The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,30

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’d needed to 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, how did one 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.

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 inhale him and failed miserably. His own natural scent of pine and wintry air set