The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  The truth was her parents had died in an unfortunate carriage accident. Her sister Astrid had been convinced that it’d been foul play—an attempt by their unscrupulous uncle to inherit their father’s vast fortune—but nothing had ever been proven. Their uncle’s efforts to marry Isobel off to Beaumont had sharpened their suspicions, though he had not been successful. And his niece had married the intractable, complex man perched on the horse beside her, instead. She resisted another urge to touch him, keeping her hands firmly on Hellion’s reins.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Winter said.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  Side by side, they trotted in silence through Hyde Park for a while. She risked a peek at him through the gap in her mask and cap, but his attention was on the path in front of them as they cantered along the winding Serpentine. The lake glittered from the rays of the afternoon sun, a bevy of swans landing gracefully in the distance. If she wasn’t so nervous about giving herself away, she would have stopped to stare. As it was, everything inside her was caught up in the man at her side.

  “How did she die?” she asked.

  “Opium,” he murmured. “I couldn’t save her. Oliver and I were too late.”

  “Is that why you don’t get along?”

  He didn’t answer for a long time, and she wanted to kick herself. Damn and blast, she was Iz not Isobel. A groom, not his wife. She’d let her emotions overrun her. He would see through her for sure.

  “We never have,” he finally said. “Not as children, nor as men. Prue was the glue that held us together, and Oliver is driven to be everything I am not.” His voice was so soft she could barely hear it. “He should have been duke, not me.”

  “No.” It was out before she could curb her tongue, and she felt his gaze flick to her. “I mean, you’re the firstborn. It’s your right and duty.”

  “What do you know of duty, young Iz?”

  She faltered, then tossed her chin. “I know that running away from it is never the answer.”

  “And do you know that from experience?” He made a tutting noise. “Were your parents local gentry in some country parish? You’re educated, lad. A fool would know it. So why are you here apprenticing to be a groom? Running from duty?”

  God, he was sharp. Or perhaps she wasn’t as convincing as she should be. Isobel pinned her lips and urged Hellion into a quicker gait. Let him assume what he wanted. She risked exposing herself if she tried to explain. He caught up to her after a few minutes and, despite the earlier spike of tension, they fell back into silence.

  “It’s complicated.” His low voice shivered through her. “With the duke and me. My father is a hard man. Autocratic and ducal to a fault. I could never measure up as a boy, and as a man, I vowed not to.” He trailed off, but Isobel said nothing. This rare glimpse into her husband was more than she’d expected. He wanted to speak and he felt comfortable enough to do so. “My mother died of a broken heart. He could never love her as she loved him. And my sister…” He fought audibly for breath. “When she died, she took all the light with her. I blamed him for it. No one could measure up to his exacting standards, not my mother, not Prue, and not me. No one bar Oliver even cared to try.”

  She bit back a suspicious sniff, and a heavy, solemn gaze slid to her. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It’s no burden for a stripling.”

  “I’m older than I look.” Her voice emerged as a croak. “I’m sorry for your loss, too. But at least you have Lady Roth to shoulder your burdens. She cares for you.”

  “Does she?” His voice was so soft, she barely caught it.

  “I heard it from her own lips, milord.”

  Once more they lapsed into silence as they took the last turn toward the eastern edge of the park to return to Mayfair. Within short order, they were riding back into the Vance House mews and dismounting, and for a moment, Isobel mourned the loss of privacy and the moments they’d shared.

  “I must be off.” A large hand came down on her shoulder, the light touch making her want to flee and nestle into him at the same time.

  “What will you do?” Isobel asked. She didn’t have to explain as his gaze went to the windows of his father’s study.

  “Duty is a noose, one I wish to avoid at all cost.”

  She shook her head, unsurprised by the return to normal, caustic Winter. “And when the title falls to you, what of your tenants? The people who depend on you.”

  “Oliver is much better suited to the task than a gambler, a rake, and a wastrel.”

  She stared at him from under her cap, careful to keep her face in shadow. His beautiful gray gaze glittered in the dappled sunlight, breaking down the walls of her heart. “You’re more than that, milord.”

  “Who says? You?”

  “Squire turned stable boy turned sage.” She thrust her hands into her pockets and gave an insolent whistle. “You’d do best to listen, your lordship.” Before he could answer, she peered at the house. “There’s Lady Roth and Miss Clarissa now. Looks like they’ve been out spending your money.”

  In the moment he took to look over his shoulder, she slipped away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dearest Friend, they say that love and hate are two sides of the same coin. I say the fine edge between them is passion. And besides, a little hate-fucking never hurt anyone.

  – Lady Darcy

  Dratted masks. They were everywhere.

  It was fast becoming an absurd metaphor. Or perhaps a warning, one Isobel wasn’t heeding. Or maybe simply, this was the season for masquerades and they were the latest rage in the ton, because here she stood sipping a glass of lukewarm ratafia at yet another ball, garbed in a gown that cost more than a groom could make in a year, and yes, hiding behind a curved piece of gold-dusted papier-mâché attached to a rod.

  Curse her life.

  “Where’s your marquess?” Clarissa asked, lowering her own mask.

  “How should I know?” she muttered back.

  “Testy, are we?” Her friend grinned. “Turns out I know exactly what’s needed to fix what ails you. It involves hard, climbable muscles, sweet nothings”—she cut off dramatically—“better yet, no talking, though lots of nudity, sweaty skin on skin, panting—”

  “Clarissa!” Isobel hissed. “We’re in public.”

  “It’s loud, and besides, no one is paying any mind to us.”

  But that wasn’t exactly true, Isobel noted sourly. The guests had been staring at her from the moment the majordomo announced her arrival on Oliver’s arm. Of course, the gossip fires had ignited shortly afterward, speculating as to Lord Roth’s whereabouts and whether his wife was having a secret liaison with his brother.

  Kendrick had cried off tonight’s invitation, citing fatigue, but insisting that she and Clarissa attend, and he’d given Oliver a clear order to escort them. To Isobel’s surprise, Oliver had acquiesced without a fuss. Which reminded her…

  “What’s going on between you and Oliver?”

  Clarissa’s eyes popped wide. “I beg your pardon.”

  Her gaze narrowed on her friend. “You turn rigorously polite when you’re trying to hide something. Don’t forget I know you.”

  Cheeks pinkening, Clarissa’s mouth opened and shut, causing Isobel’s suspicions to heighten. “Nothing. He’s been solicitous since the incident at the gallery. He brought me tea.”

  “So there is something going on? You wretch, why didn’t you tell me?” Isobel gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, you like him. You want to have his babies!”

  “You’re so childish.” Clarissa’s eyes fell away. “He’s not so bad, not truly.”

  “But I thought you loathed the very air he breathed.” To Isobel’s stunned surprise, her friend went beet-red, which suggested she might be partaking of the same air of her former enemy. “Clarissa Gwendolyn Bell, what have you done?”
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  “Not here,” she hissed, practically using her mask as a shield.

  Isobel grinned and repeated her friend’s words. “No one is paying any mind to us. Spill the beans before I’m forced to take drastic measures and find a drool-worthy shelf of muscles for you to climb, and I’m not talking about your crush on Lord Tight-Arse.”

  “Izzy!”

  “Doesn’t feel good now that the shoe is on the other foot, does it?” Isobel teased as Clarissa went from rosy-cheeked to flaming at the ears. “So, tell me, Clarissa dear, have you kissed him yet?”

  “Kissed whom?” a deep voice interrupted.

  Isobel nearly leaped out of her satin dress, her hands flying to her throat, only to see Oliver standing there with two refreshed glasses of punch, wearing an off-putting long-beaked plague mask. “Good God, don’t do that! You nearly gave me heart failure.”

  “Kissed whom?” he repeated, his blue gaze tumbling to Clarissa, who was now attempting to impersonate a pickled beet.

  For a second, his expression reminded her so much of Winter that Isobel nearly started. And even more curious, his cheeks were darkening with an embarrassed flush, too, though she suspected it might be jealousy. In hindsight, the tension between Clarissa and Oliver in the carriage on the way to the ball had been rather heightened—she’d been too busy mooning about Winter to pay them any mind.

  “We were simply gossiping about future matches,” Isobel fabricated quickly since neither of them seemed capable of speech. “See over there, Lady Sarah Truebow is dancing with Lord Henley even though she’s been promised to another by her father. She secretly fancies him. But Lord Henley has been enamored with Lady Arabella for ages. Rumor is they’ve kissed in secret.” She pointed discreetly to a young woman dressed in yellow with a feathery mask. “She, however, despite her daring, doesn’t fancy marriage at all. It’s all very dramatic. Our very own blue-blooded, highborn theater production.”

  Oliver’s confused gaze met hers. “How do you know this?”

  “Keen powers of observation, my lord.”

  “Where’s Roth?”

  Her humor evaporated. “How should I know? I don’t have chains on the man.”

  “Someone should,” he retorted.

  The strains of the next set sounded and Isobel reached to take the glasses of punch from her brother-in-law. “Why don’t you and Clarissa take a turn for the next dance? I’ll be fine here for the moment.”

  Unlike the last time they were at a dance together, they both nodded shyly. Clarissa and Oliver. It boggled the mind. The two were like oil and water. Clarissa was bubbly and bright, and Oliver was sour and sullen. Stranger things had happened, Isobel remarked to herself as she watched her best friend blush prettily up at the man she’d apparently secretly pined for and also wanted to murder in the bloodiest of ways.

  It made Isobel’s heart squeeze.

  If two people who were such opposites could find each other and meet in the middle, why couldn’t she and Winter gain common ground? Then again, they weren’t like oil and water—they were flint and tinder. Explosive and lethal. And he’d told her to leave in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t want her here. Not that she’d expected to see him tonight, or the three previous functions since. He’d been avoiding everyone. Her, particularly, for whatever reason. Simmons had reported from Ludlow that Lord Roth wasn’t unwell or under the weather.

  Typical man. Burying his feelings deep.

  And they went deep, as she’d realized. She’d asked Clarissa to confirm what Winter had confided about the mysterious Vance sister, and even her friend’s face had gone tight.

  “We’re not supposed to know or talk about it,” she’d said. “Prudence died from a self-administered dose of opium tincture.”

  Isobel had gasped. “Self-administered?”

  “That was the gossip. She was ruined by a fortune hunter and fled to Seven Dials. When they found her, it was too late to save her. The family was never the same after her death.”

  The loss had shattered the only thing holding them together. And from what Isobel was able to gather, Winter had blamed the duke. It explained so much, but terrified her at the same time. A man who cut himself off from his family as Winter had done would be impossible to reach. It was no wonder he didn’t want children.

  “A beautiful woman shouldn’t have to hold up pillars alone,” a deep male voice drawled.

  Isobel swiveled to face the enormous, tawny-haired man standing behind her, recognizing him as the Duke of Westmore, Winter’s friend. “Your Grace, what a pleasure.”

  “Wulfric, please, and the pleasure is mine, I assure you,” Westmore said, kissing her gloved knuckles. “I see our young heroine of the hour is feeling better after her experience.”

  Isobel followed his gaze to where Clarissa was dancing with Oliver. She noted with dry amusement that they no longer moved like wooden peg soldiers. Her attention returned to the duke. Taller than her husband, he was handsome and well-heeled.

  “Any news on the perpetrator?” she asked, knowing that Westmore had taken it upon himself to work with the Runners to identify their attacker.

  “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

  His tone implied that it was improbable but not impossible.

  “Is Roth with you?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him in days.”

  Compassion shot across his face before it disappeared. “I’d wondered if he might be here since he was not at The Silver Scythe.”

  “Has he been there, then?”

  “Most nights, drowning in his cups and gambling until the wee hours of the morning.” An unreadable jade stare met hers. “Alone.”

  Before she could pick apart his words for more, something flickered along her nape and the majordomo announced her husband’s name. “The Marquess of Roth and Lady Vittorina Carpalo.”

  It was a cut she felt to her bones. She pasted a smile on her face and met her companion’s stare even as the noise in the ballroom rose to a fever pitch. “I know it’s untoward, but might I ask you to dance, Your Grace?”

  …

  Winter nearly missed one of the marble steps on his way down. If it weren’t for the woman at his side, he might have teetered head over arse. His muddled gaze sharpened on the black-haired lady next to him who had accosted him in the street when he’d descended from his carriage. Vittorina. Why was she glued to his side like a leech? He hated leeches.

  Winter scrubbed at his face with a bare palm, wondering where his gloves had gone. Had he lost them? Oh Christ, why was the sodding room spinning? He wasn’t that foxed, was he?

  “Winter, amore,” Vittorina cooed into his ear. “Take my arm.”

  Even in his questionable state, he was aware of the curious eyes on them. He steered her out of the nearby door to a balcony, hauling deep gulps of air into his lungs to clear his head. He stalked to the balustrade, looking out at the dark gardens. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m married and you are engaged.”

  “Edmund’s not here.” Hands slid up his back, twining around him. “You still want me, admit it.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said and left her there.

  Once inside, he scanned the ballroom, his eyes falling on a bright head of golden curls and something in his chest settled. The fist squeezing his lungs released a little, though it flexed in jealousy when he registered her dancing partner. Westmore. What the fuck was the duke doing dancing with Isobel?

  Without thinking twice, he ignored the buzzing chatter around him and cut through the throng of dancers. He spied Oliver, though to his surprise, was happily dancing with none other than Clarissa. Didn’t those two hate each other? Winter blinked, wavering on his heels for a moment, and then remembered that Westmore was dancing with Isobel.

  He shoved his way toward them, yanking on the duke’s arm. “That’s my wife.
”

  The music sputtered as every scandalized eye in the ballroom centered upon them, couples bumping into each other as they gawked.

  “Roth, what are you doing?” Isobel said, her beautiful face turning pink.

  “I want to dance with you.”

  “You’re causing a scene,” she said. “And besides, I’m already dancing with someone.”

  Winter scowled. “Fuck off, Westmore.”

  The duke grinned and bowed. “Articulate as always, Roth.”

  With a smirk, he took his leave, and then Isobel was where she belonged—in Winter’s arms. Music resumed and all was well with the world, until she smashed his instep with her heel, making him wince. “That’s for showing up late and with another woman.”

  “She followed me in,” he protested.

  Her lips thinned. “And I suppose she also conveniently followed you out to the balcony? I have eyes, Lord Roth, and I’m perfectly capable of seeing.” He was so intent on staring into her very beautiful eyes that he stumbled drunkenly on the next turn, nearly flinging her into the path of another couple. “Good God, sir, are you in your cups?”

  “No. Not really. Maybe.”

  “Which is it?” she snapped, those wintry eyes lit with flames.

  God, he loved when she fired up at him. Even now, in the middle of a crowded ballroom, she put him through his paces. He inhaled as he guided her into a slightly clumsy turn. He was too distracted by the feel of her, the scent of her. She smelled of flowers and summer days. His gaze fell to her mouth, remembering the silken feel of those soft pink arches. Her sweet taste.

  In the past, he’d never wanted to kiss anyone. For some deep-seated reason, kissing meant a level of involvement and care that he avoided, and over the years, he’d stopped doing it. And yet, all he wanted to do was kiss her, lose himself in her prickly softness, the tart sweetness that was hers alone. Mark every satin inch of her body with his mouth. Claim her as his.