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, and 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!”