Once a Duchess(15)
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.