Page 78 of The Rakehell of Roth
“And yet, here you are, still in London,” Astrid pointed out. “When your own husband is telling you to go back to Chelmsford, which seems to be what you claim to want. So, which is it, sister? Roth or Chelmsford?”
Isobel resisted the urge to stick out her tongue in a childish gesture. Astrid had always been able to cut right to the heart of the matter. “I don’t know. Both, perhaps.”
Astrid canted her head. “Do youlikeRoth?”
“Sometimes, he’s affable.”
Her sister’s brows rose. “Affable?”
“Fine,” she mumbled. “On occasion, he’s clever and thoughtful, and I enjoy his company. Especially when he doesn’t know it’s me.”
Isobel blushed as her sister shot her a questioning look. She hadn’t meant to allude to her secret persona as Iz, but now the cat was out of the bag. And besides, it was probably a good thing, since Iz had supposedly worked for Beswick. In a few short words, she explained how Iz, the groom, had come to be, watching as her sister’s eyes grew into surprised orbs.
Staring at her, Astrid shook her head in mute fascination. “Sometimes, you astound me.”
Isobel bit her lip. “It wasn’t my fault. It just happened. I couldn’t well tear off the mask, dressed like a man wearing breeches in the middle of the dratted courtyard!”
“You could have confessed later.”
Isobel lifted a shoulder. “I liked it,” she admitted. “I liked him talking to me without those walls he surrounds himself with. I saw a side of him that I never expected.”
“Does he know about Lady Darcy?”
She shook her head hard. “No, and he will never find out!”
Concern flashed on Astrid’s face. “Secrets have a way of coming out, Izzy, you know that. It’s better to be truthful before they have a chance to hurt you or anyone you care about.”
“There’s rather little chance of that, isn’t there?” Isobel said, a wave of bitterness cresting through her. His words from the study haunted her:I never wanted to marry her in the first place. “Winter doesn’t care about me, and if he has anything to say about it, I’ll be cloistered away in the country, never to be heard from again. So my secrets are safe.”
“Quit being dramatic.”
“Well, you’re being entirely too pragmatic,” Isobel tossed back. “I thought pregnancy would have softened you, but you’re as waspish as ever.” A horrified sob broke from her at the hurt look on her sister’s face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You’re right, of course, you’re right about everything.”
Astrid reached for her hand, and squeezed. “You need to talk to Roth. One on one, without anger and without agenda. Men are complicated creatures, and unless the question is put to them in a direct way, you will never have the answers you seek and it will drive you to folly trying to read his mind.”
She sniffed. “Clarissa has a theory about them having two heads for a reason.”
“That girl is outrageous, but she’s not wrong.” Stifling a snort, Astrid shook her head. “Talk to your husband. If you wish to go back to Chelmsford, I will be leaving in three days. You can accompany me and spend some time at Beswick Park. Pippa will be thrilled to see her favorite aunt.”
Isobel leaned in and gave her sister a side-armed hug. “Thank you, Astrid.”
“What are sisters for?”
…
Steering his mount through Covent Garden, Winter tried to tamp down the maelstrom of emotions coursing through him.
The fact that she’d overheard his cold explanation to Oliver and the duke dug at him.Tormentedhim. This washisfault. She wouldn’t have left if he’d been truthful…that this wasn’t just a marriage of convenience. It might have started out that way, but Isobel had come to mean something to him. The thought of her lying hurt in a ditch somewhere left him cold. Fearful. This was the Garden…not Mayfair. Isobel could be in real danger. The fright that swallowed him made him urge the horse to go faster.
Hell, what if he was too late?
Something inside of him faltered at the thought. Life without Isobel would be…desolate. Impossible to contemplate. No, no,no. He’d find her and all would be well. She would laugh about being clumsy and he would berate her for running off without a word. Isobel was alive. She had to be. The alternative was…intolerable.
Winter eyed the brace of pistols tucked into his saddle and moved one of them into his waistband. He’d also tucked a smaller one into his coat pocket and had a knife hidden inside his boot. If he had to take on bandits or ruffians, he wanted to be prepared. All he cared about was finding Isobel and making sure she was safe.
The sense of foreboding settled more firmly over his shoulders, even though his initial alarm was settling. Was she truly hurt? Or was it a ploy? If it was an accident and some Good Samaritan had indeed found Isobel—who seemed to attract trouble like honey drew bees—he would be grateful. But something about this didn’t seem right, and his sense of misgiving thickened the deeper he headed into the narrow, smelly streets.
Isobel wouldn’t have ridden here alone. She was smarter than that.
