Once a Duchess(89)

 

She raised a brow and firmed her lips, but voiced no reply.

 

Marshall clasped his hands behind his back and straightened. “This is my decision: Because the divorce into which you wrongly manipulated Isabelle and myself resulted in her expulsion from society, it is only fitting that you endure a similar fate.”

 

Caro gasped, stricken. “You can’t do that!”

 

“I just did.”

 

She raised her chin. “What if I refuse? You can’t lock me away like a prisoner. I shall go to town as I see fit.”

 

“Fine.” Marshall threw his hands wide. “Go to town. You’re right, I can’t stop you. But,” he said, raising a finger, “I can cut you off.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.

 

“Just try it,” he ground out. “At this point, I’d really like to see you do that.”

 

Caro’s face went ashen. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”

 

Marshall shrugged. “I haven’t quite decided. It took Isabelle three years to regain some degree of society.” Caro staggered backward. “We’ll start with a year,” he declared. “Next September, then, we’ll see where things stand. If you’ve behaved yourself out here, maybe I’ll let you come back to town.”

 

“But what about Naomi?” Caro asked. “You can’t mean her to miss next Season.”

 

“Aunt Janine will keep an eye on her until I’m back from South America. Grant will be in town in the spring, too. She’ll be perfectly well cared for.”

 

The light in Caro’s eyes dimmed. She seemed to collapse in on herself as her shoulders slumped and her head drooped. For a woman as self-important as his mother, there was nothing worse he could do than render her useless. But when it came right down to it, that’s exactly what she’d already made herself.

 

• • •

 

A week later, Marshall started back to town. With the expedition sailing in less than two months, he couldn’t waste any more time rusticating. His leg was strong enough to support his weight without a cane most of the time, and Caro’s attempts to change his decision about her exile at Helmsdale were becoming tedious.

 

He stopped to stay the night at David Hornsby’s home before the final leg of the trip to London. His colleague met him with his typical air of being one drink shy of blindingly drunk. And yet, as usual, he managed to defy reason and speak coherently when they repaired to the library after supper to discuss the herbarium.

 

Marshall tapped his thumbnail against his teeth while Hornsby showed him the architect’s proposed design. He listened with only half an ear as his friend pointed out the building’s features and the layout of the various gardens that would surround the facility.

 

“‘M thinkin’ of a water garden,” Hornsby slurred. “It’d go ’bout here.” He jabbed at the plan. “Now, what do you think about a pagoda for a folly? Or a temple? Or would a mock ruin be more picturesque?”

 

Marshall shook his head, endeavoring to focus and catch up with the conversation. “Pardon?”

 

“Over here, look.” Hornsby gestured to a rectangular area on the plan. “Maybe a rose garden. I’ve always liked yours at Bensbury — do you s’pose you could help with the herbarium’s?”

 

Marshall cringed at the mention of the Bensbury rose garden, a brutal reminder of his failed courtship of Isabelle. When he squeezed his eyes closed, he saw her on the backs of his lids as she’d looked the night of Naomi’s party, all rumpled, delectable female — soft in his hands and generous in her affections. And she’d needed him then, every bit as much as he’d needed her. But she doesn’t need you anymore.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

Marshall cast an agonized look at his friend’s red-rimmed eyes.

 

“You don’t look well, old man.” Hornsby gestured to a chair. Marshall fell heavily into it and rubbed his eyes. A moment later, Hornsby pressed a glass into his hand.

 

Marshall took a sip, but the alcohol made his stomach churn. He’d had his fill of overindulgence.

 

“A bit of bad luck,” Hornsby sank into the chair across from Marshall and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Being shot, and all, I mean.”

 

Marshall scoffed. He’d hardly given the shooting any thought, beyond the frustration it had caused him in moving about. The pain in his leg paled in comparison to the empty ache in his chest he wasn’t sure would ever go away. Not this time.