As he washed off his unprecedented day in the kitchen, he considered what had passed between himself and his former spouse. She was right; their behavior had been improvident. They should not have gotten themselves into such a situation. They both knew better. But she was dead wrong about one thing. It was obvious to Marshall that no matter what she said, it was not behind them now. Not by a long shot.
Chapter Nine
The sky was the middling gray between night and sunrise when Kelan dragged himself out of bed, dressed, and stumbled to the stables, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The morning fog clung to the ground; he amused himself by pretending his feet had disappeared, and that he was a ghost floating across the stable yard.
The lad entered the dark stable and was greeted by the familiar, clean smells of his trade: hay, dung, and oiled leather. A few soft wickers acknowledged his arrival.
Sometimes he resented that the horses ate their breakfast hours before Kelan got his, but then he reminded himself to be grateful. There were few jobs to be had in his native Midlands anymore, and the money Kelan sent home to his widowed mother and siblings helped keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. His Grace paid well, and the head groom was a fair man. Kelan reckoned if the Duke of Monthwaite wanted his horses kissed on the lips every day, he should be obliged to pucker up and thank his lucky stars for the chance.
He made his way down the row of stalls, doling out feed to His Grace’s cattle.
Kelan approached Rosemary’s stall. She was with foal, and so received a larger portion of feed than the others. He reached into the feed sack, not paying attention to his feet, and suddenly found himself sprawled on his back with the air knocked from him. Feed spilled across the clean dirt floor.
“Bollocks!” He had only been at Helmsdale a little over a month. He didn’t want to foul up and give the head groom a reason to send him packing. He picked up the feed sack and turned on his knees to find the obstacle that had caused him to slip. It was a brown jar, half full of some sticky substance. Kelan stood, brushed the dust from his pants, and glanced into the stall. Rosemary was not waiting at the stall door for her morning feed like the other horses had been. She was usually more eager for her breakfast than the rest. He wrinkled his brow and leaned over the door.
The horse lay on her side on the stall floor. Kelan could see her stomach moving in and out, but she didn’t look good. Slowly, he walked into the stall and crouched next to the mare’s head, extending a trembling hand. She whinnied the instant he touched her. He snatched his hand back and wiped horse sweat onto his pants. Her breathing was hard and labored. She wasn’t supposed to foal for another month, but if Kelan had to guess, that’s what seemed to be happening. Fear gripped his heart. What if the horse died? Suddenly, the feed he’d spilled seemed a small thing.
“Hang in there, girl,” he told the ailing animal. “Mister Roden won’t let nothin’ bad happen to you.” He backed out of the stall and left at a dead run to fetch the head groom. He found the man at breakfast. Between panting gasps, he communicated to his superior that something was terribly wrong with Rosemary.
Together they went back to the stable. Roden had been head groom at Helmsdale for over twenty years, and regarded the horses almost like his own children. Kelan thought the older man might cry when he saw Rosemary’s sorry state.
Roden made soft, shushing sounds to the horse, just like to a fretful babe. He pulled a rag from the waist of his pants and wiped the sweat from the mare’s face. Kelan shifted nervously from foot to foot, wringing his hands as he watched, uncertain what, if anything, he should do. He didn’t think he was making any noise, but Roden crossly told him to be quiet as he laid a hand on Rosemary’s belly. The head groom closed his eyes for what seemed to be a very long time. After a while, he opened them again. “She’s having contractions, but they’re not strong. All we can do is keep her quiet and hope they stop. If she delivers now, the foal won’t make it.”
Kelan resumed his nervous stepping. The only thing worse than a dead horse would be a dead foal. His Grace would not be happy about that. He chewed anxiously at his thumbnail. Roden sighed and rose, leaning heavily on his knee and making the same grunting sound Kelan’s grandfather made when he stood up.
The head groom patted Kelan’s shoulder. “You did the right thing coming to get me, lad. We’ll take care of her as well as we can and hope for the best. Go on with your duties now.”
“Yessir.” Kelan bent over to retrieve his feed sack.
Roden suddenly froze beside Kelan. “What’s that?”
“What?” Kelan followed Roden’s eyes to the floor, where the jar lay on the floor, forgotten. “It’s a jar, but I don’t know why it’s here. It was sitting there when I came in this morning.”
“Sitting where?” Roden asked, his weathered face grim.
“Right there,” Kelan pointed to the spot where he’d fallen, “in front of the mare’s stall.”
The old groom snatched up the jar. He looked at it, cursed, and walked out into the stable yard. Kelan trailed after, blinking in the light of the newly risen sun.
Roden stopped just outside the door and peered into the jar, turning it so the weak, early light illuminated the contents. He scooped a dollop of the paste onto his finger, sniffed it, then lightly touched it to his tongue. He spat.
“God’s blood,” he muttered. “That misbegotten whoreson … “ He rounded on Kelan. “Bring the steward. Run, lad. I don’t care if you have to tear Helmsdale apart, you find the steward and bring him here fast as you can. He has to see this and send word south to His Grace.” He cursed again and scraped his finger on the jar’s mouth.
Kelan wondered what the fuss was about. It was just a jar with some kind of jam —
“Don’t stand there with your jaw flapping in the breeze, boy,” Roden snapped. “Run!”
Kelan jerked, frightened anew by the urgency in the head groom’s voice.
He ran.
Chapter Ten
Isabelle enjoyed the pleasant sensation of slowly waking in a luxurious bed. After her bath last night, she’d fallen asleep before her head hit the pillow, and so had not noticed how extremely comfortable it was. The smooth sheets smelled faintly of powder, and if there were clouds for the cherubs in heaven, surely they could not be softer than this mattress.
At last, she opened her eyes. A tray with chocolate sat beside the bed. She lifted the bowl to her lips and sipped. Tepid. She furrowed her brow. What time was it? It was not her custom to sleep late.
She slid out from between the sheets and her bare toes curled into the thick nap of a fine carpet. Late morning sunlight streamed onto her face when she drew the heavy drapes. Turning, she spotted a clock on the mantle. Almost noon.
Not surprising, all considered. Yesterday had been a terribly long day. Her legs, feet and back still ached from standing so long. She had been up quite late …
Isabelle’s face flushed as the memory of what she had been up late doing returned. She’d behaved like an absolute wanton, and only a happenstance reminder from her conscience that she should not, in fact, become intimately engaged with a man to whom she was not married had brought her kiss-addled brain back to its senses.
She was more than a little afraid of the way her heart skipped a beat as she thought about him. Developing an easy repartee with her former husband was one thing, but he’d already broken her heart once; Isabelle couldn’t allow him to do it again.
She donned a light blue dress with green leaves embroidered on the sash. After styling her hair in a neat twist, she went looking for Lily. Her friend was not in her room. A maid told her Lily was having a late breakfast with Lady Naomi and her guests.
Isabelle started toward the dining room but stopped short when a number of feminine voices floated down the hallway. She suddenly felt very conspicuous and out of place. No doubt, Naomi wo
uld welcome her to the table, but how would she explain Isabelle’s presence to the others?
Instead, she decided to find Marshall. He was an enormous help last night. She’d been overwhelmed and sinking fast; his arrival had bolstered her spirits, in addition to providing another pair of hands. It would be appropriate to thank him, if he hadn’t already gone back to London this morning.
The butler informed her that, yes, the master was still at home and working in the greenhouse. Following the butler’s directions, she took a path past the expansive vegetable garden she’d raided yesterday, into a more sheltered area. Tall trees mingled with the plantings, giving the garden the appearance of having just sprung into being, although Isabelle knew Marshall’s hand had been at work here.
The intimate, raw beauty of this garden made her feel like a fairy tale princess wandering through the woods. She smiled, restraining the girlish temptation to skip along the stones.
At a curve in the path, the overhead canopy opened to a clearing, in the center of which stood Marshall’s greenhouse. She gasped at the sight of it: a beautiful structure, all sparkling clean glass and white iron. The framework divided the glass into a neat grid. A row of pointed finials marched down the length of the roof. Boxwoods lined the sides, and roses and lavender mingled together in a bed near the entrance. The whole effect gave the greenhouse the appearance of a cozy cottage — albeit one made of glass.
Isabelle hesitated with her hand on the weathered bronze doorknob. Inside, Marshall stood at a worktable along the left wall. He wore buckskin breeches and soft brown boots. For a shirt, he wore a plain tunic suitable for a gardener, but it didn’t look out of place on the Duke of Monthwaite. He elevated the status of the lowly garment, rather than look more common himself. Several containers and a scale stood on the table in front of him, and he was writing something on a sheaf of paper. He probably wouldn’t appreciate the interruption.
Before she could repent her decision to seek him out, he looked up. Their eyes locked. A thrill coursed up her spine, and her skin suddenly tingled all over, just from the force of his glance. His lips turned in a lazy, half-smile. She swallowed, suddenly very sure coming here had been a bad idea. An instant later, he was at the door, opening it, beckoning her inside.
“Isabelle,” he said warmly, nodding. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have had a stove and saucepans brought from the house to make you feel at home.”
All her anxieties melted away at his jest. It was better this way, she thought, stepping past him into the greenhouse’s enveloping warmth. He knew her in a way no one else did; it was a good feeling to be on friendly terms with her former husband.
He closed the door behind her. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” His eyes were alight with mirth.
His tunic neck hung open in a vee, exposing his neck and a tantalizing bit of his upper chest. She raised her eyes and found him studying her closely. Heat flooded her cheeks at being caught examining him.
Isabelle cleared her throat. “I wanted to thank you,” she explained, watching as his brows rose a fraction. The mildly surprised expression was so familiar and dear, she felt a pang in her chest. Pushing it aside, she forged ahead. “Your help yesterday was invaluable.” She smiled, awaiting his gracious reply.
Instead, he watched her thoughtfully for a moment, then turned his head. He rotated a pot containing a violet. “I thought my bumbling must have been more trouble than it was worth.” He smirked in a disarmingly charming way. A jolt of nerves shot through her.
She nodded, feeling once again that being here was a mistake. “I’m sorry for intruding. I’ll be on my way. I only wanted to deliver my thanks.” The ridiculous urge to drop a curtsy nearly overcame her. He’d thrown her off balance with a simple twitch of his lips. Time to go.
“Would you like to return the favor?” he asked.
She turned and gave him a questioning look.
“I could use some assistance.” He gestured to his worktable with a toss of his head. “The gardener usually attends, but he’s looking after his ailing wife.”
Isabelle felt like a rabbit in a snare. She couldn’t refuse him, not after he’d given her so much help last night. “Certainly,” she replied at last. “I should be the most ungrateful woman alive if I didn’t.”
He nodded. “Good. This way, then.”
Sunshine streamed through the glass ceiling, and the air was thick with the aromas of flowers and earth. Being inside the glass house was like walking through a dream, she thought drowsily. The light had a different feel than it did out of doors. Isabelle could only interpret the sensation as green and nourishing.
At the worktable in the back, Marshall handed Isabelle a smock. It was too large for her, and she felt silly in it, especially with Marshall looking so fine in his own work clothes.
“What are we doing here?” she asked as she buttoned the voluminous smock, nodding toward the bowls, bottles, and jars on the table.
“I’m mixing a formulation of plant food to give the tenant farmers at Helmsdale. We had good success with it last season at Hamhurst.”
Isabelle cut her eyes at him. “Do your farmers know they are being experimented on?”
Marshall clicked his tongue. “I haven’t couched it in those terms. Besides, I experiment on myself before giving formulations to my tenants. The garden here is the first to try my concoctions.”
“The vegetable garden?” she asked.
He nodded.
Isabelle furrowed her brow. “Do you mean to say your dinner guests are on the receiving end of your unproven botanical research?” She recalled how liberally she had taken from the vegetable garden for the previous night’s supper and hoped she hadn’t inadvertently poisoned anyone.
Marshall winked. “It’ll be our secret, all right?” He pressed a finger to her lips. Isabelle laughed, and put a hand on his wrist to push it away. When she touched him, her laughter died in her throat. Her heart hammered. She bit her lip.
His smile faltered. “On to work, then?”
For the next hour, she ignored her jangling nerves while she carefully measured various minerals into small bowls, which Marshall then weighed on his scale. He was an amiable partner, patiently explaining the purpose of each mineral and demonstrating the correct way to clean the spoon between minerals, so as not to contaminate the other vessels.
She watched Marshall tinker with a bowl of powdered calcium, his jaw set in concentration, and his eyes focused solely on what he was doing. His ability to become so engrossed in his work was admirable. So many aristocrats whiled away their lives, never achieving anything worthwhile.
“A bit like cooking, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?” His eyes flicked away from the scales to give her a sidelong look.
“Putting these ingredients together just so.” She gestured to the containers. “Get it wrong, and you’ve got a big mess on your hands. Get it right,” she continued, “and you create something wonderful.”
He looked at her for a moment, his face unreadable.
She shrugged awkwardly. “Or perhaps not.”
He shook his head. “No, I think you’re right. It is very much like cooking. I just hadn’t thought of it that way.” Carefully, he tipped the calcium powder into an enameled jug. With a nod, he straightened and wiped his hands together. “Now for the most delicate part of the whole operation. Please stand back.”
Taking his grave tone to heart, she moved several steps away and held her breath while Marshall corked the jug. Then he lifted it, one hand on the bottom, the other around the neck, and shook vigorously. “Very scientific, you see,” he said.
She smothered her laugh with a hand. Marshall grinned.
A servant knocked at the door, announcing lunch on the little patio outside the greenhouse.
“I’ll leave you to your meal,” Isabelle sai
d when the servant had gone. They’d spent a pleasant hour together, but now that their task was completed, Isabelle’s insides once more performed somersaults.
A tone of mock severity crept into his voice. “I beg your pardon? Did I or did I not give you an entire afternoon and evening yesterday?”
“You did,” she conceded.
“You shall share my meal,” Marshall continued, giving her an arch look, “and then resume your labors beside me. I shall be fully compensated for my efforts.”
She took off her smock and hung it on a peg on the wall. They washed their hands at a basin in the corner before repairing to the patio. Bensbury’s cook seemed to believe the duke in imminent danger of wasting away; though his tray had only been set for one, the quantity of food could have easily fed three.
They shared the spread of cold meats, bread, cheese, and wine. Isabelle felt as though they were in their own little secluded world. The trees and shrubberies surrounding the clearing shielded the greenhouse from view of the house.
She turned her face to the sky and closed her eyes, enjoying the cool breeze and the birdsong coming from the trees all around.
“Magical,” she murmured. “A perfect day.” She sighed contentedly and opened her eyes, to find Marshall looking at her with his steepled fingers pressed to his mouth and a bemused expression on his face.
“I’m being silly.” Isabelle waved a hand. “Don’t mind me.”
“No, you’re not. This is a rather lovely day.” He swirled his wine and regarded her with a suddenly intent gaze. Isabelle feigned interest in the trees to keep herself from squirming under his scrutiny.
His casual demeanor unsettled her. Neither of them had raised the issue of what passed between them in the rose garden the previous night. It occurred to Isabelle that Marshall was likely appalled at her shocking behavior. Combined with his belief that she was an adulteress, it was nothing short of amazing that he tolerated her company at all. She shouldn’t care about the opinion of this man who had so wrongly cast her aside, but she did. And his opinion was probably quite low. Silently, she cursed her own, treacherous heart for giving a damn about him.
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