The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,105
bloody well go and get her, Son.”
…
Isobel sat on her favorite hill, looking out at the scenic undulating hills of Kendrick Abbey. Tenant farms dotted the horizon at wide intervals, the lush landscape and verdant fields stretching between them as far as the eye could see, her favorite lake twinkling in the distance. Usually the view brought her peace, stunned her with its breathtaking beauty. But today, like all the days she’d ridden out before, her chest felt raw and her heart heavy.
Everything hurt. Everything ached.
She plucked at a piece of thistle on her breeches. It seemed like she’d come full circle. This was the exact spot she’d come to when she’d found out about Winter’s opera singer…when she’d read and screamed about every previous one of his exploits. Now, however, she knew better. He was a man who helped the helpless, who gave hope to those who had none. Who hid all his goodness and all his light behind a rakish reputation. He was as wild as the season he was named after, her Winter, but he was beautiful all the same.
No, not hers.
A sob broke from her lips and Isobel put a hand up to her mouth to stifle any that might follow. She’d spent every night drowning in a sea of tears, crying for something that would never be. It was a dangerous thing to love the possibility of a man versus who he truly was. But if only he could see himself the way she saw him.
Isobel’s heart clenched painfully, wrenching a groan from deep behind her ribs. When was it going to hurt less? Would it ever? People said time healed all wounds, but she couldn’t fathom what she felt ever lessening in intensity. More fool her. She’d tried to guard her heart, but she couldn’t guard something that had already been given away. It would always be his.
“Fuck,” she screamed. And then let out a laugh. She missed his filthy mouth, too. His complete lack of propriety, his inexorable amusement, his raw earthiness. Him.
“Get over it, Isobel,” she said out loud. “You’re not the only woman to face heartbreak. You’ll survive.”
Maybe she might not have the same happy-ever-after that her sister Astrid had gotten with the Duke of Beswick, but that didn’t mean Isobel couldn’t have her own version of happiness. Hers would just have to include an absentee marquess. Maybe one day he’d become the man she knew he was.
As Isobel stared out at the bucolic countryside, her heart seemed to settle as if its master had come to some momentous decision. She would be happy.
“What would Lady Darcy do?” she murmured.
Lady Darcy would prevail. She would love fiercely and wholly, even if there was a risk of loss or the promise of pain because love was always worth it.
Isobel watched the sun descend behind the hills, turning the landscape into a spectacular medley of oranges, golds, and reds. The natural beauty took her breath away. As much as she’d enjoyed the excitement of London, nothing could beat a perfect country sunset. She inhaled deeply, smelling the faint scent of wild roses and freshly turned soil on the light breeze.
Hellion wandered over and knickered softly, as if reminding her mistress that it was time to ride back before it got too dark. That, and she was probably hungry.
“I hear you, girl,” Isobel said, tucking her loose braid up into the confines of her cap. She patted the mare’s glossy neck as the horse gently nuzzled her. Isobel wondered if the mare sensed her sadness. She wouldn’t put it past Hellion—the horse was smarter than most. She stroked her velvety nose, staring into her intelligent brown eyes. “At least, I’ll always have you.”
A thundering of hooves in the distance reached her ears. Isobel squinted into the dying flares of the sunset. A groom on a black horse galloped up the hill from the stables. Randolph or Mrs. Butterfield must have gotten worried and sent someone out to find her.
She checked Hellion’s cinches, tightening the straps and making sure everything was in place before turning to reassure whichever groom they’d sent that she was fine and well.
But when she looked up, her breath stuck in her throat at the sight of one windblown and utterly gorgeous Marquess of Roth. A smile curved his generous lips, those gray eyes gleaming like pieces of silver as he dismounted. It was all Isobel could do to keep her legs locked in place.