Once a Duchess(13)

 

“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.”