Free Lord of Regrets by Sabrina Darby Page B

silence, too, pressed her hand to her temple as if it pained her. He saw everything pass across her face in that instant, all the doubts and all the yearning. The shadowed half circles beneath her eyes revealed her sleepless night and though he hated to see her this way, weak from strain, he recognized the signs of incipient surrender.
    He wanted to take her into his arms, assure her she could fall into them, rest on his strength, trust in him. He wanted to tell her again that he loved her and kiss away the lines of tension around her mouth. But if he were to woo her truly, he couldn’t force this moment.
    “You weren’t at church.”
    “I have a headache.” She said it softly, as if the very words pained her.
    “Can I be of service to you? Do you need a doctor––”
    “No,” she interrupted. “I am not quite up to entertaining this afternoon.”
    He studied her face again, nodded at last. “Forgive me.”
    As he rode back to the inn, he kept that last sight of her in his mind, eyes wide and moist, lips parted in complete understanding of the absolution he sought.
    Monday morning, after being assured by his man that Natasha had not stirred from her home, Marcus withdrew Juniper once more from the stable and took him for a ride. The bay had never been one of his usual mounts, but he’d come to admire his stamina in the past week. The countryside in this corner of Norfolk, even at the height of winter, was beautiful. The gently rolling slopes seemed almost flat at a distance, but there was uniqueness to each bit of snow-covered earth––broken up, he knew, into some twenty-odd tenanted farms as well as the estate’s own land. Parrington’s lands were well tended, a fact that even the starkness of February could not hide.
    He took a more circuitous route than usual, coming out upon the road to Norwich several miles from Little Parrington. He was in no hurry to return to the inn.
    He was avoiding Natasha. Not because he didn’t want to see her. No, his instinct, the one he had honed these last years in numerous business negotiations, was telling him to stay away. He had made great strides in his courtship, but sometimes a strategic retreat garnered more progress than a continual push forward. He would go to her as the sun set.
    He slowed Juniper to a walk, letting the horse catch a breath. His own chest rebelled in pain at the frozen air even as the pace of his heartbeat slowed.
    He heard the distant thunder of hooves and led Juniper to the side of lane. A few moments later, from behind the bend in the road, a man came racing along, urging his mount on with his knees. Marcus had only a momentary impression of horse and rider as they passed. Then, with a flurry of slush, the man slowed, turned his horse around, and came trotting back to meet Marcus.
    As he neared, the man pulled his hat off and wiped at his forehead with the back of his arm.
    “Templeton! It is you. I thought my eyes were deceiving me. What are you doing in the neighborhood?”
    Lucas Aubrey, Earl of Parrington. The lineage ran instantly through Marcus’s head as if he were reading Debrett’s. The travel-worn man before him looked far more like his earlier forebears than his more recent ancestors. Just like those who had crossed from Normandy with the Conqueror, Lord Parrington was a warrior and had proven it in the early days of the fighting in the Peninsula. He was battle-scarred and brawny. Cropping his hair close didn’t disguise the bald, scarred patch where stray metal had pierced the skin. Marcus had heard the story; everybody had. The man was a hero.
    And now that hero was panting from recent exertion as much as the horse he rode.
    “I’m in the area on business, but more specifically, to visit an old friend.”
    “Oh?” Parrington frowned, as if he were thinking through his acquaintances, both the nobility and gentry of the neighborhood. He was too well-bred, however, to press Marcus for a name, and Marcus did not supply one.