“You live in the village I take it?” he asked when she glanced over her shoulder at the small group of houses again.
“Yes,” she replied politely.
He nodded. His eyes fell to her clothing. It was clean and serviceable but most definitely not haut ton. Neither did she appear to be one of the maids at the ta
vern. Who was she then? Where had she come from? Unlike most women, her dishevelled appearance only emphasised her stunning features. He judged her to be around four and twenty, certainly no older than five and twenty. Youth was still evident on the unlined oval of her face which, when combined with the untameable quality she possessed, was captivating. She was unique. He didn’t doubt that she was a woman who would never fit in amongst the ballrooms of the ton. He suspected she would object vociferously to being confined in a routine of soirees, afternoon walks around the park, and society gatherings the likes of which most aristocrats entered into with all the joyous abandon of bulldogs gnawing on a meaty bone. Myles knew that this young woman would be happier walking around the lush landscape or standing on the clifftop, staring out across the stormy wilds of the Cornish coastline as she had.
When he had first clapped eyes on her he had wondered if she was a figment of his imagination or trickery played on him from the sea and sunshine. He had been compelled to venture closer to get a better look and in doing so reassure himself that she truly was real. Now that he had, and she was indeed alive, he had no idea what he should do next. He baulked at the idea of just letting her go, but unless he was going to throw her over the back of his horse and take her home with him, he had no choice.
He nodded to the village. “Is she a relation?” He nodded to the narrow path the old lady had just taken.
Estelle sternly reminded herself it was rude to stare and forced herself to tear her gaze away from the extremely long length of leg lovingly encased in knee-high breeches, and thick riding boots evidently made of highly polished, and extremely expensive leather. Glancing at the village, she sighed when she realised she could no longer see her grandma.
“Yes,” Estelle replied. “I have just moved to live with my grandma.”
Myles opened his mouth to ask her what her name was, but she whirled around until her back was toward him, effectively stopping any further conversation.
Estelle stopped when the possibility she had just offended him by turning her back on him dawned on her. She whirled around immediately and offered him a perfunctory smile by way of an apology, but felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment nonetheless.
“I must go now.” She bobbed a curtsey. “Bye.”
“Wait!” Myles struggled to find something to say that would delay the inevitable. “Don’t you want to know who I am?”
He grinned when her cheeks flushed.
Something warm began to unfurl inside Estelle’s chest. She smiled at him in spite of herself at the sight of the roguish twinkle in his eyes.
“I am sure I will find out,” she remarked dryly with a nod to the villagers. “They know you, I presume.”
Myles nodded. “I am Myles Martin-Howe,” he replied. “From Stredley Manor, over there.”
Estelle nodded while inwardly cursing. Of course, he was going to come from the most beautiful manor house she had ever seen in her life. Of course, he was going to be titled, wealthy, and have an influential family behind him. Rather than answer, she bobbed a curtsey again.
Myles watched her and heaved a sigh. He knew she wasn’t aware of it but each time she curtseyed she displayed a bounteous expanse of bosom which captured his imagination in a way he suspected might get him struck by lightning if he stayed on the clifftop any longer.
“Would you stop doing that please?” he protested.
“I thought it was something people like you expect,” she replied.
Myles lifted an elegant brow. “People like me?” He suspected he knew already what she was going to say. Piqued, he waited.
“Yes, you know, aristocracy.” Shut up now, Estelle, a small voice warned her. Of course, she ignored it. “You know, coming from the manor as you do,” she added, then mentally winced when she realised he didn’t need reminding where he lived.
Myles nodded. “I don’t think social etiquette is really relevant here on the top of a cliff, do you?” he asked, his voice sharper than he intended.
Estelle had the strange feeling she had just offended him somehow, but didn’t know him well enough to be certain.
“I thought it was required at all times,” she responded.
“Then permit me to ask your name,” he murmured. “Without any more bowing and curtseying. I don’t know about you but I feel foolish doing it up here, especially when nobody else is around to see us.” He tried to soften his criticism by offering her a gentle smile. “I won’t tell anybody if you won’t.”
Estelle nodded and struggled to resist the need to curtsey and take her leave of him again. It was difficult to think of anything when he was studying her so intently with those wonderfully, rich, dark eyes of his. At a distance, they looked almost black. Now that he was several steps closer she realised they were more of a rich, creamy chocolate. Their soulless depths drew her closer until she knew that if she ventured too close she was going to fall into them.
What in the world are you doing? A small voice warned her when she realised that she was standing, alone, at the highest point in the village for the world to see, conversing with the owner of the largest manor house in the area. Not only that but falling into his dark, sensually hypnotic gaze.
“I-I need to leave,” she whispered, shaken by the depth of emotion coursing through her. To be attracted to any man was the last thing she needed right now, mainly because it awakened something within her she wasn’t sure she could deal with after her recent experiences. Even so, she suspected it was going to be some time yet before she forgot this morning, in many ways.
“Am I permitted to know your name?” Myles prompted when she continued to stare at him, and then the space around him as though preparing to take flight.