The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  “Grief shouldn’t make a man an absolute steaming arse-rag.”

  Clarissa’s eyes sparked with reluctant approval, her mouth twitching at the inventive slur. “Shouldn’t have taught you to swear, either.”

  “You shouldn’t have taught me a lot of things.”

  Clarissa was the daughter of the Duke of Kendrick’s private solicitor, Mr. Bell, and the youngest of six, the other five all boys. From the moment she and Isobel had been introduced nearly three and a half years ago, they’d been inseparable, and everything Clarissa learned from her rambunctious brothers, she’d taught to Isobel.

  And that meant everything.

  Isobel had been so sheltered that when the incorrigible, boisterous, and entirely too bold girl had asked her with a saucy grin if she was up the pole yet, her eyes had gone wide and her mouth had gaped. “It only takes one time, you know,” her new friend had said knowingly. “To get with child.”

  “No,” a scandalized Isobel had stammered. “I don’t think so.”

  “What were his kisses like?” A curious stare had followed. “Did you stick your tongue in his mouth?”

  “No!”

  “Then you’re doing it wrong.”

  Isobel had stopped blushing after the first life lesson—one involving how babies were made. That had been eye-opening, to say the least. Not that she hadn’t had a thoroughly erotic introduction to marital relations with her own clodpole of a husband, a union which had not borne any fruit of the newborn variety. By design, she’d learned since, as the marquess had withdrawn and spilled in the sheets. Perhaps, that, too, had been a blessing in disguise.

  Though deep down, Isobel did not deny wishing for children of her own and a family to care for one day, blessing in disguise or not.

  Thank God for Clarissa, the only light in what had promised to be a lonely and dismal existence. From then on, her self-ordained best friend had encouraged her to ask her anything, as in anything. And since it was much too shameful to voice certain inquiries out loud, Isobel chose to pen secret letters to which Clarissa provided answers in lewd, graphic, and gleeful detail.

  After the first letter asking about what it was like to truly kiss a man, the impish Clarissa had replied with a scandalous masterpiece dedicated solely to the vagaries of kissing, including tongues, spit, and fish-faced puckers that had made the two girls dissolve into irreverent giggles.

  Eventually, what had started out as naughty but instructive letters between friends had turned into a surprising windfall. Isobel’s sister Astrid, an authoress herself, had taken one look at the stack of scandalously frank correspondence, burst into laughter, and sent them off to her publishing man of affairs. While Astrid mostly published essays about women’s rights with the steadfast support of her own husband, her visionary publisher had seen opportunity with the Dearest Friend letters. That had been the start of The Daring Lady Darcy.

  All anonymous, of course.

  Said publisher didn’t want to go to prison.

  Lady Darcy’s instant success had taken them all by surprise. As it turned out, wicked advice to ladies of quality had been a shocking novelty, and the modest publication had risen to instant notoriety. From recipes to fashion to needlepoint, to physical and emotional intimacy, to scandalous erotic advice, there was no stone left unturned, no subject left untouched. The frank periodicals flouted decency, but readers were greedy for more.

  “I should write Lady Darcy a letter on disemboweling unsuspecting husbands,” Isobel said, then with a grin, she added, “And hiding a body without getting caught.”

  Clarissa cackled, eyes sparking with glee. “I’d have to do some research, but why not? I bet our readers would love that. What do you think of ‘A Lady’s Guide to Mariticide’?”

  Isobel laughed with her friend, the hottest part of her anger draining away. She could always count on Clarissa to make her smile.

  Thundering hooves interrupted their amusement.

  “Your ladyship!” A panting groom rode out to meet them.

  Isobel schooled her features into calm. “What is it, Randolph?”

  “His Grace is in residence!”

  Oh, good Lord, she had completely forgotten her father-in-law’s arrival!

  Strangely, Isobel had developed a fondness for the duke over the years. Having lost her own parents in a terrible carriage accident, she had gravitated to the stoic man. Besides her sister, who had her own life, Kendrick was the only family she had. Eventually, they had bonded over a shared love of music as well as their common bedsore of a connection—his estranged son and her equally estranged spouse.

  Isobel stepped over to where Hellion was grazing. She glowered at Clarissa. “You could have reminded me,” she accused without much heat.

  “How could I when I forgot as well?”

  “Some friend you are. Come on.”

  Clarissa shook her head. “Not a chance. You enjoy the Duke of Derision by yourself. He positively loathes me. Besides, I need to cool my horse and my sore behind after chasing your shadow for the last half an hour.”

  “He doesn’t loathe you.”

  Clarissa’s eyebrows shot upward. “He called me a witless pest, Izzy.” Her eyes widened as she clutched at her chest with dramatic flair. “Witless. Me? Doesn’t everyone know that I am the undeclared Goddess of Eternal Wit? For shame!”

  Isobel snorted. “That’s a mouthful.”

  “Well, you know what they say about more than a mouthful.”

  “No, Clarissa,” Isobel said, her lips twitching, “what do they say?”

  She tapped her lips with a finger. “Something I might need to consider for our next batch of letters. Speaking of, I should get started. ‘More than a Mouthful’ is a memorable title, don’t you think? Or perhaps, ‘Ladies Gobbling Bananas.’”

  “Clarissa!” Heat flooded Isobel’s cheeks. Sometimes her best friend was too much.

  “What? It’s a natural part of life, or so my brothers declare in secret. All men enjoy it, I bet.” She wrinkled her nose. “Even the duke. Perhaps we should send him a copy and see if we can get him to crack a smile?”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  Isobel pinned her lips between her teeth. If the duke had any inkling of her secret life as Lady Darcy, he would implode. As much as he cared for her, Lady Darcy’s intrigues weren’t the done thing for a lady of quality. The duke was a fastidious man who was a stickler for decorum.

  That said, most people didn’t appreciate her father-in-law. Underneath all that aloof, brooding reserve, he had a heart that beat fiercely for his sons, even though his firstborn seemed to be convinced the duke was the devil. From what Isobel could garner from the tight-lipped upper servants, they’d been on the outs since Winter was a boy…a divide that had only worsened in recent years.

  Isobel sighed and mounted her horse. She wasn’t sure she was up for company, but she turned Hellion around, stroking the mare gently. Hellion was the foal of her sister’s prized thoroughbreds, Brutus and Temperance, and had been a belated wedding present from the Duke and Duchess of Beswick. At first, Isobel had been terrified of the horse, but the truth was she’d been so lonely that she’d learned to ride out of sheer necessity.

  At least the mare had stuck around.

  Because Hellion was loyal, unlike a certain fickle, spineless marquess.

  Arriving at the stables in short order, she slid from the horse with a soothing word and a caress, and threw the reins to a waiting groom, before dashing toward the kitchens. With luck, she would have a few minutes to freshen up and change before greeting the duke.

  “Goodness, watch out!” a voice exclaimed as she barreled to the stairs.

  Isobel slowed, narrowly missing a collision with one of the Fairfax twins. Violet and Molly had shown up six months ago with a note from their late father’s solicitor citing the duke as their guardian. Kendrick ha
d read it without blinking and told Mrs. Butterfield to take care of it. He’d ignored his wards ever since, though he hadn’t batted an eyelash at allowing them to stay. At two-and-twenty, they were only two years older than her, and Isobel suspected he might have done it for her sake. Outside of Clarissa, female company was in short supply.

  “Sorry!” Isobel caught her breath before climbing the stairs at a more sedate pace. “I forgot the duke was back today and with everything this morning, I’m a mess.”

  Violet pulled a face, lifting the hem of her black bombazine mourning dress to follow Isobel. Molly, never a far step away, appeared beside them. “He doesn’t look happy. He never looks happy. Maybe he saw those awful scandal sheets, too.”

  A fist clenched around Isobel’s heart, mortification rushing through her. She couldn’t deal with anymore pity, not even from the one person who could possibly understand. She and the duke had shared a lot over the years, but this was painful new territory.

  “Honestly, you can’t believe a word of it, Izzy dear,” Violet said when they reached the landing. “The papers reported that I was an unremarkable, plain spinster, after two unsuccessful seasons, while Molly here was the rose of the hour, when we look exactly the same. How am I not a rose as well? No, no, I’m some anonymous, hideous weed.” She exhaled a peeved breath. “My name is Violet, for heaven’s sake. I’m the flower.”

  Molly rolled her eyes and gave a shrug that made her brown ringlets bounce. “Everything isn’t a competition, Violet. But maybe if you were less thorny and more flowery, that would help your prospects.”

  “I am not thorny, you beast!”

  Despite being identical, the twins couldn’t be more like chalk and cheese, always at odds with each other. It usually made for good fun, but right now, Isobel had other things to worry about. “For the love of all things holy, stop bickering you two and help me change!”

  After a quick sponge and spray of honeysuckle-scented water, it didn’t take her, the twins, and two maids long to switch out of her riding habit to a pale green muslin morning dress. Her hair brushed and re-braided, Isobel made her way down the stairs to the duke’s study.

  With a calming breath, she knocked and entered.

  In terms of coloring, the duke looked nothing like his eldest son. His hair leaned toward black instead of brown, and his eyes were blue instead of gray. However, the family resemblance was stamped in his high forehead and that proud nose. Not that she’d seen enough of her husband of late to compare otherwise. For all she knew, Winter Vance had put on ten stone and developed a set of jowls better suited to his excessive lifestyle.

  “Your Grace, you’ve returned earlier than expected.” She greeted him from the open doorway, watching as the tall, elegant man rose to his feet from behind the desk.

  “We had good weather and made excellent time.” The Duke of Kendrick frowned, a concerned expression on his face. “How are you faring, my dear?”

  It was only then that Isobel saw the rolled-up newssheets on the desk, and all of her brave composure unraveled.

  “I could shoot him in his rotten legs,” Isobel muttered, bursting into tears. She’d sworn no more, but her body shook with the effort to contain them.

  “Get in line,” the duke said, offering his handkerchief. “Though I suspect you’d have much better aim than me.”

  Isobel dabbed at her eyes with a laugh. He’d been the one to teach her to shoot and bought her a pair of pocket pistols for her last birthday. She composed herself and took a seat, pouring a cup from the nearby tea tray instead of the bottle of brandy she wanted.

  Kendrick eyed her. “You need to go to London.”

  “I cannot go to London.”

  “He refuses to see me,” he pointed out. “He won’t refuse his wife.”

  Isobel sighed. “We’ve had this discussion, Your Grace. I won’t go and be publicly cast aside. We both know that Roth is more than capable of doing that. I won’t set myself up for such a public rejection.”

  The duke flinched. A year ago, the wretched marquess had cut his own father—a duke, no less—dead at a ball. It hadn’t done anything except pour salt in an old, raw wound between the two men, and the rumor mill had put it down to family intrigues that weren’t as rabidly exciting as Lord Roth’s other deliciously devilish escapades. Like his races in Hyde Park, bare-knuckle boxing, outrageous gambling, and illegal duels over opera singers.

  “You must.”

  A slight frown drew her brows together. “Why do you want me to go so badly? I’ve been content here in Chelmsford.”

  She cringed at the lie. Content was a ludicrous stretch of the truth. If she didn’t have Clarissa, and more recently, the twins, she would have gone mad ages ago. But Isobel had long convinced herself that her situation was better than many other ton marriages that ended in disaster. She couldn’t hate her husband if she didn’t actually see him, could she?

  She silenced the voice screaming an emphatic yes! and turned back to her father-in-law.

  “I would like to hold my grandchild before I die,” the duke said.

  Isobel’s brows rose at the turn in conversation and tried to hide the instant ache his words brought on. “You do realize that your son needs to participate for that to happen.” After years of fruitless waiting for her marauding husband to come to his senses, she’d long squashed that yearning, but it rose to torment her all the same whenever the duke mentioned grandchildren. “And you’re not going to die.”

  “I will someday,” he said. “My son is far from happy. And I believe his happiness starts with you.”

  She felt a twinge at the sadness in his voice. “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “Not yet,” the duke said. “But I do, and you are perfect for him. He needs a woman like you. Someone with a backbone who won’t take his shit.”

  Isobel gasped. Kendrick never swore. Perhaps he was as fed up with his son’s antics as she was. She sipped her rapidly cooling tea and contemplated the stern-faced man sitting across from her. “And you think that’s me?”

  The duke studied her for a long moment. “What is it you want most out of life, Isobel?”

  The question was one she’d put to herself many a lonely night abed. Isobel considered the answer. She wanted an enthusiastic, dutiful husband, and someday, a loving family like her sister and the Duke of Beswick had. She wanted companionship and friendship in a partner. She wanted a bit of adventure, passion, and maybe the chance to experience something new. And all of those things were out of her reach.

  They would continue to be so long as she stayed in Chelmsford. Isobel fisted her hands in her skirts. Confronting Winter in town was daunting, but she knew she had to make some sort of stand. She deserved to be presented to society, not hidden away like some mistake. A part of her wanted to shake her odious husband until his teeth rattled, and then show him just what he’d been missing all these years. Flaunt her presence in his face.

  Raise the daring Lady Darcy in the flesh.

  Make him grovel. Make him sorry. Make him beg.

  The thought made a dark thrill course through her veins. How often had she fumed to Clarissa about getting even? About pulling her husband up to scratch? This was her chance, and now, she even had Kendrick’s blessing.

  Isobel’s hard gaze met her father-in-law’s. “Very well, I’ll do it. I’ll go.”

  Because damned if she wasn’t going to make him regret making a fool of her for so long.

  Chapter Three

  It’s better to regret something you’ve actually had the guts to do, Dearest Friend, than to regret not doing anything at all.

  – Lady Darcy

  Winter regarded the tempestuous beauty currently ensconced in his private chambers and sighed. It would be the third one his man of affairs, Matteo, had discovered this month. More than a dozen in the last six. Aline Montburn, the leading actress of the Cove
nt Garden theater, was all sable curls and legs that went on forever. But for the same three reasons he hadn’t been able to look at anyone else in over three years, Winter shook his head and departed the room.

  She wasn’t blond.

  Her eyes weren’t the color of the ocean touched by the sun in December.

  And she wasn’t his wife.

  Following his marriage, his false reputation as a rake had prevailed. Given that he was an owner of The Silver Scythe—his wildly popular social club, though some would say it was more exclusive in its offerings than any other gentlemen’s club in London—he’d had to uphold a certain public image for the sake of his devoted patrons.

  Even if it was a lie.

  His reputation as a rogue was a definite draw for membership, and he perpetuated the pretense for one reason only—to make money. He didn’t want to touch a penny of his father’s fortune, not if he could help it, not for this. His plans had nothing to do with the duke; they were for Prue.

  Most of his old set, including Prinny and the Duke of Rutland, had expected him to be the same upon his return to London after his sudden nuptials—generous with his coin and always up to show his friends a good time. And he had been, but he’d never touched another woman.

  He hadn’t wanted to.

  After barely a quarter of an hour with his sweetly responsive wife, every cell in his body had suddenly become partial to ice-blue eyes, creamy skin, and hair the color of sun-kissed wheat. And when she’d turned those shining eyes on him, he’d felt like he was the sun that rose in the morning and set at night.

  No woman had ever looked at him as she had.

  Like he was worth so much more. The way she’d lain beneath him, her gaze so trusting and ardent, and then, her words—you’re perfect—had blindsided him. Shaken him to the core. God, she had been so sweet and giving in his arms, staring at him with such hope, he’d felt it to his bones.

  The weight of her faith in him had been too great. Despite the primal and unexpectedly ferocious attraction to his wife, Winter understood that he had to end it before it began. Before he started to believe in the possibility of impossible things. Before she expected things from him that he was unable to give.