Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  It wasn’t as compelling an argument as it might have been that morning.

  He toyed with the idea that this could have been an act of contrition on Isabelle’s part, a small way of apologizing for what her adultery had done to his family. But as he regarded her beatific smile, it became increasingly difficult for Marshall to remember she had ever wronged him. In every other instance, she had always shown herself to be a woman of character. And tonight, she had gone above and beyond anything Marshall himself had ever done on behalf of a friend. Could it be that he was mistaken about her infidelity?

  Isabelle caught him looking at her. “No beef stew?” he teased.

  She grinned then — a wide, happy smile. “It’s a little warm out for that,” she replied.

  Over the next few hours, Marshall oversaw dispensing the bottles from the wine cellar, while Isabelle and her two kitchen helpers kept trays mounded with food. Finally, the tarts and dessert wines went upstairs. It was over. After the sweet course, the guests would entertain themselves with cards and music until bed.

  “That’s that.” Isabelle sighed happily. “Except for the dishes, of course.”

  Marshall wrinkled his nose. “Dishes? At this hour?” He extracted his watch from his pocket. “It’s nearly midnight.”

  She playfully tossed a small towel at him. “Time and dishes wait for no man.”

  A noise from the hallway caught his attention. Marshall poked his head out the kitchen door to find his wayward kitchen staff returning from their forced day off, heading for the comfort of their beds in the servant quarters.

  “Not so fast!” Marshall snapped.

  Gasps and mutters of “Your Grace” swept around as curtsies and bows fell and rose again like ripples across a pond.

  “Despite the abdication of your duties, there has been a supper here tonight, and now it must be cleaned up.” He fixed the assembled servants in a glacial stare. The men and women wearing his livery fidgeted under their master’s scrutiny. “Your day off is,” he consulted his watch again, “officially over. Back to work.”

  He turned on a heel and strode back into the kitchen, where Isabelle was consolidating the leftover soup into a single tureen.

  “Plates,” he said. “We need plates.”

  “More plates?” Two shadows bruised the delicate skin under her eyes.

  Marshall had not eaten since noon. When had Isabelle last eaten? Breakfast, likely. And then a long day of hard, physical work. She was exhausted.

  “Who can still be hungry?” she asked wearily.

  “I am,” Marshall said. “And you are. Come, let’s have our supper.”

  She gave him an amenable smile and nodded. A string of newly returned servants entered the kitchen, bustling around, shouting instructions to one another, and clattering pots and pans. Marshall and Isabelle worked together in a quiet little oasis to prepare their own supper tray. He went down the hall to the wine cellar and selected one of his favorites to accompany their meal. Then he carried the laden tray while Isabelle followed behind.

  Neither of them was in any state to mingle with company. He led her out the servant’s door and around the side of the house to the garden. Away from the balcony where the gentlemen lingered over their port and cigars, but dimly lit by the light spilling from the house, a small marble-topped table just right for two stood at the entrance to the rose garden.

  He set down the tray and held a wrought iron chair for her. She took her seat and opened her napkin with a snap, as nicely as if they were sitting down to a state supper in the dining room.

  He watched her eyes roam the shadowy garden with obvious delight. “This is lovely,” she finally said. She turned her face to the velvety blue-black canopy overhead. “Look how pretty the stars are tonight, even with the house all alight.”

  He gave the heavens a cursory glimpse. “They’re all the prettier for being reflected in your eyes.”

  Her smile faltered; her brow furrowed a fraction.

  Marshall silently cursed himself. Why the hell had he said that? He sounded like some lovesick swain trying to woo a maiden, rather than the detached man he knew himself to be, sitting across the table from the woman he’d divorced. Lucy, the woman he was courting, by Jove, deserved his flattery, not Isabelle.

  “I believe our efforts are telling on both of us,” Isabelle said, smoothly disregarding his outlandish compliment. She retrieved the wine glasses from the tray and turned them upright. “Would you care to pour?”

  They passed their supper in companionable conversation. The food Isabelle had prepared for Naomi’s guests was delicious. Marshall regretted that their tray held only a few selections and not the full array of dishes. He would like to have tried each and every one of her creations.

  He dabbed his mouth after a bite of the duck confit. “A transient art, is it not?”

  Isabelle took a sip of wine. “What’s that?”

  He waved a hand, indicating the spread in front of them on the table. “Cuisine. It’s your art form, but an impermanent one.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “I never considered what I do art. Everyone has to eat.”

  “True, but what you create goes well beyond survival.”

  Isabelle shrugged. “It is one of life’s pleasures to survive in style.”

  Marshall laughed. He could not remember enjoying a woman’s company so much since — since he’d been married to Isabelle, damn it all.

  They ate until only two strawberry tarts remained on the tray. Isabelle put one on a small plate to pass to Marshall, but extended her arm too quickly. The tart slid from the plate and hit the garden walk in a splatter of crumbled crust and red fruit.

  She bit her lip. “Oh dear.”

  “If you think I’ve grown thick around the middle,” Marshall drawled, “you could have just said so. No sense dashing good food against the ground.”

  Her face relaxed, once again at ease.

  “Still,” he continued, “there’s just the one tart remaining, and as you cast mine out for the birds, I feel it’s only sporting of you to forfeit yours.”

  Calmly plating the last tart, she smiled impishly. “I imagine you do. You may be dismayed, then, to learn I have no intention of giving you my sweet.” As if to reiterate the point, she forked a large bite, opened her plump lips wide, and made a rapturous noise as she tasted the tart. “One of my better crusts,” she said around her mouthful. “Flaky, tender, and those berries.” She swallowed. “Your Grace, I really must commend you. Your strawberries are divine.”

  His lips twitched. “I should like to try. Surely you could find it in your heart to split the tart with me.”

  She shook her head, eyes wide. “Oh, no. It’s much too good to share. I’m afraid if you tasted any, you would want it all for yourself. And then what should I do?” she asked as though caught in a dire quandary.

  He fought to keep a straight face. “You shall retain your girlish figure that much longer, my dear.” He slowly reached across the table and made a grab for the fork, which she easily pulled out of his reach.

  “I think not, Your Grace.” Her brow quirked in the same challenging way she’d used in the kitchen. If she wanted to play, Marshall thought, he was game.

  A lazy, wolfish grin spread across his lips. “You will stop ‘Gracing’ me, if you please. You and I are beyond formalities, Isabelle.” He stood and leaned across the table again, this time swiping for her wrist.

  She hopped up and grabbed the tart, plate and all. “As you wish, Marshall. You still shall not have my tart.”

  “You insolent little minx.” He pushed his chair back and tossed his napkin to the table as he rose.

  Isabelle squeaked and took several steps backward into the rose garden. He took two steps toward her and stopped to watch her again pierce the tart with the fork a
nd eat another mouthful. Moonlight grazed the surface of the dessert, giving the glaze a liquid appearance. The night air was thick with the perfume of roses. Sensual temptation drew him. Isabelle and her ridiculous tart, the lush smell of the garden, the gentle breeze touching his face, were all enough to test the mettle of a stoic, which Marshall surely was not.

  A promising delight tantalized him. Why not give chase?

  A low growl escaped his throat. The cords in Isabelle’s neck showed as she let out an excited squeal. She took a few more steps backward, glanced over her shoulder, turned, and started off. The chase was on.

  Marshall stalked after, letting her gain distance on him. He had the advantage of familiarity with the garden. What Isabelle did not know was that the rose garden was actually a maze. It was a low one, and easy to see over the tops of the various rose plants. This only made it deceptive. Visitors were lured in for a stroll, thinking they were walking into an ordinary garden, when suddenly, they found themselves puzzling their way out again.

  He watched in growing amusement as she rounded a corner. A dead end, he knew. Sure enough, Isabelle retraced her steps and reached the intersection just as he did. He lunged. She yelped and sidestepped, then took off like a deer.

  Her herbal scent hung in the air behind her, mingling with the roses in a heady aroma. He caught sight of her frantically running up and down the aisles of flowers. She was trapped now, no getting out the way she’d come except past him.

  He caught up to her in the center — the only secluded spot in the rose garden — where a tall wall of hedges encircled a graveled clearing. In the middle, a bed of roses surrounded a fountain. Isabelle sat on a stone bench, panting. They were cut off from the house lights here, and only a little moonlight filtered in. Her features took on an ethereal quality. He glimpsed only the outline of her face, a flicker of light reflected in her eyes, the gleam of her teeth through her parted lips.

  “You, madam,” Marshall said, lowering himself beside her, “are caught. I shall have my prize now.”

  He heard the smile in her voice as she spoke. “I still don’t wish to share,” she cajoled.

  His voice rumbled in his throat. “Keep your dessert. I think I’d like something sweeter.” He heard her intake of breath as he lowered his head.

  Before reaching her mouth, he encountered a forkful of flaky pastry. He chuckled and allowed her to feed him the bite of tart. Juice flooded his mouth, and the buttery crust melted against his tongue.

  “It’s very good,” he said sincerely. “You were right to keep it away from me. Now I must have more.” He placed a hand at her waist and drew her to his side. Reaching down, he plucked the fork from her fingers, scooped up a morsel of pastry, and then returned the favor of feeding it to her.

  Isabelle closed her lips around the offering. Marshall withdrew the fork and pressed the tines, still warm from her mouth, against his own lips.

  He watched her jaw work and her throat move when she swallowed. Only highlights of her skin gleamed in the dim light, the rest was cast in shadow. The contrasting rises and falls of her contours invited his touch. He brushed a finger along her jaw, and before she could rebuff him, he bent his neck and pressed his lips to hers.

  She stiffened and made as though to withdraw. Marshall kept a hand on her back, and ran the other down her arm in a soothing touch. When she calmed he took advantage, deepening the kiss.

  He teased his lips back and forth. A hand slid up his shoulder and hooked around his neck, and then her lips parted, inviting him in. What was left of his rational mind melted away. She was warm and tasted like strawberries and wine. Heat stirred his blood, stoking the desire that he had been keeping at a dull roar ever since he’d clapped eyes on her in his kitchen.

  His tongue plunged boldly into her mouth, exploring territory that had once been so dear and familiar. An aching sense of loss caught him off guard, and he crushed her to him, desperate to hold onto this woman who captivated him in a way no other had.

  Would his body eventually come to crave Lucy the way it did Isabelle? He faltered for an instant and started to disengage.

  A mewling sound escaped her throat and her arms snaked around his neck, driving Lucy from his thoughts. For the moment, at least, no other woman existed. His fingers twined into the tresses at her nape, pulling them free of their rumpled knot. Her hair was like a blanket over his hands, comfortable and soft against his skin.

  He moved his hands to cradle her face. It felt so fragile under his palms, her cheeks cool in comparison to her hot mouth. But the fragility belied a strength he could not help but admire, and somehow contained this woman who had refused to wither away under the force of society’s condemnation and his own. Instead, she made her own way and survived. He was startled by warm tears against his fingers. He trailed kisses up one cheek to capture a tear with his lips.

  Her crying confused him. Had he scared her? She’d been willing enough to receive his kisses and had been flirting with him before. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he murmured against her temple. “What’s wrong?”

  She moved her face in his hands, shifting so his fingers once again entwined in her hair. Isabelle nuzzled under his chin, rubbing her cheek against his neck.

  “It’s been so long,” she whispered. Then he understood. She’d felt everything he’d felt this evening, up to and including the overwhelming loneliness he’d experienced when they first came together. The realization was nearly his undoing.

  With one smooth motion, he scooped her up into his lap. “Too long.”

  But she was here now, and so was he. And she was so achingly familiar. Her presence awakened memories held within his very bones. His body knew her, missed her. She touched his jaw, and the muscle vibrated beneath her palm. Her other hand rested on his shoulder. His skin burned at her touch; his thin shirt did nothing to muffle the heat, yet it was an unwelcome barrier.

  Isabelle found his ear, and drew the lobe between her lips. A jolt of sensation shot through him. He heard himself groan her name, the word ripped from the very depths of his being.

  It wasn’t enough. He had to touch her; he needed to rediscover her.

  Once again, her needs mirrored his own. Her lips fled back to his, and without breaking contact, she twisted to face him, drew a knee up and over, and resettled herself straddling his lap. His hands found her waist, and squeezed.

  She rose up on her knees and arched against him. Marshall found himself in the erotic position of looking up into Isabelle’s face. She controlled their kiss now. Her tongue set a throbbing pace.

  She did that thing with his lip that only Isabelle had ever discovered to make him wild. His erection strained against his trousers, aching to join with her. Abruptly, her mouth was gone. She made a needy little whimper and guided his head downward. Isabelle arched her back, brazenly brushing her breasts against his lips.

  Marshall chuckled low in his throat. Ah, but she had always been a sweet one. He happily obliged her unspoken request, and turned his attention there. His hands slid up to cup the firm mounds. She exhaled in relief against the top of his head.

  Her dress was already a ruin, so he did not feel badly tugging the neckline and exposing her to his view. Through her thin chemise, he saw the darker circles of her nipples.

  He dropped his head and pressed a kiss onto the top of one soft swell and then the other. Meanwhile, he captured both nipples between his thumbs and middle fingers and slowly began to roll the sensitive flesh from side to side. The nubs rose to erect points. He lightly grazed his teeth over one and suckled it through the gauzy fabric.

  She gasped and thrust her pelvis against his middle. It was becoming more than Marshall could stand, more than any functioning male could stand. His hands found the hem of her dress hitched around her knees. He slipped his hands beneath and grasped her silk-clad thighs. Impatient, he quickly moved upward and
squeezed the firm globes of her derrière. She responded with a delightful whimper. He pulled her down, bringing her into full contact with his arousal.

  Rather than shy away, Isabelle rocked her hips over him. His body jumped, hardened further by the intimate contact. “Isabelle,” he released her to unfasten his trousers, “I need — ”

  At the same moment, she said, “Marshall, we have to stop.”

  It was several seconds before her meaning sunk in. He only fully understood when she pulled her face away from his entirely.

  He swallowed hard, willing his thundering pulse to slow. “Oh,” he said lamely.

  She shifted off him, stood with her back turned, and rearranged her clothing. The stoop of her shoulders, the way she hid from him as though she was ashamed, pricked his conscience.

  He quickly set himself to rights and rose. When he placed a hand on her shoulder, she jerked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I behaved abominably — ”

  “Don’t.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Please don’t, Marshall.” She gave her dress a final tug and turned back to face him again. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to.”

  Wrapping her arms across her middle, she turned her gaze to the nearby fountain. “It would have been improvident to go further. I’m tired, and the wine went to my head, and that is all years behind us.” Her voice sounded wistful.

  He reached out and took her hand. It trembled in his grasp.

  Well done, he scolded himself. Isabelle had spent the entire day on her feet, working in the stifling hot kitchen. The poor woman was exhausted and probably ached all over, and he’d not only kept her away from bed, but also treated her most despicably, despite her denial.

  “You’re right, of course,” he said. “Come now.” He tucked her hand in his arm and escorted her through the maze and back to the house. He bade her goodnight and ordered baths be taken to both her bedchamber and his.