Hidden in shadows and far from the lantern, he could not see her face. “What promise?”
“To never bother me again. I fear I should very much like to be bothered.”
“Pray, where are you going now, Miss Gresham?”
“Down to the seaside.”
“I daresay, have you not been every day of this week? You must consider your health. The possibility that you might catch cold.”
Tying the red ribbon of her bonnet under her chin, Isabella glanced back at Mrs. Morrey with a smile. La, to be so bothersome and dismal. What a pity. Had the woman never been young and restless? “Bridget and I are quite strong. Indeed, we find the cold air exhilarating, do we not?”
Bridget, who was fastening the last button on her velvet pelisse, smiled and nodded. Whether she truly cared for the excursion or not, Isabella would likely never know. But the dear thing was always amiable through every whim Isabella ever hustled her into.
“Do not worry. We shall be back within an hour or two, and I shall dutifully sit in my chair by the hearth and do my needlework.” Isabella winked at Bridget, then reached for her maid’s hand as they bade Mrs.
Morrey a good afternoon and departed.
Outside, Sharottewood’s grounds were brown, grey, and dull, no longer brightened by the glistening layers of snow. The air bit as she breathed it in. She turned toward the stables.
“Miss Gresham, perhaps you should not—”
“Please, I cannot bear it if you scold me too. We need an escort, do we not?”
“Yes, but—”
“I quite detest taking one of the footmen. They watch me with the sort of eyes that make me wonder if they report every one of my actions to Mrs. Morrey and Father.”
“You know that is not so.”
“I know no such thing.” Isabella motioned to the boy outside the stable doors, and he swung them open with a quick bow.
Inside, the familiar mixture of fresh hay, horsehide, and leather filled her senses. “Mr. Ribton, I am quite in need of assistance.”
The older man, with his frizzy side whiskers and deep-wrinkled face, dipped his chin in a knowing nod. “Off with you then, Kensley boy.”
William emerged from a stall, shook his head with a smile, and saddled three horses with a hum under his breath. She should not have watched him. The way muscles rippled under his sleeves when he swung a saddle over Duke, or the sun-browned color of his hands as he tightened the cinch.
“All ready,” he said, handing over Camilla’s reins.
They rode at a slow, steady pace, the afternoon sun warm enough that it chased away a bit of the chill. All the way, he hummed a nameless tune. One she’d heard him breathe before. What was it about him she was so drawn to?
Before, she had blamed it on the bloodlines linking them together. What had she to blame it on now?
She did not know and did not suppose it mattered. She enjoyed him. For the past week, she had come for him every day—and together, with Bridget in tow, they had ridden to the beach and trekked down to the water. She had talked, and he had listened. He had talked, and she had listened.
And sometimes they did not talk at all.
Just walked.
Kicking at the sand in search of jetsam or flotsam, as content in each other’s company as the seagulls were in the bright blue sky.
“Back to the seashore, is it?”
Isabella nodded, and when they’d eased their mounts down the rocky slope and secured their animals to a fallen tree, she motioned William to follow her. “Over here. I wish to show you something.” She did not mean to run, but the sand was packed down solid enough that speed was an easy feat. How many times had she convinced her governess to take her down here, where the sullen-faced woman had perched on a rock while Isabella frolicked by herself?
Indeed, she’d done most everything by herself as a child.
The same throb of loneliness returned to her throat, but for the first time, it seemed more of a memory than a present pain. As she slowed, William stepped in front of her and walked backward.
