Her hair whipped free of pins. Bumps pebbled his skin as the tresses he’d imagined touching unleashed to the wind, long and tangled and thick.
He tried not to fathom what Sharottewood would be like without her. She’d be different when she returned. He knew that. An eligible bachelor would secure her heart, or a dashing suitor would propose matrimony—and they would never have this again.
Whateverthiswas.
Rides in the still hours of evening. Walks along the seashore. Whispers under the stars. Things that made him forget about everything he’d lost. What did Rosenleigh matter? What did his status matter? Gentleman or pauper made no difference in her presence, because it was so easy just to live for their time together and nothing else.
A fool lump lodged in his throat, just as the first splotches of rain hit his face. He kicked his heel into his horse, trying to catch up with her along the curve of the beach. “Isabella!”
The wind must have snatched his voice, for she continued her reckless gallop.
He hunkered forward and kicked Duke again, this time harder. They needed to return before the rain worsened. He knew too well the agonies of being out here in a storm.
Lightning split the sky, striking the water.
Camilla reared, screeched, but pounded back to the ground with Isabella still clinging to the reins. She climbed off the animal before he could reach her. “She is fearsome of thunder and lightning,” she said over the rain. “Ever since she was a colt.”
William swung down next to her. “You did not think to tell me that before we left?”
“I hardly realized it would hit so fast. It has been brewing all day long with nary a drop. How was I to know?”
He handed her his own reins. “Ride Duke back and I shall come after you when the lightning is finished.”
“That may be hours.”
“Never mind that. Hurry off with you.”
She blinked against the downpour, hesitated, then turned and walked for the cliffside, leading her horse with her.
He jogged after her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
She secured the reins to a dead tree then hunkered under a ledge of the cliff. “I am waiting out the storm.”
Frustration expanded across his chest. He joined her. “This is nonsense. You shall catch your death.”
“Everyone is always telling me I shall catch cold and die. One of these days I shall do it just to prove them all right.”
“My.” He shook his head with a whistle.
“What?”
“You are in quite the temperament today, Miss Gresham.”
Her chin puckered, as if the words had been a rebuke. “I am sorry.”
“No need.”
“For not heeding you.”
“About the weather?”
She nodded.
He nodded too. Then silence, save for the rain pelting around them and the rumbles of thunder in the distance and the crash of the waves against the rain-splotched shore.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. She cried, though he hardly comprehended how he knew, for he could not see her face and her body did not rack with tears.
The scent of her hair, a unique citrus blend, drifted into his awareness. He wished he could keep the smell. Or a lock of her hair. Or something that would remind him of her the rest of his life, even when she was married and living without him. What was the matter with him? Was he so dependent upon her? Did he need her so much?
