Once a Duchess (5 page)

She wheeled the cart down the hall again, accompanied by the tearful rendition of “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” a lone patron sang to a stupefied audience. His lilting voice rose and fell, shaping the lyrics into the ocean waves that had carried away the narrator’s love. A few more voices rose up to join in the chorus.

The melody followed her down the hall. Isabelle opened the dining room door without knocking. To her surprise, Marshall and his friend were still in the room. They had moved to armchairs facing the fireplace, with their backs to the door. The men were deep in conversation and did not notice her entrance. Judging by the impressive collection of empty bottles on the table, it would seem quite a few of Mr. Davies’ trips to the cellar had been on their behalf.

“Wha’ was this you started saying ’bout an expedition, old man?” Hornsby said.

“South America,” Marshall replied. “I’m going to take an expedition to the Brazilian jungle. D’you know, Hornsby, we have, in just the last few years, discovered
thousands
of new species in the South American jungle. And we’ve only scratched the surface. There is much work to be done.” His voice dropped. “I’d like to see it myself. Maybe discover a species or two.”

In the silence that followed, both men drank from their brandies. Isabelle felt another insidious twinge of tenderness for this man who had tossed her aside. She would feel that way for anyone who spoke with such obvious fervor for a passion, she reminded herself. It wasn’t just Marshall who could evoke such feelings.

“Sounds marvelous,” Hornsby said. He reached for the bottle on the small table between them to refill his glass and, finding it empty, stood and turned on unsteady feet. “Hullo,” he said, catching sight of Isabelle. “I din’ realize we had a guest.”

Marshall turned. Whatever warmth he might have felt in discussing his dreams of a botanical expedition drained away at the sight of her.

Isabelle flinched under the force of his withering expression. “Forgive the intrusion, my lords,” she said. “I’m just clearing away the dishes.” She began to do just that, all the while painfully aware of both men watching her. Had Marshall told his friend who she was?

Her rattled nerves evidenced themselves in short order. The moment she picked up a stack of plates, the lot of them clattered against one another, thanks to her trembling hands. Her cheeks burned. She lowered the stack to the cart and turned around to collect more dishes. Marshall was just in front of her.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” He stood with his arms crossed, leaning casually with one thigh against the table, looking every inch the cool, aloof aristocrat. His expression was as perfectly bland as his drawl.

Isabelle’s tongue flicked over her lower lip. “No, I’m not,” she said frankly. “Waiting on spoiled noblemen is not how I usually spend my time. But I do thank Your Grace for highlighting my deficiencies.”

Marshall’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Oh, ho!” Hornsby exclaimed. He moved to stand a short distance from her right side, effectively boxing her in, with Marshall to her front, the table to her side, and the wall behind. “This one’s got a mouth, don’t she?”

Marshall paid no attention to his companion swaying drunkenly on his feet. “How, pray tell,” he said, clipping his words, “
do
you spend your time? Usually.”

“I could hazard a guess,” Hornsby said. Again, neither Isabelle or Marshall deigned to notice him. They were wrapped up in their own, private exchange, with no room for a third party.

Isabelle met Marshall’s scathing expression with a small smile. She slipped into parlor mode to answer his question, her tone as light as if they were sipping tea on the settee. “Thank you for asking, Your Grace,” she said with a slight nod. “I am chiefly employed by Mr. Davies in the capacity of supper cook. This evening, however, our serving girl suffered an unfortunate accident that left her with an injured hand. Young Sammy,” she continued, “meant to bring his sister in to help; however,” her voice lowered as though she were sharing the tastiest new
on dit
, not village gossip, “the young lady seems to have found herself
enceinte
.”

Marshall continued to regard her in stony silence.

“As she was preoccupied with her own imbroglio and unable to come to our aid, I took over serving duties tonight.” Isabelle tilted her head to the side and quirked a brow, hoping her face betrayed none of the heart-racing nerves she felt.

A muscle in Marshall’s jaw twitched. “Are you quite finished?”

“Oh!” Isabelle said, blithely ignoring his black mood, “The serving girl’s name is Gretchen, and her hand was quite badly burned. Please remember her in your prayers tonight.”

Hornsby barked a laugh. Isabelle turned just as he slipped an arm around her waist.

“What a delightful creature,” he said, hugging her to his side. The man’s bloodshot eyes roved boldly over her figure. “I daresay, Monthwaite, put a gown on this one, and she could pass muster at most any rout, don’t you think?”

“I daresay,” Marshall drawled.

Hornsby’s soft body emanated clammy heat. Isabelle tried to create some distance from the man, but he held her in an iron grip. “What is your name?” Hornsby asked. “I must know.”

“Mrs. Jocelyn Smith,” Isabelle said, reflexively giving her assumed name. The man’s arm slackened. She started to edge away from him.

“Married, then?” Hornsby regarded her with droopy eyes reminiscent of a bloodhound.

“I used to be,” Isabelle said. Marshall straightened. “My husband died several years ago.”

Hornsby’s face brightened with a wide grin. “A widow! Some of our favorite people are widows, aren’t they, Monty?” He clutched her tightly again, this time bringing his other arm around her waist, as well.

Isabelle struggled against his crushing embrace. His sickly sweet aroma filled her nostrils. She turned her head to escape it.

“I’m sure the nights have been lonely, m’love,” Hornsby slurred against her ear.

Isabelle cast a desperate look at Marshall. Fury blasted from every line of his being. He made no move toward intervening on her behalf.

“Actually, no,” Isabelle said, casting daggers at the tall, silent man, “not at all. I don’t miss my husband in the least.”

“He must not have been man enough for you.” Hornsby’s hands slid down her back.

Isabelle answered him while Marshall’s intense black eyes held hers captive. “No, I don’t suppose he was.”

Three things happened in quick succession: Hornsby grabbed hold of her derrière; Isabelle yelped and pushed against his chest; and Marshall bellowed, “Enough!”

Hornsby released Isabelle, who made a dash for the door, only to have Marshall’s hands close around her upper arms in a vise grip.

“You will come with me now,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Now, see here, Monthwaite,” Hornsby said, indignantly wagging a finger, “I should like to point out that I laid claim upon Mrs. Smith’s attentions first. If she is going to go with anyone, in the spirit of fair play, it should be me.”

“Shut up, Hornsby,” Marshall snapped. “
Mrs. Smith
and I,” he said, dripping sarcasm all over her assumed name, “have some things to discuss.” He pushed, steering her out the door and toward the stairwell.

“I really don’t have time for a chat just now,” Isabelle said, futilely attempting to twist free of his steely hold. “Mr. Davies expects me to clear the dishes.” She leaned her back against him, pressing her feet into the floor in an attempt to force him to stop.

His hands tightened almost painfully around her arms. “If you continue to resist, I will pick you up and carry you.”

“I’ll scream if you do,” she ground out.

“And I will throttle you.” The low, seething tone dragged down her spine like a glacier.

Would he actually strike her? She cast wildly about for assistance, but the corridor was deserted but for the two of them. “You’ll be tossed out. Maybe arrested.”

Marshall snorted. “It would be worth it,” his voice rumbled against her neck. She shivered.

“All right,” she hissed. Isabelle snatched her arms out of his grip and mounted the stairs under her own power, excruciatingly aware of his looming presence behind her.

He guided her to his room toward the back of the inn. He opened the door, and a raspy, masculine voice said, “Good evening, Your Grace. I’ve laid out your nightshirt — ”

Isabelle followed Marshall into the room. His valet stopped speaking the instant he clapped eyes on her. At first, he gave his master a disapproving frown. Then he looked at Isabelle again. “You!” His mouth pinched, pulling his thin nose downward.

“Good evening, Clayton.” She gave Marshall’s valet a cool nod.

A glance around the bedchamber revealed a fine room. A double-mattressed bed occupied one corner, with a porcelain ewer and basin on a stand beside it. Marshall’s grooming implements had been arranged on top of a bureau next to the basin. There was a sitting area in front of the fireplace, and a smaller room off to the side to house his valet and trunks. Isabelle felt even more conspicuous in her cook’s garb in this lovely chamber, standing in front of the duke and his impeccably dressed servant. “Go have a drink,” Marshall said.

“Sir,” Clayton started, casting a frosty look at Isabelle, “if I may say so — ”

“You may not,” Marshall interrupted. “Not this time.”

Master and valet exchanged a silent communication. At last, Clayton acquiesced. Isabelle stepped back to allow him to pass, but he still managed to clip her with his shoulder on his way out.

Marshall crossed to a sideboard and splashed whiskey into a glass for himself, but offered her nothing. The light from the candelabra on the sideboard cast flickering shadows across the hard planes of his face. “I’m waiting, Isabelle,” he said.

“For what, Your Grace?” she asked. She smoothed the front of her skirt with her palms and took a turn around the sitting area, nervously taking in her surroundings. She’d never been in the guest chambers before; Mr. Davies made sure his moneyed customers had well-appointed rooms, she observed. The chairs and settee were arranged around an Oriental rug with a navy and crimson medallion in the center. Twin lamps with fluted glass covers stood on either end of the mantle, illuminating the area in a soft glow.

“An explanation,” Marshall said. “What is this ridiculous charade about,
Mrs. Smith
?”

Isabelle flinched as though struck. “Charade?” she scoffed. “Do you think I’m
playing
at being a cook? Like Marie Antoinette, the shepherdess?” She shook her head. “You’re blind, Marshall. You always have been.”

Marshall slammed his glass to the sideboard. “What is that supposed to mean?” He crossed to where she stood. Isabelle quavered. “And take that off. It’s obscene.” He yanked the humble servant’s mobcap from her head and tossed it to the floor. Isabelle’s long hair unwound from its unpinned twist and fell down her back.

“I mean exactly what I say, Marshall. You are blind to the truth.” She turned away from him and stared into the fire rather than continue exposing herself to his searching eyes. “At least when it comes to me.”

“Oh, yes. You and the truth. Old bosom bows,” Marshall said, gesturing widely with a hand. “How could I forget?”

Exhaustion and hunger wrapped tentacles around her. She still had to clean up after her former husband and his amorous friend before she could walk a mile through the cold February night to share a bowl of stew with Bessie. She could think of no good reason to put up with Marshall’s abuse. “I’m leaving,” Isabelle said wearily. “You’re completely foxed. Go to bed.” She stooped to pick up her cap, but Marshall got there first and snatched it up.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m foxed. I got foxed because I’m angry and embarrassed.”

Isabelle drew herself up. “What reason do you have for anger and embarrassment? If you are referring to my position here — ”

“It’s degrading,” Marshall said, wringing her cap in his fists. “A woman of your birth — my former wife, I might add — ”

“‘Former’ being the key word,” she interrupted. “My actions in no way reflect upon you.”

“Like hell they don’t!” He raked one hand through his dark, wavy hair and gave her an imploring look. “Isabelle, if you were recognized, I would be the laughing stock of the
ton
. Again.”

She bristled at his words. “Poor little duke,” she mocked, flinging her arms wide. “Suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. At least you don’t have to work in an inn.” Isabelle shook her head and turned.

“Talk to me,” he said in a more moderate tone. “Why must you work in this inn?”

“Because the one the next village over wasn’t hiring,” she quipped.

Marshall chuckled. His hand was on her shoulder then, gently turning her around. He tipped her chin with his thumb and forefinger. Isabelle looked into his eyes. She wasn’t sure what she saw there — compassion? Pity, perhaps? At least it wasn’t anger. She was too tired to confront his anger again.

“Has your brother cut you off?” he asked. His thumb lightly stroked her jaw.

The gentleness of his words and touch utterly crumbled Isabelle’s defenses. The strong, capable facade she’d been carefully building ever since receiving Alexander’s letter could not withstand his kindness. She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. He cupped her cheek in his hand. One hot tear slid down her face and over his fingers.

“That was not well done of him,” Marshall said quietly.

Isabelle turned her face into his palm, unable to contain the tears she’d been holding at bay for weeks. In the next moment, his other hand was on her back, drawing her forward. Isabelle stepped into his arms and cried against his chest. Her own arms wound around his torso. Marshall stroked her hair and murmured against the top of her head, but she could not make out his words for her crying. Still, the rumble inside his chest as he spoke soothed her.

“I’m sorry.” She sniffed and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m making an absolute cake of myself.” Marshall produced a handkerchief and pressed it into her hand, while keeping his other arm firmly around her.