Lady Isabella's Splendid Folly: a Fortune's of Fate story (Fortunes of Fate Book 7) Read online

  When pain skittered up the back of his left thigh and into his buttock, he shifted again in the saddle. The wound associated with the pain had healed over a year ago, but the pain the damn pistol ball had left behind would be with forever. Muscles and nerves had been shredded beyond repair so that he walked with a limp. And when the pain flared, it was a sure sign that rain would soon follow.

  Buggar it.

  Did he really want to walk about a fair with rain in the offing? Peregrine heaved a sigh. This was his life now, and he needed to learn how to suffer through. He also needed a break from the saddle. A walk to ease the stiffness and calm the pain was just the thing. Then he’d return to his house and plop himself down in his favorite chair, his feet propped up before a fire with a glass of brandy in one hand and a good book in the other.

  Too much more of that and I’ll turn into a fat gentleman with nothing to recommend me.

  That brought out a reluctant grin, but he guided Ares to a grouping of oak trees nearby, slid from the saddle and quickly tied the reins to a stout tree trunk.

  “Eat up, boy. I’ll be back soon.”

  The horse bobbed his head and then was soon munching on the spring green grass.

  Peregrine took his cane with its silver curved handle of a dolphin from its leather loop on his pommel and he started off toward the fair. Colorful gypsy wagons met his wary gaze. The closer he drew, the more he immersed himself into the people touring the fair. All around him, life teemed, life and sound and laughter. He stifled a sigh. He missed his ship and crew, missed having a purpose, missed being around people—to a point. Being in his new house for a month had shown him how isolated country living could be, but after a while, a man needed conversation more than a handful of servants and a horse could provide.

  Until that conversation would inevitably come around to his injury and his failed marriage, then he’d wish them all to the devil and shut himself away once more.

  Perhaps I’m not cut out to live on land.

  But the gypsy wagons beckoned, and perhaps he had more than a touch of foolish about him, for he made his way toward them, and when his gaze collided with that of a woman in brightly colored full skirts, he sucked in a breath.

  I do not need another fortune.

  Then the woman crooked a finger, inviting him to her wagon, and he stumbled toward her with the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. A wooden sign hanging from a nail on the side of her green wagon proclaimed her Madame Zeta.

  “Please, come inside,” she asked in a soft, lyrical voice reminiscent from the Caribbean islands. “You have the look of a man who needs a respite from things.”

  He eyed the three wooden steps askance, and didn’t relish navigating them with his cane. Peregrine shook his head. “I’d rather stay outside. Thank you.” But he threw his gaze about the wagon’s interior with interest.

  A tidy bed lay tucked against the far wall. A sofa of sorts was pushed against another while a washstand and a small cook stove occupied the third wall. Patchwork quilts covered the bed and sofa. A round, braided rug of soothing blues covered the wooden floor.

  “In many ways, this space reminds me of my cabin onboard my ship,” he said in a quiet voice as he slowly paced in front of the vehicle. The pain in his thigh continued to throb.

  Madame Zeta smiled. The golden spangles sewn onto the scarf she’d wound about her head caught the sun and threw fractured light beams against the side of the wagon. “You are comfortable here?”

  “At your wagon?” He peered again into the interior. For one insane second, he wished he could sit inside with a cup of tea and watch the world go by. Then he nodded. “Yes.”

  She put a hand on his arm that halted his pacing. A bejeweled ring winked from one creamy brown finger. “But you are not comfortable in your life.”

  For the space of a few heartbeats, Peregrine remained silent as he thought over her words. “Perhaps not, but I am learning to be… content.”

  Her lips quirked into a smile that lit her eyes. “Contentment is a fulfilling but lonely companion.”

  He grunted. “I am not lonely. I am merely cultivating solitude.” Unwillingly. Damned injury that had forced him out of the navy and off his ship due to no longer being able to move freely up and down the ladders and between decks.

  “You are, I think. And new to the area, yes?” When he gave a curt nod, she removed her hand from his sleeve. “Perhaps a lady in your life would help.”

  The muscles in his stomach twisted. “No.” The word came out rather more firmly than he’d intended. He softened it with a slight smile. “I’d rather not, thank you,” he said in a more modulated tone.

  Once of her thin eyebrows ticked upward. “You have had ill-luck in the past with love?”

  “Yes, and I don’t wish to tempt fate again.” Once was more than enough.

  “All women are different. Perhaps you are more ready for it now.” The lyrical notes in her voice were soothing.

  But he shook his head. “No.” This time he intended the sharp utterance. “I am here for a fortune, nothing more.” He narrowed his eyes. “I had my palm read eighteen years ago while in Jamaica and thought I’d do it once more for nostalgia’s sake.”

  “Ah.” Her smile caught and held. “Perhaps they were my mother’s people. Often they would travel through the Caribbean islands chasing work and doing fortunes on the side.”

  “I see.” He nodded, wishing she’d get on with it. The breeze picked up and with it came fat, dark clouds scudding through the skies. “If you wouldn’t mind, Madame Zeta, it would appear rain is in the offing.” And he hadn’t brought an umbrella.

  “Very well.” She held out a hand. “Let me see your palm.”

  Peregrine tugged the gray kid glove from his left hand and then offered that appendage to her. When she closed her hand about his and stroked the fingers of her other hand along his palm, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled once more.

  How truly odd. Fortune telling wasn’t part of the occult, so why did he feel as if something bad was coming?

  Madame Zeta chuckled. “There is a woman in your future who possesses a fierce spirit. Know her by the flash of gold at her breast, but tread lightly lest she flee.” She raised her gaze to his, quelling his need to protest. “Appearances are often deceiving.” Then she winked. “That is all I see.”

  “Women, Madame Zeta,” he said as he took back his hand and in turn dropped a gold sovereign in her palm, “are deceiving. It’ll be a cold day indeed before I take another woman into my heart again.” He wouldn’t admit it, but the “fortune” left him more disgruntled than before. “But I thank you for your time and efforts.”

  “Remember to go forward with an open mind, else life will continue to disappoint,” she said as she moved a few odds and ends into her wagon, no doubt to keep them from blowing away as the breeze turned into a wind.

  “Thank you again.” With methodical movements, he tugged on his glove as the first splash of a rain drop hit his cheek. “Good day.”

  By the time Peregrine reached his horse—he was obliged to fight against fleeing crowds—the skies had opened and heavy rain came down from the darkened clouds. Ares stamped the muddy ground with nervousness evident in his actions.

  “Hold on,” he mumbled as he untied the reins, manipulating his cane and keeping his beaver felt top hat on at the same time. One of his boots slid through the mud and rivulets of water, which made getting the other foot into a stirrup quite the issue. With a curse, Peregrine shoved his came through its loop, and then gripping the saddle, he concentrated on the stirrup regardless of the pain in his leg. Finally, he swung himself up and situated his rump on the saddle. “Let’s go home, Ares.”

  Unfortunately, a jagged bolt of lightning lit the sky, quickly followed by a booming rumble of thunder. Ares reared, startled, and Peregrine scrambled to keep his seat. No amount of murmured soothing words calmed the horse. Away he shot, scattering fair goers in his wake.

  “Ares! S
top this madness right now, you foolish steed.” Peregrine gripped the reins, but no amount of tugging slowed the frightened horse. “It’s rain, not war!”

  They hurtled toward a group of three ladies, who froze in their path, looks of horror plastered upon their faces.

  “Ladies, move!” Peregrine shouted. “I’ve lost control of the horse.” He dared to take one hand off the reins in order to gesture, but the rain and wind must have swallowed up his order.

  Closer and closer the horse rocketed toward them. Finally, two of the ladies ran to the side while the other, clad in bright yellow skirts, watched in what appeared to be fascination as he bore down on her position. Her eyes, so dark blue they were almost indigo, widened, but she tightened her grip on a flimsy, delicate umbrella of violet silk. Foolish accessory, that.

  “Damnation, woman, move your feet!”

  Another vivid jag of lightning split the sky. As thunder rolled and screams echoed around the fairgrounds, Ares came to an abrupt halt right before he would have plowed into the woman. The horse reared and Peregrine lost his seat.

  “Oh, buggar it.” He landed face-first and on his belly at the lady’s feet, splattering her skirts with mud and dirty rain water.

  Kill me now.

  Chapter Three

  With a mixture of amusement and annoyance, Isabella stared at the man who’d landed face down in the mud and the muck at her feet. He’d had some nerve, riding neck or nothing toward her and her sisters as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “One would think a man of your age would have learned how to sit his horse by now.” It served him right to end up being thrown. No one should take reckless chances like that.

  The man climbed to his feet. “I know how to ride,” he growled. The whole front of him was covered with mud. Heavy rain still fell, making more of a mess and plastering his clothing to his body—a lean form muscled in all the right places. Isabella stared a tad longer than was proper. But the raven hair molded to his wet head was not attractive, nor was the muddy water dripping from a rather hawkish nose.

  She cocked an eyebrow and adjusted the tilt of her umbrella, not that the delicate fabric did much to keep the bulk of the rain off. Thank goodness for her bonnet. “Your condition says otherwise.”

  “My condition?” He shoved the fingers of one hand through his hair, slicking it back. “There is nothing wrong with my condition except for the fact I was thrown from a horse spooked by the weather.” The deep timbre of his voice rumbled through the air even above the sound of the rain.

  A dark-haired man will not arrive by traditional means…

  Surely the fortune didn’t mean this sorry excuse of a man.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw her sisters creep back to her side. Louisa touched her arm. “Come, Izzy. The weather is dreadful, and this man isn’t worth your time.”

  She nodded but didn’t take her gaze from the dripping personage in front of her. “I’ll be there in a moment. This man,” she raked her gaze up and down his form, “for he’s certainly not a gentleman, is owed a dressing down.”

  Mariana rolled her eyes. “Now?”

  “Of course now.” Then Isabella ignored her siblings. “You, sir, are a complete and utter bacon-brained idiot. What sort of person allows his horse to take control and run amok through a fair full of people? You could have seriously hurt an innocent, perhaps even killed them. And then what? You’d utter an apology, perhaps flip a coin or two at them and go on your way?” Hot aggravation wound up her spine. “I hope you’ll contemplate your rash actions in the future.” She shook out her skirts, holding them above the mud and water rapidly gathering over the grassy ground and turned toward her sisters.

  The man sputtered. His hands curled into fists. “You dare to presume to pass judgment upon my character?” The incredulity in his commanding voice had her pivoting to face him. Stormy, grayish blue eyes flashed like a storm upon the ocean.

  “I dare because your irresponsible actions have endangered people.”

  “Except, no harm was actually done, even if you and your companions,” he gestured with a muddy gloved hand toward her sisters, “don’t have a brain among you and kept standing in the path of an out-of-control horse. Who sees obvious danger bearing down upon them and stands stock still?”

  Isabella’s lower jaw dropped open. No one had ever talked to her like that. Rage quivered through her belly. She and her sisters were the wronged party in this situation, not him. She faced him, regardless of the rain that had now seeped through her straw bonnet to wet her hair and inch along her scalp. Already, her skirts had dampened and keeping them out of the mud was becoming a rather large chore. “So, according to your faulty logic, women seized with terror at the sight of a man bent on nothing more than his own pleasures, tearing at them from the back of a demon equine, are at fault because their fear temporarily displaced common sense?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m inferring.” He once more slicked back his hair, but to no avail. The rain flattened it to his head. “One would think the three of you would have more sense than to tarry at a fair in the pouring rain.” He threw a glance about him as if requiring the universe to agree with him. “Where the devil are the men in your life who should have kept you from coming on such an ill-advised outing?” Then he snorted and his eyes flashed all the more intensely. “Unless they’re so hen-pecked they couldn’t wait for a respite from you.”

  Isabella gasped. Which complaint to respond to first? She shook off Louisa’s hand with a scoff. “I’ll have you know that it was fine weather when we started off.” How dare this man make wide and erroneous assumptions? “Furthermore, I as well as my sisters are not in need of supervision by any male, and we certainly don’t need to ask permission of them to do anything. We are quite capable of making decisions on our own.”

  “Except the most important one—moving out of the way of a bloody terrified horse,” he all but shouted in response.

  Mariana and Louisa gasped. They both moved closer to her, and Louisa said, “Come away with us to the carriage.”

  “In a moment.” Isabella waved them off, but couldn’t quite dismiss the man. Outrage quivered through her person as she glared at him. Water dripped off the brim of her bonnet and her rather useless umbrella, but he glared right back at her.

  “You see?” He gestured toward her sisters. “They, at least, have the sense to get out of the rain while you apparently wish to tarry in the horrid weather and will, no doubt, reap a head cold for your efforts.” The man crossed his arms at his soggy chest. A grin of superiority curved lips that might appear sensuous on any male but him. “Further proof that your intelligence has fled.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my intelligence.”

  “No? You wouldn’t be here if that were so.” He nodded as if the conversation supported his outrageous claim. “I’m not surprised, for I know your type.”

  She gawked despite the rain. “Which is what? Pray enlighten me.” Tucking the handle of her nearly useless umbrella into the curve of her elbow, she crossed her arms over her chest. The man was entertaining in a droll, boorish sort of way, and indulging in verbal banter with him made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t in a long time.

  “Perhaps I will, since you’re obviously lacking in manners. With that, we’ve set the precedence for this meeting.” He brushed at the worst of the mud, removing it from his wet and dripping person. It splattered onto the wet ground. Then he drew himself up, which made him perhaps five inches over her average height.

  “I’m waiting,” Isabella goaded, going so far as to tap her foot. I haven’t had this much fun for months. Which was a sad commentary on her life, really.

  “Your type, madam, is moderately attractive, no doubt attached to the ton in some way.” He slid his gaze slowly up and down her person, and Isabella swore she felt his regard as if he’d stroked his fingers over her skin. Indeed, a shiver fell down her spine and didn’t stop until those tingles had worked their way through ev
ery nerve ending. Then he opened his mouth, and the brief spell was broken. “Women like you have hobbies, which include embroidery, painting—”

  “Both of which are perfectly good ways of spending one’s time,” she interrupted, with a tiny bit of heat in her cheeks. Yes, she did enjoy doing some handiwork, but she was absolutely rubbish at painting. Neither of those things made her a good or bad person.

  He snorted, launching on as if she’d not spoken. “And women like you enjoy husband hunting—the more titled the man, the better. If there is coin in his coffers, all to the good. Never happy unless a man is pandering to your every whim, and once you have used up everything he has to his name, you move on.” Bitterness hung heavy on his words, reflected in his narrowed eyes.

  For all of one second, Isabella considered feeling sorry for the man. Obviously, a romance in his past had gone sideways. At the back of her mind, she couldn’t conceive of him being charming enough to have captured the interest of any woman. Still, curiosity compelled her to ask. “Thwarted in love were you?”

  “Ha.” He dashed the moisture from his face for all the good it did. “More like stabbed repeatedly in the heart with it.”

  “Oh.” When she would have questioned him further, he continued to glare, and she shoved compassion to the back of her mind. The fact that he’d judged her so grossly and unfairly had anger coursing hot and swift through her. He didn’t deserve her pity or empathy. “Well, you have made an egregious error, sir.” She unfolded her arms and gripped her umbrella all the more fiercely.

  “How do you figure, madam? I am seldom wrong on these things.”