Rather slim,Isobel decided eventually. Based on what Arnold had revealed, it is unlikely that Deborah would have trusted him with such information. This suggested either that Arnold was genuinely innocent or that he was a far better actor than she gave him credit for.
As she began to ponder the results of her investigation, the sound of commotion caught her attention. She turned to Arnold, who seemed as surprised about the situation, and together, they both pressed forward to the edge of the crowd.
They arrived in time to see Richard rise off the ground, quickly dust off himself, and assure everyone that he was just fine. Seeing him in the dirt had caused Isobel’s heart to sink with worry, but as onlookers fussed over the duke, he remained audibly.
“I am quite all right. Please do not worry. I only lost my concentration for a bit.” He assured in a tight voice.
As he ensured he gave his coat a once-over to make sure he was once more flawless, he reached for the reins of his horse, still giving assurances that all was well. But Isobel’s eyes had noticed a slight tremor in his hand as he gripped the leather strap the reins were made of, and how he winced when he reached for his right side. She noticed, too, the tightness around his eyes, the set of his jaw that suggested he was in more pain than he was letting on.
Worry flooded through her, and she wanted to go to him and tell him to go and rest right away. But she couldn’t act so rashlybefore she gave their partnership – and more. Half the group expressed their concern and worry, but he stubbornly insisted that he was fine, settling in his saddle stably before resuming his stroll at the front of the riding party.
The carefree nature of the walk had dampened slightly due to the minor accident, but Isobel was not too concerned with that; still worried about Richard. Now and then, her eyes would find him, sitting upright and perfect in the saddle, but she could see the tension in his frame and the careful way he moved.
Something twisted in her chest at the sight, and she told herself that it should not matter what they had shared the day before. She should not feel compelled to care about whether or not he had gotten hurt. There were likely bigger issues to concern herself with than to worry about him.
And so, Isobel spent the rest of the ride pretending that she was not particularly concerned with him, but the weight in her chest said otherwise.
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 IsobelLennox 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.
