His smile faltered. “On to work, then?”
For the next hour, she ignored her jangling nerves while she carefully measured various minerals into small bowls, which Marshall then weighed on his scale. He was an amiable partner, patiently explaining the purpose of each mineral and demonstrating the correct way to clean the spoon between minerals, so as to not contaminate the other vessels.
She watched Marshall tinker with a bowl of powdered calcium, his jaw set in concentration, and his eyes focused solely on what he was doing. His ability to become so engrossed in his work was admirable. So many aristocrats whiled away their lives, never achieving anything worthwhile.
“A bit like cooking, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?” His eyes flicked away from the scales to give her a sidelong look.
“Putting these ingredients together just so.” She gestured to the containers. “Get it wrong, and you’ve got a big mess on your hands. Get it right,” she continued, “and you create something wonderful.”
He looked at her for a moment, his face unreadable.
She shrugged awkwardly. “Or perhaps not.”
He shook his head. “No, I think you’re right. It is very much like cooking. I just hadn’t thought of it that way.” Carefully, he tipped the calcium powder into an enameled jug. With a nod, he straightened and wiped his hands together. “Now for the most delicate part of the whole operation. Please stand back.”
Taking his grave tone to heart, she moved several steps away and held her breath while Marshall corked the jug. Then he lifted it, one hand on the bottom, the other around the neck, and shook vigorously. “Very scientific, you see,” he said.
She smothered her laugh with a hand. Marshall grinned.
A servant knocked at the door, announcing lunch on the little patio outside the greenhouse.
“I’ll leave you to your meal,” Isabelle said when the servant had gone. They’d spent a pleasant hour together, but now that their task was completed, Isabelle’s insides once more performed somersaults.
A tone of mock severity crept into his voice. “I beg your pardon? Did I or did I not give you an entire afternoon and evening yesterday?”
“You did,” she conceded.
“You shall share my meal,” Marshall continued, giving her an arch look, “and then resume your labors beside me. I shall be fully compensated for my efforts.”
She took off her smock and hung it on a peg on the wall. They washed their hands at a basin in the corner before repairing to the patio. Bensbury’s cook seemed to believe the duke in imminent danger of wasting away; though his tray had only been set for one, the quantity of food could have easily fed three.
They shared the spread of cold meats, bread, cheese, and wine. Isabelle felt as though they were in their own little secluded world. The trees and shrubberies surrounding the clearing shielded the greenhouse from view of the house.
She turned her face to the sky and closed her eyes, enjoying the cool breeze and the birdsong coming from the trees all around.
“Magical,” she murmured. “A perfect day.” She sighed contentedly and opened her eyes, to find Marshall looking at her with his steepled fingers pressed to his mouth and a bemused expression on his face.
“I’m being silly.” Isabelle waved a hand. “Don’t mind me.”
“No, you’re not. This is a rather lovely day.” He swirled his wine and regarded her with a suddenly intent gaze. Isabelle feigned interest in the trees to keep herself from squirming under his scrutiny.
His casual demeanor unsettled her. Neither of them had raised the issue of what passed between them in the rose garden the previous night. It occurred to Isabelle that Marshall was likely appalled at her shocking behavior. Combined with his belief that she was an adulteress, it was nothing short of amazing that he tolerated her company at all. She shouldn’t care about the opinion of this man who had so wrongly cast her aside, but she did. And his opinion was probably quite low. Silently, she cursed her own, treacherous heart for giving a damn about him.
“Shall we?” Marshall rose.
Isabelle nodded woodenly. As soon as she could, she would collect Lily and get as far away from Marshall — and this disastrous house party — as possible.
He led her behind the greenhouse to another worktable pushed up against the glass wall. Gloves and spades occupied a wooden box standing on one corner. Marshall retrieved a stack of pots from beneath the table.
At his instruction, Isabelle pulled on a pair of gloves and started filling the pots with soil from a bin at the end of the table. As she worked, the knots of tension in her shoulders relaxed. The breeze played across her face and neck; loose strands of hair tickled her skin. She tamped down on some soil, and glanced up at Marshall. He was watching her again, his eyes heavy-lidded and a small curve crinkling the corners of his mouth.