The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,49
she truly was a boy. Which she wasn’t. She really shouldn’t tease him so.
“Any news to report?” her husband said, dismissing the other groom with a flick of his hand.
Assaulted by the crisp scent of him, Isobel couldn’t suck in a lungful of air for a handful of heartbeats. Nearly gasping, she thrust her fists into her pockets and bit her lip beneath the cloth. She needed to focus on planting the seeds of Lady Roth’s secret love, not attempt to absorb him through her nose. “Her ladyship has been distracted during her outings.”
“Distracted?”
He perked up at that, and she grinned beneath the mask. He was much easier to bait than she’d expected.
“Well, blushing and carrying on, mostly about you, milord. She’s gone all doe-eyed, nattering on about falling for the wrong man. Winter this and winter that. Though Lud knows why she’s on about the weather. It’s sodding June.”
Winter chuckled, the seductive sound winding through her like music. God, she loved his laugh. It was both deep and wicked, lighting places inside of her that needed to behave. Heat gathered between her legs where her breeches pressed and rubbed, and she wanted to shove her knees together to relieve the ache. But a motion like that would not escape his notice, and it wasn’t like she wanted to draw his attention there. She was missing a crucial bit of equipment for her disguise, after all.
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, her hair! Had she tucked every strand in after her ride? Given her breakneck speed, her hair would be a mess. Blond hair was common, but long blond 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’t that the 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 was that? 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