Isabelle had pulled off an incredible victory. Marshall watched as tray after tray of tantalizing dishes left the kitchen: turrets of cold crab bisque, asparagus in crème sauce, duck confit, venison roast accompanied by the carrots and potatoes he had prepared alongside Isabelle, and a dozen others.
She stood across the stream of servants from him, quiet pride lighting her face as she watched her supper pass. Even more incredibly, she had done all of this for his sister. In passing, he tried to picture Lucy going to such lengths for Naomi; he knew she would not. You’re not marrying a friend for your sibling. You’re marrying a duchess.
It wasn’t as compelling an argument as it might have been that morning.
He toyed with the idea that this could have been an act of contrition on Isabelle’s part, a small way of apologizing for what her adultery had done to his family. But as he regarded her beatific smile, it became increasingly difficult for Marshall to remember she had ever wronged him. In every other instance, she had always shown herself to be a woman of character. And tonight, she had gone above and beyond anything Marshall himself had ever done on behalf of a friend. Could it be that he was mistaken about her infidelity?
Isabelle caught him looking at her. “No beef stew?” he teased.
She grinned, then, a wide, happy smile. “It’s a little warm out for that,” she replied.
Over the next few hours, Marshall oversaw dispensing the bottles from the wine cellar, while Isabelle and her two kitchen helpers kept trays mounded with food. Finally, the tarts and dessert wines went upstairs. It was over. After the sweet course, the guests would entertain themselves with cards and music until bed.
“That’s that.” Isabelle sighed happily. “Except for the dishes, of course.”
Marshall wrinkled his nose. “Dishes? At this hour?” He extracted his watch from his pocket. “It’s nearly midnight.”
She playfully tossed a small towel at him. “Time and dishes wait for no man.”
A noise from the hallway caught his attention. Marshall poked his head out the kitchen door to find his wayward kitchen staff returning from their forced day off, heading for the comfort of their beds in the servant quarters.
“Not so fast!” Marshall snapped.
Gasps and mutters of “Your Grace” swept around as curtsies and bows fell and rose again like ripples across a pond.
“Despite the abdication of your duties, there has been a supper here tonight, and now it must be cleaned up.” He fixed the assembled servants in a glacial stare. To a person, the men and women wearing his livery fidgeted under their master’s scrutiny. “Your day off is,” he consulted his watch again, “officially over. Back to work.”
He turned on a heel and strode back into the kitchen, where Isabelle was consolidating the leftover soup into a single tureen.
“Plates,” he said. “We need plates.”
“More plates?” Two shadows bruised the delicate skin under her eyes.
Marshall had not eaten since noon. When had Isabelle last eaten? Breakfast, likely. And then a long day of hard, physical work. She was exhausted.
“Who can still be hungry?” she asked wearily.
“I am,” Marshall said. “And you are. Come, let’s have our supper.”
She gave him an amenable smile and nodded. A string of newly returned servants entered the kitchen, bustling around, shouting instructions to one another and clattering pots and pans. Marshall and Isabelle worked together in a quiet little oasis to prepare their own supper tray. He went down the hall to the wine cellar and selected one of his favorites to accompany their meal. Then, he carried the laden tray while Isabelle followed behind.
Neither she nor he was in any state to mingle with company. He led her out the servant’s door and around the side of the house to the garden. Away from the balcony where the gentlemen lingered over their port and cigars, but dimly lit by the light spilling from the house, a small marble-topped table just right for two stood at the entrance to the rose garden.
He set down the tray and held a wrought iron chair for her. She took her seat and opened her napkin with a snap, as nicely as if they were sitting down to a state supper in the dining room.
He watched her eyes roam the shadowy garden with obvious delight. “This is lovely,” she finally said. She turned her face to the velvety blue-black canopy overhead. “Look how pretty the stars are tonight, even with the house all alight.”
He gave the heavens a cursory glimpse. “They’re all the prettier for being reflected in your eyes.”