Once a Duchess(11)

 

“Is this the famous stew we heard so much about?” he asked. Marshall stood close beside her to examine the tureen’s contents. His imposing presence seemed to make the air heavier and more difficult to inhale.

 

Isabelle noted with another pang that he even looked as though he’d been working for hours. His coat was slung over the back of a chair. The sleeves of his cream-colored shirt were rolled up his forearms. He did that when he wrote a lot. An image sprung to mind of an afternoon at Hamhurst, shortly after they were married. She’d spent most of the day alone while he took care of estate work, and when she went to find him in his study, he had been sitting at his desk, looking much the way he did just now.

 

She also remembered what happened when she found him in the study, how she’d come to stand behind his chair and put her fingers into the soft hair at his nape, rubbing his neck, trying to distract him. And it had worked. Her cheeks burned at the brief memory.

 

“Is this not the famous stew?” Marshall’s voice held a note of teasing. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at her.

 

Isabelle sucked her breath and whirled away. “Ah, yes. Yes, my lord, it is,” she stammered. Stupid! She should have answered him right away. If she’d done that, he wouldn’t have paid her any attention whatsoever. Now she’d turned her back on a peer of the realm. She tried to cover the blunder by hastily setting out the rest of the food.

 

Hornsby moved around the table to the other side and looked first at the spread, and then at her. “There’s a tasty dish,” he said, dragging his eyes over her. Isabelle pretended not to notice. She could not imagine any man finding her attractive in her shapeless wool dress and stained apron. She’d been working for hours and probably smelled as much like beef stew as the food itself.

 

Marshall caught his friend’s entendre. “That will do, miss,” he said softly. “We’ll take care of ourselves from here. Madeira, Hornsby?”

 

How smoothly he redirected his friend’s attention, she thought, grateful for his intervention — and then annoyed at herself for feeling gratitude. The longer she stayed in his presence, the more eager she was to be away. Keeping her face ducked, she bobbed a curtsy. Just another moment and she’d be free. With shaking hands, she collected the cart and pushed.

 

And crashed into the door. The cart handle drove into her middle, pushing her breath out audibly.

 

Embarrassment washed over her. What an imbecilic blunder!

 

“What the devil?” Hornsby said.

 

She would not turn around and see how he reacted. “Apologies, my lords,” she said to the door. “I’m used to the swinging kitchen door. Terribly sorry.” Isabelle leaned across the cart to the doorknob, but couldn’t quite reach. She felt two pairs of aristocratic eyes on her, watching her make a buffoon of herself. She tried again, leaning farther. If she got up on her toes …

 

“Allow me.” Marshall’s hand landed on the knob a split-second after hers, pinning hers underneath its warmth.

 

A tingle coursed up her arm at his touch.

 

His eyes flew to her face. Isabelle kept her own resolutely downcast. Her gaze fell on his middle. He wore a maroon waistcoat with gold buttons. She followed them down to where waistcoat ended and his close-fitting brown trousers began, and instantly wished she hadn’t allowed her gaze to wander. The sight of his well-muscled thighs did nothing to ease her discomfiture.

 

“Look at me,” he said.

 

She shook her head, shame suffusing her entire being. She didn’t have to look at him. He knew, damn him. He knew. The least he could do was leave her with a scrap of her shredded pride and let her go without making a scene.

 

“Isabelle,” he said in a low voice meant only for her ears.

 

She took a steadying breath and shook her head again, but this time it was a quick gesture of resolve as she gathered her courage. Then she raised her eyes.

 

The shock on his face at positively identifying her was most gratifying, she decided. His mouth fell open, but no words came out. A storm of emotion roiled in his dark eyes.

 

She met his gaze boldly and raised her chin, daring him to expose her.

 

“I told you she was a tasty one,” Hornsby said.

 

The interruption brought Marshall back to his senses. He blinked. His brown eyes went strangely flat as he stepped back and returned to the table without another word.

 

Isabelle got the door open, wrestled the cart through, and closed the door behind her. She took several deep breaths, waiting for her heart to stop racing before returning to the kitchen.