Naomi picked up a crimson enameled pen from the mahogany desktop and held it at each end, spinning it back and forth between her fingers. “Do you know why I invited Isabelle to my party?” Her blue eyes flicked to his face then back to the pen.
Marshall’s fingers stilled. He’d forgotten to ever raise the issue with her. Finding Isabelle cooking in his kitchen had so thrown him off guard, that the matter of precisely how it was she’d come to be there had flown from his mind. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”
“I invited her because I wanted to show her that someone in this family did not think the worst of her. I wanted to show her that I wasn’t afraid to be her friend.”
They sat quietly for a moment, while Marshall considered the humbling implications of his sister’s actions.
She tilted her head inquisitively. “So, I know why you’re here, Marshall. But I’m still not sure why I’m here. Although,” she said with a wry lift of her brow, “I think I have a good idea.”
Marshall kicked back the remainder of his drink. “If your idea is that I want to convince Isabelle to agree to marry me, and that I don’t think I can do it without your help, then you would be correct.”
Naomi covered her mouth and made a squeaking sound.
Marshall glowered. “Are you laughing at me?”
She shook her head. “Oh no, of course not.” She grinned widely. “I’m just very pleased to hear this. I must confess, Marshall, your apology in the paper was so dry,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “I didn’t know what you intended.”
Marshall stared at his sister, stupefied. What did she expect? A public love letter, dripping with romantic pleas and pledges of undying devotion? “You’ve been reading too many novels again.”
She scoffed, then placed both palms flat on the desk and leaned forward. “Do you love her?” she asked again, stressing each word.
Heat flared up Marshall’s neck. “You’ve an excess of ridiculous notions in your head,” he said, jabbing a finger at his sibling. “To begin, whether or not I love Isabelle is not in the least bit your concern. Furthermore, it doesn’t signify at all. I am fond of Isabelle. We suit well.” His throat suddenly went dry as an image of her delectable breasts brushing against his lips flashed through his mind. He cleared his throat. “Very well, in fact.” Just that bit of erotic thought had his blood thickening. He shifted; this would not do.
“Family,” he said, “is of the utmost importance to Isabelle. She has spent all spring trying to find a husband, to please her brother. The actions she took at your party went above and beyond friendship. I know you’re fond of her, as is Aunt Janine. She returns your regard, so I thought it might be beneficial to remind her that marrying me would restore her place in our family.”
Naomi looked nonplussed. “But you don’t love her?”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” He stood and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Just forget it, Naomi. It was stupid of me to bring it up.”
She rose and stepped out from behind the desk. “I’m sorry, Marshall, but I do love Isabelle. Like the sister she used to be.” Her brows rose pointedly, and Marshall flinched under her recriminating words. Stopping in front of him, she planted her manicured hands on her hips. “I will be her friend whatever happens between you two. After all she’s been through, she deserves every happiness — and if you can’t give it to her, don’t expect my help.” So saying, she turned in a haughty swirl of silk and made her exit.
Damnation, but she did that every bit as well as their mother.
He exhaled and looked out the window. Through the rivulets streaming down the glass, he made out the distorted image of a coach approaching the house. Elation stole over him. She had come. Thank God.
If Naomi wouldn’t help, he would go it alone. One way or another, Isabelle was going to be his wife. Again.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning dawned clear, the rain having finally broken overnight. Isabelle had been tense around him since her arrival yesterday. There had been no opportunity to speak in private, but he intended to rectify that this morning. The cooperative weather inspired his plan.
When he went down to breakfast, Isabelle and Naomi sat with their heads together, talking softly. His former wife wore a long sleeved dress, white with cherry stripes running the length of it. Alex Fairfax — or what Marshall could make out of him beyond the open newspaper shielding his face and torso — lounged with his chair turned at an angle, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.