because he had been something of a father figure to Isabelle during her unhappy childhood, she would never dream of correcting him. He was more family to her than servant.
Isabelle raised her brows. “Are you of the opinion that Alexander should dine at a different time?”
“Of course not.” The butler’s chest puffed out indignantly. “But it’s high time Mister Alexander brought a wife home,” he said, slipping into his old familiarity with the current master’s name. “Not that you aren’t a perfectly capable mistress, of course,” he amended, “but he’s turning himself into a confirmed bachelor!”
Isabelle smiled wryly. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “He’s only thirty.”
“Old enough to have a babe in the nursery and another on the way,” Iverson countered.
Isabelle patted the old retainer fondly on the arm and went up to her room to freshen up before supper.
Her room was much the same as it had been when she’d left at eighteen to become Marshall’s marchioness, and then duchess. The bedspread was a dusty rose, as were the curtains and many of the accessories. Accents of light green and ivory completed the color scheme. During Isabelle’s adolescence, she’d thought her room the loveliest she’d ever seen, like a private garden. Now, it struck her as tired and juvenile.
A small tortoiseshell cat emerged from beneath the bed and mewed. “Miss Bigglesworth!” she exclaimed, dropping to her knees to scoop the animal into her arms. The old cat butted her head against Isabelle’s chin and purred contentedly.
When Isabelle was eight, she and Justin had rescued the kitten from a sack in the stream. The poor drenched thing was half-drowned and shivering with cold. Justin teased her for crying over it, but Isabelle brought the kitten home and nursed her back to health with the help of Cook’s generous supply of cream.
At the time, she’d thought Miss Bigglesworth a very dignified name for her pet. Now it seemed childish, just like her room.
She took a turn around the room while she stroked the cat’s graying fur.
“Wouldn’t the bed look nice in something bolder?” she asked Miss Bigglesworth. “Sapphire and silver brocade, perhaps.” She sighed and turned. “And the mantel,” she tsked. It would be improved with the multitude of girlish knickknacks cleared away and replaced by a few beautiful, well-chosen pieces. “A crystal vase would be becoming against the dark wood,” she murmured, touching the left end of the mantel. “A miniature or two in silver frames here , and perhaps a potted plant … ”
Isabelle sucked in her breath; her fingers clutched at Miss Bigglesworth’s fur. The cat yowled in protest before Isabelle relaxed her grip. You ninny , she chastised herself. She’d been mentally redecorating her room to look like the master bedchamber at Hamhurst, the one she had shared with Marshall.
Seeing him at the inn had done her no good. She’d been fine before he turned up in the dining room at the George. Now she kept remembering the stolen hour they’d spent together.
She’d awoken in the darkest, coldest part of the night, shivering and hungry for his touch. The flame he’d rekindled deep in her belly flared hotly every time she thought about it. It was distracting beyond all reckoning. Just a hint of kissing was dragging up other memories she would do well to forget, like the bed they’d shared as a married couple.
Miss Bigglesworth squirmed in her arms. “You’re right,” Isabelle muttered, bending at the waist to release her onto the carpet. “I am the most pathetic woman ever born.”
Isabelle turned her attention to getting herself ready for supper. She had no lady’s maid, and Alexander obviously hadn’t thought of assigning one of the house maids to act as such, as her trunk still sat untouched at the foot of the bed where the footmen had deposited it.
She retrieved a simple, lavender muslin dress that wasn’t too badly
Isabelle raised her brows. “Are you of the opinion that Alexander should dine at a different time?”
“Of course not.” The butler’s chest puffed out indignantly. “But it’s high time Mister Alexander brought a wife home,” he said, slipping into his old familiarity with the current master’s name. “Not that you aren’t a perfectly capable mistress, of course,” he amended, “but he’s turning himself into a confirmed bachelor!”
Isabelle smiled wryly. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “He’s only thirty.”
“Old enough to have a babe in the nursery and another on the way,” Iverson countered.
Isabelle patted the old retainer fondly on the arm and went up to her room to freshen up before supper.
Her room was much the same as it had been when she’d left at eighteen to become Marshall’s marchioness, and then duchess. The bedspread was a dusty rose, as were the curtains and many of the accessories. Accents of light green and ivory completed the color scheme. During Isabelle’s adolescence, she’d thought her room the loveliest she’d ever seen, like a private garden. Now, it struck her as tired and juvenile.
A small tortoiseshell cat emerged from beneath the bed and mewed. “Miss Bigglesworth!” she exclaimed, dropping to her knees to scoop the animal into her arms. The old cat butted her head against Isabelle’s chin and purred contentedly.
When Isabelle was eight, she and Justin had rescued the kitten from a sack in the stream. The poor drenched thing was half-drowned and shivering with cold. Justin teased her for crying over it, but Isabelle brought the kitten home and nursed her back to health with the help of Cook’s generous supply of cream.
At the time, she’d thought Miss Bigglesworth a very dignified name for her pet. Now it seemed childish, just like her room.
She took a turn around the room while she stroked the cat’s graying fur.
“Wouldn’t the bed look nice in something bolder?” she asked Miss Bigglesworth. “Sapphire and silver brocade, perhaps.” She sighed and turned. “And the mantel,” she tsked. It would be improved with the multitude of girlish knickknacks cleared away and replaced by a few beautiful, well-chosen pieces. “A crystal vase would be becoming against the dark wood,” she murmured, touching the left end of the mantel. “A miniature or two in silver frames here , and perhaps a potted plant … ”
Isabelle sucked in her breath; her fingers clutched at Miss Bigglesworth’s fur. The cat yowled in protest before Isabelle relaxed her grip. You ninny , she chastised herself. She’d been mentally redecorating her room to look like the master bedchamber at Hamhurst, the one she had shared with Marshall.
Seeing him at the inn had done her no good. She’d been fine before he turned up in the dining room at the George. Now she kept remembering the stolen hour they’d spent together.
She’d awoken in the darkest, coldest part of the night, shivering and hungry for his touch. The flame he’d rekindled deep in her belly flared hotly every time she thought about it. It was distracting beyond all reckoning. Just a hint of kissing was dragging up other memories she would do well to forget, like the bed they’d shared as a married couple.
Miss Bigglesworth squirmed in her arms. “You’re right,” Isabelle muttered, bending at the waist to release her onto the carpet. “I am the most pathetic woman ever born.”
Isabelle turned her attention to getting herself ready for supper. She had no lady’s maid, and Alexander obviously hadn’t thought of assigning one of the house maids to act as such, as her trunk still sat untouched at the foot of the bed where the footmen had deposited it.
She retrieved a simple, lavender muslin dress that wasn’t too badly
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