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When Rhys hoisted her onto the horse and embraced her, she finally relaxed. She was home.

It was a foolish endeavor indeed to set out on the road in such weather. But in her defense, when she’d left Lilian’s house, the rain had only been drizzling, and the ground was not as slippery. She had hoped to get home before the deluge started.

But to her utter aggravation, her horse threw her just a few minutes after she had started her journey.

She should have turned back then. She should have gone back to Lilian’s house, had a cup of tea by the fire, and waited for morning to come and the sky to clear before she attempted her journey back home.

But Isabel was stubborn. And she knew that Millicent waited for her and worried about her. So instead of turning back, she’d marched on forward.

A chill coursed through her, and she shuddered. Rhys cursed above her head and tightened his arms around her.

“Hold on to me,” he shouted over the rain. “I shall speed up the horse. Need to get you to the fire as quickly as possible.”

Isabel nodded against his chest and hugged her body to his.

Rhys’s clothing was just as wet and cold as hers. But his neck was bare—he wasn’t wearing a cravat—so Isabel burrowed her face closer to his warm skin.

He smelled of rain, wet ground, and beneath it, all was his own masculine scent. Isabel did not realize how much she’d gotten used to this scent. It was dear to her. She associated it with safety and comfort, probably because they had shared a bed for a few nights, and now she associated his scent with her room, her bed.

Isabel slid her hands under his cloak, looking for more warmth. Rhys’s arm tightened around her as he urged the horse into a gallop.

A few moments later, they reached their house. The door opened instantly, the butler and the groom rushing out into the rain.

Rhys jumped off the horse and handed the reins to the groom. “Monroe! Tell Mrs. Ainsworth to prepare a kettle of tea and bring as many blankets as she can find to Lady Isabel’s room.” He turned to Isabel. “Come.”

She slid down the horse and into his arms. Rhys kissed her forehead as she hit the ground, then scooped her up into his arms again.

“I can walk, Rhys,” she protested, but he didn’t even miss a beat.

“If you think I am letting you out of my arms, you are mad,” he grumbled under his breath.

Isabel relaxed against him. The servants started bustling around them, and Isabel felt ashamed she’d caused such a ruckus in the middle of the night.

Rhys walked into her room and sat her down on the chair by the hearth. Isabel shivered pleasantly as the warmth of the fire chased the chills away.

Rhys took off his cloak and crouched before her. He took her leg by the ankle, and Isabel wrenched it away.

“What are you doing?”

Rhys reached for her leg again and tightened his fingers around her calf. “Sit still.”

He carefully took off her boots and frowned as he saw that her stockings were soaked through. Just then, Anthea bustled in with a bundle of blankets.

“Anthea.” Rhys turned to her. “Please take out a fresh pair of stockings, a couple of towels, and a chemise for her ladyship. And then bring a basin with hot water, please.”

“Just a moment, my lord.”

As Anthea rushed to do as she was asked, Isabel looked at her husband. “Thank you for taking care of me, but I can fare on my own from here.”

Rhys ignored her, sinking his hands under her skirts and untying her garters. The ticklish feeling at her thighs had her clench her knees together. “Truly, this is unnecessary,” she tried again.

Rhys scowled at her. “My dear wife,” he said between his teeth as he rolled down one stocking. “I think you fared quite enough for one day. Now let me lend you a hand.”

He rolled down another stocking and glowered at the wet piece of cloth.

“That’s not fair. Just because I got caught in the rain—”

Rhys sat up on his knees, took Isabel’s face between his palms, and kissed her soundly. Isabel went limp in his arms as Rhys swept his tongue against her mouth.