Page 44 of The Rakehell of Roth
Isobel was grateful for the face cloth, though, because at least it hid her flaming cheeks. She felt Winter’s eyes on her, traveling from the cloth-covered mounds of her nose and chin, and tracing up to her ear, which was covered by her cap. Oh, hellfire, herhair! Had she tucked every strand in after her ride? Given her breakneck speed, her hair would be a mess. Blond hair was common, butlongblond hair would be a dead giveaway.
“How badly were you burned, Iz?” he asked.
“Not so bad,” she blurted, the huskiness of his voice doing obscene things to her.
“It’s a miracle you’re alive.”
His obvious concern for a humble groom surprised her. Once more, it did not match what she knew about him, that he was a selfish libertine who only cared for himself. She shrugged off the notion. He was only fishing for information.
“I shouldn’t exist at all, milord.” Wasn’tthatthe truth?
He went silent, and Isobel didn’t risk peeking up at him. With her track record, she’d fall into a lust-filled trance and tumble to the ground in a dead faint. “Besides that, has the marchioness seemed upset or overly aggravated or frustrated?”
All. Sodding. Three.
“Frustrated, milord?” Boys probably shouldn’t squeak, but it was too late. Isobel cleared her throat, lowering her voice. “In what way?”
Winter let out a laugh, his fingers closing about the fence post until his knuckles went white. “Never mind, you’re much too young. Any visitors of late?”
“No, milord. Not to the yard, though mayhap, she receives callers. Lord Oliver for one.”
“Ah, yes. My brother. What’s he up to, I wonder?” Isobel felt his gaze land on her again. It was truly a wonder how in tune she was with him. “Does she receive him often?”
“Lord Oliver? Hardly,” Isobel said before she could think twice. “Can’t abide the man.”
“Is that so?”
Isobel blinked, scrambling for a reason as to why she would know this. “She used to talk about him to Miss Clarissa when I accompanied them on rides in Chelmsford. A groom hears things here and there, you know. Neither of them seems to like him, though he appears to be favored by the duke.”
“Favored, indeed,” Winter murmured and hopped easily off the fence. “You’ll let me know if you see him again.”
To her surprise, he leaned in slightly, nostrils flaring. As before, she didn’t dare meet his eyes. Or breathe. Or move a muscle until he’d righted himself. What wasthat? Unless she was mistaken, he’d bloody well sniffed her.
“Honeysuckle.”
Fuck. The coarse oath burst in her head.
“Lady Roth visited Hellion earlier,” she prevaricated, putting as much disgust in her voice as she could muster. “Her perfume makes my nose itch.”
“Makes something itch,” she thought she heard him say, but he’d already strolled halfway across the yard.
When Winter left, Isobel breathed out, lifting her arm to sniff at her own skin. There was no flowery scent there. Still, that had been much too close. From Randolph’s thunderous expression, it seemed he agreed.
…
Winter swallowed a groan. The striking contemporary art on display in the great exhibition room at the Royal Academy was doing nothing for him. No, instead his attention was fixated on the two women walking arm in arm ahead of them, perusing the paintings and stopping to converse here and there. One was Clarissa, and the other, his wife.
The tempting minx was under his skin, her scent in his nose, her image burned into his brain…the feel of her elegant hand stroking him. Lust drizzled into his blood, threatening to enflame parts of him that needed to behave in public. He could not get the sensation of her caressing him so boldly out of his head. And now that her groom, Iz, had let slip that she was more enamored of him than she led anyone to believe, it seemed he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He was fuckingobsessed.
“You should do something about that,” Westmore murmured at his side.
Winter suppressed the violent urge to punch the duke in the teeth. God knew why he’d invited the man in the first place once he’d discovered from a very obliging Ludlow where his bride had planned to go today. It was crowded enough that she hadn’t seen him yet, though he knew it would only be a matter of time. For now, he enjoyed watching her, at least when Westmore wasn’t provoking him with asinine comments.
“About what?” he said.
“Your wife.” The duke grinned. “I can feel your frustration from here and it’s makingmyballocks ache. The devil knows why you didn’t let her work that sap out at the club when it’s obvious she wants it. Bed her and be done with it.”
“She wants a child.” He frowned. “She said she expected it when we married, but now she knows that I won’t. I can’t give in.”
