Page 28 of The Rakehell of Roth
Isobel was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the heavy footsteps approaching until their owner was right on top of her. God above, it was Lord Roth himself.
“Are you looking for someone, milord?” she asked, peering up at him and taking a large, noisy bite of her apple beneath the loose hem of her mask.
“I’m looking for you, as a matter of fact.”
“Me?”
Isobel froze at his tone, her breath catching. Did he know who she was? Had she been discovered after all? She opened her mouth and shut it. Even if he had, she didn’t know what she would say. Instead, she waited, shocked to the gills when he squatted down beside her. She hunched down more, keeping her face hidden. Thank God she reeked of horse and sweat, enough at least to not smell like a woman.
Or his wife.
Aside from breasts, Clarissa had elucidated that men were also exceedingly particular about scents. Isobel fought the urge not to inhalehimand failed miserably. His own natural scent of pine and wintry air set her heart to hammering and her traitorous blood on fire. Dear God, why did he have to smell so deliciously divine? Like a forest covered in freshly fallen snow.
“Why is your face covered?” he asked.
“Burns, milord,” she lied. “When I was nine.”
Winter nodded, and Isobel was stunned he was so easily satisfied by the explanation. Then again, he was friends with the heavily scarred Lord Beswick, so perhaps he understood what it was like for a person to live life under a mask because of a facial disfigurement.
“How is your charge? Hellion, is it?”
“The mare’s well, milord. Just gave her a good rub down.”
“And her mistress?”
Isobel hid her surprise with a shrug. “Also good, milord. She took Hellion out to Rotten Row this morning. The horse doesn’t get nearly enough exercise as she did at Kendrick Abbey. She gets restless.”
Much like her owner.
Isobel took another healthy bite of her apple, chewing loudly and hoping he’d take the hint and go away, but no such luck. Her husband leaned back against the tree beside her, and she fought not to ogle the splendid expanse of fawn-covered thigh that stretched precariously close. One long arm reached out to drape over his knee. Isobel could hear every rustle of fabric as it tugged against his well-muscled body—a masculine frame she remembered far too well.
With him so near and so accessible, Isobel had the sudden, mad urge to climb into his lap and fit her softer curves to his harder angles. God, she was a wanton. Maybe she needed to curry three more horses. Or dunk her feverish idiot body into the Serpentine.
“So Iz-like-the-verb,” he said, and Isobel stiffened. Drat, hehadbeen listening. She’d have to be careful. Just because he wasn’t acting like a giant prick didn’t mean that he didn’t have a working brain hiding behind a veneer of kindness and civility. “How long have you been Lady Roth’s groom?”
Isobel felt his eyes settle on her but kept her chin angled down, head bowed, and shoulders slouched. He wouldn’t insist she look at him in light of her false condition. Some men might, but deep down, she knew he wouldn’t.
She considered the safest answer. “I’ve helped with Lady Roth’s horse for three years, milord, and afore that, I helped Lady Beswick. I came with the horse from Beswick Park.”
He pondered her reply for a minute and then rose, handing down a coin that she took in one grime-covered fist. “I need a favor from you.”
And there it was—the reason he’d sought her out. “What’s that then, milord?”
“Keep an eye on your lady for me. If you see anything odd, report back to me.”
She frowned, wondering where his sudden nosiness was coming from. Maybe he wanted to know if she was getting ready to leave. Or was it more? She knew he’d noticed her alarm during their dance at the ball when she’d imagined she’d seen Beaumont—was he just being considerate? “Cor, are you expecting trouble, milord?”
“Can’t be too careful.”
He handed her a card from his coat that had his name and his address—the house she’d visited. 15 Audley Street. Isobel’s mouth curled, but she tucked the cardstock into her pocket.
Winter tilted his head. “Is she a good mistress?”
“Lady Roth? She’s the best.”
“Thebest? That’s a ringing endorsement.”
As she peered up at him from beneath the darkened brim of her hat, his full mouth tilted into an unguarded smile that lit his eyes to silver. Isobel stared, fascinated at the difference in the man. The few smiles she’d caught sight of had been pale imitations of this one, and for a brief heartbeat, she was dazzled stupid. She jerked her head down, knowing that if he sawhereyes, her secret would be out.
