Time After Time (282 page)

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?”

“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.”

They sat quietly for a moment, while Marshall considered the humbling implications of his sister’s actions.

She tilted her head inquisitively. “So, I know why you’re here, Marshall. But I’m still not sure why I’m here. Although,” she said with a wry lift of her brow, “I think I have a good idea.”

Marshall kicked back the remainder of his drink. “If your idea is that I want to convince Isabelle to agree to marry me and that I don’t think I can do it without your help, then you would be correct.”

Naomi covered her mouth and made a squeaking sound.

Marshall glowered. “Are you laughing at me?”

She shook her head. “Oh no, of course not.” She grinned widely. “I’m just very pleased to hear this. I must confess, Marshall, your apology in the paper was so dry,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “I didn’t know what you intended.”

Marshall stared at his sister, stupefied. What did she expect? A public love letter, dripping with romantic pleas and pledges of undying devotion? “You’ve been reading too many novels again.”

She scoffed then placed both palms flat on the desk and leaned forward. “
Do you love her?
” she asked again, stressing each word.

Heat flared up Marshall’s neck. “You’ve an excess of ridiculous notions in your head,” he said, jabbing a finger at his sibling. “To begin, whether or not I love Isabelle is not in the least bit your concern. Furthermore, it doesn’t signify at all. I am fond of Isabelle. We suit well.” His throat suddenly went dry as an image of her delectable breasts brushing against his lips flashed through his mind. He cleared his throat. “Very well, in fact.” Just that bit of erotic thought had his blood thickening. He shifted; this would not do.

“Family,” he said, “is of the utmost importance to Isabelle. She has spent all spring trying to find a husband, to please her brother. The actions she took at your party went above and beyond friendship. I know you’re fond of her, as is Aunt Janine. She returns your regard, so I thought it might be beneficial to remind her that marrying me would restore her place in our family.”

Naomi looked nonplussed. “But you don’t love her?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” He stood and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Just forget it, Naomi. It was stupid of me to bring it up.”

She rose and stepped out from behind the desk. “I’m sorry, Marshall, but I do love Isabelle. Like the sister she used to be.” Her brows rose pointedly, and Marshall flinched under her recriminating words. Stopping in front of him, she planted her manicured hands on her hips. “I will be her friend whatever happens between you two. After all she’s been through, she deserves every happiness — and if you can’t give it to her, don’t expect my help.” So saying, she turned in a haughty swirl of silk and made her exit.

Damnation, but she did that every bit as well as their mother.

He exhaled and looked out the window. Through the rivulets streaming down the glass, he made out the distorted image of a coach approaching the house. Elation stole over him. She had come. Thank God.

If Naomi wouldn’t help, he would go it alone. One way or another, Isabelle was going to be his wife. Again.

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning dawned clear, the rain having finally broken overnight. Isabelle had been tense around him since her arrival yesterday. There had been no opportunity to speak in private, but he intended to rectify that this morning. The cooperative weather inspired his plan.

When he went down to breakfast, Isabelle and Naomi sat with their heads together, talking softly. His former wife wore a long-sleeved dress, white with cherry stripes running the length of it. Alex Fairfax — or what Marshall could make out of him beyond the open newspaper shielding his face and torso — lounged with his chair turned at an angle, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.

“Good morning,” Marshall said. The ladies returned the greeting. Alex bent down a corner of his newspaper and nodded, then returned to his reading.

Marshall selected a slice of ham and some thick toast from the buffet. He sat beside Isabelle, who continued her conversation with Naomi as though Marshall was of no more significance than a fly on the wall.

“I notice,” he said while slathering his toast with the fresh, creamy butter, barreling over the ladies’ voices, “the inclement weather has done us the favor of departing. Isabelle, would you care to join me in the greenhouse this morning for another session of — ” He faked a cough and took a sip of coffee, immensely enjoying Isabelle’s wild-eyed discomfiture.

“Mixing plant food?” he finished. He raised a brow.

Her face turned a charming shade of pink. She glanced toward Alex, who remained hidden behind the newspaper. “Well, you see … ,” she fumbled.

Still on edge, he saw. What had gotten into her? He’d have thought his apology would put her at ease, but the opposite had occurred. Marshall blandly sucked a bit of toast from a tooth, waiting to hear what ridiculous excuse she’d concoct to keep herself out of his company.