by Sara MacLean
“The statue is made of pink marble from Mergozzo,” he repeated slowly, as though she were simpleminded. “Pink marble is not always pink. And the piece is not Italian. It is Roman. She is a Roman goddess.”
She knew what he was doing—he was forcing her to answer his question about the roof with his information about the statue.
If he was right, she was laid bare.
“You must be mistaken,” Isabel said, unconcerned by the insult that the words carried.
“I assure you, I am not. Voluptas is nearly always portrayed wrapped in roses. If that were not enough, her face confirms her identity.”
“You cannot tell a goddess from a face carved in marble,” she scoffed.
“You can tell Voluptas by her face.”
“I’ve never even heard of this goddess, and you know what she looks like? ”
“She is the goddess of sensual pleasure.”
Isabel’s mouth fell open at the words. She could not think of a single thing to say in response. “Oh.”
“Her face reflects as much. Pleasure, bliss, passion, ecsta—”
“Yes, I see,” Isabel interrupted, noting the amusement in his eyes. “You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
“Immensely.” He grinned then, and she had to catch herself from returning it. She scowled at him, and he laughed; the sound was more welcoming than she was willing to admit. “Come, Lady Isabel, sit with me and tell me tales of a manor roof in need of mending.”
She could not resist. She did as he asked.
Once she was seated, he did not look at her, instead looking out at the front gardens of the house, in the direction of the road. After a long silence, he asked quietly, “Why are you repairing the roof? With none but your butler to help you? ”
She breathed deep, the warm summer wind swirling around them, unfettered by trees or buildings high atop the roof. Registering the dampness in the air that signaled an impending summer storm, Isabel felt a pang of regret that the clouds had not yet come, and she was out of ways to avoid answering his question. Only the truth was left.
“I cannot afford a roofer,” she said simply, looking down and brushing imaginary dust from one of the warm brown tiles beneath them. “I cannot afford to hire a man with the skill. I do not have a man I can trust besides—Janney.”
“What of the footmen? ”
Well, to start with, my lord, they are footwomen.
“They are busy doing the things that footmen do,” she said, her shoulders rising in an almost imperceptible shrug. “I can learn to roof as well as the next person.”
He was silent for a long moment, until she finally looked at him, registering the understanding in his eyes—eyes the color of a brilliant summer sky. That silly magazine had been right. They were a distractingly beautiful shade of blue. “Most ladies of your standing do not learn to roof as well as the next person, however.”
She smiled at his words, self-conscious. “That is true. But most ladies of my standing do not do many of the things that I do.”
He considered her, and she imagined admiration in his look. “That, I would believe.” He shook his head. “Certainly there is not another earl’s daughter in the kingdom with your fearlessness.”
She looked away, out at the grounds. Not fearlessness. Desperation. “Well, I would guess that if there were another earl like my father, there might be another earl’s daughter like me. You may thank any one of the gods in the statuary that they broke the mold for the Wastrearl.”
“You knew then of your father’s pursuits.”
“Not of their specifics, but even tucked away in Yorkshire, a child hears things.”
“I am sorry.”
She shook her head. “Do not be. He left seven years ago; James barely knew him and I have not seen him since.”
“I am even more sorry for that, then. I know what it is to lose a parent to something less than death.”
She met his eyes at that. Saw that he was telling the truth. Wondered, fleetingly, what the story might have been. “The loss of my father was not much of a loss at all. We were certainly better off without his setting an example here.” He watched her closely for a long moment, until she became uncomfortable under his too-knowing gaze and she returned her attention to the darkening sky. “I will not deny that a shilling or two would have been appreciated.”
“He left you nothing?”
She shuttered at the question; she was willing to admit her dire financial straits, but not to discuss them. She would not accept his pity. He seemed the type of man who would press for more. Who would want to help.
And she could not afford to allow him in.
She traced the curve of one roof tile, feeling the ache in her shoulders. The prick of worry that had been gone for the last few moments returned. There had been a brief moment when she had shared her burden—when it had felt good and right.
But this was not a burden to be shared. This was hers. It had been from the day her father had left, when she had taken responsibility for the estate and its people. She had done her best with no help from anyone else, regardless of how often she asked. And so she had learned her lesson—that an impoverished estate and a houseful of misfits was not something of which aristocratic gentlemen cared to be a part.
Particularly not wealthy, successful lords who happened to be passing through Yorkshire.
“The collection is worth a great deal, Isabel.”
She took several seconds to comprehend the meaning of his words, so disconnected from her thoughts. “It is? ”
“Without doubt.”
“Enough to-” She stopped. There were so many ways to end the sentence … too many ways. Enough to buy a house? To care for the girls? To send James to school? To restore the Townsend name after years of profligacy had ruined it?
She could not say any of those things, of course, without revealing her secrets. And so she said nothing.
“Enough to repair this roof and much more.”
She exhaled, her relief nearly unbearable.
“Thank God.”
The whisper was barely sound, lost in a wicked clap of thunder that sent a jolt of shock through her, pressing her closer to the bulk of him there on the high peak of Townsend Park. Feeling his heat next to her, she turned to look at him. He was staring down at her, an intoxicating mix of danger and curiosity and inspection in his gaze. It was the last that made her pulse race, as though he might be able to look deep into her and discover everything that she had been hiding for so long.
Perhaps that would not be so terrible.
She knew it was a sign of weakness, but she could not look away. His eyes were so blue, the understanding there so tempting—almost enough to make her forget all her rules.
She had no chance to act on the temptation.
Instead, the skies opened, and the universe intervened.
Seven
* * *
Rain did not come lightly to the summers of Yorkshire—it came with a vengeance, as though the entire county had done something to deserve it. But in the case of this particular afternoon, Nick knew precisely who had brought the wrath of the heavens down upon them.
He had.
When, like an utter cad, he had seriously considered kissing Lady Isabel Townsend on her roof, on the heels of her rather raw confession of poverty.
She had looked at him with those enormous brown eyes, and he had known that she would let him kiss her. But not for any reason other than her obvious gratitude for his help.
And gratitude was not a viable reason for a rooftop liaison.
So, when the skies opened above them, for every ounce of him that wanted to shout his frustration to the heavens, there was an equal amount that was thankful for the interruption.
Until the lightning flashed, wicked and green, and he realized that if they remained atop the manor house, they were not only going to be soaked, but they would also very likely be killed.
The thought spurred him into action, a
nd he wrapped an arm around Isabel’s shoulders, shepherding her up and through the downpour, toward the attic window. Just as they reached the entryway, she turned, ducking under his arm with alarming speed and heading across the roof to the spot where she had been working earlier.
“Our roof paste!”
Between the wet tile roof and the torrential rain and the real risk of a lightning strike, the last of his patience evaporated. “Isabel!” Her name carried across the roof, as ominous as the thunder that crashed around them, and she froze, turning back, eyes wide and uncertain. “Leave it!”
“I cannot!” She shook her head and turned away, down the slope of the roof, her words carrying back to him on the wind that stung his face. “It took us hours to make it!”
“You can and you will!” He said.
She looked over her shoulder at the demand, eyes flashing. “You are not my keeper, my lord.”
She did not check her footing as she continued on her path.
Which was a mistake.
Her slipper dislodged a loose clay tile, sending it skidding down the pitched roof and over the edge, the movement knocking Isabel off balance. He registered the fear in her eyes as she began to fall, and he was already moving toward her.
She reached out to catch herself, the force of the impact dislodging more tiles and sending them crashing to the ground far below. She scrambled then, fear making her desperate, the movement only serving to increase her instability.
He was there, capturing her hand in a firm grasp, staying her movement. He said nothing when their eyes met, the anger in his gaze chasing away the desperation in hers.
He said nothing as she steadied herself and regained her footing, allowing him to help her up and hold her steady, as she took deep, calming breaths to settle her racing pulse.
He said nothing as he lifted her into his arms and carried her the several feet to the attic window.
Only when he set her down at the open entrance did he speak. “I may not be your keeper, Isabel, but if you cannot take responsibility for your own safety, someone must do it for you.” He pointed to the attic window. “Inside. Now.”
Whether because of his tone or the rain or some innate sense of self-preservation, she did as she was told. Miraculously.
Nick watched as she climbed into the attic, ensured that she was safely inside, and went back to fetch the damned roof paste she so valued.
Pail in hand, he looked out across the lands to the stables, where the boy he’d met earlier in the day was closing the door to the stables, using his entire weight to do so. He ran toward the manor house then, wind and rain pelting his young face. The boy put his head down, protecting his face from the wind, and the movement took the cap from his head, releasing his hair to the elements.
His very long hair.
Nick stiffened, watching as the stable boy turned to fetch the cap as it rolled over the ground, spun on the invisible fingers of the Yorkshire wind. His hair flew out behind him in long red ribbons, immediately soaked with rain. And when the boy turned back, facing the house once more, there was no question of what the secret of Townsend Park was.
He played over the servants in his mind: the stable boy; the effeminate butler; the motley collection of diminutive, unmatched footmen.
She had a houseful of women.
That was why she was on the roof, nearly killing herself.
Because there was no one else to do it for her.
He swore harshly at the thought, the word lost in the howl of the wind whipping over the edge of the roof. Houseful of women or no, there was no excuse for her complete and utter carelessness. She should be locked in a room for sanity’s sake. His sanity.
Thunder cracked high above him, sending him back to the entrance to the attic, where she peered out at him, rivulets of water coursing down her face. He thrust the pail of muck at her.
She took it and backed away from the window as he followed her inside.
He took a long moment to close the window behind him, latching it tight against the sheets of rain that pounded the glass before he turned back to her, soaked to the bone and not at all happy.
Setting the pail down carefully, she hesitated, then spoke in an agitated whisper. “I would have been perfectly fine—”
He thrust both his hands through his wet hair in frustration, and the movement stayed her words. Thank God. Because he might well have strangled her if she had continued.
She was the single most infuriating female he had ever met. She was a danger to herself and others. She could have gotten them both killed, for heaven’s sake.
He’d had enough.
“You are not to go on the roof again.” His words were quiet, but spoken in a tone that had stopped killers in their tracks.
And seemed only to incense Isabel. “I beg your pardon? ”
“Evidently, years of being trapped in Yorkshire with the run of the estate failed to teach you an ounce of sense. You will stay off the roof from now on.”
“Of all the imperious, condescending, arrogant things—”
“You may call it whatever you like. I call it ensuring your safety. And the safety of those around you.” He paused briefly, tamping down the urge to shake her. “Did it even cross your mind that I might have been killed right along with you? ”
“I didn’t ask to be rescued, Lord Nicholas,” she said, her voice rising.
“Yes, well, considering I have saved your life twice in the two days that I have known you, I might suggest that next time, you do ask.”
She pulled herself up to her full height and let loose, apparently unconcerned with the fact that anyone near the entrance to the attic might hear them. “I was perfectly safe on the roof until you arrived! And did you even consider the idea that I was only on the roof because I was hiding from you? ”
The confession was out before she could stop it, surprising them both. “Hiding from me? ”
She did not reply, deliberately looking away from him with a huff. “You invited me here!”
“Well, suffice to say that I am beginning to regret it,” she muttered.
“Why were you hiding from me?”
“I should think that would be rather clear.” When he did not respond, she continued, eager to fill the silence. “I was surprised by our … moment … in the statuary. I had not expected …”
He tracked the nervous movements of her hands, smoothing over her breeches before she crossed her arms, and the white cambric of her shirt pulled tightly across her breasts, torturing him with their weight—with their lovely, shadowed peaks. He was suddenly aware of their location, in the darkened attic of her home, the rain outside muffling all sounds, the warm, small space closing in around them. It was the perfect place for a clandestine tryst.
She took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling for a long moment. A raindrop moved slowly down her neck; he watched as it turned down the slope of her breast to disappear inside the collar of her shirt.
He was seriously contemplating becoming jealous of a droplet of water. Yorkshire was obviously damaging to his sanity.
“I had not expected to be so …” she tried again, meeting his gaze before her words trailed off.
He took a step closer; they were scant inches from each other. “So … ?” He knew he should not push her, but he could not help himself.
She sighed, resigned. “So … drawn to you.”
Another step. “You are drawn to me? ”
He’d never known a lady to admit such a thing. There was something overwhelming in the honesty of her confession.
She backed up then, and he watched embarrassment flood her cheeks, fierce and red. She spoke, the words coming fast. “I am sure it is just a passing phase. I think it best for you to leave. I shall find another way to sell the collection—”
Her nervousness was intoxicating.
He reached out, his fingertips brushing the soft skin at her temple, stemming the flow of her words. He pushed one long, wet lock back from her f
ace, tucking it behind her ear before running the backs of his fingers down her cheek, soothing the heated flesh they left with his thumb.
Her eyes went wide at the touch, and he smiled, briefly, at her surprise. His free hand lifted, and his hands were cupping her face, tilting it upward to afford him a better look at her in the quiet, dimly lit space.
He should not kiss her. He knew it.
But she was like no woman he had ever known—and he wanted to know her secrets. More than that, he wanted her.
He settled his lips to hers, and she was his.
As was the case with the rest of the man, there was nothing tentative about Nicholas St. John’s kisses. One moment, Isabel was battling a series of strange, unsettling emotions about the arrogant man, and the next, he had claimed her mouth in a searing kiss, robbing her of breath and thought and sanity.
She froze for a moment, savoring the feel of his lips on hers, of his hands cradling her face, of his fingers trailing down to her neck as his thumbs stroked the skin of her cheeks, setting her aflame. He held her firmly against him, his mouth playing over hers, sending wave after wave of sensation rocketing through her. The caress gentled. He lifted his mouth until it was just barely touching hers and licked her bottom lip, his tongue warm and rough against the soft skin there, and she gasped at the sensation, so foreign, so wicked.
So magnificent.
He captured her mouth once more, stroking until she opened for him, uncertain. She wasn’t sure what to do—she was afraid to touch him, to move, to do anything that might end the caress and the pleasure that it brought.
He seemed to read her thoughts, and with a soft slide, his lips chased the path of one thumb across her cheek to her ear, where he caught the lobe between his teeth, sending a shiver of pleasure through her. “Touch me, Isabel.”
This was why women turned silly for men. This heady mix of power … and powerlessness.
She shouldn’t touch him. She knew that. But the words, combined with the sensual caress at the curve of her ear, unlocked her, and she set her hands to his chest, running them up and over his shoulders. The movement spurred him on, and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to his firmness, his heat. He pulled back, met her heavy-lidded gaze as if to confirm that she wanted it as much as he, and claimed her mouth once more.