The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  He hadn’t sported an erection in this club in years, and not for lack of opportunity. Sex and vice were rampant, just not for him. And then she’d touched him, working his weeping cock with a combination of inexperience and eagerness that nearly undid him. If Westmore hadn’t been standing there, irritating the fuck out of him, he would have launched his own fingers up her skirts to return the favor.

  God, this woman. What would she be like in the throes of passion? He thought back to their first and only coupling, which had been an experience he’d been unable to forget. Clearly, one time had ruined him for any other. But now he wanted her in every position imaginable—under him, above him, and every scandalous way in between. His staff swelled even more beneath their palms, causing an erotic exhale to leave her lips.

  Damn, he wanted to fuck them both out of their misery.

  No, no. He had to stay the course. Bedding her would be a mistake.

  His cock would have to accept its sorry fate.

  Winter cleared his throat and slid out of the seat. He felt her eyes dart to the prominent, unsatisfied bulge in his trousers, a blush staining her cheeks, but he made no move to cover up. It was just as well the wet spot from his excitement blended into the dark fabric, but his raging condition was her doing, after all. Instead of looking away as he expected her to do, his audacious little wife lifted her chin and looked her fill. Yet again, he found himself at a loss for words.

  Who was this woman?

  Before either of them could speak, her gaze was drawn to the far end of the room where a raised stage sat. Lights were extinguished by efficient servants, drawing everyone’s eyes to the front. “Goodness, isn’t that your man of affairs?” she asked.

  “Matteo, yes. He’s the master of the evening,” Winter answered, his throat thick with lust.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Watch,” Winter said.

  Matteo took the stage and welcomed the guests. “The bidding for one hour of Lady Darcy’s time will start at a hundred pounds. She is an expert in flogging, both performing and receiving. Dedicated to her passion, Lady Darcy is willing to…”

  Isobel froze, her eyes blasting to his, though not with surprise at the woman’s name, which matched hers. “What is this?” she whispered.

  “Exactly what it looks like. An auction.”

  “But…it’s…she’s…” she trailed off, her eyes flicking back to the woman who now held a crop in her capable hands. The bidding had already increased to several hundred pounds. This Lady Darcy was in high demand. Twin flags of color lit his wife’s cheeks.

  Winter’s mouth curled. “Do you wish to participate?” Her gaze panned from the stage back to him. “Tell me, kitten, would you offer yourself up for auction wearing nothing but a switch and a smile?”

  So many emotions crossed her beautifully expressive face, it was fascinating to watch. Panic, alarm, intrigue, lust, shyness, resolve. But her reply… Her reply was pure seduction.

  “With the right incentive, why not?”

  He blew out a strangled breath, his body and brain tangling on the knife edge of reason. All he wanted to do was yank her into his arms and savage that cock-tease of a gown to pieces. Claim her until they were both spent and unable to breathe. Rid himself of this unspeakable obsession once and for all. But Winter knew that would be a mistake he would be unable to recover from. He scrubbed at his face with his palm.

  This whole evening had been a fucking terrible idea.

  “Come,” he growled. “I’ll take you home.”

  The tension between them in the carriage didn’t abate but was heightened by the confined space, his erection straining toward her as if it had a mind of its own. A mere two feet and a few paltry layers of clothing separated them. Six buttons and a flip of her skirts, and he could sink home. Groaning, Winter tugged at his cravat, focusing on anything but the accident waiting to happen sitting opposite him.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked softly.

  “No,” he bit out.

  “You’re upset.”

  What man wouldn’t be with an erection the size of the English Channel that showed no signs of deflating any time soon? “Just leave it, Isobel.”

  She leaned forward. “You’re angry with me.”

  Winter’s lips flattened as he crudely cupped his distended cock, nearly hissing at the sensitivity. Blood roared in his ears. “No, I am not angry, but unless you intend to get on your knees here in this coach, wife, and put that mouth to better use, you’ll stop asking questions.”

  Her eyes sparked, but for the rest of the ride, she remained blessedly silent.

  Chapter Eleven

  Solitary practices or vices, also known as erotic self-stimulation, will not stunt your growth nor will it stop development of the organs or create artificial maturity. That is simply ridiculous. It is your body, Dearest Friend. Learn it. Love it.

  – Lady Darcy

  Isobel’s thighs clenched over the sleek, powerful muscles of her horse as Hellion galloped down Rotten Row, kicking up thick clods of dirt in their wake. Sweat gleamed in patches on the mare’s hide, matching the perspiration that gathered on Isobel’s own neck and scalp. The dirt trodden track wasn’t the wild fields of Chelmsford, but it would do. And Isobel needed the release.

  Unless you intend to get on your knees and put that mouth to better use…

  God, the sodding words were on repeat in her head!

  Crazed laughter bubbled through her. What she really needed was a different kind of ride, but this would have to do. Squirming in the saddle, Isobel pushed the horse harder. It was a risk to take Hellion out dressed as Iz, and rather different from grooming her in the privacy of the mews, but there was no way a highborn lady would get away riding astride in London without censure, and she’d been desperate for a bracing round of vigorous exercise.

  Limbs trembling with exhaustion after the final run, she cooled off the horse as they returned at a much slower pace to the mews near Vance House, where she dismounted, only to be approached by Randolph with his usual scowl. He seemed surlier than normal. The reason for it was made evident when he nodded over his shoulder to the man who waited at the entrance to the stables.

  Her husband—the object of her frustration.

  She let out a shaky breath. Isobel hadn’t seen Winter since that disastrous evening at The Silver Scythe several nights ago. Though Clarissa and the twins had hounded her for days, she’d been tight-lipped about the experience. Admitting she’d felt her way around her husband’s groin didn’t strike her as something she wanted to share. In truth, she rather regretted her boldness, especially the tense ride home when his vulgar suggestion had stunned her into silence. A part of her had wanted to do as he’d asked—and shock him in return—but the truth was, even with Lady Darcy’s direction, she wasn’t that bold. No matter how intrigued she may have been by the idea.

  Now, the marquess sat on the fence like he didn’t have a care in the world, his gaze tracking her movements. She handed Hellion off to Randolph, ignoring his look of reproach, as she made sure the cloth over her face and her cap were tucked in place. Isobel almost rolled her eyes. If he continued to act like a mother hen, he’d be the one to expose her true identity, not her.

  “Top o’ the morning to you, milord,” she called out to Winter, drawing a look of disgust from the older groom. Heavens, it was turning out that her whole life was full of masks. “Randy said you were waiting for me?”

  “Randolph,” the older groom growled, half lifting his palm to cuff her in the ear for her insolence and then thinking the better of it with a slight squawk of alarm. Isobel bit back a grin—it would have been what she deserved if 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 Academy was doing nothing for him. No, instead his attention was fixated on the two women walking arm in arm ahead of them, perusing the paintings and stopping to converse here and there. One was Clarissa, and the other, his wife.

  The tempting minx was under his skin, her scent in his nose, her image burned into his brain…the feel of her elegant hand stroking him. Lust drizzled into his blood, threatening to enflame parts of him that needed to behave in public. He could not get the sensation of her caressing him so boldly out of his head. And now that her groom, Iz, had let slip that she was more enamored of him than she led anyone to believe, it seemed he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He was fucking obsessed.

  “You should do something about that,” Westmore murmured at his side.

  Winter suppressed the violent urge to punch the duke in the teeth. God knew why he’d invited the man in the first place once he’d discovered from a very obliging Ludlow where his bride had planned to go today. It was crowded enough that she hadn’t seen him yet, though he knew it would only be a matter of time. For now, he enjoyed watching her, at least when Westmore wasn’t provoking him with asinine comments.

  “About what?” he said.

  “Your wife.” The duke grinned. “I can feel your frustration from here and it’s making my ballocks ache. The devil knows why you didn’t let her work that sap out at the club when it’s obvious she wants it. Bed her and be done with it.”

  “She wants a child.” He frowned. “She said she expected it when we married, but now she knows that I won’t. I can’t give in.”

  Westmore shrugged a shoulder. “What’s the problem?”

  “You know how I feel,” Winter said, glaring at his friend. “It’s what Kendrick wants, and I’d die before ever giving that man any satisfaction.”

  They stopped in front of a portrait of children painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence. Westmore pursed his lips, and Winter prepared for the rubbish that would no doubt come spewing forth. “This could be you…a parcel of brats, being painted by a celebrated artist.”

  “I do not want children.”

  “Because of Kendrick or because of you?”

  Winter’s eyes flicked to the woman in the sunflower-yellow dress, an indescribable urge taking hold of him. In another lifetime, he might have considered such a thing. If he didn’t revile his father so much. If his whole life hadn’t been about stamping out the insufferable Vance blood from his veins. He moved on to the next painting, one eye trained on the swatch of yellow.

  “You know why.”

  A firm hand grasped his arm and steered him into a deserted corner of the hall. “This is not the time or the place, but you have to let it go, Roth,” Westmore said. “Prue is dead. Denying yourself a family will not bring her back.”

  “How dare you?” Winter seethed, yanking his body back.

  “I dare because no one else will, you arrogant jackass. You don’t listen to Matteo, you barely speak to Ludlow, and now, you’re refuting a possible future of happiness with a woman you’re clearly obsessed with—and married to, might I add.”

  “You know nothing.”

  “I know enough,” the duke countered, keeping his voice low, though they were already garnering attention from others. “And I know you. Let it go, my friend, and allow yourself a chance to be fucking happy.”

  Winter’s nostrils flared, fury pouring through him in hot waves. “Prue never got that chance, did she?”

  Westmore loosed a breath, the pity in his gaze t
oo much to bear. “So you’ll prefer to be angry and alone in some obscure way to punish yourself for failing her and in some fuck-you to your father, instead of being content with a wife and a family?”

  “Yes,” he gritted out. “And don’t pity me. I choose this. For my mother. For Prue.”

  A hand squeezed his shoulder. “We both know Prue would not have wanted this for you. It would have killed her to see your heart so consumed with bitterness.” He paused, obviously conflicted to go on. “And there are things about your mother you don’t know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Emotions chased across his face, but resolve remained. “I never told you but years ago, the duchess tried to seduce your father’s solicitor and she threw a fit when he refused her. Prue saw it all. That was when things took a turn for the worse. After Mr. Bell made it clear that he would go to the duke if she didn’t cease her advances, the duchess tried to discredit him, but Kendrick wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “And then she punished poor Prue for no reason at all, simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Why haven’t you told me this before?”

  Westmore shrugged. “Because Prue asked me not to. She didn’t want you to lose your mother’s love as she had.”

  “Do Clarissa or her brothers know?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Agape, Winter stared at his oldest friend, shocked to the core at the revelations, but before he could answer, a commotion from the other room reached them. A high-pitched scream filtered through the air, and then he was pushing past the duke, his long legs taking him around the bend to where the crowd was the thickest. His eyes searched desperately for yellow and found none. Relief was fleeting. The odds were slim that Isobel or Clarissa were in that mêlée, but he had to make sure.

  His heart shriveled as he heard the sound of Isobel’s voice. “Help. Get help, please!”