Isabelle blinked. She realized it was the first time in ages — perhaps ever — she’d heard her own name on her former mother-in-law’s lips. Suspicion had her backing away almost immediately. What did the witch want now? Something inside raised a voice. No more, it said. This ends.
Caro’s lips turned upward. Horns springing from her head would have looked more natural than a smile. “I want to thank you … ”
Her words trailed away as Isabelle stared blankly at her, a deliberate, stupefied expression devoid of recognition. She continued to regard the woman quizzically until, finally, the color drained from Caro’s face.
“Oh,” Caro said in a small voice. “I see.”
She fled down the stairs. Naomi gave Isabelle an anguished look before following her mother.
Caro’s change in attitude, which once would have seemed a miracle, was no longer of any consequence. Giving her the cut direct was not the gratifying experience Isabelle could have hoped for. What Caro thought of or said about her no longer mattered.
Nothing did.
She’d spent the hours after the greenhouse in a kind of numb haze, scared out of her mind that Marshall was going to die. When it became apparent that he would not, the shock wore off, giving her opportunity to ruminate on all she’d learned.
The unfortunate truth was that Marshall Lockwood had stolen her life, Justin Miller’s, and Thomas Gerald’s. If she’d been in the convict’s shoes, she would have wanted to shoot Marshall, too — and the only surprise was that it was not Mr. Gerald with the violent streak, after all, but his lover.
Before seeing Marshall today, she’d already determined not to marry him. She was furious. But then, something happened in the injured duke’s room.
The more she’d railed against him, the angrier she’d become — not at him, but at herself. The longer he attempted to explain away his actions, the more she couldn’t believe she’d ever fallen for his flimsy veneer of honor.
And then, suddenly, there was nothing. He’d taken everything from her — her trust, her love, her respect — and showed it all for the rubbish it was. All the feelings she’d had for him, good and bad, were simply gone.
She returned to her own room and sat in a window seat overlooking the rose garden.
The gaping emptiness where her heart used to be terrified her. If she could just feel something, anything, it would be better than this nothing.
She blinked rapidly. A woman in her position should be weeping at the injustice of her lot right about now. Her eyes remained dry. She just couldn’t muster the emotion needed to cry. There was simply nothing left.
• • •
At the sound of the sharp rap on the door, Marshall perked hopefully. But he realized a split second later that it couldn’t be Isabelle. That was a man’s knock. His spirits plummeted again.
He was not surprised when Alex Fairfax came in. He was not surprised by the man’s perplexed expression. And from the instant he’d realized there was a man at the door, he’d fully expected the first words out of Alex’s mouth.
“What happened?”
Isabelle’s brother looked down at the bedridden duke with frank curiosity. There was no malice or vitriol in his expression or tone, only bewilderment. “When I saw my sister ten minutes ago,” Alex continued, “she told me she was ready to leave. Her trunk is already packed. What happened, Monthwaite?”
Marshall breathed a humorless laugh. “I happened,” he muttered. “I ruined everything with her when I was thirteen years old, and every day since.”
Alex raised a questioning brow. “Have you taken laudanum again, man?”
“I’ll have the bank draft for her quarter million drawn up.” A great weight pressed down on Marshall’s chest. He blinked heavily. “If she ever needs anything more, anything at all … ”
He was not expecting the sobs that suddenly shook him, great, racking sobs that protested a life without Isabelle.
When he opened his eyes to apologize, he was alone.
Chapter Twenty
A minuscule adjustment of the small, concave mirror beneath the specimen stage flooded the glass slide with light. Marshall carefully rotated the microscope head until the blurred image of pea roots sharpened into focus.
He examined the thread-fine structures for any sign of wilt. Finding no evidence of decay, he jotted a few notes before removing that slide and replacing it with a cutting from the stem of the same plant, one of his hybrids from Bensbury. The sample showed neat, regular cell walls, with none of the discoloration or deterioration associated with wilt.