Read Online Once a Duchess by Elizabeth Boyce - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Boyce
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Certainly.” She felt a little thrill as he poured a glass for her, as though she were partaking in some forbidden pagan sacrament, something beyond the province of her feminine world.
She took a sip of the beverage. As much as it looked like wine, it tasted very different. Her eyes widened at the unexpected strength of it, and then her tongue curled against the sweetness of the port. After a few sips, however, when the stress of the day’s trials began to melt away, she understood why a man might want to take such a drink after supper.
A glass later, she and Alexander were laughing over stories from their childhoods. He told her about things that happened around the estate, stories of picnics with their parents, of being caught out at some mischief. Something inside Isabelle grasped onto the stories and cried out, Yes, I was there , although most of what Alexander related happened before she was born. The stories gave her a sense of connection to her past, yet also emphasized the emptiness she felt about her own family memories. She had none to speak of. By the time she was old enough to actively participate in family events, her mother was dead, her father despondent, and Alexander was away at school. Isabelle envied her brother the experiences he had with their parents.
Alexander refilled each of their glasses. “So,” he said carefully, “what’s this I hear about you cooking at an inn?”
Isabelle’s eyes shot to his face. How had he found out? His mouth was set in a firm line. This was, she realized, the reason he’d brought her home.
Her stomach roiled sourly around the port. “Who told you?” she asked, sounding much like the guilty school girl she felt like.
“I had a letter from Monthwaite.” Alexander leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out to the side, crossing them at the ankle. “He gave me quite a nicely phrased dressing down.”
Isabelle rotated her glass in circles, unable to meet her brother’s eyes. How dare Marshall interject himself? Alexander probably thought she’d put him up to it.
“He was right, of course,” Alexander said. “I shouldn’t have cut you off. It was impulsive. I was angry.”
Isabelle ventured a glance at him. He was staring at his own glass. “Why?”
He breathed a single, mirthless laugh. “I asked for a lady’s hand and she rejected me.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to quail the sinking feeling. Somehow, she had something to do with his rejection. She could tell it by his tone. “Why?” she whispered, fearing his answer.
Alexander looked at her and said gently, “On the grounds that no respectable woman wants a divorcée for a sister-in-law.”
Was it possible for a person to feel any more wretched than Isabelle did at that moment? She buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Alex. If there was any way I could fix it — ”
“There is.”
She lifted her face.
“You have to marry again,” Alexander said. He took a long pull at his drink.
Isabelle’s eyes widened.
He raised a hand. “Not to put too fine a point on it, little sister, but you are frankly ruining my chances at making a good match for myself. The lady I courted was a baron’s daughter, and she was not, I believe, without regard for me.”
“Of course not,” Isabelle said in a mollifying tone. “You’re a wonderful man. Any woman with a bit of sense — ”
“Would marry as best she can,” Alexander interjected, his eyebrows raised. “A landowner of only modest means, with no title, a smallish estate, and a divorced sister does not exactly bowl the ladies over with awe.”
“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
She took a sip of the beverage. As much as it looked like wine, it tasted very different. Her eyes widened at the unexpected strength of it, and then her tongue curled against the sweetness of the port. After a few sips, however, when the stress of the day’s trials began to melt away, she understood why a man might want to take such a drink after supper.
A glass later, she and Alexander were laughing over stories from their childhoods. He told her about things that happened around the estate, stories of picnics with their parents, of being caught out at some mischief. Something inside Isabelle grasped onto the stories and cried out, Yes, I was there , although most of what Alexander related happened before she was born. The stories gave her a sense of connection to her past, yet also emphasized the emptiness she felt about her own family memories. She had none to speak of. By the time she was old enough to actively participate in family events, her mother was dead, her father despondent, and Alexander was away at school. Isabelle envied her brother the experiences he had with their parents.
Alexander refilled each of their glasses. “So,” he said carefully, “what’s this I hear about you cooking at an inn?”
Isabelle’s eyes shot to his face. How had he found out? His mouth was set in a firm line. This was, she realized, the reason he’d brought her home.
Her stomach roiled sourly around the port. “Who told you?” she asked, sounding much like the guilty school girl she felt like.
“I had a letter from Monthwaite.” Alexander leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out to the side, crossing them at the ankle. “He gave me quite a nicely phrased dressing down.”
Isabelle rotated her glass in circles, unable to meet her brother’s eyes. How dare Marshall interject himself? Alexander probably thought she’d put him up to it.
“He was right, of course,” Alexander said. “I shouldn’t have cut you off. It was impulsive. I was angry.”
Isabelle ventured a glance at him. He was staring at his own glass. “Why?”
He breathed a single, mirthless laugh. “I asked for a lady’s hand and she rejected me.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to quail the sinking feeling. Somehow, she had something to do with his rejection. She could tell it by his tone. “Why?” she whispered, fearing his answer.
Alexander looked at her and said gently, “On the grounds that no respectable woman wants a divorcée for a sister-in-law.”
Was it possible for a person to feel any more wretched than Isabelle did at that moment? She buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Alex. If there was any way I could fix it — ”
“There is.”
She lifted her face.
“You have to marry again,” Alexander said. He took a long pull at his drink.
Isabelle’s eyes widened.
He raised a hand. “Not to put too fine a point on it, little sister, but you are frankly ruining my chances at making a good match for myself. The lady I courted was a baron’s daughter, and she was not, I believe, without regard for me.”
“Of course not,” Isabelle said in a mollifying tone. “You’re a wonderful man. Any woman with a bit of sense — ”
“Would marry as best she can,” Alexander interjected, his eyebrows raised. “A landowner of only modest means, with no title, a smallish estate, and a divorced sister does not exactly bowl the ladies over with awe.”
“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
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