Once a Duchess(38)
Marshall drew back, thunderstruck. “She’s cooking?” He stared at the seething woman in disbelief. “In my kitchen?”
Lily exhaled loudly through her nostrils. “I fail to comprehend why Isabelle continues to give this family the time of day. You’ve brought her nothing but misery. If she’d had any kind of normal family growing up, she would see in an instant how insane,” Lily’s eyes went wide with the word, “this one is.”
She turned on her heel and left Marshall standing there to stare blankly into a flowerbed, considering her words.
“Those are lovely, Your Grace,” said a young lady who’d happened by. “What are they?”
Marshall stared at her stupidly for a moment before he realized she was asking about the flowers.
“Digitalis … foxgloves,” he said, the Latin escaping him for the first time in recent memory. “Excuse me.” As he turned to go, he noticed Naomi glancing worriedly in his direction. No doubt she realized she’d been found out, and fretted about what he’d say or do to her. Somehow, though, Marshall thought as he traipsed back into the house, he was just as worried about what recriminating darts she might throw at him.
Isabelle. In his kitchen! He recalled her in that inn, wearing common servant’s garb, toiling with her own hands to make supper for him, Hornsby, and dozens of villagers. He couldn’t stand the thought of her laboring like that in his own house. What on earth had Grant done to bring this about? Marshall may well deserve Miss Bachman’s derision when he found out.
Bensbury’s basement level had not been constructed for large men. Twice he clipped his broad shoulder on the rounded corners in his haste to discover the full measure of his family’s offense against his former wife.
At last he reached the kitchen. He pushed the door open, prepared to shout to find her in the teeming morass of servants. He came to a halt just inside the door. The room was almost silent. Where there should have been a veritable army working on preparations for tonight’s festivities, only Isabelle and one other liveried servant remained. The servant girl formed balls of dough on the counter next to the oven. Standing beside her, Isabelle chopped carrots.
Confusion tangled his thoughts. Where in the bloody hell were his servants?
He must have voiced his question out loud, for Isabelle set down her knife and looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “They’ve gone.” She wiped her hands down the front of her thighs. He followed the motion with his gaze, then flicked his eyes to her face.
His bewilderment only deepened. “Gone where?”
A stableboy popped up from a chair in the corner where he was scaling a bowl of fish. “Mutiny, Your Grace!” he exclaimed dramatically. He toppled a bucket of fish scales in his enthusiasm. Flat, iridescent discs spilled out in a rainbow cascade.
“It’s my fault,” Isabelle said quietly. “Lord Grant found out I was here, and he sent the servants away, rather than permit them to cook for me.” Her chin trembled, and Marshall felt a pang of tenderness at her obvious hurt. She sniffed and raised her head, her eyes flashing defiantly. “I won’t let him punish Naomi for being kind to me,” she said. “I will fix this, Marshall. She’ll have a fine supper for her guests if I have to … cook it myself.” She laughed humorlessly and returned to her carrots.
Marshall watched her work. Her slender wrist rose and fell as the knife rhythmically made short work of the root. She reached for another. He took in the whole of her appearance. Her usually silky hair was damp. Lank strands hung beside her face and onto her back. Her white muslin was a mess — red and blue splotches stained the bodice, and something crusty stiffened the fabric on her side below her left breast. The thin material clung to her in a way her woolen dress at the George hadn’t, rendering the contours of her back clearly visible. She shivered slightly. He involuntarily pictured a bead of sweat running down her spine to the small of her back.
He had seen ladies in states of artfully composed dishabille. This was the effect all those women attempted to achieve, but at which they failed so miserably in comparison to Isabelle. The way her rumpled hair framed her flushed, glistening face, and the manner in which her dress clung to her curves like a second skin conspired to give her a delectably tousled appearance. He became acutely aware of his surging desire. This would not do.
He shook his head to free himself of her beguiling spell. He removed his coat and tossed it across a vacant stool. “All right, what can I do to help?”