Isabelle’s knife paused above the carrot. Her green eyes, full of disbelief, found his. At the connection of their gazes, he again had to stomp down his insidious, wayward thoughts.
“Help?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes, of course.” He removed his gold cuff links and neatly rolled the sleeves to his forearms. When he looked up, Isabelle was still staring at him as though he’d escaped from Bedlam. “I want to help,” he insisted. “You can’t prepare supper for thirty by yourself.”
“Actually, I can.” She picked up her knife and continued chopping. “If you’d be so good as to recall, I spent a period of time preparing supper for a whole inn full of patrons.”
Marshall noted the curve of her mouth as she spoke. Amazingly, her time working at the inn seemed to be a pleasant memory. He crossed his arms. “I seem to recall,” he said lightly, “waiting the better part of two hours for my supper, because the kitchen was backed up with orders.” He inclined his head pointedly, and was rewarded with a delightful blush.
“Very well.” The corners of her mouth twitched. She pointed with her knife to a pile of potatoes beside the cutting board. “You can peel these.” Her eyebrow rose over a green eye in what he took for a challenge.
He sniffed. “Fine. I’ll peel the potatoes.”
He selected an able-looking implement from the cutlery rack, pulled a stool to the counter, took a tuber in hand, and set to work. Not a minute later, the blade raked across his knuckle. “Damn,” he muttered and pressed his finger against his trousers. Beside him, Isabelle’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. He glared at her blackly. He’d faced down a line of French infantry with only a pistol and a handful of Spanish peasants — he would not be bested by Isabelle and her vegetables. Marshall resolutely attacked the potato. Halfway through, he drew blood again. “For God’s sake!” He slammed the knife to the counter.
Isabelle set down her knife and turned to face him, her hip resting against the counter, right at his eye level. “Anything amiss, Marshall?”
He pulled his gaze from her hip, raked it up her shapely torso, and settled on her face, which was full of knowing mirth. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said gravely. “I seem to be at a loss as to how best go about my appointed task.”
She smiled quickly, then masked the expression by clearing her throat. Had he not been watching closely, he would have missed it altogether.
“Your technique is all wrong, if I may say so.” She moved to stand behind him. “You shouldn’t fling the blade around like that. You’ll cut your arm off. Here.” She handed him the paring knife and the partially denuded potato.
He prepared to give it another go, and was startled by her hands lightly grazing down his arms; his muscles leapt at her touch. Isabelle wrapped her delicate fingers around his and began guiding him through the motions of peeling the potato. “If you hold your thumb firm, like this,” her voice purred against his ear, her jaw brushing against his temple, “then you can control the knife better.” Her soft warmth pressed against him and her breasts nuzzled into the nape of his neck.
“Like so, you mean?” he asked, deliberately holding his thumb at an awkward angle.
“No,” she chided with a gentle rebuke. “Like this.” She captured his wayward digit beneath hers. She smelled warm and comforting, like herbs, like home — and something else he couldn’t name, something purely Isabelle. “Do you see?” she asked. A strand of her hair tickled his ear. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing her in.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I see.”
Her hands stilled over his, and then they were gone. He turned and caught a glimpse of her face a second before her back was to him and she checked the roasts in the oven. While he had a fine view of her lovely backside, it was the look on her face that had him most agitated. Her eyelids were drooped, and her lips parted, and though she had turned away from him, he knew she’d felt the same stirrings he’d experienced.
Marshall resumed peeling potatoes, but in his mind’s eye, his fingers were tangled in her hair and roving down her back and —
“Damn!” He pressed his freshly injured thumb against his pant leg.
Isabelle didn’t even turn around. “Keep your thumb out of the way,” she called, still occupied with her roasts.
All too soon, a battalion of liveried footmen lined up to receive platters of food to take to the diners on the balcony.