scientific community. Why hadn’t he taken the time to discover her talents and passions?
He shoved that bit of self-criticism aside to further ponder tonight’s observations. Isabelle had continued to deny that any wrongdoing transpired between herself and Justin Miller.
This troubled Marshall. If he were honest with himself, he had to admit she had always been a forthright woman, and had never given him cause to doubt her intentions or word, until the fateful day he learned she’d played him false. However, he could not discount the scene his mother witnessed at Hamhurst, especially when combined with Isabelle’s admission of inviting Miller to Hamhurst behind Marshall’s back.
Of course, there was her accusation that his mother manipulated both of them into divorcing. This was certainly an alarming prospect. Yet, when Marshall thought back to his courtship of Isabelle, their wedding, and the brief time in which they had lived together as husband and wife, he could not disregard her accusation out of hand. Caro, dowager Duchess of Monthwaite, had indeed distrusted Isabelle from the first. She had pleaded with Marshall not to marry her, certain the young Miss Fairfax was interested only in her son’s title and fortune. Only Marshall’s father had finally convinced her to keep her mouth closed on the subject. Her tears at the wedding were an unusual display of emotion from a woman who typically kept her reactions on a tight rein.
Caro was nothing if not a strong woman, with a firm sense of what was best for her children. As much as it pained him to think so, it would not be beyond her to have done what Isabelle suggested, particularly if she had good reason, such as proof of adultery.
Finally, Marshall turned his attention to the kiss he and Isabelle had almost shared. It had been there in his mind, the elephant in the room he had tried to think his way around without acknowledging. The Isabelle Marshall encountered tonight was in need of several good meals and a bath. Her dress was the most unbecoming woolen sack Marshall had ever laid eyes on. She smelled like a kitchen, herbs and yeast and lye soap. And she had intoxicated his senses more surely than all the alcohol he’d been steadily consuming since he saw her earlier this evening.
She had wronged him. She had lain with another man. Because of her actions, he’d been forced to air his private grievances in the most public forum imaginable, a divorce trial. He had spent years avoiding her and replacing whatever silly, juvenile tenderness he’d harbored for her with a sophisticated cynicism toward females.
And yet, he’d still been powerless against her artless charms. He’d unwillingly pitied her predicament, and simultaneously admired the gumption she had displayed by taking on employment. Worst of all, he had been painfully aroused. It was as bad as, or worse than, the passion he remembered from their marriage. If he had felt only a passing attraction for Isabelle, enough to beget his heir and little beyond, her betrayal would not have struck the blow that it had. But he had been strongly, deeply attracted to his young wife. She had awakened passion in him that no other woman before or since had come close to realizing. And that’s what he could not forgive, the way she had him nearly eating from the palm of her pretty hand, and then turned to another man for what Marshall had so freely given her.
Still, he thought, pulling himself to his feet and retrieving his portable writing desk, however she had wronged him, she was a gentlewoman who did not deserve the circumstances to which she had been reduced. He seated himself at the table in the corner of the sitting area and took out a fresh sheet of paper.
Mr. Fairfax, he began,
I have recently discovered a matter that may cause you a degree of concern. Though we no longer share a familial connection, it is my sincere hope that you will take my words in the manner with which they are intended. You have
He shoved that bit of self-criticism aside to further ponder tonight’s observations. Isabelle had continued to deny that any wrongdoing transpired between herself and Justin Miller.
This troubled Marshall. If he were honest with himself, he had to admit she had always been a forthright woman, and had never given him cause to doubt her intentions or word, until the fateful day he learned she’d played him false. However, he could not discount the scene his mother witnessed at Hamhurst, especially when combined with Isabelle’s admission of inviting Miller to Hamhurst behind Marshall’s back.
Of course, there was her accusation that his mother manipulated both of them into divorcing. This was certainly an alarming prospect. Yet, when Marshall thought back to his courtship of Isabelle, their wedding, and the brief time in which they had lived together as husband and wife, he could not disregard her accusation out of hand. Caro, dowager Duchess of Monthwaite, had indeed distrusted Isabelle from the first. She had pleaded with Marshall not to marry her, certain the young Miss Fairfax was interested only in her son’s title and fortune. Only Marshall’s father had finally convinced her to keep her mouth closed on the subject. Her tears at the wedding were an unusual display of emotion from a woman who typically kept her reactions on a tight rein.
Caro was nothing if not a strong woman, with a firm sense of what was best for her children. As much as it pained him to think so, it would not be beyond her to have done what Isabelle suggested, particularly if she had good reason, such as proof of adultery.
Finally, Marshall turned his attention to the kiss he and Isabelle had almost shared. It had been there in his mind, the elephant in the room he had tried to think his way around without acknowledging. The Isabelle Marshall encountered tonight was in need of several good meals and a bath. Her dress was the most unbecoming woolen sack Marshall had ever laid eyes on. She smelled like a kitchen, herbs and yeast and lye soap. And she had intoxicated his senses more surely than all the alcohol he’d been steadily consuming since he saw her earlier this evening.
She had wronged him. She had lain with another man. Because of her actions, he’d been forced to air his private grievances in the most public forum imaginable, a divorce trial. He had spent years avoiding her and replacing whatever silly, juvenile tenderness he’d harbored for her with a sophisticated cynicism toward females.
And yet, he’d still been powerless against her artless charms. He’d unwillingly pitied her predicament, and simultaneously admired the gumption she had displayed by taking on employment. Worst of all, he had been painfully aroused. It was as bad as, or worse than, the passion he remembered from their marriage. If he had felt only a passing attraction for Isabelle, enough to beget his heir and little beyond, her betrayal would not have struck the blow that it had. But he had been strongly, deeply attracted to his young wife. She had awakened passion in him that no other woman before or since had come close to realizing. And that’s what he could not forgive, the way she had him nearly eating from the palm of her pretty hand, and then turned to another man for what Marshall had so freely given her.
Still, he thought, pulling himself to his feet and retrieving his portable writing desk, however she had wronged him, she was a gentlewoman who did not deserve the circumstances to which she had been reduced. He seated himself at the table in the corner of the sitting area and took out a fresh sheet of paper.
Mr. Fairfax, he began,
I have recently discovered a matter that may cause you a degree of concern. Though we no longer share a familial connection, it is my sincere hope that you will take my words in the manner with which they are intended. You have
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