Two hours later, the tarts stood cooling on the counter. The scullery maid had returned, and Isabelle recruited a lad from the stables to help in the kitchen. The servants busied themselves cleaning up from Isabelle’s baking, while she planned how to prepare the fifteen dishes she would need to do Naomi’s supper justice. She would make a large batch of Béchamel sauce, she decided, and divide it in thirds, adapting it into a crème, a mornay, and a soubise. Each of these could feature with a vegetable course, cutting down the time she’d have to put into each one. She silently thanked her mother for bringing French cookbooks with her to England and the cook at Fairfax Hall for teaching Isabelle to use them.
• • •
Her friends appeared at about four o’clock and found Isabelle with her face over a steaming saucepan.
Naomi gasped, clasping her hands to her chest. “Look at these marvelous tarts!” Her eyes swept over the rows of strawberry, blueberry, and plum-filled desserts. “Did you really make them?”
“I did,” Isabelle affirmed. Both Lily and Naomi had changed into stylish afternoon dresses. Their hair was neatly coiffed, and they smelled of lavender and powder.
For her own part, Isabelle still wore her white muslin, long since ruined with berry juice stains. Her hair was tied in a knot, but sweat-and steam-dampened strands had begun working their way loose. Isabelle’s face flushed from leaning into the oven and over the stove, and she hadn’t begun the soups or roasts yet. No, she would be much worse for wear before it was all over.
“I cannot believe this is true.” Naomi pressed her hands to her cheeks. “You are an absolute wonder,” she declared. “Grant is mad as fire at me for continuing with the party, but I don’t care.” Her eyes sparkled with devilment. “We’re going to show him, aren’t we?”
Isabelle gave her a crooked smile as she stirred her sweating onions. “Yes, we are.”
Naomi’s eyes crinkled with her answering smile. “When will you be up to join us?”
Isabelle looked at Naomi askance. Was the girl funning her? She had fifteen courses to prepare for thirty guests with only her own hands and those of two inexperienced servants at her disposal. “I won’t be up. I’ll be working all the way through supper, and by the time it’s over, I shall be revolting to look at. I shan’t even begin to comment upon how I will likely smell.”
“But you must!” Naomi protested. “If you don’t come, then it’s all been for nothing.”
Isabelle shook her head. “No, it hasn’t been for nothing.” It was true. Even though Isabelle would miss the supper herself, she could do this thing to repay Naomi’s kindness. Besides, it felt good to be busy again. Her hands had been too idle since coming down for the Season.
“Do you need help?” Lily asked, already setting aside her shawl.
“Stay with Naomi. I’ll be fine.” Isabelle dipped a wooden spoon into one of her pots and ran a finger across the back of it. The creamy, white liquid stayed separated.
Lily shot her a questioning glance. “Are you sure? I’m only acquainted with a few of the guests in passing, so it would be no great thing for me to pitch in.”
“I’ll be fine,” Isabelle insisted. She bundled her two friends out of the kitchen, scolding them for being in her way when she had so much to do.
With everything running smoothly for the time being, Isabelle selected two large baskets from a pile of them in the corner and went out to collect vegetables and herbs from the kitchen garden. One thing she could say for working in a botanist’s kitchen, she thought after finding the expansive piece of land, there was no danger of running short of edible vegetation.
• • •
Marshall ran Grant to ground in the billiards room where his brother had ensconced himself with his foul mood and a bottle of whiskey. At this hour, Naomi’s gentlemen guests would be mingling with the ladies in the garden. Grant was woefully neglecting his duties as host.
“What’s this about?” Marshall held up Grant’s hastily scrawled note.
Grant ignored Marshall for a long moment as he lined up a shot and sent a ball careening to a corner pocket.
“Grant,” Marshall said testily, “You’ve pulled me away from business in Parliament, and I had to cancel this afternoon’s ride with Lady Lucy. Tell me what this nonsense is about!”
“It’s about,” Grant said, looking up with bleary eyes, “our dear sister making a disgrace of herself by bringing that doxy here. To yer house, Marsh.” He jabbed Marshall’s chest with the tip of his stick.
Marshall swatted the stick away. Grant’s note had begged him to come to Bensbury without delay to save them all from disaster. He’d expected to find the house on fire, or to discover Naomi had eloped with an enlisted man. Instead, his drunken sibling was playing billiards and rambling about doxies and disgraces.
“And by ‘that doxy,’ you mean who?” He gestured with the hand holding the letter, inviting Grant to fill in the rest.
“Isabelle,” Grant sighed and slouched over, clinging to his queue like an old man to his walking stick. “She’s here.”
Marshall’s senses heightened to full alert. His eyes darted to the sides, as though his former wife might pop out from behind a chair. How the devil had Isabelle come to be at Naomi’s party?
Grant’s eyes took on a glassy, faraway look. “Taken over th’whole house, Marsh,” he slurred. “I tol’ N’omi to make her go, but she din’ do it.” He shook his head sadly and rested his cheek on his hand.
Marshall’s lips drew into a thin line. “I’ll see about it.” He shoved Grant’s letter into his coat pocket.
“It was the wors’ thing I ever heard, you know. Wha’ she did.” Sighing, Grant made a desolate swipe at the balls on the table and missed them entirely.
There was something both poignant and humorous about Grant’s woeful state. “Me, too,” Marshall said, leaving his brother to his whiskey.
He made his way to the garden, where the late afternoon sun brought richness to the green foliage and bright flowers. The young ladies and gentlemen wore light attire suitable for the occasion. Marshall, dressed in a dark suit for the meetings he’d left behind in London, stood out like an inkblot on white linen.
He spotted his sister a distance away, surrounded by a group of friends. Four young girls with their heads together, probably giggling over some poor devil’s legs or some such nonsense.
A complete innocent, surrounded by other innocents. Isabelle had no place among this bevy of naïve virgins. Though not much older than the other ladies present, Isabelle’s divorced status made her a wildly inappropriate companion for his sister and her friends.
He wondered where she was if not with Naomi. Perhaps she was providing one of Naomi’s male guests with an afternoon diversion. Best not to look too closely behind the hedges, he thought grimly.
Suddenly, a female hand on his arm brought him to a halt, pulling him from his morose reverie.
“Monthwaite, a word.” Lily Bachman stood before him, wearing a fetching marigold gown and bonnet.
“Miss Bachman,” he said, inclining his head. “A pleasure to see you again. Just now, however, I must speak with Lady Naomi.”
“About Isabelle?” she asked archly.
He was taken aback by her blunt manner. It was then he noticed the cross expression she wore.
“I’m not surprised to see you here,” she continued. “I wondered how long it would be before that ogre you call a brother summoned reinforcements.”
She had spirit, he had to hand it to her, as well as refreshing honesty in her approach. He would return the favor, he decided, with equal frankness.
“Miss Bachman, you exhibit admirable loyalty to your friend. Indeed, I wish Isabelle only happiness.”
She smirked disbelievingly.
“But you must understand,” he continued, “it is
not acceptable for her to be here. You’re welcome to stay and enjoy the party, of course, but arrangements will have to be made for your companion.” As he spoke, her expression darkened. Best to be on his way. “I shall speak to my sister, and if you can point me in Isabelle’s direction … ”
Lily straightened. Her hands clenched into balls at her side. She was not a fashionably petite lady, and Marshall weighed the odds of her decking him. “Her direction?” Lily sneered. “Isabelle is in the direction of your bloody kitchen,” she said through a clenched jaw, “cooking for this sodding lot, thanks to your misbegotten sibling.”
Marshall drew back, thunderstruck. “She’s cooking?” He stared at the seething woman in disbelief. “In my kitchen?”
Lily exhaled loudly through her nostrils. “I fail to comprehend why Isabelle continues to give this family the time of day. You’ve brought her nothing but misery. If she’d had any kind of normal family growing up, she would see in an instant how insane,” Lily’s eyes went wide with the word, “this one is.”
She turned on her heel and left Marshall standing there to stare blankly into a flowerbed, considering her words.
“Those are lovely, Your Grace,” said a young lady who’d happened by. “What are they?”
Marshall stared at her stupidly for a moment before he realized she was asking about the flowers.
“Digitalis … foxgloves,” he said, the Latin escaping him for the first time in recent memory. “Excuse me.” As he turned to go, he noticed Naomi glancing worriedly in his direction. No doubt, she realized she’d been found out and fretted about what he’d say or do to her. Somehow, though, Marshall thought as he traipsed back into the house, he was just as worried about what recriminating darts she might throw at him.
Isabelle … in his kitchen! He recalled her in that inn, wearing common servant’s garb, toiling with her own hands to make supper for him, Hornsby, and dozens of villagers. He couldn’t stand the thought of her laboring like that in his own house. What on earth had Grant done to bring this about? Marshall may well deserve Miss Bachman’s derision when he found out.
Bensbury’s basement level had not been constructed for large men. Twice he clipped his broad shoulder on the rounded corners in his haste to discover the full measure of his family’s offense against his former wife.
At last, he reached the kitchen. He pushed the door open, prepared to shout to find her in the teeming morass of servants. He came to a halt just inside the door. The room was almost silent. Where there should have been a veritable army working on preparations for tonight’s festivities, only Isabelle and one other liveried servant remained. The servant girl formed balls of dough on the counter next to the oven. Standing beside her, Isabelle chopped carrots.
Confusion tangled his thoughts. Where in the bloody hell were his servants?
He must have voiced his question out loud, for Isabelle set down her knife and looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “They’ve gone.” She wiped her hands down the front of her thighs. He followed the motion with his gaze, then flicked his eyes to her face.
His bewilderment only deepened. “Gone where?”
A stable boy popped up from a chair in the corner where he was scaling a bowl of fish. “Mutiny, Your Grace!” he exclaimed dramatically. He toppled a bucket of fish scales in his enthusiasm. Flat, iridescent discs spilled out in a rainbow cascade.
“It’s my fault,” Isabelle said quietly. “Lord Grant found out I was here, and he sent the servants away, rather than permit them to cook for me.” Her chin trembled, and Marshall felt a pang of tenderness at her obvious hurt. She sniffed and raised her head, her eyes flashing defiantly. “I won’t let him punish Naomi for being kind to me,” she said. “I will fix this, Marshall. She’ll have a fine supper for her guests if I have to … cook it myself.” She laughed humorlessly and returned to her carrots.
Marshall watched her work. Her slender wrist rose and fell as the knife rhythmically made short work of the root. She reached for another. He took in the whole of her appearance. Her usually silky hair was damp. Lank strands hung beside her face and onto her back. Her white muslin was a mess — red and blue splotches stained the bodice, and something crusty stiffened the fabric on her side below her left breast. The thin material clung to her in a way her woolen dress at the George hadn’t, rendering the contours of her back clearly visible. She shivered slightly. He involuntarily pictured a bead of sweat running down her spine to the small of her back.
He had seen ladies in states of artfully composed dishabille. This was the effect all those women attempted to achieve, but at which they failed so miserably in comparison to Isabelle. The way her rumpled hair framed her flushed, glistening face, and the manner in which her dress clung to her curves like a second skin conspired to give her a delectably tousled appearance. He became acutely aware of his surging desire. This would not do.
He shook his head to free himself of her beguiling spell. He removed his coat and tossed it across a vacant stool. “All right, what can I do to help?”
Isabelle’s knife paused above the carrot. Her green eyes, full of disbelief, found his. At the connection of their gazes, he again had to stomp down his insidious, wayward thoughts.
“Help?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes, of course.” He removed his gold cuff links and neatly rolled the sleeves to his forearms. When he looked up, Isabelle was still staring at him as though he’d escaped from Bedlam. “I want to help,” he insisted. “You can’t prepare supper for thirty by yourself.”
“Actually, I can.” She picked up her knife and continued chopping. “If you’d be so good as to recall, I spent a period of time preparing supper for a whole inn full of patrons.”
Marshall noted the curve of her mouth as she spoke. Amazingly, her time working at the inn seemed to be a pleasant memory. He crossed his arms. “I seem to recall,” he said lightly, “waiting the better part of two hours for my supper because the kitchen was backed up with orders.” He inclined his head pointedly and was rewarded with a delightful blush.
“Very well.” The corners of her mouth twitched. She pointed with her knife to a pile of potatoes beside the cutting board. “You can peel these.” Her eyebrow rose over a green eye in what he took for a challenge.
He sniffed. “Fine. I’ll peel the potatoes.”
He selected an able-looking implement from the cutlery rack, pulled a stool to the counter, took a tuber in hand, and set to work. Not a minute later, the blade raked across his knuckle. “Damn,” he muttered and pressed his finger against his trousers. Beside him, Isabelle’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. He glared at her blackly. He’d faced down a line of French infantry with only a pistol and a handful of Spanish peasants — he would not be bested by Isabelle and her vegetables. Marshall resolutely attacked the potato. Halfway through, he drew blood again. “For God’s sake!” He slammed the knife to the counter.
Isabelle set down her knife and turned to face him, her hip resting against the counter, right at his eye level. “Anything amiss, Marshall?”
He pulled his gaze from her hip, raked it up her shapely torso, and settled on her face, which was full of knowing mirth. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said gravely. “I seem to be at a loss as to how best go about my appointed task.”
She smiled quickly then masked the expression by clearing her throat. Had he not been watching closely, he would have missed it altogether.
“Your technique is all wrong, if I may say so.” She moved to stand behind him. “You shouldn’t fling the blade around like that. You’ll cut your arm off. Here.” She handed him the paring knife and the partially denuded potato.
He prepared to give it another go and was startled by her hands lightly grazing down his arms; his muscles leapt at her touch. Isabelle wrapped her delicate fingers around his and began guiding him through the motions of pee
ling the potato. “If you hold your thumb firm, like this,” her voice purred against his ear, her jaw brushing against his temple, “then you can control the knife better.” Her soft warmth pressed against him and her breasts nuzzled into the nape of his neck.
“Like so, you mean?” he asked, deliberately holding his thumb at an awkward angle.
“No,” she chided with a gentle rebuke. “Like this.” She captured his wayward digit beneath hers. She smelled warm and comforting, like herbs, like home — and something else he couldn’t name, something purely Isabelle. “Do you see?” she asked. A strand of her hair tickled his ear. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing her in.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I see.”
Her hands stilled over his, and then they were gone. He turned and caught a glimpse of her face a second before her back was to him and she checked the roasts in the oven. While he had a fine view of her lovely backside, it was the look on her face that agitated him the most. Her eyelids were drooped, and her lips parted, and though she had turned away from him, he knew she’d felt the same stirrings he’d experienced.
Marshall resumed peeling potatoes, but in his mind’s eye, his fingers were tangled in her hair and roving down her back and —
“Damn!” He pressed his freshly injured thumb against his pant leg.
Isabelle didn’t even turn around. “Keep your thumb out of the way,” she called, still occupied with her roasts.
All too soon, a battalion of liveried footmen lined up to receive platters of food to take to the diners on the balcony.
Isabelle had pulled off an incredible victory. Marshall watched as tray after tray of tantalizing dishes left the kitchen: turrets of cold crab bisque, asparagus in crème sauce, duck confit, venison roast accompanied by the carrots and potatoes he had prepared alongside Isabelle, and a dozen others.
She stood across the stream of servants from him, quiet pride lighting her face as she watched her supper pass. Even more incredibly, she had done all of this for his sister. In passing, he tried to picture Lucy going to such lengths for Naomi; he knew she would not. You’re not marrying a friend for your sibling. You’re marrying a duchess.
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