halt.
He perused the outwardly graceful manor atop the hill. It was majestic, built of large light-grey stones quarried not far away. The strength of the stone and the flying buttresses at the sides and back gave them the ability to open the facing walls to the interior with spectacular windows. The architecture also provided for a sheltered pathway around the exterior that was used to create the sunrooms, including the breakfast room, and several greenhouses.
Roxleigh had never seen a manor in England that rivaled it. If it weren’t for the passion he felt for this place, the land, and his people, he would have left and never looked back. He held several estates where he could reside, all of them closer to London, and thus more convenient. But along with the nightmarish visions of his youth came the wonderful ones, and every single memory involved Eildon because his family had never been attached to London society like the majority of the peerage.
While the exterior appeared powerful and protective, the interior was chaotic and beautiful. The complexity of it astounded him. He could never leave this place—at least not for long. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and a scent caught him. He shifted his gaze, searching the gardens. He glanced toward the parlor balcony and saw the figure peering out.
The wind rushed up to her from the valley in greeting, sweeping her hair over her shoulders as she threw her head back. She leaned against the balustrade, putting her arms out to steady herself. She probably didn’t think anyone would see her, but he did. She pressed herself toward him, her nightdress pulling tight against her chest, accentuating the gentle curves of her body beneath.
He groaned, and as if the wind carried the sound of his sigh to her ears, she became aware of him. She looked down as her mouth dropped open. Obviously flustered, she turned and tripped on the long borrowed nightgown, falling back into the depths of the parlor in a flurry of white fabric.
Roxleigh caught the scent of her again, lavender and rain. He let out another deep groan as she disappeared and he shifted his seat, trying to regain the comfort of his saddle. Watching the empty balcony, he leaned forward to drive Samson in an easy gait around the side of the manor to the stable, still without taking his mind from her supple figure. As he passed the paddock he called to Davis.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Davis said, running from the stable.
Roxleigh slid from the horse, stroking his withers and neck before handing over the reins.
“Did he work hard for you, Your Grace?” Davis asked with a broad grin.
Roxleigh looked up at the horse. “As he does.”
“Aye, he does, Your Grace. That he does.” Davis walked Samson to the paddock to cool his muscles and rub him down before putting him up for the night.
Roxleigh turned and strode to the manor, rubbing his palms gingerly, feeling the newly sore calluses. He eased his cramped muscles as he walked and thought about the woman who had managed to turn his life upside down without so much as a full conversation. He decided it was time to change that. She would join him for supper.
Determinedly he walked in the front entrance before the butler could even see to the door. “Your Grace?”
“Stapleton, call Mrs. Weston.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Stapleton bowed and disappeared.
Roxleigh looked down at his attire—his white shirt no longer crisp but hanging open at the neck and sleeves, his riding pants rumpled and untucked from his soggy, drooping boots. He still held the riding crop and grumbled. He should have left it in the stables. He swatted at the dust on his trousers with the crop and decided it was time for new boots. Disgruntled, he moaned at the thought of breaking a pair. He started to unroll his sleeves but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming from behind the grand staircase, and he looked up
He perused the outwardly graceful manor atop the hill. It was majestic, built of large light-grey stones quarried not far away. The strength of the stone and the flying buttresses at the sides and back gave them the ability to open the facing walls to the interior with spectacular windows. The architecture also provided for a sheltered pathway around the exterior that was used to create the sunrooms, including the breakfast room, and several greenhouses.
Roxleigh had never seen a manor in England that rivaled it. If it weren’t for the passion he felt for this place, the land, and his people, he would have left and never looked back. He held several estates where he could reside, all of them closer to London, and thus more convenient. But along with the nightmarish visions of his youth came the wonderful ones, and every single memory involved Eildon because his family had never been attached to London society like the majority of the peerage.
While the exterior appeared powerful and protective, the interior was chaotic and beautiful. The complexity of it astounded him. He could never leave this place—at least not for long. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and a scent caught him. He shifted his gaze, searching the gardens. He glanced toward the parlor balcony and saw the figure peering out.
The wind rushed up to her from the valley in greeting, sweeping her hair over her shoulders as she threw her head back. She leaned against the balustrade, putting her arms out to steady herself. She probably didn’t think anyone would see her, but he did. She pressed herself toward him, her nightdress pulling tight against her chest, accentuating the gentle curves of her body beneath.
He groaned, and as if the wind carried the sound of his sigh to her ears, she became aware of him. She looked down as her mouth dropped open. Obviously flustered, she turned and tripped on the long borrowed nightgown, falling back into the depths of the parlor in a flurry of white fabric.
Roxleigh caught the scent of her again, lavender and rain. He let out another deep groan as she disappeared and he shifted his seat, trying to regain the comfort of his saddle. Watching the empty balcony, he leaned forward to drive Samson in an easy gait around the side of the manor to the stable, still without taking his mind from her supple figure. As he passed the paddock he called to Davis.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Davis said, running from the stable.
Roxleigh slid from the horse, stroking his withers and neck before handing over the reins.
“Did he work hard for you, Your Grace?” Davis asked with a broad grin.
Roxleigh looked up at the horse. “As he does.”
“Aye, he does, Your Grace. That he does.” Davis walked Samson to the paddock to cool his muscles and rub him down before putting him up for the night.
Roxleigh turned and strode to the manor, rubbing his palms gingerly, feeling the newly sore calluses. He eased his cramped muscles as he walked and thought about the woman who had managed to turn his life upside down without so much as a full conversation. He decided it was time to change that. She would join him for supper.
Determinedly he walked in the front entrance before the butler could even see to the door. “Your Grace?”
“Stapleton, call Mrs. Weston.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Stapleton bowed and disappeared.
Roxleigh looked down at his attire—his white shirt no longer crisp but hanging open at the neck and sleeves, his riding pants rumpled and untucked from his soggy, drooping boots. He still held the riding crop and grumbled. He should have left it in the stables. He swatted at the dust on his trousers with the crop and decided it was time for new boots. Disgruntled, he moaned at the thought of breaking a pair. He started to unroll his sleeves but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming from behind the grand staircase, and he looked up
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