Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord
Page 29

“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.”