“I see,” Isabelle said miserably.
“There is little I can do,” Alexander continued, “about my fortune, at present. I’ve made improvements to the estate that I hope will prove profitable, as well as some investments, but it may be a few years before I see a return.” He put his hands behind his head and looked toward the ceiling. “There is nothing I can do about the fact that I have no title. The chances of the Crown bestowing a title upon a perfectly unremarkable farmer are non-existent.”
“That’s true,” Isabelle said, “but Alex — ”
“The only thing within my control,” Alexander said, lowering his gaze to regard her, his eyes hard, “is the fact that I have a divorced sister. I can either pack you off to a convent, Isa, or see you married.”
“We aren’t Catholic,” she said petulantly.
“No, but Mama was.”
“She converted!”
He waved a hand. “Don’t drive the conversation off course. Mama’s Catholicism doesn’t signify.”
“But you can’t send me to a convent.”
“You’re tempting me.” Alexander jabbed a finger at her glass of port. “Drink that,” he ordered. “I don’t like having this conversation with you quite so sober.”
She gave him an exaggerated nod, then took a sip of her drink. “Forgive me for highlighting the logical flaws in your scheme to disown me,” she said.
“I don’t want to disown you, Isa,” Alex said hotly. “What I want is to eradicate your divorced status. And the only way to accomplish that is for you to remarry.” He pulled his legs in and leaned toward her, resting his elbow on the table. “Don’t you want to marry?”
Of course she did. Well, not really. She exhaled loudly. Still, she wanted children, and to achieve that goal in a respectable fashion, she needed a husband.
Once again, she remembered herself in Marshall’s arms at the George and squirmed uncomfortably against the heat that sprang to life. No matter how she’d like to share more such intimacy with him, she was instead going to have to share it with someone else. The thought brought a bitter taste to her mouth. “Yes,” she said in a flat tone, “I should like that very much.”
“Good.” Alexander nodded. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.” He cleared his throat. “Now, Isa, you know I’m not one to preach; however, you must realize that you cannot go on now as you have before.”
She furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?”
He cut his eyes to the left and cleared his throat again. “The reason Monthwaite divorced you.”
Hot shame shot through her. “Alex!” she cried. “Tell me you do not believe that! I have told you repeatedly, Justin and I did nothing wrong.”
“I don’t know what to believe.” He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. The light from the candles on the nearby sideboard flickered across his features. “At this point, the truth doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters,” Isabelle protested passionately, nearly quivering with her desire to be understood. “It matters very much to me that my brother thinks I’m an adulteress, when I’m not!”
“You were divorced for adultery, whether you committed it or not. To the world, you
are
an adulteress, Isa, and that’s just the way of it.”
It was true. Society had branded her with a stigma, and there was nothing she could do to rid herself of it. Denying impropriety had never gotten her anything for her trouble but a dry throat.
“You’re not going to have scads of suitors,” Alexander continued. “You’ll be lucky to have any choice whatsoever.”
Isabelle’s tongue recoiled in her mouth at his words, as though being forced to swallow a particularly bitter medicine.
“I mean for you to find a husband this Season.”
“
This
Season?” Isabelle asked, bewildered. “The Season is almost underway!”
“There is plenty of time for you to get to town and attend all the balls and routs you’d like.”
Isabelle remembered the pitiful collection of clothing she’d brought home in her trunk. “Alex,” she said, mortified to confess her lack of wardrobe, “I sold my good dresses when I moved to the cottage. I haven’t had any new ones in years now.”
His green eyes were piercingly clear in the light. “I cannot outfit you like Monthwaite did.”
Her cheeks burned. “I never suggested you should!”
“You shall have new things, of course. I’ve already written to the Bachmans. You’re to stay with them in town.”
Isabelle’s heart lightened at the prospect of spending the Season with Lily and her family, but something else bothered her. “Are you not coming?”
He nodded. “I’ll be down in a few weeks to conduct some business, but there’s no point in looking for a wife until I’ve made you respectable again.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “I see. That makes sense.” She remembered Iverson’s despair at her brother’s unmarried state. What would he say if he knew Isabelle was the reason Alexander couldn’t find a good wife and start filling his nursery? She lifted her glass and threw the rest of her port back with one swallow. “I’m going to bed.”
Alexander rose. “It’s good to see you again, little sister.” He kissed her on the cheek.
Hardly believing that, Isabelle smiled weakly and started to the door.
“One more thing.”
Isabelle turned at his voice.
“You’ll accept the first respectable man who offers for you, Isa. You might not get another chance.”
Marshall sat behind his desk in the study of his house on Grosvenor Square, going over the acquisition list sent to him by the captain of the
Adamanthea
, the ship he’d hired for his South American expedition. His plans were coming together more quickly and easily than he would have imagined. At the last meeting of the Royal Society, he’d announced his intention to get such an expedition underway. Several members offered financial backing, and others had given him the names of men who could make valuable contributions to such an endeavor: artists to sketch the plant life they encountered, guides, local contacts, and someone with a ship to let for just such a mission.
His mother swept through the study door after a quick knock, dressed in an elegant, rich brown court dress over a green petticoat. She wore a three-stranded necklace of diamonds and emeralds, each successive strand longer than the previous. The requisite plumes erupting from behind her coif gave her the appearance of a rather severe duck.
Marshall smothered the smile tugging at his mouth and smoothed a hand down his black waistcoat. He stepped out from behind his desk to press a kiss to her cheek. “You look lovely, Mother.”
“Thank you, dear.” Her lips curled up in a pinched smile. “But it will be a relief to change into something more comfortable for the ball.”
Thinking of the elaborate pains women went to in preparation for a ball, Marshall could not imagine regarding a ball gown as more comfortable, but the stays and hoops involved in his mother’s court dress looked downright torturous.
“Naomi is all in a dither about being presented,” Caro said, “and her maid is as nervous as she. I should be helping her get ready. Why did you want to see me?”
Direct as ever,
Marshall thought. Since returning from his tour of the estates, he’d been pondering how best to approach the subject of Isabelle’s accusation. At first, Marshall thought not to mention it at all. What good could come of implicating his own mother in the demise of his marriage? Then he remembered the point of Naomi’s come out and the dozens of new gowns he’d bought for her first Season: marriage. He did not expect — nor even desire — his sister to select a husband her first year out, but it might happen. And in the event of such a scenario, he wanted to have this discussion with his mother in the open and out of the way. If there was anything Marshall could do to ensure his sister a happier fate in her own marriage, he would do it.
“I wanted to talk to you about something that happened while I was away last month,” Marshall said. “Do you care to sit?” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk.
“In this monstrosity?” Caro swept her hands over her wide, hooped skirts. “You cannot be serious. The coach will be trial enough.”
Marshall nodded. “As you say.” He leaned on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms.
“Do not behave in that casual fashion,” Caro scolded. “You’ll make a mess of your coat.”
Marshall straightened and tugged the cuffs of his black evening jacket while he tried to formulate the best tack to take. His mother had always held a tight rein on the family, brooking no argument against her judgment. While he’d attributed descriptors such as “self-assured” or “confident” to her in the past, he now glimpsed something darker in her motivations.
“What is this about, son?” Caro demanded impatiently. Her eyes darted to the clock on the mantelpiece before snapping back to him.
Marshall drew a deep breath. “I saw Isabelle.”
At the name of his former wife, Caro’s mouth curled into an expression of extreme distaste. “Oh?” She quirked a brow. “Shall I inquire after her health, or may we move on to a pleasanter topic of conversation?”
“She and I had a talk,” Marshall said, ignoring Caro’s jibe. “We never did talk too much back then, you know. We divorced with scarcely a word passing between us, after the unpleasantness at Hamhurst. Does it not strike you as odd?”
His mother’s features cooled into a semblance of bland indifference.
“It strikes
me
as odd,” he continued.
“She has the manners of a dock rat,” Caro snapped. “I wouldn’t expect better from a mushroom like her.”
“Hmm.” Marshall nodded. “That is certainly one perspective.” He held up a finger. “But Isabelle suggests you manipulated events to force us apart.”
Caro lifted her chin in a guarded expression. Her bejeweled fingers clasped together at her waist.
“In fact, after I agreed to the divorce, I recall you insisting I hasten to London at once. You did everything you could to part me from my wife.”
“Your
estranged
wife, whom you were divorcing,” Caro replied. “You had your father’s business to conclude and Parliament to petition. I hardly think it signifies now.”
“Why, Mother?” Marshall asked, his eyes wide, seeking. “Why did you deliberately keep us apart?”
Caro’s lips pursed, then she let out a disgusted sound. “You were too soft-hearted about that girl by half. I didn’t want her conniving her way back into your good graces.”
Could Isabelle have convinced him to abandon the divorce? His mind once again returned to their undeniable attraction in the inn, and he had to admit she very well could have done such a thing.
“You wouldn’t want to have given your name to another man’s bastard, would you?” Caro asked. “A commoner’s bastard, at that.”
He shook his head. “Isabelle had no child.”
“She would have, eventually,” Caro said emphatically. “Yours or that Miller person’s, and no one to say who the father was, and no choice for you but to claim it.” Her chest heaved against the silky constraints of her gown. “I saved you from that, Marshall.” She jabbed an index finger into the opposite palm. “I saved this
family
from having a nobody’s bastard become heir to one of the oldest titles in the kingdom.”
“You interfered,” Marshall said without much heat. Under his breath, he cursed in frustration.
Both
women were right. Isabelle’s suspicions were well founded, but so were his mother’s reasons for her actions.
“Yes, I did,” Caro said, “and I would do it again if I had to.” She patted Marshall on the arm. “Come now, it’s a new Season — balls to attend and ladies to woo, perhaps?” Her lips twisted into something he supposed was meant to resemble an encouraging smile.
He frowned. “You’ll see me at the altar soon enough. Belaboring the issue won’t get me there any faster.”
Caro gave an injured sniff, but took his mild chiding with an air of satisfaction.
Marshall still had every intention of choosing a new wife, and soon. However, the Isabelle situation needed sorting out. It brought to the surface uncertainties regarding matrimony he’d thought long buried.
The notion of another disastrous union caused his gut to churn. Drawing a calming breath, he reminded himself that he had amended his expectations of wedlock. Realizing as he now did that he could presuppose neither physical nor emotional fidelity from a wife allowed him to go in with eyes wide open. If he expected nothing, he could not be hurt by anything.
An excited squeal, followed by the patter of slippered feet on the stairs, announced Naomi’s imminent arrival.
Marshall woodenly offered Caro his arm and led her toward the entry hall to collect his sister for her presentation at Court. His mother glanced up at him and said carefully, “I’ve had it that Lucy Jamison has refused Lord Northouse,” his mother said. “She has so had her hopes set on you, and I’d like to see the match. Elizabeth Ardwick is also amazingly still unattached. You’d do well to cast your attention to those quarters, if you take my advice.”
“Thank you for the information, Mother,” Marshall said coolly just as Naomi burst from the stairs in a snowy billow of lacy ruffles. His sister was trussed up in a fashion similar to their mother, but everything she wore was pure white, down to the feathers and pearls in her strawberry-tinged golden hair. “There you are, darling,” he said, his thoughtful frown turning to a sincere smile at his sister’s unrestrained enthusiasm. “Pretty as a picture and twice as dear. It’s just as well Prinny already has two wives, otherwise he’d snatch you up for himself.”
Naomi giggled behind a white-gloved hand. “Marshall, you are too much,” she said, lightly swatting his arm with her fan.
“Indeed I am,” Marshall said, bowing gallantly. “I have the pleasure of escorting the two loveliest ladies in England. How could I not be positively bloated with pride?”
As he handed first his mother, and then Naomi, into the carriage, Marshall thought about another lovely lady he knew, and wondered whether his letter had had any effect, or if she was spending this brisk March evening in the hot kitchen of a Leicestershire inn.
• • •
A month into the Season, everyone who was anyone was now in town to see and be seen. The Peel’s ball was an absolute crush. Marshall looked over the heads of the throng to the dance floor, where Naomi was being led through a set by a young fellow named Henry something. It had become increasingly difficult to keep all of his sister’s suitors straight in his mind. As he’d suspected, Naomi was a success, and considered one of the Season’s best catches.