Once a Duchess(41)
Her smile faltered; her brow furrowed a fraction.
Marshall silently cursed himself. Why the hell had he said that? He sounded like some lovesick swain trying to woo a maiden, rather than the detached man he knew himself to be, sitting across the table from the woman he’d divorced. Lucy, the woman he was courting, by Jove, deserved his flattery, not Isabelle.
“I believe our efforts are telling on both of us,” Isabelle said, smoothly disregarding his outlandish compliment. She retrieved the wineglasses from the tray and turned them upright. “Would you care to pour?”
They passed their supper in companionable conversation. The food Isabelle had prepared for Naomi’s guests was delicious. Marshall regretted that their tray held only a few selections, and not the full array of dishes. He would like to have tried each and every one of her creations.
He dabbed his mouth after a bite of the duck confit. “A transient art, is it not?”
Isabelle took a sip of wine. “What’s that?”
He waved a hand, indicating the spread in front of them on the table. “Cuisine. It’s your art form, but an impermanent one.”
She tilted her head to the side. “I never considered what I do art. Everyone has to eat.”
“True, but what you create goes well beyond survival.”
Isabelle shrugged. “It is one of life’s pleasures to survive in style.”
Marshall laughed. He could not remember enjoying a woman’s company so much since — since he’d been married to Isabelle, damn it all.
They ate until only two strawberry tarts remained on the tray. Isabelle put one on a small plate to pass to Marshall, but extended her arm too quickly. The tart slid from the plate and hit the garden walk in a splatter of crumbled crust and red fruit.
She bit her lip. “Oh, dear.”
“If you think I’ve grown thick around the middle,” Marshall drawled, “you could have just said so. No sense dashing good food against the ground.”
Her face relaxed, once again at ease.
“Still,” he continued, “there’s just the one tart remaining, and as you cast mine out for the birds, I feel it’s only sporting of you to forfeit yours.”
Calmly plating the last tart, she smiled impishly. “I imagine you do. You may be dismayed, then, to learn I have no intention of giving you my sweet.” As if to reiterate the point, she forked a large bite, opened her plump lips wide, and made a rapturous noise as she tasted the tart. “One of my better crusts,” she said around her mouthful. “Flaky, tender, and those berries.” She swallowed. “Your Grace, I really must commend you. Your strawberries are divine.”
His lips twitched. “I should like to try. Surely you could find it in your heart to split the tart with me.”
She shook her head, eyes wide. “Oh, no. It’s much too good to share. I’m afraid if you tasted any, you would want it all for yourself. And then what should I do?” she asked as though caught in a dire quandary.
He fought to keep a straight face. “You shall retain your girlish figure that much longer, my dear.” He slowly reached across the table and made a grab for the fork, which she easily pulled out of his reach.
“I think not, Your Grace.” Her brow quirked in the same challenging way she’d used in the kitchen. If she wanted to play, Marshall thought, he was game.
A lazy, wolfish grin spread across his lips. “You will stop ‘Gracing’ me, if you please. You and I are beyond formalities, Isabelle.” He stood and leaned across the table again, this time swiping for her wrist.
She hopped up and grabbed the tart, plate and all. “As you wish, Marshall. You still shall not have my tart.”
“You insolent little minx.” He pushed his chair back and tossed his napkin to the table as he rose.
Isabelle squeaked and took several steps backward into the rose garden. He took two steps toward her, and stopped to watch her again pierce the tart with the fork and eat another mouthful. Moonlight grazed the surface of the dessert, giving the glaze a liquid appearance. The night air was thick with the perfume of roses. Sensual temptation drew him. Isabelle and her ridiculous tart, the lush smell of the garden, the gentle breeze touching his face, were all enough to test the mettle of a stoic, which Marshall surely was not.
A promising delight tantalized him. Why not give chase?
A low growl escaped his throat. The cords in Isabelle’s neck showed as she let out an excited squeal. She took a few more steps backward, glanced over her shoulder, turned, and started off. The chase was on.