The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  “Why is your face covered?” he asked.

  “Burns, milord,” she lied. “When I was nine.”

  Winter nodded, and Isobel was stunned he was so easily satisfied by the explanation. Then again, he was friends with the heavily scarred Lord Beswick, so perhaps he understood what it was like for a person to live life under a mask because of a facial disfigurement.

  “How is your charge? Hellion, is it?”

  “The mare’s well, milord. Just gave her a good rub down.”

  “And her mistress?”

  Isobel hid her surprise with a shrug. “Also good, milord. She took Hellion out to Rotten Row this morning. The horse doesn’t get nearly enough exercise as she did at Kendrick Abbey. She gets restless.”

  Much like her owner.

  Isobel took another healthy bite of her apple, chewing loudly and hoping he’d take the hint and go away, but no such luck. Her husband leaned back against the tree beside her, and she fought not to ogle the splendid expanse of fawn-covered thigh that stretched precariously close. One long arm reached out to drape over his knee. Isobel could hear every rustle of fabric as it tugged against his well-muscled body—a masculine frame she remembered far too well.

  With him so near and so accessible, Isobel had the sudden, mad urge to climb into his lap and fit her softer curves to his harder angles. God, she was a wanton. Maybe she needed to curry three more horses. Or dunk her feverish idiot body into the Serpentine.

  “So Iz-like-the-verb,” he said, and Isobel stiffened. Drat, he had been listening. She’d have to be careful. Just because he wasn’t acting like a giant prick didn’t mean that he didn’t have a working brain hiding behind a veneer of kindness and civility. “How long have you been Lady Roth’s groom?”

  Isobel felt his eyes settle on her but kept her chin angled down, head bowed, and shoulders slouched. He wouldn’t insist she look at him in light of her false condition. Some men might, but deep down, she knew he wouldn’t.

  She considered the safest answer. “I’ve helped with Lady Roth’s horse for three years, milord, and afore that, I helped Lady Beswick. I came with the horse from Beswick Park.”

  He pondered her reply for a minute and then rose, handing down a coin that she took in one grime-covered fist. “I need a favor from you.”

  And there it was—the reason he’d sought her out. “What’s that then, milord?”

  “Keep an eye on your lady for me. If you see anything odd, report back to me.”

  She frowned, wondering where his sudden nosiness was coming from. Maybe he wanted to know if she was getting ready to leave. Or was it more? She knew he’d noticed her alarm during their dance at the ball when she’d imagined she’d seen Beaumont—was he just being considerate? “Cor, are you expecting trouble, milord?”

  “Can’t be too careful.”

  He handed her a card from his coat that had his name and his address—the house she’d visited. 15 Audley Street. Isobel’s mouth curled, but she tucked the cardstock into her pocket.

  Winter tilted his head. “Is she a good mistress?”

  “Lady Roth? She’s the best.”

  “The best? That’s a ringing endorsement.”

  As she peered up at him from beneath the darkened brim of her hat, his full mouth tilted into an unguarded smile that lit his eyes to silver. Isobel stared, fascinated at the difference in the man. The few smiles she’d caught sight of had been pale imitations of this one, and for a brief heartbeat, she was dazzled stupid. She jerked her head down, knowing that if he saw her eyes, her secret would be out.

  “She’s kind,” she mumbled, feeling strange talking about herself. She had no idea how servants would view her, though she always tried to be caring and thoughtful. “A decent mistress with a big heart.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  Isobel’s breath stuttered out. Good to know so he could break it? Stomp on it? Toss it aside? She had no intention of letting this man get anywhere close to that vulnerable part of her.

  In that moment, she had an absolutely brilliant idea. It was devious in its simplicity, because now she had a way of planting the seeds for her next moves in this game they were playing. She would use Iz to water the ground. Appeal to his male pride.

  “The marchioness is fond of you, milord,” she said casually.

  Winter froze, his brows rising. “Is she?”

  “She speaks of you often. Not to me, of course, but to her horse. She’s very partial to Hellion. I accompany her, so I overheard. She called you a handsome devil,” she added hastily.

  Blast, she was trying too hard!

  He’d gone quiet, and when she dared peek up, he was staring thoughtfully at the house, a small smile on his lips.

  Good Lord, was it working?

  “See you soon, Iz,” he murmured.

  Watching him leave, she couldn’t help being captivated by the slight glimpse she’d gotten of the true Winter. The man behind the mask. It might not be physical like the linen slip covering her face, but he wore one just the same. He reminded her of the soot-covered man she’d seen here in this very spot a handful of days ago, who hadn’t minded toiling alongside servants to save the lives of the animals housed inside.

  Something in her chest ached.

  Terrible men didn’t do decent things.

  Frowning, she stared down at the gold sovereign he’d tossed to her in her palm—a fortune to any servant. Isobel could have been invisible for all the attention he’d paid her since she’d arrived in London. And yet, he would task a humble stable hand to report back to him on anything odd? The man she knew of didn’t do anything without an agenda, so why was he being protective over a marchioness he obviously did not care for? It was baffling. Then again, she could hardly say she knew Winter at all. This was the most she’d ever spoken to him beyond the guise of courtesy.

  Three years of marriage and she hardly knew her own husband.

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, my lady,” Randolph said in a low voice, making her nearly jump out of her skin. “Lord Roth will not be pleased to discover your true identity, nor will his father for that matter.”

  Isobel suppressed a shiver. Should he discover the extent of her deception, Lord Roth would be livid. So would the duke. But being Iz, the grubby little groom, offered an opportunity Isobel had not expected. A way to take the real measure of her husband, as well as a very clever way to win.

  She would drop hints here and there, convince him that his wife still carried a tendre for him. Seduction might not be her forte, but she was good at reading people. She wanted to know what made him tick. And she was more curious than she had any right to be. She’d glimpsed a vulnerability in his eyes that she’d never been privy to before. Was it some kind of weakness? Or was it something she could use in her plans? Either way, it was an opportunity she could not pass up. Not while her future hung in the balance.

  She gave Randolph a forced grin and flicked him the gold coin. “Don’t worry your grumpy little head about it, because he won’t.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, my lady.”

  Isobel swallowed the knot of nerves coiling into her throat along with the words that rose to the tip of her tongue. You and me both.

  Chapter Eight

  A woman’s tools for seduction are many, Dearest Friend—the most effective are the eyes, the lips, the twist of a fan, the tilt of a head. If all else fails, flaunt the girls.

  – Lady Darcy

  Winter studied the flat silver case of his preferred cheroots and frowned at the charred, destroyed roof of the mews, visible from the western corner of his father’s library. It was even more interesting that Oliver had been the one to produce the smoking end of his brand as evidence of Winter’s wrongdoing. Almost as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity.

  Of late, his brother’s tactics were becoming t
iresome.

  Winter sighed. Things would have been so much simpler if Oliver had been born first. Then he would be the duke’s heir and all would be well with the world. How many times had Winter simply wanted to disappear? Start a new life without the ducal guillotine hanging over his shoulders? But it was a cowardly thing. He knew that. As much as he wanted to escape, he had held back from doing so, if only to honor his birthright for the sake of his mother.

  You will be duke one day, she’d said to him. You must be wise, my little knight. Wise and brave. And guard your heart from those who will use it against you.

  I shall, Mama, he’d whispered back solemnly.

  She had loved his father, but the duke had not loved her in the same way. Unable to endure marriage to a man who did not return her affection, she’d died from a broken heart. Winter had vowed to never let anyone have that kind of power over him.

  His brother had assumed that Winter would sooner die before marrying, and that had been true…until a girl with ice-blue eyes had needed rescuing. For some bone-deep reason, he’d wanted to be the hero. The worthy knight who saved the princess.

  Maybe because he hadn’t been able to save Prue.

  Despite his claims to the contrary, it hadn’t at all been about the codicil when he’d set eyes on Isobel and heard about her need for a husband. However, the marriage that had started as a means to an end for both of them was shifting.

  Dangerously.

  To let her in would be to lose who he was. And he couldn’t risk that.

  With a sigh, he set down the cheroot case, raking a hand through his hair as he walked closer to the wall of windows at the far end of the study. Movement caught his attention when a sliver of yellow flashed in the maze at the foot of the landscaped gardens. He cracked open the window and caught the musical trill of female laughter and another glimpse of golden skirts.

  He heard the lilting voice of his wife on the air. “Don’t be such homebodies, Violet and Molly! The fresh air is good for your constitution.”

  “Cozy libraries suit my constitution,” one of the twins groaned out, Winter didn’t know which. His distant fourth cousins, Violet and Molly, were Kendrick’s wards since their father passed, which struck him as faintly ironic. The man could barely parent his own children, but had welcomed two more into his home.

  “First to the center wins the prize,” Isobel trilled. “Hurry, Clarissa!”

  “This maze is the devil’s armpit! And that sodding prize you promised better be worth it!”

  Winter grinned at Clarissa’s colorful reply. He remembered thinking similar thoughts about the hedged maze as a lad when he and Oliver would play hide-and-seek during their rare childhood visits to London. His amusement faded as he thought of the well at its center and the time he’d been shoved in, though no one had been around.

  Ludlow had been the one to hear his frantic cries. The ten-year-old Winter had told his father that he’d tripped and fallen in, but he had not imagined the shove of child-sized fists against his back while he’d tossed a farthing into the well’s depths. Oliver couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. It had been a step up from the toads in his bed or the angry wasp nest in his boot, but Winter had always put it down to sibling jealousy.

  Though, after he’d broken his leg from a loose cinch on a saddle at twelve and was set upon by thugs at Eton a few years later, Winter could no longer discount his brother’s hostility. After Oxford, the antagonism had gone in a different direction…more in the vein of smearing his character and booting him from the duke’s favor.

  Another giddy peal of laughter distracted him, and suddenly he was of the mind to head down to the maze. He strode from the study, taking the stairs to the garden two at a time. With sure steps, he cut through the hedgerows in a matter of minutes, slipping through secret gaps in the borders at precise intervals until he was at the center.

  He approached the ornately bricked well and stared at the bucket hanging at the top of it. How many wishes had he and Prue made in that old thing? He’d give his fortune to the well to have one more day with her, but his sister was gone, and no amount of wishes could bring her back.

  Winter sucked in a shallow breath and banished the swell of memory. The rustling of skirts and the pant of breaths as someone drew nearer made some of his tension fade.

  “I can spot the gable of the well over this hedge,” he heard his wife sing out.

  A frustrated female shriek echoed farther away through the thick hedgerows. “That’s it! Come on, Molly, I’m done. I’m much too hot.”

  “I give up, too, because I think I’m back at the start,” Clarissa yelled. “You win. I’ll be drowning my sweaty self in a vat of lemonade in the kitchen. Or whiskey. I’m sure the duke has some hidden somewhere with sons like his.”

  “Quitters!” Isobel tossed back.

  “We’re not quitting,” one of the twins whined. “It’s called survival. And today, the dratted hedges have bested us. What would we have won anyway?”

  “A wish, of course.”

  Clarissa’s derisive snort drifted through the foliage. “If wishes were horses, poor men would ride.”

  “So cynical, Clarissa.”

  “Mistress of Cynicism, get it right! Shall I send a servant to fetch you?”

  “No, thank you. I’m not a loser.”

  Clarissa’s voice came through again, though fainter this time as if she’d already departed the maze. “You say that to my face, Isobel Helena Vance!”

  Isobel’s laughter brushed over Winter’s senses like a summer rain. “I’m quaking in my boots, Clarissa Gwendolyn Bell!”

  He grinned at their banter and folded his arms, propping his hip along the edge as a breathless, radiant woman came tumbling into view. His wife. Once more, he was struck speechless by her beauty. She’d always been beautiful, but now she was luminous. Golden hair askew, red-cheeked with grass stains on her dress, she’d never looked lovelier.

  “Oh,” she gasped, coming to an abrupt halt, her gaze focusing on him and then blinking rapidly as if she doubted her own mind of whom she saw. “What are you doing here?”

  Winter’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Perhaps you wished for me to be. This is a wishing well, you know.” He gave a suggestive wink, his tone dripping with innuendo. “It knows our deepest thoughts and desires, even before we know them ourselves.”

  Her eyes flared, but then she composed herself and smiled. “Then you should be bearing a large jug of water because I’m parched!” Her already rosy cheeks bloomed as she approached to peer over the side of the well. Glittering blue eyes met his, determination rising in them at the look of bold challenge in his. “And if this well was privy to my innermost thoughts as you imply, the bearer of said jug would have been wearing much less clothing or none at all.”

  Winter blinked.

  Did she…did he just hear her say she wanted him naked?

  He felt his mouth fall open, his turn to stare in mute stupefaction. “I beg your pardon?”

  Her answering smile was full of mischief, lighting those singular eyes from within as she peered up at him. “Gracious, Roth, are you blushing? A wicked rogue like you going red over a few bawdy words? Color me shocked.”

  “You think me wicked?”

  Pink rose in her cheeks. “Aren’t you?”

  “Only when it suits me.”

  She licked her lips and pulled a corner of the lower one between her teeth. The sight of it let loose a flood of instant lust in his veins. “And does it suit you now?”

  Bloody hell. Was she flirting with him? “Who are you and what have you done with the timid Lady Isobel?”

  “She grew up, and she was never timid, my lord.” Her laugh rang out between them. “You simply did not know her.”

  His appreciative gaze slid from her glowing face to the embroidered bodice of her walking gown to the tips of
her muddied boots. “Indeed.”

  The push and pull between them had begun when she’d barged into his home, and had only increased during that teasing dance of theirs—like weapons being drawn and paces being counted in a duel unlike any other. And now, it seemed as if she were preparing to take it up another notch.

  Perhaps he had underestimated his little country wife.

  One knee perched on the surrounding bench, Isobel propped her hands on the crumbling stonework and stared at him, her pert nose wrinkling. “Do you have a farthing, my lord?”

  With a lift of a brow, he fished in his pockets for a coin and handed it to her. He watched in silence as she closed her eyes for a second and then flicked it over the edge until there was the tiniest answering splash. She stared down into the depths before turning and sitting on the bench, a smile playing about her full lips.

  “What did you wish for?” he asked.

  She smoothed her dress, flicking off a few errant leaves caught in the fabric. “If I told you, it wouldn’t come true, would it?”

  “You did use my coin, so perhaps I have a vested interest in the boon it purchased.”

  Her brow pleated. “I don’t think it works that way. You gave it freely.”

  “Let me guess, then. You wished for new jewels. Or a new horse.”

  “Do you think me so shallow, my lord?”

  Her earlier words came back to haunt him—clearly, he didn’t know her at all. What she truly desired, what she valued, or even what she would hope for while standing at the edge of a wishing well. Suddenly, he wanted to know all those things. Would she covet material things or perhaps wish for something else?

  Isobel was an enigma, one that fascinated him despite his qualms about falling into the very trap he feared. He frowned as he studied her serene face. Though she seemed calm, those pretty eyes of hers glinted with a fierce strength.

  “Why are you here, Isobel?” he asked instead, pushing off the bricked surround of the old well, his gaze holding hers.