The Reconciliation
an excerpt

Tender new leaves filtered the light, molding it into beams that alighted on the trail like guideposts. At the next curve, Isabelle looked back over her left shoulder. There was no sign of Justin. She grinned, and turned back, just as a newly-fallen tree appeared across the path. Shock slapped her in the face. She gasped just as Davey Boy hurled himself over the obstacle. Isabelle, unprepared for the jump, lost her precarious balance and tumbled down. Pain erupted across her hip and ribs. She struggled to draw breath, struggled against the encroaching darkness pulling at her.

Isabelle was barely aware of Justin's thundering approach. “Good God!” And then he was kneeling beside her. “Isa! My God, are you all right?”

She groaned at the sound of his voice.

He patted her cheek. “Stay with me, now, Isa. There was a cottage, you said. Is it near?”

Isabelle gave the barest nod and winced at the pain the motion caused.

“Up you go, girl.” He scooped her into her arms. Isabelle cried out against his chest. “Dear Lord, Isa,” Justin said, “I do believe you fractured that log. Surely His Grace has axes, and does not require you to sacrifice yourself for the sake of the kindling?”

His attempt to distract her failed. Every step he took was a misery, sending jolts of fire up her right side. He paused to collect the reins of both his stallion and Davey Boy, who had come to a halt once his rider parted ways with his back. Justin kept up a string of one-sided conversation. His exertion became evident as his voice grew more strained and his breathing labored.

“What are they feeding you?” he finally asked. “Bars of lead in cream sauce?”

***
FROM CHAPTER SIX:

“Wha' was this you started saying 'bout an. . . an expedition, old man?” Hornsby said.

“South America,” Marshall replied. “I want to take an expedition to South America, to the jungle. D'you know, Hornsby, we have, in just the last few years, discovered hun—no, thousands of new species in the South American jungle. And we've only scratched the surface. There is much work to be done.” His voice dropped. “I'd like to be there—see it myself. Maybe discover a plant or two.”

In the silence that followed, both men drank from their brandies. Isabelle felt another, insidious twinge of tenderness for this man who had tossed her aside. She would feel that way for anyone who spoke with such obvious fervor for a passion, she reminded herself. It wasn't just Marshall who could evoke such feelings.

“Sounds marvelous,” Hornsby said. He reached for the bottle on the small table between them to refill his glass, and, finding it empty, stood and turned. “Hullo,” he said, catching sight of Isabelle. “I didn't realize we had an audience.”

Marshall turned. Whatever warmth he might have felt in discussing his dreams of a botanical expedition drained away at the sight of her.

Isabelle flinched under the force of his withering expression. “Forgive the intrusion, my lords,” she said. “I'm just clearing away the dishes.” She began to do just that, all the while painfully aware of both men watching her. Had Marshall told his friend who she was?

Her rattled nerves evidenced themselves in short order. The moment she picked up a stack of plates, the lot of them went to rattling, thanks to her trembling hands. Her cheeks burned. She lowered the stack to the cart and turned around to collect more dishes. Marshall stood two feet in front of her.

“You're not very good at this, are you?” He stood with his arms crossed, leaning casually with one thigh against the table, looking every inch the cool, aloof aristocrat. His expression was as perfectly bland as his drawl.

Isabelle's tongue flicked over her lower lip. “No, I'm not,” she said frankly. “Waiting on spoiled noblemen is not how I usually spend my time. But thank you, my lord,” she said, echoing her words to him from the wedding, “for pointing that out.” Marshall's eyes narrowed.

“Oh, ho!” Hornsby exclaimed. He moved to stand a short distance from her right side, effectively boxing her in, with Marshall to her front, the table to her side, and the wall behind. “This one's got a mouth, ain't she?”

Marshall paid no attention to his companion, who swayed drunkenly on his feet.

“How, pray tell,” he said, clipping his words, “do you spend your time? Usually.”

“I could hazard a guess,” Hornsby said. Again, neither Isabelle or Marshall deigned to notice him. They were wrapped up in their own, private exchange, with no room for a third party.

Isabelle met Marshall's glowering expression with a small smile. She slipped into “parlor mode” to answer his question, her tone as light as if they were sipping tea on the settee: “Thank you for asking, your grace,” she said with a slight nod. “I am chiefly employed by Mr. Jones in the capacity of supper cook. This evening, however, one of our serving girls suffered an unfortunate accident which left her with an injured hand. Young Sammy,” she continued, “meant to bring his sister in to help, however,” her voice lowered as though she were sharing the tastiest new on dit, not village gossip, “the young lady seems to have found herself. . . enceinte.” Marshall continued to regard her in stony silence. “As the young lady is naturally preoccupied with her own imbroglio and unable to come to our aid, I took over the serving girl's duties tonight.” Isabelle tilted her head to the side and quirked a brow, hoping her face betrayed none of the heart-racing nerves she felt.

A muscle in Marshall's jaw twitched. “Are you quite finished?”

“Oh!” Isabelle said, blithely ignoring his black mood, “the serving girl's name is Gretchen. Please remember her in your prayers tonight. Her hand was quite badly burned.”

Hornsby barked a laugh. Isabelle turned to him just as he slipped an arm around her waist.

“What a delightful creature,” he said, hugging her to his side. The man's bloodshot eyes roved boldly over her figure. “I daresay, Monthwaite, put a gown on this one, and she could pass muster at most any rout, don't you think?”

“I daresay,” Marshall drawled.

The clammy heat coming from Hornsby's soft body was unbearable. Isabelle tried to step away, but he held her in an iron grip. “What is your name?” Hornsby asked. “I must know.”

“Mrs. Jocelyn Smith,” Isabelle said, reflexively giving her assumed name. Hornsby's arm slackened a bit. She started to edge away from him.

“Married, then?” Hornsby regarded her with droopy eyes reminiscent of a bloodhound.

“I used to be,” Isabelle said. Marshall straightened. “My husband died several years ago.”

Hornsby's face brightened with a wide grin. “A widow! Some of our favorite people are widows, aren't they, Monty?” He hugged her tightly again, this time bringing his other arm around her waist, as well.

Isabelle struggled against his crushing embrace. The sickly sweet aroma emanating from him filled her nostrils. She turned her head to escape it.

“I'm sure the nights have been lonely, m'love,” Hornsby slurred against her ear.

Isabelle cast a desperate look at Marshall. He made no move toward intervening on her behalf.

“Actually, no,” Isabelle said, casting daggers at the tall, silent man, “not at all. I don't miss my husband in the least.”

“He must not have been man enough for you.” Hornsby's hands slid down her back.

Isabelle answered him while still looking at Marshall, “No, I don't suppose he was.”

Three things happened in quick succession: Hornsby grabbed hold of her derrière; Isabelle yelped and pushed against his chest; and Marshall bellowed, “Enough!”

Hornsby released Isabelle, who made a move for the door, only to have Marshall's hands close around her upper arms in a vise grip.

“You will come with me now,” he said thorough clenched teeth.

“Now, see here, Monthwaite,” Hornsby said indignantly wagging a finger, “I should like to point out that I laid claim upon Mrs. Smith's attentions first. If she is going to go with anyone, in the spirit of fair play, it should be—”

“Shut up, Hornsby,” Marshall snapped. “Mrs. Smith and I,” he said, dripping sarcasm all over her assumed name, “have some things to discuss.” He pushed her from behind, steering her out the door and to the stairwell.

“I really don't think I have time for a chat just now,” Isabelle said, futilely attempting to twist free of his grasp. “Mr. Jones is expecting me to get that room cleared. . .” She leaned her back against him, pressing her feet into the floor in an attempt to force him to stop.

“If you continue to resist, I will pick you up and carry you,” he said.

“I'll scream if you do,” she countered.

“And I will throttle you.”

“You'll be tossed out,” Isabelle said. “Maybe arrested.”

“It will be worth it.” His voice was a low rumble against her neck. She shivered at the feel of it.

“All right,” she hissed. Isabelle snatched her arms out of his grip and mounted the stairs under her own power, excruciatingly aware of his presence right behind her.

He guided her to his room toward the back of the inn. He opened the door, and a raspy, masculine voice said, “Hello, your grace. I've laid your nightshirt out—”

Isabelle followed Marshall into the room, and his valet stopped speaking the instant he clapped eyes on her. At first he gave his master a disapproving frown. Then, Clayton looked at Isabelle again, and saw her that time. “You!” His mouth pinched, pulling his thin nose downward.

“Good evening, Clayton,” Isabelle said coolly.

Marshall's bedchamber was The George's largest. A double-mattressed bed occupied one corner. A stand with a ewer and basin resided alongside a bureau where Marshall's grooming implements had been laid out. The room had its own fireplace, and a small sitting area in front of it. A smaller room off to the side would house his valet and trunks. Isabelle felt even more conspicuous in her cook's garb in this lovely chamber, standing in front of the duke and his impeccably dressed valet.

“Go have a drink,” Marshall said.

“Sir,” Clayton started, casting a frosty look at Isabelle, “if I may say so—”

“You may not,” Marshall interrupted. “Not this time.”

Master and valet exchanged a silent communication. At last, Clayton acquiesced with a nod. Isabelle stepped back to allow him to pass, but he still managed to “accidentally” clip her with his shoulder on his way out.

Marshall crossed to a sideboard and splashed some whiskey into a glass for himself, but offered her nothing. Isabelle decided it would be best not to comment on his lack of hospitality.

“I'm waiting, Isabelle,” he said.

“For what, my lord?” she asked. She smoothed the front of her skirt with her palms and took a turn around the sitting area, nervously taking in her surroundings. She'd never been in the guest chambers before. Mr. Jones made sure his moneyed customers had well-appointed rooms, she observed.

“An explanation,” Marshall said. “What is this ridiculous charade about, Mrs. Smith?”

Isabelle flinched as though struck. She looked at him, bewildered. “Charade?” She laughed. “Do you think I'm just playing at being a cook in an inn? Like Marie Antoinette and her shepherdess fantasy? You suppose I'm doing this for a lark?” She shook her head. “You're blind, Marshall. You always have been. I have yet to witness your legendary adherence to truth above all else.”

Marshall slammed his glass to the sideboard. “What is that supposed to mean?” He crossed to where she stood. Isabelle quavered. “And get that off your head. It's obscene.” He yanked the cap from her head and tossed it to the floor. Isabelle's long hair unwound from its unpinned twist and fell down her back.

“I mean exactly what I say, Marshall. You are blind to the truth.” She turned away from him and stared into the fire rather than continue exposing herself to his searching eyes. “At least when it comes to me.”

“Oh, yes. You and the truth. Old bosom companions,” Marshall said, gesturing widely with a hand. “How could I forget?”

Exhaustion and hunger wrapped tentacles around her. She still had to clean up after her former husband and his amorous friend before she could walk a mile through the cold February night to share a bowl of stew with Bessie. She could think of no good reason to put up with Marshall's abuse. “I'm leaving,” Isabelle said wearily. “You're completely foxed. Go to bed.” She stooped to pick up her cap, but Marshall got to it first.

“You're right,” he said. “I'm foxed. I'm foxed because I'm angry, and embarrassed. . .”

Isabelle drew herself up. “What reason do you have to be angry and embarrassed? If you are referring to my position here—”

“It's degrading,” Marshall said, wringing her cap in his fists. “A woman of your birth—my former wife, I might add—”

“'Former' being the key word,” she interrupted. “My actions in no way reflect upon you.”

“Like hell they don't!” He raked one hand through his dark, wavy hair and gave her a boyish, imploring look. “Isabelle, if you were recognized, I would be the laughing stock of the ton. Again.”

She bristled at his words. “Poor little duke,” she mocked, flinging her arms wide. “Suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. At least you don't have to. . .” Isabelle shook her head and spun away.

“I don't have to what?” Marshall asked. “Work in an inn?”

Isabelle stared at her toes.

“Talk to me,” he said in a more moderate tone. “Why do you have to work in this inn?”

“Because the one the next village over wasn't hiring,” she said.

Marshall chuckled. His hand was on her shoulder then, gently turning her around. He lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger. Isabelle looked into his eyes. She wasn't sure what she saw there—compassion? Pity, perhaps? At least it wasn't anger. She was simply too tired to confront his anger again.

“Has your brother cut you off?” he asked. His thumb lightly stroked her jaw.

The gentleness of his words and touch utterly crumbled Isabelle's defenses. The strong, capable facade she'd been carefully building ever since receiving Alexander's letter could not withstand his kindness. She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. He cupped her cheek in his hand. One hot tear slid down her face and over his fingers.

“That was not well done of him,” Marshall said.

Isabelle turned her face into his palm, unable to contain the tears she'd been holding at bay for weeks. In the next moment, his other hand was on her back, drawing her forward. Isabelle stepped into his arms, and cried against his chest. Her own arms wound around his torso. Marshall stroked her hair and murmured against the top of her head, but she could not make out his words for her crying. Still, the rumble inside his chest as he spoke soothed her, and soon she had calmed.

“I'm sorry.” She sniffed and wiped at her eyes with her hand. “I'm making an absolute cake of myself.” Marshall produced a handkerchief from somewhere and pressed it into her hand, while keeping his other arm firmly around her.

The scent of a freshly starched, perfectly white handkerchief almost set her off again, but Isabelle managed to restrain herself.

“I think,” Marshall said, “you're awfully brave.”

Isabelle pulled back in his arms, searching his face for a sign of mockery, but finding none. “You do?”

He nodded. “It's not every woman who could take care of herself when times got hard.”

She smiled weakly. His eyes dropped to her lips. “You always had,” he said, stroking her bottom lip with his thumb, “the prettiest smile.”

He dropped his head, replacing his thumb with his own lips, gently pressing them to hers. Isabelle stiffened. It had been a long time—years—since she'd kissed a man, and the last one happened to be Marshall. He increased the pressure of his kiss. The feeling of his mouth against hers was a thrilling revelation, and achingly familiar at the same time. A little, confused whimper escaped her as she tentatively brought her hands to his neck. Marshall groaned and pulled her closer. Isabelle softened, molding her body against his. Every curve of her body found a home against his.