The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  “Send an invitation to Lady Roth to accompany me to The Silver Scythe this evening. Instruct her that my carriage will arrive for her at ten sharp.”

  Matteo’s deep brown eyes widened. “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Might I remind you, my lord, that it’s masque night.”

  Winter smiled. He was well aware of what night it was, especially in the private section of the wildly popular gaming club that catered to specific members. All highly confidential and consensual, of course. His valiant little wife would never recover.

  “I am aware. Extend the invitation.”

  The man bowed. “As you wish, though it is not much notice, and she will require a mask and a gown.”

  Winter arched a brow. “A man of your talents shouldn’t find that too hard of a problem to address, now, should he?”

  “I will visit Madame Pinot,” he said.

  Isobel had visited the celebrated modiste herself upon arrival in London for the season, so her measurements would be on hand. He’d only recently received the bills, sent on from Oliver with a nasty note about the astronomical amounts for both Isobel and Clarissa.

  The figures hadn’t daunted Winter—not to a man of his own personal wealth—but the itemized garments had left him wound as tight as a spring.

  Gowns, slippers, chemises, night rails, silk stockings, lace-embroidered drawers. He’d been unable to function for a good hour just from the sheer torture of imagining Isobel clad in lacy undergarments with violet ribbons that teased her porcelain skin.

  “Matteo?”

  The man turned. “Yes, Lord Roth?”

  “I want her in purple.”

  After dressing, he made his way downstairs to the morning room where Ludlow had placed his pile of usual correspondence. He sifted through them while sipping on Matteo’s own brew of strong Italian coffee. As always, the social invitations arrived in droves. He couldn’t accept them all of course, nor was he inclined to, but he’d been particular about knowing where his wife and father would be. Now that he knew why she was here, he tossed them all to the side.

  He’d rather sit in the gaming room at his club with a glass of whiskey and a hand of cards. Matteo had long since taken over masque night in the private portion as majordomo. But tonight would be different. Tonight, Winter would be experiencing it through the eyes of his soon-to-be-shocked-senseless wife.

  He couldn’t wait.

  Briefly, he wondered how her opinion of him would alter, whether she would look at him with censure and disgust, in much the same way that Oliver did, and something in his chest gave a small twinge. He shook himself hard. What she felt about him didn’t matter. What mattered was that she would return to Chelmsford.

  After breakfast, Winter settled into his study to go over his many accounts and investments that spanned countries and continents.

  Contrary to popular opinion, even a fake libertine still had to work.

  …

  Isobel stared at the handwritten note with a mixture of fascination and distrust. Her gaze panned to the gorgeous man who had delivered it. She’d caught a brief glimpse of him when she’d first arrived in London standing on the landing at Winter’s residence, but that glance had barely done him justice. He was tall and well-built with olive skin. Brown eyes gleamed over a strong nose and wide lips. He was nothing compared to Winter, of course, but Isobel still had a pair of fully functional eyes. Without a doubt, he was very handsome.

  “What is your name?”

  He bowed. “I am Matteo, Lady Roth.”

  “And what purpose do you serve to my husband?”

  “I am his man of affairs, business partner, sometimes valet, and friend, among other things,” he replied. “Lord Roth wishes to have your reply, my lady.”

  She let out a breath. “What exactly is The Silver Scythe? A social club?”

  His mouth bowed into a smile. “I will let Roth educate you on its many mysteries.”

  Something in the way he said the last two words made a frisson of nerves wind down her spine. Clarissa had mentioned The Silver Scythe before. It’d been the place that Oliver had met with the unnamed earl that Clarissa had visited when following him in secret.

  Isobel felt the beginnings of interest blooming. She was certain the sudden invitation had something to do with her parting challenge in the maze. It was a feint, and one intended to make her lose.

  She glanced down at the elegant cardstock. “It’s a masquerade? I’m afraid I don’t have anything to—”

  Lifting an arm, Matteo nodded and signaled to the coachman waiting at the entry with several large boxes in his arms. “With Lord Roth’s compliments.”

  Isobel frowned, recognizing the inscription of Madame Pinot’s shop. “He’s thought of everything, hasn’t he? I don’t know what to say,” she murmured.

  “Say yes, my lady,” Matteo said, dismissing the man once the boxes were in place on the low table.

  She had no other choice. Saying no was tantamount to admitting defeat. She might as well run back to Chelmsford exactly as he’d said, with her tail tucked meekly between her legs. Isobel drew a breath and straightened her spine. She would do what she must.

  “Have you known his lordship long, Matteo?” she asked, slipping the cover off one of the boxes and inhaling sharply at the first peek of shimmering amethyst satin shot through with silver thread. It was the most magnificent color she’d ever seen. The nerves in the pit of her stomach coalesced into warmth.

  Focus, she commanded herself. This was all a game, nothing more.

  “I’ve known Lord Roth for eight years.”

  So five years before they’d been married. She’d been right in guessing they’d met during his travels. “He’s been a good friend to you?”

  A fierce intelligence gleamed in the depths of the man’s eyes as they burned through her, past her whispered question to the unvoiced fears fluttering within. “Roth is a decent man, my lady. Complicated, but steadfast at the heart of it.”

  “He says he doesn’t have a heart.”

  To her surprise, Matteo chuckled, a pleasant sound that made her own lips curl in return. “That sounds like something he would say. I suppose you will have to find out for yourself whether he does or not.”

  “You won’t tell me?”

  “Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.”

  “Shakespeare?” Disbelieving laughter burst from her. “I’m quite sure that neither love nor Cupid are words in my husband’s vocabulary.” She shook her head, her voice low as she replaced the cover on the box. “The only trap I fear is going to this club and making a complete fool of myself.”

  “That will never happen. I look forward to seeing you, my lady.”

  “You’ll be there?”

  “Yes.” He bowed. “It was my honor, Lady Roth.”

  After Matteo left, she mulled over what he’d said. He had to be addled if he believed a man like Winter would ever become prey to a cherub’s arrows. If he did indeed have a heart, it was walled up behind layers upon layers of iron and stone, and fortified by sheer mulishness.

  Isobel signaled for the waiting footman to ferry the boxes up to her chamber, where she knew her very curious friends would be waiting, having no doubt attempted to eavesdrop on the conversation. Sure enough, they fell upon her in a frenzy the moment she reached the top of the landing.

  “I’m surprised you three did not tumble down the staircase,” Isobel teased. “In a sweaty, drooling pile.”

  “Dear Lord, stop stalling, woman, who was he?” Molly fairly squealed, which was rather unlike the dour twin who usually scoffed at their frivolity.

  Clarissa fanned herself. “Good gracious, he was so beautiful that I almost clubbed him over the head and dragged him to my lair to have my wicked way with him.”

  “You’d have to fight me.” Vi
olet sighed.

  Isobel twisted her lips in amusement at the girls’ calf-eyed expressions. “He’s Roth’s man of affairs.”

  “What did Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious want?” Molly asked, breathless, wide eyes tracking the footmen carrying the stack of boxes from the modiste.

  “What are all those for?” Violet frowned. “I thought all the orders had already been delivered?”

  “These are from Roth.” Isobel ushered the wide-eyed girls into her chamber, dismissing the waiting maids. “I’ve been invited to The Silver Scythe. For a masquerade tonight.”

  There was dead silence in the bedroom. Clarissa, Violet, and Molly looked like mirror-images of each other—slack-jawed and shell-shocked.

  Clarissa was the first to react. “Holy buzzard ballocks!”

  Isobel giggled. “Buzzards have those?”

  “Stop trying to change the subject, wretch,” she said in a gleeful whisper. “You’re going to a masquerade there?” She dragged Isobel over to the bed and the other two followed. “Gracious, Izzy, I’ve asked my brothers about that place and it’s rather worse than we imagined.”

  Worse?

  “Like a brothel?” she asked, her stomach climbing into her throat. She knew of Winter’s reputation and that he ran with an indecently fast set, but this was beyond the pale.

  “No,” Clarissa said, eyes gleaming. “Worse.”

  Isobel’s brow pleated as she stared at each of the young women in turn. Molly and Violet both sat on the edge of their seats, their eyes like saucers as she was sure hers were. What could possibly be worse than a brothel?

  Clarissa was practically shaking. With what, Isobel didn’t know, but it couldn’t be good if her friend could barely speak. “Part of it is a normal gaming and supper establishment, but I’ve heard from Derrick’s own mouth that another part caters to members with…specific needs.”

  The way she said needs made Isobel’s skin prickle. “Well, go on, don’t keep us in suspense.”

  “Spanking and torture and the like,” Clarissa blurted.

  Molly burst into snorts. “Spanking like a child? Are you serious?”

  Clarissa scowled at her. “Don’t laugh. It’s the truth. Apparently, some men—and some women, too—like to be switched.” Her voice went breathless. “It’s a thing. A sexual thing. Some of them like to be restrained as well, and they pay for the privilege, believe it or not.” She gave a dramatic sigh and threw herself back into the bedclothes. “I’ll bet Lady Darcy would have a go at hitching a lover to the bedposts with a pair of her silk stockings.”

  Isobel’s cheeks went red-hot at the image. “Clarissa!”

  “What?” her friend replied, her own cheeks stained pink. “As long as both parties agree, who is it hurting?”

  “If word got out, they’d be branded as immoral deviants,” Molly said. “I’ve read about that.”

  “There are worse things,” Clarissa shot back.

  Molly tossed her head. “Such as?”

  “Murderers and thieves for one, half-wit,” Violet said smugly. “Don’t be a wiseacre, Molly.”

  “I am not!”

  But Isobel wasn’t listening to their bickering. The heat that had climbed into her face was now descending elsewhere into her body. Considering that she was one-part Lady Darcy, the scandalous direction of her thoughts couldn’t be helped. On torturous cue, the picture of a dissolute Lord Roth, wrists banded tight and legs splayed wide, spun into her brain.

  No, he would likely prefer the reverse. In her head, the image shifted and she was the one helplessly tied while a devil with sable locks and a powerful chest loomed over her. A gasp wrenched from Isobel’s lips as her thighs clenched with helpless desire.

  “Have you heard of such things before?” she choked out.

  “Not much, though apparently it’s been a pastime of Prinny’s lately,” Clarissa said. “All rather hush-hush of course. Rumor has it that he’s been a frequent visitor to Marylebone where he visits with a woman by the name of Theresa Berkley and her merry band of mistresses.”

  Isobel’s eyes widened as Molly and Violet gasped and covered their mouths. “Truly?”

  “You three are actually surprised?” Clarissa scoffed. “That roué will do anything in the pursuit of pleasure, even being flogged while tied to a wooden steed.”

  Molly’s mouth fell open. “Now you’re jesting.”

  “Heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Which horse? And how did you manage to do that?” Violet asked. Isobel was curious, too. It wasn’t like men were open about bawdy talk in front of gently bred ladies.

  Clarissa grinned. “Easy. I told Harold he had no idea what a Berkley Horse was, and of course, he went straight to Derrick who couldn’t wait to set him straight about the nature of a good flogging. A bunch of gossiping fishwives, my brothers.”

  Isobel shook her head. “One of these days, they’ll catch you, and what will happen then?”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, they are a boundless treasure trove of salacious information.”

  “Forget your brothers, you twits,” Violet said with breathless exasperation. “Open the boxes so I can see the dress before I have to flog someone!”

  Isobel sniffed as she reached for the first of the boxes and opened it. She parted the sheets of delicate fabric. “No one’s flogging anyone. That’s not my cup of tea and it shouldn’t be yours, either. It’s not proper.” Though it didn’t explain why ribbons of heat curled through her veins and converged in an insistent pulse between her legs. She ignored it and lifted the delicate gown from its confines.

  All of them let out matching oohs.

  The dress was fit for royalty. Yards and yards of rich satin the color of shimmering amethysts gave the illusion of liquid movement. The stitching was so fine, the seams nearly invisible. Tiny seed pearls and crystals adorned the bodice and the hem. It was almost too lovely to look at, much less wear. The other boxes contained a pair of slippers, ivory gloves, a cloak made of some velvety-soft fabric, and an intricate mask.

  She pulled it out. Designed in shades of purple to match the glimmering hues of the dress, feathers and diamonds studded its stunning surface. It would cover half of her face, shielding her identity from view, and for that she was grateful. Unlike the usual masks, it did not have a handle, but a pair of silk ribbons that were meant to tie around her head.

  “I don’t know if I can do it,” she murmured aloud, pressing the racy mask to her face and feeling a different kind of heat diffuse through her body.

  Clarissa moved to stand beside her, humor replaced by solemnity. “Then don’t. You’re in charge.”

  “But then I lose.” She bit her lip, a finger tracing one violet plume. “I’m here to make him grovel, and if I can’t even wear this dress, what hope do I have of winning this ridiculous wager I’ve made to have him begging for my attentions?”

  “You can do this, Izzy,” Clarissa said. “And you have us behind you all the way. Show that husband of yours who wears the trousers!”

  “This is a gown and I’m in over my head,” she said, staring at her three friends.

  “Then you swim,” Violet said brightly.

  Molly frowned. “Or sink.”

  “Shut up, Molly!” Clarissa and Violet cried in unison.

  But they were both right—one of the two would happen. Isobel stared at herself in the nearby mirrored glass, barely recognizing herself beneath the mask. As rakish as he was, Winter would never let any real harm befall her nor would he suffer her reputation to be ruined. If she had to guess, this outing was meant to teach her a lesson and have her running back to Chelmsford.

  She’d been the one to throw down the challenge, after all.

  Now she just had to strap on her big-girl stockings and see the wager through.

  Chapter Ten<
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  Dearest Friend, the erotic art of Mr. Thomas Rowlandson provides a wealth of practical instruction. Gather your smelling salts and your pearl necklaces. Do not say I did not warn you.

  – Lady Darcy

  The vision in violet ascending the steps of The Silver Scythe could not possibly be real. Winter had been unable to form any coherent sentences since he’d collected her at Vance House. In the carriage, apart from a soft greeting, she had remained mostly silent. Nerves, he gathered. He felt them, too, batting around in the pit of his stomach. Though he had no inkling of why he was nervous. This was meant to unbalance her.

  But the minute he’d seen her, the tables had turned.

  Fuck, he should have instructed Matteo to dress her in a sack. Though he had a sneaking suspicion that his wife would make that look appealing, too. And that tantalizing mask that drew attention to her piercing eyes and luscious pout. Hell, it made him want to see her in it alone, wearing nothing else. As a result, he’d been as hard as stone even before her sultry honeysuckle scent had filled the carriage. For him, the short ride had been torture.

  Thank God, she hadn’t wanted to talk, because he was sure he would have spouted a load of nonsense. By the time they arrived, however, he had composed himself enough to remember his manners, offering his arm as he led her into the marble foyer of the sumptuously decorated converted mansion. He was particularly proud of his little club, which he’d bought years ago with the Duke of Westmore, and together they had transformed the place from rundown supper club to extraordinary, invitation-only oasis for the wealthy and connected. No expense had been spared for comfort. Or pleasure.

  Membership was thriving and business could not be better. One day, he hoped to offer Kendrick a grand tour of what went on behind closed private doors. The duke would keel over. His brother, too. Oliver only knew of the non-secret part of the club, though the fact that a duke’s son was a gaming hell owner galled both of them to no end. Never mind that the establishment brought in hundreds of thousands of pounds. Vice was a profitable business.

  Instead of entering the main hall after divesting themselves of their cloaks, Winter led Isobel up a side staircase barred by a black velvet rope. A silent man stood there, who let them pass without a word. Winter saw his wife worry her lip with her teeth, and he hid his smile. Good, she was uneasy. He wanted her to be. They reached the top of a jutting alcove that looked over much of the first floor.