Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Richard made it to the library before the careful control he had been maintaining finally cracked.
His shoulder throbbed and ached with every movement, sending sharp bolts of pain radiating down his arm and across his back.
He had barely managed to maintain his composure during the ride back to the house.
Many of the other guests had intercepted his retreat to exchange pleasantries or make certain inquiries before he had been able to excuse himself.
Finally, though, he was alone, and he could allow himself to face the pain that had long since settled upon him like a burden. He sank into one of the leather chairs with a grimace, the flash of pain intensifying as he attempted to stimulate the area.
“Damn it all,” he cursed under his breath.
This was all his fault. He should have been paying attention to the path, to his horse, to anything other than the sight of Isobel Lennox riding across the snowy fields as though she had been born in the saddle.
She had looked... radiant. The cold air had brought color to her cheeks, and the wind had loosened strands of her dark blonde hair from beneath her riding hat.
When she had urged her horse into a trot, moving with a confidence he had not seen from her before, something in his chest had tightened almost painfully.
She had been a beauty to behold – just as she always was.
Then Arnold Wightman approached her and ruined the beautiful picture that had been before his eyes.
Richard had watched the ridiculous man approach her and correct her posture in her saddle, had seen a little blush appear on Isobel’s face as she adjusted herself on the sidesaddle.
It had frustrated him immensely for some reason, enough to also greatly distract him.
Because he had been so bothered by the sight of her with that weakling that he had not noticed the low-hanging branch until it was too late.
Humiliating. It had been utterly humiliating.
Richard shifted in the chair, trying to find a position that did not aggravate his shoulder, and failed. The fall had been harder than he had let on, and he suspected there would be impressive bruising by tomorrow. Perhaps he had even wrenched something in the joint itself.
He closed his eyes and sighed tiredly, leaning his head back against the chair, and tried not to think about what had caused his distraction in the first place.
But that was impossible. Because even now, with pain radiating through his shoulder, his mind conjured images of Isobel – this time not wonderful riding form trotting across the snowy fields, this time, but gasping beneath his touch, her body trembling as he brought her to the brink of her pleasure over and over again, the sound of his name on her lips as she fell apart.
He was addicted to that sight of her, immensely inspired to commit himself to a life that would worship her for eons.
By God, what was he doing?
He should never have kissed her. Should never have touched her. Should never have allowed himself to give in to the attraction that had been burning in his veins since the moment he first saw her and knew, instantly, that she was not Valerie.
But he had. He had broken his own rules and set the wheels in motion. And now he could not stop thinking about her, about the way she had felt in his arms, the sweet sounds she had made, the trust in her eyes when she surrendered control to him.
It confused him greatly, how strong the pull to Isobel was, as opposed to how he had felt about her sister. In the time he had know Valerie, they had been cordial and simple acquaintances, but with Isobel, his body and soul seemed to gravitate towards her.
He’d never concerned himself with the affairs of others, yet he wanted to keep her safe.
Each protest, every time he pointed out the descepancies between Isobel and her twin, he had hoped it would dissuade her from the silly crusade, prayed it would save her from risking her own neck in favor of a family that did not know or deserve her.
Richard groaned, running his good hand through his hair. This was madness. Isobel was not some widow or experienced courtesan who understood the rules of such encounters. She was an innocent, a lady, and what he had done with her could have serious consequences if anyone found out.
Yet even knowing that, even understanding the risk did little to persuade him to regret. Neither did it compel him to never again encourage such an entanglement. Richard was in a world of trouble, and he knew it.
The soft click of the library door opening made his eyes snap open, and he straightened in the chair, only to wince at the movement.
Just as he had begun to wonder who it was that had wandered in and incurred pain that he had not requested, the very woman who had been occupying his thoughts stepped into his line of sight.
Isobel stood in the doorway, her riding habit exchanged for a simple day dress, her hair neatly restrained by a velvet bow in a style that made her look like a princess. In her hands, she carried what appeared to be a small cloth bundle.
“I thought I might find you here,” she said softly, closing the door behind her.
Richard's first instinct was to send her away, to maintain the distance that propriety demanded. But he found himself unable to form the words, utterly powerless in the face of her radiant beauty.
“You should not be here,” he said instead, though even it sounded like a halfhearted protest to his own ears. “If anyone were to see –”
“Everyone is occupied,” Isobel interrupted, moving farther into the room. “The ladies are gossiping over spilled tea in the drawing room, and the gentlemen are keeping themselves busy in the billiard room. No one will miss either of us for a short while.”
She approached him, and Richard noticed the concern evident in her green eyes and the small worried furrow between her brows. Something in his chest shifted at the sight.
“You are hurt,” she said, and it was not a question.
“It is nothing,” Richard replied reflexively. “A minor bruise, nothing more.”
Isobel's lips pressed into a thin line. She set her bundle down on the table beside his chair and crossed her arms. “You are lying. I saw your hand trembling when you took the reins after your fall. And you have been favoring your left side ever since.”
Richard wanted to argue, to insist he was fine, but what was the point? She had clearly seen through his pretense.
“I may have... aggravated my shoulder somewhat,” he admitted reluctantly.
“Let me see.”
“That is not necessary –”
“Your Grace.” Isobel's voice took on a note of firmness that surprised him. “You can either cooperate, or I can fetch my father and insist he send for a physician. Your choice.”
Richard stared at her, torn between irritation at her stubbornness and amusement at her audacity. “You would not.”
“Would you gamble on that?”
They locked gazes for a long moment, a silent battle of wills. Finally, Richard sighed, recognizing defeat when he saw it.
“Very well. But I hardly think there is anything you can do that would –”
“I brought herbs,” Isobel interrupted, reaching for her bundle and unfolding the cloth to reveal several sprigs of what looked like dried leaves. “Arnica and comfrey, primarily. They help with bruising and inflammation.”
Richard blinked, surprised. “How did you know which herbs to use?”
A soft smile touched Isobel's lips, and something about it made Richard's heart clench oddly in his chest.
“My mother – Mary, the woman who raised me – she taught all of us children about herbs and their uses,” Isobel explained, her fingers gently sorting through the dried plants.
“We used to go foraging together, and soon we turned it into a game. Whoever found the most interesting or useful herb would be rewarded with extra dessert at dinner.”
Her expression grew distant, fond, as she spoke.
“Margaret was always so competitive – she would practically race through the fields, determined to find something rare. Catherine approached it more methodically, and she carried with her a notebook to record everything we found. And Graham...” She laughed softly.
“Graham usually ended up finding the most useless plants, but he would make up such elaborate stories about their supposed magical properties that Mother would award him the prize anyway, simply for his exceptional creativity.”
“And you? What tactic did you employ?” Richard couldn’t help but ask.
She smiled shyly. “I was the youngest. I got extra dessert either way, but I always wanted to make my family proud, so I memorized the most important rare plants from a book that had belonged to my father, and I would spend hours searching for them. I am pleased to announce that I won my desserts fair and square twice.”
Richard found himself captivated by the warmth in her voice, the way her entire face seemed to light up with the memory. He could picture it easily – a younger Isobel, running through Scottish meadows with her adopted siblings, laughing and gathering herbs while a loving mother watched over them.
It was so different from his own childhood. So different from Valerie, raised in this cold house with Gregory's neglect and manipulation.
“You miss them,” he observed quietly.
Isobel's gaze snapped back to his, and he saw the sheen of tears she was fighting to hold back.
“Every day. Margaret and Catherine wrote to me regularly when I was in the monastery, and Graham visits when he can, but it is not the same. And my parents...” Her voice caught slightly.
“They have both passed now. But I still hear my mother's voice sometimes, offering advice or comfort when I need it most. Even my father’s occasionally. He was the sweetest soul.”
“They sound like remarkable people.”