Once a Duchess (28 page)

A little more than an hour later, Marshall was shaved and reasonably clean. He was dressed in a fresh nightshirt and bed jacket, and propped against a small mountain of pillows when a soft knock sounded on the door. In answer, his heart thundered against his ribs.

Isabelle stepped into the room and carefully closed the door behind her. Her satin dress was the pinkish gold of perfectly burnished copper, tied with a light green sash. She looked furtively around the room, as though expecting to find another assassin waiting to assail them.

Her beauty made his breath catch in his throat. She was a vision of everything that was good in Marshall’s life. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and show her better than he could say just how much he loved her. “Isabelle.” Voicing her name brought a smile to his lips.

Her eyes darted to him, then flitted away again.

Why was she so skittish? This was not the warm reunion he’d hoped for. “Come sit with me.” He extended an arm.

Isabelle lifted her chin in that pert way of hers. She eyed him warily as she crossed the room to the chair Grant had occupied.

“Come here.” Marshall patted the brocade duvet.

“This will do.” She smoothed her skirt with her palms. Then she clasped her hands in her lap and looked vacantly around the room as though Marshall was not even there.

“I understand I have you to thank for my life,” he said, adopting a business-like tone. “And Naomi’s. There aren’t words to adequately express — ”

She cut him off with an irritated wave of her hand. “I didn’t save Naomi’s life. Miss Palmer had already shot you. She’d have had to reload to threaten Naomi. I just kept her from doing so.”

What the devil was she irked about? Marshall cleared his throat. “Still, had it not been for your actions, I, at least — ”

“Why did you do it?” Isabelle snapped. Her eyes flashed green ire.

A heavy uneasiness settled in his middle. “Why did I what?”

Her chin trembled. “You’re responsible for the death of the horse all those years ago, not Mr. Gerald.”

Marshall jerked away from the accusation in her eyes. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and that Isabelle was about to push him over. More than anything, he wanted her to look at him with love in her eyes again. He dug his hands into the mattress beside his hips and raised himself further, wincing at the piercing pain the movement elicited.

Isabelle’s face was a stone mask.

He ran a hand through his damp hair. “I was thirteen,” he said. “She was my father’s favorite brood mare. I confused yew berries for juniper. It was a horrible, terrible accident. You have to believe that.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts. “I believe it was an accident. But why did you blame Thomas Gerald? Why was he transported for your mistake?”

Marshall shook his head. “He was blamed because he’s the one who fed the medicine to the horse. If you’d seen how devastated and furious my father was, I was horrified by what happened. I — ” he stammered, “I was afraid of disappointing my father, of letting him down. It was a terrible shock.”

Isabelle exhaled loudly. “What would he have done?” Her voice rose in pitch. “Docked your allowance?”

Her words stung like nettles. He wiped a hand across his forehead.

“Lest you forget,” she said indignantly, “I knew your father briefly. He adored you. He went against your mother’s wishes in blessing our marriage just to make you happy. You cannot tell me the punishment he gave you would have been worse than what happened to Mr. Gerald.”

He flinched. “No, I never said — ”

“No, you didn’t say!” she yelled, not giving him an inch. “You didn’t say for years and years. Even after your father died, you didn’t do the right thing.” She leaned forward, jabbing a finger toward him. “A single word from you could have fixed the whole mess, but you never did it. Never.”

God, it was all going so wrong! He was supposed to be declaring his love, not scrambling to explain himself.

He reached toward her. She snatched her arm back and jumped out of the chair, then crossed to the window and leaned her head against the glass. For a long moment, heavy silence filled the space between them.

“I was a child, and I made a child’s mistake. And I did try to set things right, Isabelle. After Father died, after the divorce, I tried. Legal channels are deathly slow. By the time his name was officially cleared, his time was up. I couldn’t get word to Australia sooner than the end of his sentence.” The old frustration and guilt swamped him. “Once he left, my men couldn’t find him. But I tried. His name was cleared, Isabelle. Shall I show you the papers?”

Cold eyes pinned him to the bed. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Don’t act this way,” he pleaded. “If I could take it all back, I would. You cannot know how the guilt has eaten at me for years. I am so damned sorry.”

Her head snapped around. “You’re sorry?” Her voice had become frighteningly quiet. “You felt guilty.” Her lip curled, as though he was a distasteful specimen she was forced to examine.

Somehow, Marshall preferred for her to yell at him. He licked his lips. “I’d hoped we’d have a pleasanter conversation today, Isabelle. About the future.”

She turned away to look out the window again. “What future?” Her words fell like stones into a well.

She was leaving him.

His breathing became rapid and shallow. “Ours, darling.” If only she would look at him. If he could make her angry, even, then they could hash it all out and make up. “I’ll apply for a special license when we’re back in town. We can marry as soon as possible.”

When she looked at him again, it was like staring into the eyes of a stranger. The green irises were flat, devoid of any emotion whatsoever.

“I will not marry you, sir,” she said in a bored tone. “You have a nasty habit of ruining people. You can clear names and print apologies all you want, but you cannot give us back the time we lost. I would be a fool to give you the chance to do it to me again.”

She strode across the carpet to the door. Fear choked him, stealing his breath. His heart felt like it was standing still, about to die. Her hand touched the doorknob.

“Wait!” The word tore from his throat.

She paused, but did not look at him.

“I’ve made mistakes,” Marshall said in a rush. He felt like he was drowning, thrashing to keep his head from going under. “But there are no more secrets now, Isabelle, I swear it. We can truly make a new start. Listen to me, darling.” He swallowed. “This isn’t how I imagined telling you, with me injured in bed and you angry, but it doesn’t matter. I love you.” He laughed softly. “I’ve always loved you, but I was too stupid to realize it. That’s why it hurt so much before. But none of that signifies now. I love you, Isabelle, and I swear I’ll do anything and everything within my power to make you happy.”

He paused to take a breath.

She remained impassive. “Are you finished?”

Marshall’s jaw went slack. He’d failed. He stared disbelievingly at the woman he loved more than life itself, the woman who was about to walk out of his world forever. He shook his head. “I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, his entire being thrumming with yearning.

She twisted the knob and opened the door. Then she turned her head slightly so he could see her beautiful profile. “I love you, too,” she said dully. “But it will pass.”

• • •

The door closed with a soft click. She met Caro and Naomi on the landing and paused to greet her younger friend. The dowager duchess reached a hand toward her. “Isabelle … ” the older woman began.

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.

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.

Each specimen he scrutinized was healthy, despite the plant having grown in soil known to be contaminated with the disease.
Damnation, I think I’ve done it.
He’d have to grow a new generation of plants to be sure his hybrid was truly wilt-resistant, as well as ask some colleagues to check behind him by growing plants from his seeds. Hornsby would certainly help, he thought. A weak sense of satisfaction slogged its way through his mind, but it was too feeble to take hold and bloom into any kind of positive emotion.

He stepped unsteadily back from the microscope and reached for the glass of Scotch that had become omnipresent in recent weeks. Finding it empty, he limped across the conservatory to where a decanter stood on a table. As he poured, the door opened to admit his mother. He grimaced and concentrated on filling his glass.

“There you are.” Caro’s brows drew together in a worried frown. “You’ve spent too much time cooped up inside; you’re looking rather wan, dear. And you’re losing weight. Now that you’re a bit more mobile, wouldn’t you like to get outdoors? I’m sure Naomi would be happy to walk with you, or you could ask a friend to join us here.”

“I’m not asking anyone to Helmsdale to stroll with me while I convalesce.” He greedily swallowed a mouthful of liquor, willing it to more quickly dull his senses.

“You’re drinking too much,” Caro said in a fretful tone. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’ve got to take better care of yourself. You’re behaving just like the first time — ” Her mouth shut with a snap of her teeth.

Marshall laughed bitterly. “Go on, say it. Just like the first time I parted ways with Isabelle, you mean? Is it supposed to be easier to have one’s guts turned inside-out and stomped into the ground the second time? Does one become inured to the sensation?”

“Lord, son, you’re drunk.” Caro shook her head and tsked. “It isn’t even noon yet. You must get a hold of yourself. This cannot continue.”

His eyes roved the face of the woman who had given him life. Pleasant memories floated across his vision, of stories before bed and birthday dinners and time spent together in the garden. But they were all many years past. Caro had never learned to relent control of her children’s lives to them as they matured. Pity washed over him, tempered by his weariness of dealing with her ceaseless interference. “You can’t stand that we grew up, can you?”