Once a Duchess(53)

 

I can’t do this again, she’d said. What couldn’t she do?

 

Marshall’s thoughts were in a whirl, and his stomach in such knots he could barely eat these last few days. When Isabelle showed up at his greenhouse, looking like some sort of woodland nymph stepping out of a storybook, he’d been utterly enchanted and as aroused at the sight of her as he’d been the night before in the rose garden. He’d played on her innate sense of fairness and roped her into assisting him, just to keep her with him for a little while.

 

Time at her side hadn’t been good enough — he’d found himself completely obsessed with the idea of making love to her again. And when he saw her standing in front of him, her beautiful body as glorious in the little clearing as Eve in the Garden, and as sweet and tempting as a forbidden fruit, he’d been driven to his knees with lust.

 

Being with Isabelle again brought back more than the memories of their sweet nights of wedded bliss; he’d been reminded again how she’d held him utterly captivated, besotted, very nearly in love. And now those same emotions all came rushing back.

 

But those feelings brought a friend with them this time: guilt. For there was something else Marshall had discovered during the course of their love play — Isabelle’s broken rib.

 

She’d told the truth. The day his mother saw her in the Hamhurst cottage with Justin Miller, his wife had been injured, not in the throes of committing adultery. When Caro described seeing Isabelle in a shocking state of undress with Miller’s arms around her, he had been wrapping her torso with strips torn from her petticoat, not tupping her.

 

At the time, he’d innately known that the truth was other than it seemed, but he didn’t trust his own judgment. He was still reeling from his father’s sudden death and overwhelmed by his new responsibilities as duke. Caro’s letter denouncing Isabelle stunned him. When he returned to Hamhurst and learned Miller had been there with his wife, it was too easy to believe the worst. Isabelle was the scheming adventuress Caro had warned him about. The “broken rib” seemed like a paltry lie.

 

If only he had calmed down and listened when she tried to explain, mayhap they could have avoided this mess. If only he hadn’t taken Mr. Miller’s disappearance as proof of guilt. A thousand other if-only’s tumbled through his mind. He groaned and pressed a hand to his eyes.

 

He’d divorced his wife on false pretenses. He had ruined an innocent woman, just as he’d ruined the innocent Thomas Gerald. In both matters, his own lack of awareness had led to disastrous results, ones he wished with every fiber of his being he could undo. The pain cut deep.

 

He put his mind to what could be done to rectify the matter. The fact was that she drove him to distraction. Isabelle spelled nothing but trouble for Marshall. He was as physically attracted to her as he’d ever been — perhaps even more so. As long as she and he were both unwed, he didn’t trust himself to keep away. She was a loose end in his mind, flailing about to catch him off guard time and again.

 

The answer had to lie in tying up that loose end. Like all other unwed females of marrying age, Isabelle must have come to London to find a husband. Successfully doing so would be no easy task for a divorced woman. Socially, she was so beyond the pale, she might as well be branded with an “A” as the Puritans were wont to do in the old days.

 

If he could help her, though … He frowned in intent concentration; his fingers tapped a rapid beat against the desk.

 

Helping Isabelle marry again would serve multiple purposes. First and foremost, seeing her well settled would alleviate his new and profound sense of guilt. Ending their marriage had robbed Isabelle of all the comfort and security to which she had been entitled as his wife. Restoring her to a similar situation would go a long way toward reparation.

 

Second — but just as important, he thought ruefully — an attached Isabelle would be unavailable. Having previously been the betrayed party (or so he’d thought), Marshall reviled the very notion of cuckolding a husband. Seeing Isabelle with another man’s ring on her finger would effectively quench his sexual desire for her. If not, his own marriage to Lady Lucy should put the nail in that coffin. His potent contempt for infidelity ensured that he would never be unfaithful to his spouse, even if he had no illusions of receiving the same loyalty in return.

 

He imagined Isabelle with a new husband: building a life and a home, sharing a marriage bed, having children. He envisioned her round with another man’s child. Panic clawed at his throat and he felt the mental equivalent to a horse kick in the sternum.