“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.
The scent of freshly starched linen almost set her off again, but Isabelle managed to restrain herself.
“I think,” Marshall said, “you’re awfully brave.”
Isabelle pulled back in his arms, searching his face for a sign of mockery, but found none. “You do?”
He nodded. “It’s not every woman who could take care of herself when times got hard.”
She smiled weakly.
His eyes dropped to her lips. “You always had,” he said, stroking her bottom lip with his thumb, “the prettiest smile.”
He lowered his head and Isabelle stiffened. But what would it matter if she shared one kiss with him? Just this one. The last time she’d kissed him, she hadn’t known it was the last. This time, she did. It would be good, she told herself, to have this final kiss. A kiss of farewell.
Suddenly, Marshall broke away before his lips touched hers. Isabelle, in a disoriented, dreamy state, slowly opened her eyes and looked into his. It was like being doused with a bucket of cold water. His dark eyes were once more hard. Pained.
Isabelle blinked, feeling confused and bereft.
“Forgive me,” Marshall said, stepping back. “It was ill done to treat you with such disregard.”
“No need to apologize,” Isabelle said. She ran her palms up her arms, the wool of her dress coarse beneath her fingers. No doubt Marshall realized he’d almost kissed a servant. She cautiously laid a hand on his forearm. “I know I’m out of practice, but I haven’t forgotten how it’s done.”
He jerked his arm away from her and took several steps backward. “Mr. Miller hasn’t kept you in practice?”
Isabelle’s jaw dropped.
“I cannot touch you,” he said, bracketing his hands around his face, “without remembering what you did with that man and being cuckolded all over again.”
An icy fist grabbed her innards. “How dare you?” she seethed. “I never betrayed you!” She stalked forward, hands on her hips. “Justin never did anything wrong. He tended me when I broke my rib in a riding accident, and for that both he and I have been ruined!” She stood in front of her tormentor, shaking with the force of her anger.
Marshall held out a staying hand. “Spare me those tired old excuses. My father died, Isabelle.” He jabbed a finger into his chest. “And while I was gone settling his affairs, you brought that man into my house. My mother saw your disgusting tryst in the cottage. I suppose I can only be grateful you didn’t bring him into my own bed. Do you expect me to believe she was mistaken? Or that she lied?”
“No,” Isabelle hissed. “I don’t.” Something deep inside snapped. He would never listen to reason all those years ago. Swamped with grief over his father’s passing, Marshall was called home to deal with his wife’s supposed infidelity. Nothing Isabelle said would convince him she and Justin had done nothing wrong.
Her hands balled into white, bloodless fists. Her voice was steely quiet when she spoke. “Of course I don’t expect you to believe me. You never did. I apologized for inviting Justin to stay while you were gone, but for mercy’s sake, Marshall, you knew when we married that he was a close friend. He came to dinner the very day we met!”
His lip curled in a sneer. Marshall circled her slowly, a wolf waiting to make the killing blow. “Oh, yes, your friend. Tell me, Isabelle, what kind of friend accepts an invitation to a newlywed woman’s home while her husband is away? Hmm?” He stopped in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back. “And then runs for the hills as soon as he’s been caught taking advantage of his host’s … hospitality,” he finished suggestively.
She raised a fist in front of her chest in a challenging stance, and in that moment, if she could have, she would have consented to a round at Gentleman Jackson’s to settle things between them. “Your vile insinuations and your evil divorce were the betrayal. Not me, Marshall. It was never me. You trumped up your petition on the flimsiest of reasons, based only on the filth your mother fed you.”
Marshall’s eyes blazed with a fury as strong as her own. “Your memory fails you, my dear.”
Isabelle scoffed.
“The servants confirmed you invited Mr. Miller to Hamhurst after my departure. You rode together every day, disappearing for hours at a time. And when my mother — whom I sent to keep you company, by the by, knowing you would be in need of company — found you in flagrante delicto, you start spinning yarns about broken bones and friendly teas.”