as his wife. “We were off to a good start. And it seems like the right thing to do, after all the trouble I’ve caused.”

“I don’t know if she’ll have you,” Alex answered. “And I won’t make her.”

“Of course not.” Marshall shook his head. “But I’d like to try.”

Alex rocked back on his heels. “All right, then. All the money in the world won’t make us respectable if people still believe she’s an adulteress. Clear her name, Monthwaite, and then we’ll talk about rides in the park.”

Marshall extended his hand, hope sparking within him. “Fair enough.”

Isabelle grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a half-dead rat the cat dragged in. Dark circles hung under her eyes like carpetbags, and her lids were puffy. Despite having slept hours later than normal, she felt like she hadn’t slept in a week.

She picked up her brush from the vanity and made a half-hearted attempt at working through her bedraggled tresses. Encountering a tangle, she struggled against it until tiny beads of sweat popped out on her forehead; she slammed the brush down with a curse. Would it really bankrupt Alex to hire her a maid? Lily had made her own available to Isabelle, but she hated to take advantage of her friend’s generosity.

Giving up her hair and complexion for a lost cause, she rather unenthusiastically set about selecting her attire. Not caring a whit whom she did or did not impress, she chose the most unfashionable, utilitarian garment in the closet, a bilious morning dress. It didn’t become her at all. If anything, she looked faintly jaundiced.

Good
, she thought petulantly. It suited her mood to look as bad as she felt.

Having completed what would have to pass for her morning
toilette
, Isabelle went searching for her brother. They needed to have a very serious talk.

She found Lily first, curled up with a book in a chair in her father’s study.

“Have you seen Alex?” she asked without preamble.

Her friend looked up from her book. “I saw him at breakfast, but he’s gone out now. He mentioned a farm equipment exposition.”

Isabelle sighed. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

“No.” Lily straightened in her chair and closed her book. “What’s the matter, Isa? You look dreadful, if you don’t mind my saying. Are you ill?”

Isabelle shook her head. “No. I just have a headache.” She squeezed her lids closed. A dull throbbing beat steadily behind her eyes. Maybe it had been a bad idea to drag herself out of bed at all.

“Sit down.” Lily gestured to another chair, a worried frown on her face. “Have you eaten? I’ll call for tea.”

“Please don’t.” Isabelle waved away Lily’s concern. She licked her dry lips. “Well, maybe just some tea. I don’t think I could eat, though.”

Lily rang for the maid and requested tea. She glanced sideways at Isabelle. “With heavy refreshments,” she added.

When the servant had gone, Lily returned to her seat. “Whatever’s the matter?” She scrutinized Isabelle’s appearance with a questioning look. “Something worse than a headache is bothering you. Did Viscount Woolsley propose last night?” Her brown eyes lit up.

Isabelle laughed humorlessly. She dropped the strand of hair she’d been twirling around a finger. “He did, but not like you’d think.”

She recounted the previous evening’s conversation with Lord Woolsley.

With every passing sentence, Lily’s expression darkened. When Isabelle repeated what he’d said about there not being much difference between a divorcée and a whore, Lily gasped in shocked outrage. “He never did! Why, that blackguard,” she seethed. “How dare he insult you so? Did Alex call him out?”

Isabelle shook her head. Just then, tea arrived. The pastries and slices of cold ham on the platter looked a little tempting, after all. Isabelle helped herself to some.

“That’s not the worst of it.”

Lily set her teacup firmly in the saucer. “Tell me that vile man didn’t open his mouth again.”

Isabelle worked a piece of scone loose. “Oh, no.” She shook her head, her heart pounding as she recalled every vivid detail of the previous night. “Marshall made sure of that.” At Lily’s questioning look she explained, “He thumped Lord Woolsley insensible.”

Rather than the shock she expected to see on her friend’s face, Lily grinned. “Did he really? How marvelously romantic.”

“It wasn’t romantic,” Isabelle protested. “It was violent and foolish and … ” She made an exasperated sound.

“Romantic?” Lily offered. She sipped her tea, smiling into her cup. “So, after Monthwaite jumped to defend your honor, what happened?”

Isabelle scoffed. “You won’t believe me if tell you. This is where things really took a turn for the fantastic.”

Lily quirked a skeptical brow. Isabelle proceeded to relate the rest of the story: the crowd he’d attracted and subsequently booted from the house; the arguing in the library; Marshall’s empty apologies and promises.

“Ho, now,” Lily interjected. “What makes you so sure he doesn’t mean what he says?”

“Because he never means what he says when it comes to me,” Isabelle snapped. “Not when it matters, anyway. He said his wedding vows, but he didn’t mean those, did he?”

Lily shrugged. “But if he realizes the dreadful blunder he made, surely you can allow that possibility?”

Isabelle picked at a bit of lint on the chair’s arm. “Why are you taking his part?”

“I’m not,” Lily said. “Not necessarily. My primary complaint against Monthwaite was how he treated you so shabbily and believed horrid things about you.” She set her plate on the tea tray. “If he’s seen the error of his ways, I might be persuaded to think better of him. Lord knows,” she said with a sideways smile at Isabelle, “he’s handsome enough to make up for most other shortcomings.”

“He
is
handsome.” Isabelle’s mind involuntarily took her back to that magical afternoon at the greenhouse.

“You’re blushing, dear,” Lily observed. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“Certainly not!”

Lily made a tsking sound. “I may be unwed, but I’m not pea-brained. I’m sure it can’t have been easy for you all these years to go from being married,” she said meaningfully, “to,” she worked her fingers through the air, looking for the word, “not.” She ducked her head, her face reddening.

Isabelle giggled. “I should never accuse you of being pea-brained, but there are some conversations you aren’t quite prepared for.”

Lily cleared her throat. “In any event, all I mean is, I understand the added … strain this must be for you. Oh, bother.” She covered her face with her hand and collapsed to the sofa in a fit of laughter.

Her friend’s mirth was contagious, and Isabelle felt the corners of her lips tugging upward. One breathy laugh burst from her chest, and then another. A louder, more mirthful sound followed. She had to laugh at the situation, otherwise she’d go deranged from the strain. Soon, she was laughing so hard she could scarcely breathe.

When they calmed, wiping tears from their cheeks, Lily’s expression sobered. “What is it you want?”

The simple question struck something deep inside Isabelle. She smoothed her palms down her unattractive yellow skirt. “I want to go home. London isn’t for me.” Isabelle stood and restlessly paced the room. “You’ve seen how it is — the glances, the whispers, women holding their skirts out of the way so they don’t brush against mine. That’s what I want to talk to Alex about. I know he’ll be angry, but I just can’t bear it anymore.”

• • •

Alexander didn’t return until the sky had already darkened. By the time he arrived, Isabelle had worked herself into a nervous wreck imagining how furious he’d be with her for spoiling both their futures.

He strolled into the sitting room where she’d been pacing the floor the past hour, with an evening paper tucked under his arm.

Now that he was here, Isabelle was nearly overcome with trepidation.
He’ll disown me for good this time.

Alex’s green eyes took in his sister’s disheveled appearance at a glance. “I was told you wished to see me. You look ready to crumble to pieces, Isa. What is it?”

“Oh, Alex!” She clamped her left arm across her middle and pressed her right hand to her cheek. “I’m so sorry, dear, but I need to go home. Coming to London was a dreadful mistake.”

He raised a hand. “A moment.”

“Please let me finish.” Tears burned her eyes. If she stopped now, she’d never have the courage to start again.

Alex sat in a chair, seemingly unperturbed — amused, even — at Isabelle’s distress. He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle, his folded newspaper laying across his thighs. “Go on.”

Isabelle took several steps to the window. She saw nothing in the inky night but the lights from a few street lamps. All manner of city clamor was audible through the glass, however: horse hooves clattering against the cobbled streets, a door slamming somewhere, and very nearby raucous, inebriated singing. She covered her ears. Too much noise. Too much playing the merry divorcée. Too many balls and routs among people who would never accept her, no matter how she tried to ingratiate herself. Too many nights spent longing for the one man she would never have.

She leaned her forehead against the cool glass. “Oh, Marshall,” she whispered. Why did he have to affect her so? How much easier her life would be if she could just put him out of mind. But he kept popping up in her life, kind to her one minute and accusing the next. Holding her close, and then pushing her away. Foisting her off onto a man who wanted to make her his mistress, and then jumping to her defense. It was too much. Her heart felt sick from the turmoil. She had to get away from him. And since he was in London, she needed to be anywhere else.

“I know you spent a fortune on my dresses. I’ll find a way to pay you back, Alex, I swear. But I want to go home. There isn’t anyone for me here. You’ve seen for yourself. If you want me to marry, I’ll marry someone in the village at home. Anyone. You can choose. Only,” she raised a hand, “not an old man. Someone who can,” she paused, a delicate flush climbing her cheeks. “I’d like to have children. Other than that, I don’t care. And then I won’t be divorced anymore, and you can marry a nice woman, and I’ll repay you, Alex.”

“Hush about the money, Isa.” Alex sighed dispassionately. “You won’t make me any more respectable if you just take yourself off to toil in another kitchen somewhere. Besides,” he said, inclining his head, “no gentleman would allow his wife to work like that.”

His cool logic deflated her somewhat. “A villager wouldn’t mind,” she grumbled.

Alex stood, setting the newspaper on the table next to his chair. “Are you quite over your pout? You’re not going home to marry a blacksmith or whatever cork-brained fancy it is you’ve taken.”

His unexpected calm about this whole thing only made her uneasy. She touched his arm, the dark wool of his jacket soft against her trembling fingers. “I know this Season has cost money you can ill-afford. It’s not your fault no one will have me.”

He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Perhaps that will change. Monthwaite said he’d apologize.”

Isabelle stared sadly at her brother. Poor, deluded Alex. He’d stood so strongly against Marshall last night. She didn’t know what the two men had spoken of after Alex sent her ahead to the carriage. What empty, pretty words had her former husband filled his head with?

“That’s highly improbable,” she said gently. Isabelle returned to the window. A lone figure passed through a pool of golden lamplight. “I believe Marshall realizes his error in judgment,” she allowed. “I even believe he is truly sorry for the divorce. However,” she placed her hands on the window sill, “I do
not
believe he will do anything more. A public apology would be humiliating for his family. His mother won’t have it, and he never crosses her. At most, he might tell a few of his friends that he might have been mistaken, when they’re in their cups and not likely to remember. But that’ll be the end of it.”

Behind her, Alex’s steps across the carpet were heavy and measured. There was a rustle of paper. “Then you might want to see this.”

Isabelle turned. Alex held the evening paper so that the front page faced her. She gasped. Boldly inked in letters two inches high was the headline: DUKE DIVORCED IN ERROR.

She snatched the paper from her brother’s hands. Beneath the headline were the words:
Dk. Monthwaite says former wife innocent of all charges.

Isabelle sank to her knees in the middle of the floor to read the story.

“In an unprecedented interview,” she read aloud, “His Grace the Duke of Monthwaite spoke with this humble journalist concerning the delicate matter of his divorce, the scandal of which several years past gripped the attention of the nation.

“According to the Duke of Monthwaite, facts have recently surfaced which absolve his former wife, the Duchess of Monthwaite,
née
Fairfax, of all wrongdoing.