Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord by Sara MacLean (7)

Lesson Number Two

Do your best to remain in your lord’s mind. And in his eye.

While absence may make the heart grow fonder, only nearness will result in a sound match. Remember, if your lord is to recognize his desire for a wife, he must be reminded of the existence of such a woman! Do your best to stay in his sight; pass near to him at balls; learn his preferences for promenading in the park; and encourage your servants to befriend his own. Knowledge of his schedule is the very best tool for ensnaring a true gentleman.

Pearls and Pelisses
June 1823

Wellington might have said that the hardest thing of all for a soldier was to retreat, but that course of action was far easier for Isabel than remaining in the statuary—and in the company of Lord Nicholas St. John.

Indeed, she had escaped the room at as near to a run as a lady could reasonably get.

At least, a lady in full mourning attire.

She’d wanted him to kiss her.

Quite desperately.

Which would have been a mistake of mythic proportions.

Thank goodness for Lara and Mr. Durukhan, or who knew what might have happened.

What, indeed.

Isabel hurried through the maze of servants’ passages that led to the kitchen of Townsend Park, knowing that she was in the middle of, quite possibly, the most craven afternoon of her life.

But what other choice had she had? She’d had to leave the room, to clear her mind, to … chastise herself.

What had she been thinking?

Inviting a strange man into Minerva House was one thing—one very unintelligent, risky thing. But allowing herself to consider him anything more than a means to a vital and important end? That was unacceptable.

She needed Nicholas St. John to value her marbles and to see them sold. No more.

If a lifetime around men and the women who were hurt by them had taught Isabel anything, it was that they were not to be trifled with. She’d seen enough women ruined by their hearts and their bodies, enough women—her own mother—fall victim to charming smiles and compelling touches. And she had vowed never to let it happen to her.

She was not about to allow one Londoner to change all that—no matter who thought him one of the most eligible bachelors in Britain.

She took a deep breath as she turned the final corner to the kitchen, newly prepared to ignore the presence of Lord Nicholas in her house. How difficult could it be? The man was an antiquarian. He would certainly be interested only in antiquities. It would be easy enough to avoid him.

Besides … she had a house to feed.

A house to purchase.

A houseful of people to care for.

“You cannot make me go to school. I am an earl now. No one tells earls what to do.”

At the words, Isabel came up short, just outside the kitchen. Peering around the corner, she watched James reach across the scarred wooden table for a biscuit and plop it carelessly into his tea, splashing the brown liquid over the rim of his cup. He pouted into the tea for a moment before returning his gaze to Georgiana, who was seated on the opposite side of the table.

Isabel fell back on her heels, eavesdropping. She had asked Georgiana to begin suggesting school to James, in the hopes that he would warm to the idea.

Apparently he had not done so as of yet.

“Unfortunately, James, there is always someone who can tell us what to do. Even earls.” Georgiana poured herself a cup of the warm brew.

“I hate being told what to do.”

“Yes, well, I don’t much enjoy it, either.”

“I’m clever,” James said defensively.

Georgiana gave him a little smile, taking a biscuit for herself. “You are exceedingly clever. I never denied that.”

“I can read. And I know my sums. And I am learning Latin. You are teaching me.”

“You most certainly are. It’s very impressive. But young men … young earls … go to school.”

“What will school teach me that you cannot?”

“All sorts of things. Things that are reserved for earls.”

He watched as she considered her biscuit. “You should dip it in your tea. It’s better that way.”

Isabel smiled. She would wager that Georgiana had never in her life soaked a biscuit in her tea.

“Like this,” James added, plopping a second biscuit into his teacup before fishing out the first, several fingers submerged to the knuckle in the liquid. When he produced the treat and held it high, half of the cookie dropped back into the tea, splattering it across the table. Georgiana made a show of grimacing at the action; James laughed.

Isabel wrapped her arms around herself and leaned back against the wall. Earl or no, she was not ready to lose James to his title.

“Do you think the men from earlier go to school?” James’s question was rife with curiosity.

“Oh, I am sure of it,” Georgiana said. “They seemed like fine gentlemen. And fine gentlemen go to school.”

There was silence then, as James considered the truth of the statement.

“I have a brother, you know,” Georgiana added softly, and Isabel leaned closer to the doorway. In the three weeks that she had been here, the girl had not spoken of the life she left in London.

“Really? Does he go to school?”

“He did do. In fact, he is very bright because of it. One of the brightest men in Britain.”

And one of the most powerful, Isabel added silently.

“You must have learned from him,” James said matter-of-factly, “or else how would a girl know to speak Latin?”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Reddich,” Georgiana said pertly. “Girls know plenty of things … not only Latin.”

Isabel couldn’t stop herself from peering around the corner again. James’s nose was wrinkled—he clearly wasn’t sure that girls did know plenty of things. “You’re the cleverest girl I know.”

Isabel raised her brows at the reverence she heard in his tone. She would ignore the insult to her own intelligence in light of her brother’s obvious infatuation with his governess—certainly the prettiest one he’d ever had—but she could not resist interrupting their cozy chat.

Pasting a bright smile upon her face, she entered the room with a cheerful “Is it time for tea already?”

James turned eager eyes on her. “Isabel! What happened to the men? One of them was very large! Did you notice?”

Yes. And one of them was very handsome. I nearly made a cabbagehead of myself.

Isabel moved to pour herself a cup of tea. “I certainly did.”

“Where are they? Will they stay here? ”

“They are still abovestairs, in the statuary.”

“May I go and see them?” His eager face was almost impossible to resist. “You may not.”

“Why? I am the earl now, you know. It is my job to keep the residents of Townsend Park safe—I think they should meet me.”

James’s reference to safety—so soon after his concern for her earlier—surprised Isabel. They had always done everything they could to keep the seriousness of the girls’ situations from James, but he was growing older, and more astute, and Isabel sensed that this conversation required more care than usual. “I appreciate that,” she said with a nod, “and I agree that your role as earl is critical to the safety of the manor. But these gentlemen shall be very busy when they are here and we cannot afford to have them distracted.” Isabel considered James’s determined look. “Perhaps we shall have them to dinner one evening. How does that sound? ”

James considered the option seriously. “I should think it would be the right and gracious thing for us to do.”

Isabel popped a piece of biscuit into her mouth. “I am so happy you agree,” she said with a wink to Georgiana, who hid her smile in her teacup. “Now … off with you.”

James considered the two women before obviously deciding that there were more interesting adventures to be had beyond the kitchen. Stealing an extra biscuit, he hopped down from his chair and left, into the darkened corridor from which Isabel had come.

Isabel assumed her brother’s seat, reaching for another biscuit herself. With a sigh, she looked to the young woman across the table and said, “Thank you for speaking with him about school.”

“I am happy to. An earl needs a proper education, Lady Isabel.”

“You know you may dispense with the formalities, Georgiana.”

The other woman smiled. “On the contrary. I am your servant.”

“Nonsense,” Isabel scoffed. “We both know you are of a higher rank than I. Please. It would make me feel better for you to call me Isabel.”

A flicker of sadness passed in the girl’s gaze. “My rank is that of governess now. I am lucky to have such a valued position as that.”

Isabel knew she was getting nowhere, and changed the course of the conversation. “Do you know the men who arrived today? ”

Georgiana shook her head. “I was working on the afternoon’s lessons for James and did not hear that they had arrived until after you had shown them to the statuary.”

“They are Londoners.”

“Aristocracy? “ An edge crept into Georgiana’s tone.

“Not entirely. Lord Nicholas St. John. Brother to the Marquess of Ralston—the antiquar—” Isabel stopped as Georgiana’s eyes widened to saucers. “Georgiana?”

“Lord Nicholas and my brother—they are—acquainted.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have not met him, but—”

Of course they would know each other. One more thing that made the whole situation a challenge.

“Georgiana.” Isabel’s voice was firm and smooth. “You will be all right. When I took you in, I told you that Minerva House would care for you, did I not?”

The younger woman swallowed and took a deep breath.

“Yes.”

“Then care for you it shall,” Isabel said calmly. “We shall simply keep you well hidden. ‘Tis a large house. And you are James’s governess—there is little reason why a guest should see you.”

“Why is he here? In Yorkshire?”

“I do not know. I was led to believe that he was simply on a summer journey.” She paused, considering the girl’s fear. “You are safe under the protection of the Earl of Reddich.”

As safe as any of us can be.

Isabel rejected the small, contrary voice in her head.

They were safe. She would make sure of it.

Georgiana remained silent in the face of Isabel’s words. Eventually, she nodded once, placing her trust in Isabel—in the house.

“Good.” Isabel poured more tea for them both, hoping to reinforce the girl’s calm before she added, “When you are ready to discuss your reasons for coming here, I am ready to hear them. You know that, do you not? ”

Georgiana nodded again. “I do. I simply—I am not—What if—”

“When and if you are ready, Georgiana, I shall be here.” Isabel’s words were simple and direct. She had years of experience coaxing young women out from their fear. Sisters of dukes or barmaids from Cheapside, girls were not that much different from one another.

Not that different from her.

If she had had another choice, she would never have allowed Lord Nicholas St. John into her house.

But the threat of the other choice—of turning Georgiana, and the others, out into the world with nothing but the clothes on their backs—was unthinkable. And so Isabel was taking a calculated risk.

Lord Nicholas.

The irony was not lost on Isabel that she was placing the future of a houseful of women into the hands of one of the most dangerously compelling men she’d ever met. But as she looked at Georgiana, small and uncertain, both hands wrapped around her teacup, her gaze fixed on the liquid inside, Isabel knew that he was their best chance at success. Their best hope for a future.

They would simply have to keep him confined to the statuary.

That would not be so difficult.

The next afternoon, Isabel was feeling exceedingly proud of herself.

All her worrying about Lord Nicholas had been for naught. He was no trouble at all.

In fact, since he and Mr. Durukhan had arrived that morning and she had closeted them in the statuary and delivered careful instructions that they were not to be disturbed, Isabel had effectively avoided the pair.

Hidden from the pair, more like.

Nonsense. Isabel shook the thought away. So she was on the roof once more. The roof was still leaking. And, if the clouds careening toward them from the east were any indication, the repairs were going to be particularly welcome that evening.

So she was in breeches and shirtsleeves with Jane, and they were on their knees carefully applying a wicked-smelling paste to the underside of the clay tiles that seemed to have come loose all across the roof. It had been seven years since the first of the Townsend Park servants had left, including the skilled men—those who were most marketable to other large estates across the county. With them had gone any knowledge of the craft of roof repair, stone and woodworking, and several other skills that came in particularly handy on a country estate.

Isabel sighed at the memory. She supposed they had been lucky to have gone so many years without needing to take on major structural repairs of the house. Thank goodness for the manor’s library, and its collection of titles on architecture and building practices. She smiled wryly. Roof repair was not the preferred reading of most young ladies, but it would do if she could remove the chamber pot currently perched on the end of her bed to capture the rain that seeped regularly through the poorly tarred roof.

“Would you like to tell me what happened yesterday to send you into hiding from Lord Nicholas? ”

Jane had never been one to beat about the bush.

Isabel dipped a brush into the bucket of vile roof tar and said,

“Nothing happened.”

“Nothing whatsoever.” Nothing I’d like to revisit.

“No. He agreed to identify and value the collection. I thought I would let him get on with it. If all goes well, Minerva House shall have a new home within the month.” She tried to keep her voice light. Confident.

Jane was quiet as she laid several newly repaired tiles back down upon the roof. “And Lord Nicholas? ”

“What about him?”

“Precisely.”

“I would prefer that he were not necessary to the endeavor,” Isabel said, deliberately misunderstanding Jane’s question. A strong gust of wind blew then, sending Isabel’s shirtsleeves flapping like sails in a storm. She braced herself against the cool breeze, choosing her next words carefully. “But I think that we do not have much of an alternative.”

“You have alternatives, Isabel.”

“None that I can see.”

Jane placed several more tiles in the silence that stretched between them before turning back to Isabel. “You have cared for us for a long time. You have made Minerva House a thing of legend for girls across London. The ones who come to us now … they can barely credit our existence. All that is because of you.” Isabel stopped tarring her tiles, meeting Jane’s cool green gaze. “But you cannot allow the legend to overtake you.”

“It is not a legend for me, Jane. It is real.”

“But you could have more. You are the daughter of an earl.”

“An earl with morals best described as questionable.”

“The sister to a new earl, then,” Jane rephrased. “You could marry. Live the life you were meant to live.”

The life she was meant to live. The words seemed so simple—as though it were clearly mapped out—and perhaps it was. Other wellborn girls seemed to have no trouble following the well-worn path.

Other girls had not had her father. Her mother.

She shook her head. “No. This is the life I was meant to have. No smart marriage, no amount of tea with the ladies of the ton, no London seasons would have changed my course. And look at where my course has taken me. Look at the difference I have made for you. For the others.”

“But you should not sacrifice yourself for us. Would that not defeat the purpose of the house? Have you not taught us that our happiness and our lives are infinitely more important than the sacrifices we made before we arrived here?”

The words were soft, their aim true. Isabel considered her butler, the bracing wind turning Jane’s cheeks a ruddy pink, her warm brown hair slipping out from beneath her cap. Jane had been the first to come to Isabel, a working girl who had barely escaped a drunken beating at the hands of a customer and somehow found the courage to leave London for Scotland, where she had hoped to start a new life. She had made it as far as Yorkshire with a handful of stolen coins—not enough on which to live, but enough to send her to prison for thievery for the rest of her life. When she had run out of money, she had been dropped, literally, onto the side of the road with nothing but the clothes on her back. Isabel had found her asleep in an unused stall in the stables, the day after her last remaining servants had left their posts.

Isabel had been barely seventeen, alone in the house with James, just shy of three years old, and her mother—close to death. One look at Jane, too weak to run, too broken to fight, and Isabel had understood the desperation that had driven the girl to take the most extreme of risks—bedding down in a stable not her own, clearly a part of an estate.

It had not been kindness that had driven Isabel to welcome Jane in—it had been panic. The countess was slipping away, mad with sadness and desperation, the servants were gone, James needed love and nurturing, and Isabel had nothing. She had offered Jane work and gained the most loyal of servants. The most trusted of friends.

Jane had been the only one to witness the countess in her last days, as she railed against Isabel; against smiling, toddling James; against God and Britain—blaming them all for her isolation. For her devastation. When the countess had died—even as the other threads of Isabel’s life were coming unraveled—helping Jane had kept Isabel from falling apart.

Within weeks, Isabel had made her decision to bring others to Townsend Park. If she could not be a good daughter or a good woman, she could ensure that other women on the edges of society would have a place to live and flourish. A few well-placed letters had brought her Gwen and Kate, and after that, there was little need to advertise their location. Girls found them. Townsend Park was renamed Minerva House in hushed whispers across Britain, and girls in trouble knew that if they could reach its doors, they would find safety.

In those girls, Isabel had found a purpose—a way to protect these ill-treated, ill-fated women, and to give them a fresh opportunity at life.

A way to prove that she was more than what others saw.

A way to feel needed.

Not all the girls had remained—in the seven years since Jane’s arrival, they had seen dozens of girls arrive and leave in the dead of night, unable to keep from returning to the life from which they had come. Still more had left to build their own lives, Isabel welcoming the chance to help them realize their dreams. They were seamstresses, innkeepers, and even a vicar’s wife in the North Country.

They were proof that she was not alone. That she had purpose. That she was more than the unwanted daughter of a notorious scoundrel. That she was not the selfish child her mother had accused her of being during those final weeks.

And when she was thinking of them—of Minerva House—she was not thinking of all that she had never had an opportunity to experience.

All the things she would have deserved—would have had—if she were born to a different earl.

No.

“It is not a sacrifice to continue Minerva House,” she said finally, the words almost too quiet to be heard on the wind. “I would repair a hundred roofs to make sure this one held above the girls’ heads.”

Jane quirked a smile. “Need I remind you that you are not alone atop this house? I shall never be able to remove the smell of this muck from my person.”

“Well then, we shall stink together.” Isabel laughed.

“Your lord shan’t enjoy that.”

Isabel did not pretend to misunderstand. “He is not my lord.”

“Gwen and Lara would have it differently.”

Isabel’s brows snapped together. “Gwen and Lara have cowslips between their ears. I won’t be thrust at him, Jane. You might as well tell them as much.”

Jane laughed then, the sound musical and merry. “You think I hold more sway than that ridiculous magazine?”

“I think you should,” Isabel said with a sigh. “He is only here for two weeks. All I need do is keep the girls from the statuary.”

“And what of you, Lady He-Is-Not-My-Lord?”

Isabel ignored Jane’s teasing, a vision of Lord Nicholas’s handsome face flashing. The way his teeth flashed white against his sun-warmed skin, how his full, soft lips turned upward in bold, promising smiles. The way his blue eyes tempted her to tell him everything.

He was very dangerous, indeed.

“I shall do the same. It shan’t be that difficult. After all, I have a roof to repair.”

The words were barely out of Isabel’s mouth when a familiar masculine voice sounded. “I should have guessed I would find you here.”

Isabel’s heart leapt into her throat at the words. Eyes filled with dread, Isabel looked to Jane, who immediately put her head down, as any good servant would, focusing entirely on the task at hand.

She was on her own, or they were discovered. With little other option, she turned to Lord Nicholas, who was climbing out of the attic window.

Who had let him up here?

She watched as one enormous Hessian boot took a tentative step toward her, landing precariously on the clay tile.

If the man wasn’t careful, he’d damage more of the damned roof.

“Wait!”

To his credit, he waited.

“I—” Isabel looked to Jane, who shook her head in a manner indicating that she would be absolutely no help, then pressed on. “I shall come to you, my lord!” Scrambling to her feet, she scurried across the roof as carefully as possible. When she reached him, she smiled a too-bright smile.

Which he did not return.

“My lord! What brings you to the roof? Was there something that you needed? ”

“No,” he said, the one syllable drawn out into many as he raked his gaze over her, taking in her attire.

Dear God. She was dressed in men’s clothing. Not at all the thing. Of course, ladies on roofs were not precisely the thing, either. Nonetheless, her attire was a problem. And leaping from the roof seemed like a not so sound solution. She’d simply have to brazen it through.

She crossed her arms over her breasts, ignoring the flood of heat that spread over her cheeks. “I was not expecting you to join me, Lord Nicholas,” she said pointedly.

“I can see that. Although I do admit a modicum of surprise that you would dress so in front of your servants.” He indicated Jane, who remained head down, setting a roof tile.

“Oh.” How was she going to escape this? “Yes. Well. Jan—” Careful, Isabel. “Janney has been with the family for many years. He is aware of all of my—eccentricities.” She laughed, wincing at the sound, loud and uncomfortable.

“I see.” His tone said he did not, in fact, see.

“Shall we go inside? Perhaps you would like some tea? “ she said quickly, as though she could rush him off the roof, out of the house, and, indeed, out of Yorkshire. “No, I don’t think so.”

“My lord?”

“I should like to see this roof that has so captured your attention.”

“I—Oh.”

Was it she? Or did he seem pleased with her discomfort?

“Will you give me a tour of the repair site, my lady?”

He was most definitely teasing her.

He was a wretched man. Not at all worthy of kissing.

“Certainly.” Isabel turned to Jane—she had to get the other woman off the roof. “That is enough for today, Janney. You may go.”

Jane was up like a shot, heading for the attic window like it was salvation itself.

Which, of course, it was.

But as she passed them, St. John stayed her with “You should be more protective of your mistress.”

Jane paused, head down, and nodded once.

“I see you take my meaning.”

Isabel held her breath for a long moment, waiting for him to continue. When he did not, she said, “That is all, Janney,” and Jane scrambled through the window, disappearing into the attic.

Watching her disappear, Isabel considered her options. While she had never received formal training in deportment and proper conversation, she was fairly certain that roofs were not appropriate locales for conversations between members of the opposite sex.

“I do not like you on the roof.”

The words, so imperious, as though she were placed on the earth at his whim, took Isabel aback. She met his gaze, and took pleasure in matching his irritation with her own. It wasn’t as if she’d asked him to join her up here, for goodness’ sake. “Well, considering it is both my roof and my person … I do not see how my location impacts your life in the slightest.”

“If you were to fall …”

She lifted one foot, showing him her slippers. “I have an excellent tread.”

His gaze tracked the limb, from the leg of her breeches down the curving slope of her stockinged calf, to her foot, and the perusal made her instantly nervous. She set her foot down firmly, the clank of the roof tiles punctuating the movement. One hand flew nervously to her hair, pulled back into a tight knot. “I think we should go inside.”

He moved to sit on the peak of the roof. Surveying the work that she and Jane had completed, he asked, “Why did you leave me in the statuary yesterday? ”

It was not a question she had expected. “My lord? ”

“Leave is not really the appropriate word, is it? Flee is more apt.”

“I prefer escape, actually.”

Her frankness surprised them both. He inclined his head. “A palpable hit, Lady Isabel.”

She blushed at his words, embarrassed by her statement, but refused to back down. “I haven’t time to languish in the statuary with you, Lord Nicholas. I have far too much to do.”

“Need I remind you that it is you who asked me to attend your marbles? ”

The color on her cheeks flared higher. He was calling her rude. And he was not entirely incorrect. “You needn’t. I am very grateful for your help, my lord.”

His eyes narrowed on her. “I am happy to give it, but you must admit, our time together has been rather … unorthodox.”

She smiled crookedly. “I suppose our current location does not remedy that.”

“Nor your clothing, Lady Isabel.” He matched her smile with his own before he asked again, “Why did you flee the statuary?”

“I—I did not have a choice.”

She thought he would press her further, but there must have been something in her tone that stayed the line of questioning.

There was a long silence before he changed tack. “I think you should tell me why you are repairing the roof.”

She gave a little shrug. “I told you already, my lord. It leaks. Which makes it quite unpleasant when it rains. As this is Britain, it rains a great deal.”

He draped one long arm over a bent knee and looked out over the lands, ignoring her tone. “You deliberately misunderstand me. I see I have no choice but to use my only currency.” He sighed, then recited, “Voluptas, the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, is made of pink marble from Mergozzo, an area in the Alps known for it.”

“That statue isn’t pink. And it isn’t Italian.”

He shot her a look, and she was lost in the glittering blue of his eyes before she noted the twitch in the muscle of his cheek. She wondered what the movement meant.

“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.