“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 lying 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 s
een 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.
“As the astute reader will recall, Her Grace was brought to trial on charges of the most serious nature. In light of the knowledge he now possesses, the duke regrets having ever subjected the lady to the public scrutiny and humiliation of the divorce trial.
“Said His Grace: ‘It is my desire that the public hold the duchess blameless for past events. I know her to be of the highest moral integrity and unimpeachable character. I cannot adequately express my profound regret for the divorce, which stripped the lady of her peerage and reputation. If I could give her a message, I should like the duchess to know that if there is anything I can do to ease the suffering she has endured as a result of my actions, she need only … ’”
Isabelle’s voice failed as a she fought back the lump forming in her throat. A turmoil of emotions tumbled through her. Mostly, she was overwhelmed by the magnitude of Marshall’s gesture. He had issued his apology in the most public venue — a newspaper that would be read throughout England and around the world, in every corner of the empire.
Alex offered her a hand. She took it and rose, clutching the newspaper to her chest.
His eyes glinted with amusement. “Well?”
She cleared her throat. “It would seem,” she said in a small voice, “he kept his promise, after all.”
Alex’s face, so like her own, softened as he smiled. “I suppose you could say that, little sister,” he chucked her lightly on the shoulder, “if understatement is your aim.”
She exhaled a laugh. Did this really change anything? Marshall had made good on his word, but she didn’t know if she could trust him not to hurt her again. “Oh, Alex, what now?”
“That, my dear,” Alex said with the barest shake of his head, “is entirely between you and Monthwaite.”
Chapter Sixteen
The ride to Bensbury should have taken only an hour, but a heavy downpour slowed Marshall, Naomi, and Aunt Janine’s progress to a crawl, nearly doubling the time they were cooped up in the coach.
Aunt Janine passed the time with a disjointed ramble about various scholarly works she’d read on Egyptology, her latest passion. She intoned about long-dead pharaohs and their tombs until her voice began to crack. When she paused, Marshall exhaled in relief.
Naomi asked Aunt Janine a question about the Book of the Dead. “The Book of the Dead,” Aunt Janine croaked. “Fascinating topic!” The old lady fished a flask out of her voluminous black reticule, took a long pull, and then launched into another lecture.
Marshall shot his sister a withering look. She had the grace to shrug sheepishly.
Fortunately, he was soon able to tune out Aunt Janine and think about the reason for leaving London. The printed apology was bound to ignite a frenzy of gossip and speculation. There was no possibility of meeting with Isabelle in town without it being reported in the on dits. If there was any chance of their relationship progressing, he had to get her out from under the scrutiny of the ton.
To that end, he sent her a note this morning, informing her of his intention to leave town and inviting her and Fairfax to join him if she desired to talk everything over. He had no idea whether she would come. The uncertainty gnawed between his shoulder blades, tensing the muscles in his upper back until he thought he’d crack.
When they finally arrived at Bensbury, Marshall made a hasty escape to his study. A short time later, there was a soft knock on the door. Naomi had changed out of her traveling costume into a pale pink dress with short sleeves and a high, ruffed neck. She crossed to the window, laid her hands on the sill, and looked out at the noontime sky darkened by roiling clouds. “It looks more like a chilly winter day, doesn’t it?”
Marshall watched his sister for a long moment. She was still so young, and he was loathe to drag her into his personal affairs, but it seemed he would need a few enforcements to ensure he did right by Isabelle this time. He poured himself a drink, swallowed his pride, and prepared himself to beg his eighteen-year-old sister for help.
“Do you know why we’re here?” he asked.
Naomi didn’t look at him, but he watched her expression become thoughtful as she gazed out across the rain-drenched park. “An interesting question. The most important one, really. Why are we here? What purpose do our lives serve?”
Marshall groaned. “I wasn’t speaking so esoterically.”
She flashed him a mischievous smile. Gad, she had a disarming mind. He still couldn’t get used to thinking of his baby sister as a grown woman, much less one with the intelligence to cross wits with her eldest brother, and to do it with such ease.
“Touché.” He inclined his head.
“You’re here because of that apology, of course.” Naomi took a brief turn around the room. She stopped in front of the Athyrium filix-femina in its pot atop a plant stand next to a bookshelf. “What’s this one?�
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“Lady-fern,” he answered.
Naomi lightly ran a finger down a feathery green frond. “Do you love her?”
The simple question clapped him over the head like lightning out of the blue sky. Did he love Isabelle? He lusted for her, certainly, but he couldn’t very well tell his sister that. And he was hideously remorseful for divorcing her and making a muck of her life. They were compatible. Marshall found he enjoyed her company, and it had surprised him to realize that such compatibility was important to him in choosing a wife, after all. He cared for her, and hoped she’d agree to marry him again — but that was just to make amends. Wasn’t all of that enough?
He crossed his arms across his chest and cleared his throat.
“Oh, good,” Naomi quipped. “You haven’t gone to sleep. You stood there so long I was afraid you’d nodded off with your eyes open.”
Naomi sat herself in the chair behind Marshall’s desk. He started to object, but she gestured him to have a seat. He sighed and rolled his eyes, then plunked into the chair she’d indicated. Maybe she wasn’t quite so grown up yet, after all.
She propped her arms on her elbows and pressed her lips against her steepled fingers in a spot-on imitation of Marshall’s own gesture. “I’ve another question for you now,” Naomi said in a serious tone.
He crossed his right ankle to the opposite knee and twiddled his thumbs. “I’m listening.”
Naomi picked up a crimson enameled pen from the mahogany desktop and held it at each end, spinning it back and forth between her fingers. “Do you know why I invited Isabelle to my party?” Her blue eyes flicked to his face then back to the pen.
Marshall’s fingers stilled. He’d forgotten to ever raise the issue with her. Finding Isabelle cooking in his kitchen had so thrown him off guard that the matter of precisely how it was she’d come to be there had flown from his mind. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”
“I invited her because I wanted to show her that someone in this family did not think the worst of her. I wanted to show her that I wasn’t afraid to be her friend.”
Time After Time Page 225