Time After Time (283 page)

“Ordinarily,” she began again, “you know I’d be happy to help you. But Naomi and I had just been discussing whether we’d like to — ”

“Actually … ” Alexander lowered the paper and looked over the top to his sibling. Marshall saw the unspoken death threats Isabelle sent her brother with her eyes. Alex didn’t pay them any heed. “I hoped I could convince Lady Naomi to join me for a ride.” Alex inclined his head to Naomi. “Accompanied by your aunt, of course,” he added.

Marshall thought he detected the barest hint of a nod from Isabelle’s brother. He returned the gesture.
Reinforcements
, he thought wryly. He never would have thought he’d have to enlist the entire household just to get a female alone for an hour.

Naomi brightened at the suggestion. “That sounds lovely.”

“Excellent,” Alex said. “I’ll meet you at the stable in a quarter hour?”

“Best make it half an hour,” Naomi replied. “I’ll have to pry Auntie out of whichever book she’s buried herself in.”

“Very well.” Alex folded the paper and tossed it to the table with a flick of his wrist. He stood, stretching himself to his full height.

Marshall saw Naomi glance at Fairfax and then quickly look away again. A light blush touched her cheeks. Alarms went off in Marshall’s head.

“I’ll go find Aunt Janine myself.” He stood and straightened his gray waistcoat. “I must change, anyway.”

A short time later, Marshall had bustled Aunt Janine out the door, instructing her in the strongest terms to properly chaperone Naomi, and not allow herself to become distracted by a bee hive, or anything of that sort. Then he made her empty her pockets and confiscated a little notebook in which she was working on her own translations of hieroglyphics.

It wasn’t that Marshall didn’t trust Alexander Fairfax. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Naomi. But nature had a way of conspiring to overwhelm the good senses of otherwise rational people.

He should know.

Isabelle awaited him in the entrance hall. She’d donned a pelisse and a straw bonnet, from the bottom of which peeked a few wispy curls.

“Shall we?” He extended his arm, as politely as for a stroll in the park, though he’d changed into the old clothes he used for greenhouse work.

Isabelle took his arm. They didn’t speak until they were almost to the glass and iron structure.

They rounded the bend and Marshall’s heart lightened at the sight of it. Though he had greenhouses or conservatories at each of his properties, this particular greenhouse was his pride and joy, and the heart of his botanical work. He came here as often as he could to conduct his experiments.

It was nice to be able to share his work with Isabelle. He glanced down at the petite woman on his arm.

“It was treasonous, the way they gave me up.” Her eyes flashed defiantly.

“You’re beautiful when you’re irate,” he replied.

She scoffed.

He leaned down and rumbled into her ear, “Almost as beautiful as when you’re aroused.” She didn’t answer, but red crept up her face all the way to her hairline. Marshall whistled a jaunty tune.

He held the door and inhaled deeply when he stepped in behind her, relishing the warm, nourishing atmosphere. A quick glance around the space told him Bensbury’s head gardener had taken good care of Marshall’s various projects in his absence.

“Look at these!” Isabelle walked to a long table where several potted violets were in full bloom. “They’re beautiful,” she said, glancing at Marshall.

“That’s a variety I developed myself.”

Isabelle looked quizzically at him. “How do you do that?”

“It’s a matter of finding different species willing to cross-pollinate.” His eye caught another row of plants several tables over. “Here, come have a look at these.”

The pots were larger than the violet containers. Each held a tender vine growing up a wooden stake embedded in the soil.

She wrinkled her nose. “Peas?”

“That’s right,” Marshall said. “But a new kind.”

Isabelle cocked her head to the side. “Why do we need new peas?”

Marshall’s mind kicked into gear, churning with excitement for his studies. “Our English peas grow lovely, large pods and are quite delicious. However, the plant is prone to a condition called wilt, which destroys entire crops.” He reached over the pea plants and retrieved another specimen from the back of the table. This plant was shorter than the others and sickly in appearance. “You see how the leaves are curled in?” He pointed out the damaged foliage. “And this — “ He twisted one of the slender tendrils. It snapped off in his hand. “Whereas, the healthy plants … Here, you try.”

He gestured toward one of the pots. Isabelle twisted a shoot. “It doesn’t break,” she said. “It’s pliable.”

He nodded. “As it should be. The problem,” Marshall explained, “is that it’s not enough to get rid of plants with the wilt. The entire field — the earth itself — becomes diseased, and any pea plant grown in that same soil will become sick.”

For a moment, Isabelle looked thoughtfully at the peas. “What about your plant food? Will that help?”

Marshall smiled and shook his head ruefully. “Don’t I wish? No, there doesn’t seem to be a nutritive cure. However,” he said, guiding her down the table to another plant, “this is a French pea plant. It is completely resistant to wilt.”

“You mean it doesn’t get sick?” Isabelle rubbed a leaf between her thumb and forefinger.

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t farmers grow these, instead?”

Marshall tapped the tip of her nose. “Clever girl. That would seem ideal, but see the fruit?” He reached into the plant and picked a pod, then held it against one of the English peas.

“It’s much smaller,” Isabelle observed.

“A farmer would have to grow many more plants to produce the same yield,” Marshall said. “So, what I’m doing,” he placed a hand on her back and gestured to yet another set of pots, “is breeding together the English peas with the French.”

“Why?”

“I’m hoping the offspring will have the best traits of both varieties — the size of the English peas and the wilt resistance of the French.” He crossed his left arm across his body, rested his right elbow on it, and tapped a fingernail against his teeth.

Isabelle wore a look of frank admiration. “I truly have no words.” Her eyes ran over his plants, the results of his studies and collaboration with colleagues. “This is marvelous.” She turned to him. “Just think of all the farmers you’ll help!” She took his hand and squeezed. “It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing and a very worthy endeavor.”

Marshall drew her forward and ran a finger down the side of her face. “Thank you.” He scanned the interior of the greenhouse. “This is only a small portion of the botanical work I hope to do, but it is satisfying.”

Isabelle’s arms wound around his waist. She rested her cheek against his chest.

Marshall’s heart constricted at her sweet gesture. His arms wrapped around her in return. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then he moved his hands to her shoulders and pushed her back a little.

“Why have you been trying to avoid me?” he asked softly. Isabelle set her mouth, and her eyes slid past him. “No.” He squeezed her shoulders more firmly. “Look at me.” She did. “In case the fact escaped your notice, I intend to marry you.”

Isabelle inhaled sharply. Then she shrugged free of his hands and turned, strolling down the row of pea plants. She rounded the table and started up the other side. Opposite him, she stopped and touched a diseased plant. “Not a very eloquent proposal,” she said lightly. He detected something else in her voice.

“Why are you afraid?” He blurted the question before the thought even finished coagulating in his mind.

Isabelle’s eyes flew to his face. She took a step back and wrapped her arms around herself.

“It isn’t society, is it? Not the gossip or the unkind remarks.” As he spoke, something clarified. “It’s me. You’re afraid of me.” His eyelids slid closed as the bitter truth fell over him like a pall. “Why?” When he opened his eyes again, Isabelle was covering her mouth with her hand. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “Tell me,” he pressed.

“All right!” Her arms jerked downward and her hands balled into fists at her sides. She quivered like a leaf in the breeze.

He wanted to put his arms around her again and soothe her worries, but he couldn’t with a table full of peas between them. A few strides and he was around the table. She stepped backwards.

“Don’t,” She stopped and raised her hands in front of her, palms out, holding him at bay with her defiant stance. “I’m afraid,” she said, “because I … ” she clamped her mouth closed. The cords in her neck stood out as she choked on words unuttered.

She seemed on the verge of panic. Marshall was baffled by her behavior. “Because … ” he said, gesturing with a hand.

“Because I loved you!” she cried. She whirled away.

Her words struck him as odd. “Because you love —
loved —
me?” He quirked a brow and started toward her again. “You don’t anymore?”

“Yes,” she said. “I mean, no, I don’t. That is … Damn!” She bit down on a fist.

He closed the distance between them and gently pried her hand away from her mouth. Isabelle’s eyes shone with incipient tears.

“I loved you when we were married,” she said in a quiet, dignified tone. “The divorce was humiliating, Marshall. You made a pariah of me. But more than that — worse than that — you broke my heart.”

A fresh pang of remorse shot through his gut.

She raised her chin and smiled weakly. “I stayed in town for two years afterward, hoping you’d come back even though I was shunned by your peers. I loved you even then, after being hurt so badly. God knows, I still can’t stay away from you. But I’m afraid, Marshall, afraid you’ll do it again.”

His heart began a funny, lopsided beat. “Divorce you? My dear, I should be laughed out of the House of Lords if I so much as breathed the idea.”

She shook her head and whispered, “Your apology was truly magnanimous, but I’m afraid you’ll break my heart again. You didn’t love me when we were married. You don’t love me now. And there are many ways for a husband to leave his wife.”

Of course I love you.

The words formed in his mouth, and only a tightening of his lips kept him from uttering them. The jolt he felt was similar to when he suddenly understood a botanical concept. It burned in his mind, bright and true.

Well, damnation. He was in love.

Marshall blinked and looked down at her through new eyes. She was his Isabelle, and he loved her. He
loved
her! He snatched her to him in a fierce hug.

She had to know. He needed to tell her. How best to do so? His mind started to churn.

He dropped kisses on her hair. Cupping her cheeks, he turned her face up. He rained more kisses across her forehead and the lids that covered those intoxicating emerald eyes. “Darling,” he murmured. “My sweet girl, don’t be afraid. Look at me, Isa.”

Her eyelids fluttered open. A speck of hope seemed to shine in those green depths.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he said, his voice tender as a caress. “But you never have to worry about my leaving you ever again. I couldn’t, sweetheart. You see — ”

“Your Grace,” called a voice.

Marshall startled. Isabelle jerked out of his arms as they turned to the intruder.

It was one of his footmen, his face ashen.

A growing unease stole over Marshall. “What is it?” he asked.

“It’s Lady Naomi,” the footman said. “She’s been kidnapped.”

Chapter Eighteen

Isabelle had never seen a house erupt into pandemonium such as what she witnessed in the hour following the discovery of Naomi’s abduction.

Isabelle observed how Marshall, however, took the time to speak to and calm each man or woman in his employ. In turn, the servants responded favorably to their master. The worry lines eased on the housekeeper’s face as Marshall spoke to her in even, reassuring tones.

If Isabelle had not seen firsthand how distraught and shaken Marshall was by Naomi’s disappearance, she never would have believed it. He had pulled himself together and was now the unflappable leader his household needed him to be. Isabelle took her lead from him and tried to put on a brave face to mask her own dismay.

In Marshall’s study, Aunt Janine sat in a chair holding a saucer and teacup, which rattled in her trembling hands. A groom stood near the desk, gripping his cap in tight fists. Alexander sat slumped over on a sofa, clutching a bloodied wad of cloth to the back of his head.

Isabelle startled at the sight of her wounded brother. “Alex!”

He lifted his head and gave her a wan smile, his face devoid of color. “Hello, little sister,” he replied weakly.

She took the rag from his grasp to examine him. Behind his right ear, his light hair was stained red. She sucked air through her teeth at the sight of it but gingerly parted the matted hair. A gash in his scalp bled freely.

She glanced at Marshall. “He needs a doctor.”

“Aunt Janine, please see about that,” he told the elderly lady. “Also, write to Grant and Mama; tell them to come at once. Mr. Turner, my investigator, as well.”

Aunt Janine looked like she’d aged twenty years since Isabelle had seen her earlier that morning. Her distant eyes blinked. Then she nodded and rose to carry out Marshall’s requests.

“Fairfax,” Marshall clipped, “what happened?”

Alex sat upright; he grimaced fiercely. “It’s hard to say for sure.”

Isabelle daubed at the blood seeping through his hair. Alex groaned. “Sorry,” Isabelle muttered.

“Please,” Marshall said, “whatever you can tell me.”

“Get him a drink,” Isabelle instructed a footman.

“We had our ride,” Alex began. “Lady Naomi showed me a hedge she likes to jump, and a stream she thinks is picturesque.” He smiled ruefully at Marshall as if to say,
Women. You know how it is.
“Lady Janine was stung by a bee — ”

“Good God!” Marshall threw his hands up. “The one thing I specifically told her to do was to stay away from bee hives.” He made a disgusted sound.

“In her defense,” Alexander said, “she was admiring a flower, and when she touched the bloom, a bee flew out and stung her hand.”