Once a Duchess(20)

 

A small tortoiseshell cat emerged from beneath the bed and mewed. “Miss Bigglesworth!” she exclaimed, dropping to her knees to scoop the animal into her arms. The old cat butted her head against Isabelle’s chin and purred contentedly.

 

When Isabelle was eight, she and Justin had rescued the kitten from a sack in the stream. The poor drenched thing was half-drowned and shivering with cold. Justin teased her for crying over it, but Isabelle brought the kitten home and nursed her back to health with the help of Cook’s generous supply of cream.

 

At the time, she’d thought Miss Bigglesworth a very dignified name for her pet. Now it seemed childish, just like her room.

 

She took a turn around the room while she stroked the cat’s graying fur.

 

“Wouldn’t the bed look nice in something bolder?” she asked Miss Bigglesworth. “Sapphire and silver brocade, perhaps.” She sighed and turned. “And the mantel,” she tsked. It would be improved with the multitude of girlish knickknacks cleared away and replaced by a few beautiful, well-chosen pieces. “A crystal vase would be becoming against the dark wood,” she murmured, touching the left end of the mantel. “A miniature or two in silver frames here, and perhaps a potted plant … ”

 

Isabelle sucked in her breath; her fingers clutched at Miss Bigglesworth’s fur. The cat yowled in protest before Isabelle relaxed her grip. You ninny, she chastised herself. She’d been mentally redecorating her room to look like the master bedchamber at Hamhurst, the one she had shared with Marshall.

 

Seeing him at the inn had done her no good. She’d been fine before he turned up in the dining room at the George. Now she kept remembering the stolen hour they’d spent together.

 

She’d awoken in the darkest, coldest part of the night, shivering and hungry for his touch. The flame he’d rekindled deep in her belly flared hotly every time she thought about it. It was distracting beyond all reckoning. Just a hint of kissing was dragging up other memories she would do well to forget, like the bed they’d shared as a married couple.

 

Miss Bigglesworth squirmed in her arms. “You’re right,” Isabelle muttered, bending at the waist to release her onto the carpet. “I am the most pathetic woman ever born.”

 

Isabelle turned her attention to getting herself ready for supper. She had no lady’s maid, and Alexander obviously hadn’t thought of assigning one of the house maids to act as such, as her trunk still sat untouched at the foot of the bed where the footmen had deposited it.

 

She retrieved a simple, lavender muslin dress that wasn’t too badly wrinkled. Isabelle put it on and tied her hair back with a ribbon. It still wasn’t time to go down to the parlor, so she spent the remaining time before supper hanging the few other simple dresses she’d brought along. The ice blue dress she’d repaired received special attention. That one, she hung with plenty of room around it so the skirt would not be crushed. Isabelle had no reason to suppose she’d need a fine gown again in the foreseeable future, but she couldn’t bear to allow that dress to be ruined.

 

Satisfied with her work, she descended to the parlor. The door stood open to the room they’d always called the French Parlor. Their mother had decorated the room with furnishings from her own girlhood home in the Loire Valley so that it resembled the interior of a Provincial cottage more than an English parlor. The walls, Isabelle had always thought, were the exact shade of sunshine, an airy yellow striped with a richer, golden tone. A rustic, round table stood in front of a large window overlooking the back gardens, with an enameled milk jug serving as a centerpiece. A stout wooden chair, painted white with a cornflower blue cushion, stood near the fireplace.

 

A low sofa in white and blue and two upholstered chairs completed the seating area. On a low table between the chairs was a miniature of Isabelle’s mother. She picked up the small portrait and touched her finger to the face of the woman she could scarcely remember. Her father said this was a good likeness, but Isabelle had almost no memory of her own of her mother’s face.

 

“Hello, little sister.”

 

Isabelle turned, hugging the miniature to her chest. Alexander stood at the threshold, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorframe. At over six feet tall, he had always truly been Isabelle’s big brother. Of everyone in her acquaintance, only Marshall matched him in stature. Looking into Alexander’s face was like looking at an older, masculine version of herself. He had the same golden hair and green eyes. Their father sometimes said their mother must have sprouted them both all by herself, for all the contribution he made to their coloring.