Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  “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 having his younger sister rebuke him. 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 not to 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 calme
d 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-onlys 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 he could do 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.

  He imagined Isabelle with a new husband: building a life and a home, sharing a marriage bed, having children. He envisioned her round with another man’s child. Panic clawed at his throat and he felt the mental equivalent to a horse kick in the sternum.

  Marshall squeezed his eyes shut and drew several deep breaths. These were just feelings stirred by the unwise dalliance they’d indulged in, he assured himself. Once they were both safely married off to others, he would no longer feel a possessive compulsion to have her for himself.

  Chapter Twelve

  Isabelle had spent the week since Naomi’s party in a numb haze. She and Lily attended several modest balls hosted by gentry or well-to-do professionals, although she had difficulty mustering enthusiasm for such affairs. A few gentlemen came to call upon Lily, and with Alex’s wish that she marry never far from Isabelle’s mind, she tried to pay attention to the men and catch someone’s notice. Every moment was a conscious struggle not to think about Marshall and what had happened the last time they were together.

  It would not do, she chided herself. She had to snap out of her melancholy and evict Marshall from her thoughts. Someday, she would marry again. She would have children. To achieve those goals, she had to get past her stupid infatuation with her former husband.

  To make matters worse, Lily had been shamelessly prying at Isabelle about the time she’d spent alone with Marshall at the greenhouse. Isabelle couldn’t bring herself to tell her the truth of the matter. While Lily knew about the whole, horrible debacle that had been Isabelle’s marriage, she worried her friend would think less of her if she found out Isabelle had allowed herself to get so carried away with Marshall again. Her humiliation would be even deeper, given the fact that Marshall had an understanding with Lady Lucy Jamison — a fact Isabelle could not bear to dwell upon, but couldn’t stop obsessing over.

  This morning, she busied herself in her room writing a letter to Bessie about the upkeep of her small cottage. The house needed repairs, and figuring out the funds and suggesting workmen to complete the tasks proved to be a welcome preoccupation.

  A joyful shriek sounded nearby, followed by a door slam, and feet pounding down the hall.

  Isabelle dropped her pen. She pivoted in her seat as her door flew open and Lily burst into the room, breathing heavily, her face aglow.

  “Lily!” Isabelle proclaimed, half-rising from her seat.

  “You will never believe,” Lily panted, “where we are going tonight.”

  Her friend’s expression bordered on beatific. Isabelle shook her head. “The theater, I thought. Has that changed?”

  Lily nodded. “It has. Father’s just told me we will be attending … ,” she squealed.

  Isabelle had never seen her friend so excited. She laughed at Lily’s giddiness. “Out with it! Where are we going?”

  Lily walked toward her as though in a trance, her hands extended before her. “We are going to the Liverpools’ ball,” she said, then clamped a hand over her mouth as though she couldn’t believe she’d said it. Laughter bubbled forth, spilling from behind her hand as she jumped up and down like an excited child.

  Isabelle gasped. “The Liverpools?” Lily nodded and grasped Isabelle’s hands. “As in, the Earl of Liverpool? The prime minister?” Lily nodded again and another delighted squeal escaped her throat.

  Isabelle exhaled a laugh. The Liverpools’ ball would be teeming with the very crème of the haut ton — much grander than any event they had attended so far. “How can this be?” she asked, all agog.

  “I don’t know,” Lily breathlessly replied. “I suppose because of Father’s connections in government. He only said to ‘make damned sure you wear your very finest.’” She furrowed her brows and rendered a passable imitation of her father’s gruff voice.

  “It’s unbelievable.” Isabelle turned in a circle and cast her eyes around the room, suddenly feeling like Cinderella with nothing to wear to the ball, and no hope of a fairy godmother to come to her aid. “Whatever shall we wear?”

  Lily’s eyes widened. “I don’t know.” She brought a hand to her cheek. “I wonder if I even own anything that’ll pass muster in Lady Liverpool’s ballroom.”

  Isabelle’s mind whirled through a mental inventory of the dresses in her own wardrobe. None of them seemed good enough for what promised to be a glamorous affair. “Such short notice,” she despaired. “Why couldn’t we have received an invitation even yesterday?”

  “Oh, bosh,” Lily said, returning to her typical practicality. “That would have just been one day more to worry about it. Let’s pick out something for you, and then you can help me decide.”

  The day passed in a flurry of activity as the girls, along with Mrs. Bachman, fussed and fretted, and lost themselves in preparations. Only Mr. Bachman retained his equanimity. He hid in his study from the frenzied women.

  All too soon, the carriage pulled to the front of the house. Isabelle took one last appraising look in the mirror. She’d chosen a daring gown of violet satin that set off her green eyes to good effect. Her shoulders were bare, and the deep neckline showed rather more of her bosom than made her entirely comfortable. A small train swept elegantly behind her as she walked. While the dress was free of adornment, Lily said it was the picture of sophistication.

  Around her neck hung her mother’s amethysts, three modest, round stones surrounded by small diamonds and strung on a gold chain. The gems were nothing compared to the fortunes society’s ladies draped themselves in, but they were priceless to Isabelle.

  Lily’s maid dressed her golden tresses in an elegant chignon, with a few curls teased loose to frame her face. She took one last look in the mirror and pressed her hands against her fluttering stoma
ch. Then she took up her silver satin reticule with matching beading and went downstairs.

  Lily and her parents waited in the entry hall. Isabelle’s friend wore a dramatic red gown with jet beads in a floral pattern down the skirt. Isabelle could never carry off such a color, but it became Lily beautifully.

  As they made their way to Lord Liverpool’s home, Isabelle watched the dimly lit streetscape roll by. She listened with half an ear to the conversation in the carriage, but it didn’t fully grab her attention until she heard Mr. Bachman say something, followed by a groan from Lily.

  “What was that?” Isabelle turned her head.

  Lily frowned. Her dark eyes regarded Isabelle with pity.

  “I said,” Mr. Bachman repeated, “when we arrive at the Liverpools’, first thing after greeting the Earl and Countess, we must give our respect to Monthwaite. We owe our invitation to him.”

  Isabelle turned to look out the window again, so her kind host would not see her shock and dismay. How could she ever hope to put Marshall out of her mind when he wouldn’t stop interfering in her life?

  • • •

  The Liverpools’ ballroom was resplendent with the light of thousands of candles refracted in crystal chandeliers and reflected in dozens of mirrors. Swags of marigold and red cloth had been draped across the walls, and vases of exotic flowers lent their sultry perfume to the atmosphere. On the musician’s balcony, two guitarists played a duet with a distinctive Spanish flair, barely audible over the noise of the crowd. When she commented upon the unusual theme, Mrs. Bachman told Isabelle that the whole affair was a benefit for the Peninsular army, which was in sore need of funds.

  The Bachman group greeted the Earl and Countess of Liverpool, both of whom spoke graciously to Isabelle.

  Their kindness, however, did little to mitigate her nerves. From the moment they were announced, Isabelle felt the eyes of the haut ton upon her. She noticed, too, that the Bachmans were sorely outclassed at this gathering. The lords and ladies dripped with as many titles as there were jewels on their necks and fingers. Mr. Bachman’s considerable fortune meant little without an old name behind it. What on earth had Marshall been thinking, having them invited to such a gathering?