Page 27 of The Rakehell of Roth
“And Winter? Have you told him of your concerns?”
“Not recently. He thinks Oliver is irritating but harmless.”
Isobel frowned. Oliver might be, but there were many other men who were far from harmless, who went out of their way to destroy people in pursuit of their own selfish desires. She and her sister had dealt with one firsthand.
Now she was the Marchioness of Roth, protected by the powerful Duke of Kendrick, if not her own husband. Astrid had the same protection as Duchess of Beswick.
The Earl of Beaumont was firmly in their past.
Chapter Seven
Subterfuge is an excellent tool in the waging of the seduction wars.
– Lady Darcy
“Aren’t you my special beauty,” Isobel crooned to the mare as she moved the curry comb in a circular motion down the horse’s hindquarters. Hellion loved being groomed, and here in London Isobel could only do that dressed as Iz the groom without causing a ruckus about a lady—gasp—doing manual labor and kneeling in the dirt.
Randolph hadn’t stopped scowling since the moment she’d raced down to the stables, dressed in her breeches, shirt, cap, and mask. “My lady,” he’d chided. “You cannot keep doing this. What if you’re recognized? It will be my hideandyours if the duke discovers such tomfoolery.”
“I’m wearing a mask,” she insisted. “No one will recognize me.”
“There’s no fire anymore. Why are you even wearing a mask?”
Isobel had shrugged. “I can say I’m disfigured, like the Duke of Beswick. That I suffered injuries to my face as a child. No one will question it as long as you back me up. Say you will, Randolph. Please.” She wasn’t above using bribery to get her way, but Randolph already knew she had a stubborn streak a mile long. She went the route of cajolery. “I’ll put in a word with the duke about the head groom position at Kendrick Abbey once Rodney retires.”
His eyes had narrowed, but then he’d sighed in resignation. “If the duke finds out, I had nothing to do with it.”
“I promise he won’t.”
Grumbling under his breath, he’d walked away, and Isobel had resisted the urge to hoot with triumph. She’d thought she would love the glamour of London, and she did. But she also missed the quiet spaces of Chelmsford and the freedom to be herself. Even if it meant donning a pair of ratty old breeches and spending time in a stable yard.
“There, sweet girl,” Isobel murmured to Hellion. “Doesn’t that feel nice? I’ve missed you.”
In town, she barely had time for herself, much less the mare. The invitations came in a deluge. Clarissa was thrilled, of course, but the thought of all of the endless socializing was overwhelming. Not to mention the interminable intrigues of who had the biggest fortunes, who was sleeping with whom, who planned to offer for whom, and who was getting jilted. Add in the cat-and-mouse game she was playing with her husband, and Isobel was ready to scream.
She couldn’t get a handle on him. Isobel bit her lip. The dratted attraction was insufferable. Those eyes of his hadn’t lost their piercing quality, his smile still inspired wickedness, and his well-defined, masculine form made her own body sit up and take notice.
Honestly, the constant state of arousal was tiresome.
And on top of that, Lady Darcy’s clever methods of dealing with such sexual frustration were losing their efficacy. Such was the fate of being awakened with heart-pounding fantasies one didn’t need. Isobel wished she could go back in time, put herself back to sleep in dear old Chelmsford, and forget about her desirable, irresistible, maddening rake of a husband.
He was the whole reason she’dneededto become Iz for the rest of the afternoon.
She’d come to London to prove to him—and herself—that she wasn’t a country mouse he could ignore. To teach him a lesson and leave him wanting, just as he’d left her. If she truly wanted to channel Lady Darcy, she needed to retake the power he’d snatched from under her, and to do that, she had to up her seduction game. Her cheeks flushed.
The question was, howdidone seduce an utter horse’s arse?
Hellion pranced and gave a whinny at her suddenly aggressive strokes, and Isobel gentled the motion. “Sorry, girl.”
Isobel shoved thoughts of Winter from her mind. Grooming Hellion was tiring, and by the time she had gone over the horse with a soft brush and combed out the mare’s mane and tail, she was breathing heavily. The hard, mindless work was exactly what she’d needed to release the build-up of tension and fretfulness simmering in her veins. Maybe she should inform the other half of Lady Darcy that vigorous activity cured sexual frustration. Somewhat.
“There you go, my girl,” Isobel said, using a damp washcloth to gently clean the mare’s eyes and nose. “You look a treat.”
The horse nudged her as if in thanks, and Isobel gave her an apple.
After re-stabling the horse in her pen, Isobel refilled her oats, then moved outside to cool off. She was boiling in the coarse, ill-fitting clothing and her sweat-dampened mask. She longed to tear off the face covering and dunk her head in a bucket of water but didn’t dare to, not after Randolph’s warnings. Even though she couldn’t see them, there were eyes everywhere. Isobel splashed carefully, and then sat under a shady tree to munch on a second apple she’d tucked into her pocket and watch the men patch up the burned corner of the stable.
The repair was nearly complete, and the workmen laughed and joked with each other. She snickered to herself at some of the bawdier jokes, but it was nothing she hadn’t heard before, not after being around Clarissa’s raunchy brothers. She missed those rascals terribly, too.
