The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  “No,” she said. “I barely saw you our first time in Chelmsford, I had to feel. That’s all you get now.”

  This was it, he really was going to die.

  But he didn’t die.

  Not when she slid down onto him with a gasping moan, working his entire straining length into her ready warmth. Not when she began to move with short, erratic movements that told him she was as flustered as he. Not even when he had to force himself to think of anything—puppies, vicars, estate accounts—to not spill his seed instantaneously.

  “How much do you want this?” she whispered.

  “Badly,” he grit out.

  His cruel wife rose and stilled, hovering over his tip. “Then beg for it.”

  “Please,” he groaned, mindless with pleasure as she swirled her hips, teasing him like the ruthless lover she was. Christ, she felt fucking glorious. The sensation of her body owning his, taking him inside and grasping him there, was beyond anything his frenzied dreams could have ever conjured. He’d fantasized about the heated clench of her body for years, been tortured by the excruciating push and pull between them these last weeks, but the reality was beyond imagining. He wanted to be lodged deep within her where he belonged. The latter part of the thought bludgeoned him, but he shoved it away before he could think too deeply on what it meant. It’d been in the heat of the moment, that was all.

  She halted. “I’m not actually sure that you want this, Winter.”

  “I do. Use me. Fuck me. Please.”

  He could sense her gratification as she sank down like the tightest glove. It was heaven. With his sight taken away, all he could do was feel. She lifted and then drove down again. The clench of her body surrounded him like wet silk, her slick channel gripping and releasing him with every pass. His hands went up to fill themselves with her breasts, grazing over the hard buds and pinching them. Her gasp was his gift, make her speed up her movements.

  But Winter could only let her take control for so long. His hand slid to her back, climbed the knots of her spine and drew her body down to his until her breasts rubbed against the hair on his chest. His mouth found hers unerringly, licking into those delicious depths and finding that brazen tongue. He kissed her as she rode him, slowing her pace and drawing it out.

  He would make every minute of this exquisite torture last.

  Return the favor.

  “Winter,” she moaned against his lips, rearing back to pleasure herself against his groin at every downstroke, grinding against him. He wished he could see her face, but he could only imagine it. Head thrown back, lips parted, skin flushed with arousal. He slid his thumb down her soft belly to the apex of her sex, her keening cry his only warning before her body shivered and broke around his in powerful waves.

  “Fuck!”

  And then he was there with her, a scant moment later, chanting her name and growling like a feral beast as he yanked himself free to spend on his belly.

  In the aftermath, they panted against each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity, but eventually, Isobel moved to shift off of him. Cool air settled upon the damp skin of his abdomen, and Winter reached up to remove the blindfold. By the time his eyes adjusted to the light from the lamps, Isobel had already donned her trousers and shirt. He watched in silence as she found her boots and fastened buttons, her face revealing nothing. “Isobel?”

  That ice-blue gaze lifted to his. “I believe we had a wager, my lord, and I must say you beg so prettily.” She grinned, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Much more gratifying than me running back to Chelmsford with my tail between my legs, I assure you. I win, Lord Roth.”

  He could only gape as his wife winked and sauntered from the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Take your pleasure by the horns, any which way you can get it.

  – Lady Darcy

  “Isobel Helena Vance, you slept with him?” Clarissa whisper-shrieked.

  Isobel’s eyes widened as she glanced around the lush gardens with its rows of brightly colored roses and verdant, neatly trimmed shrubs, but thankfully, there were no gardeners in sight to hear their salacious conversation. Which was why Isobel had suggested a walk after luncheon. Less risk of being overheard. And thankfully, the twins were still indoors—they would be unable to keep something this monumental a secret.

  “Yes. Keep your voice down.”

  “As in goodnight sleep or tup-you-until-you-can’t-walk sleep?”

  Isobel bit her lip and blushed. “The second.”

  Clarissa screamed and launched across the garden bench, almost crushing her in the process. “Squeeze me sideways, Lady Darcy would be so proud.”

  Her blush deepened. “Trust me, this is all Lady Darcy’s fault.”

  Isobel had nearly combusted recounting the events of the evening when she’d been awoken by a hurricane in skirts at the crack of dawn. Well, more around midday—later than usual for her—but she’d had an exhausting evening.

  Even now, her body was still deliciously achy. Isobel’s cheeks heated as she recalled how brazen she’d been. The power that had come with the interaction had been heady, though she was certain that Winter had let her do those things. He could have taken control quite easily at any point. In point of fact, he had during the act itself.

  And the blindfold, dear God, the blindfold! What had she been thinking? Winter had loved it, obviously, and she had as well. However, though he’d been caught up in his pleasure, he’d still had the presence of mind to pull from her body at the last minute. In hindsight, Isobel had never intended to trick Winter in such a manner, but the perfunctory act had still stung.

  She wasn’t some doxy. She was his wife.

  But if he didn’t want children, withdrawal was necessary.

  Isobel hadn’t told Clarissa about that part. Or about the blindfold.

  Thankfully, Clarissa had been too fascinated by the whole charity auction and the outrageously darker side of The Silver Scythe to push for the finer details. Isobel wasn’t fooled, however. Clarissa would hound her for those later when she’d processed the rest. Perhaps Isobel would be able to fend her off with a convincing enough story, if she ever stopped blushing.

  “So, the proceeds from this filthy man mart from a club that your husband owns do go to a charity?” Clarissa asked.

  “A shelter house as I understand it,” Isobel replied, biting back a grin. “In Seven Dials.”

  “That’s generous. I suppose it doesn’t matter where the funds come from.” She frowned. “Wait, Seven Dials? That’s…a coincidence.”

  “What is?”

  Clarissa shook her head, wrinkling her nose. “No, it’s nothing. Never mind, I’m grasping for connections that don’t exist.” She grinned. “Tell me more about Vittorina the Vainglorious. Did she look like she swallowed a toad when you outbid her?”

  “An entire bucket of toads,” Isobel said. “And then she tried to imply that Winter wasn’t into women.”

  Her grin widened. “Joke’s on her because Winter is definitely into petticoat lane, also known as the temple of Venus, the fancy article, and nature’s tufted treasure.”

  “Clarissa!” Isobel hissed, once more glancing around, and then decided to give her friend a solid dose of her own medicine in retaliation. “Enough about me. How was teatime last night?”

  She was rewarded when Clarissa went a brilliant shade of red. “Fine,” she mumbled.

  It was Isobel’s turn to grin. “Funny, I thought you were such a tea enthusiast. Don’t want to kiss-and-tell, Clarissa dear?” When her skin color deepened to plum, Isobel pounced. “Good heavens, wench, what did you do?”

  “He was asleep, so I had a peek,” she rushed out.

  Isobel gave a choked laugh. “And?”

  “Suffice it to say that, ahem, it’s true that curiosity silenced the cat. He’s…not small.”

 
; “Must run in the family,” Isobel said, and they both burst into uncontrollable giggles, drawing the attention of the gardener who had returned and was busy pruning a nearby tree. They watched him in silence, enjoying the warm afternoon air, until he moved on out of sight.

  “So, what will you do?” Clarissa asked. “With Winter, I mean? Now that you’ve won your little wager and shown him who’s queen of the castle.”

  She frowned. “Nothing. What happened between us doesn’t change anything.”

  Clarissa’s eyes brightened. “Oh, trust me, it will. Men don’t like to lose. He’ll come crawling to you on his own, and maybe give you some babies while he’s at it.”

  Isobel’s heart squeezed and a knot formed in her throat, but she kept her face calm. Little did Clarissa suspect that her husband would geld himself before doing that. She wrapped her arms about her middle. She hadn’t been open with Clarissa about Winter’s strong opinions on the matter, because it wasn’t her place to divulge his private feelings, but his hard refusal of both being a husband and a father reduced the outcome of the game to something trivial. Bringing a man to his knees meant nothing if all she got out of it was a lonely future. Deep down, she wanted more. She wanted Winter…and a future with him.

  Maybe she should cut her losses and go back to Chelmsford. She’d been such a fool, too focused on winning that she hadn’t thought of what would happen if she actually won. Now, because she’d acted so impetuously, her reward was the same as her punishment.

  “We should call on him today,” Clarissa suggested, nodding hard. “That’s what Lady Darcy would do. She wouldn’t wait for him to start thinking, because Lord knows when men start using any part of their brain, things go belly up. She would take that bull by the horns and ride it into the sunset.”

  Isobel gave a choked laugh. “Lady Darcy has caused quite enough trouble.”

  Clarissa frowned and leaned in, her blue eyes concerned. “You’re not going to give up, are you? You’re not going to run because your blockheaded husband can’t see what’s right in front of him, are you?”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled.

  “What do you want, Izzy?”

  Isobel blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Her best friend blew out an exasperated breath. “The question is exactly as it sounds—what do you want? For yourself. For the rest of your life.” She pursed her lips. “For the next week, then.”

  Isobel exhaled. What she wanted was impossible…and brought with it a boatload of heartache. And her silly imagination was already pining for it. For him. She should have known she couldn’t engage in anything physical without her heart having its say. It had taken every ounce of her control to leave that room as if the sex had been meaningless, when it had been the opposite. In truth, winning the ridiculous wager had meant nothing.

  “I want the fairy tale. But for the next week, I suppose I just want him to see me.”

  “Then you have to fight for what you want and it’s my job as your best friend to tell you when you’re being a pussy-footing hector.”

  Isobel huffed. “Did you just call me a coward?”

  “If the shoe fits.” Clarissa stood and held out her hand. “What do you have to lose?”

  Rather a lot, including the fate of her brittle heart, but she didn’t tell Clarissa that. Instead, Isobel took her friend’s hand and let her drag her back inside to get a cloak and bonnet, and have Simmons summon the carriage. Since Oliver had apparently taken the ducal carriage, they would have to settle for the plain black coach that was used for errands.

  Within short order, they were in the conveyance and on their way to 15 Audley Street. Her emotions were tied up in precarious knots, and the closer they got to their destination, the more agitated she became. This was a bad idea.

  “Why are you so nervous?” Clarissa scolded. “You’re making me anxious.”

  “I don’t know what to expect.” She swallowed hard. “What if this is a mistake?”

  Clarissa rolled her eyes. “We’ve already established that it’s not. Stop falling back to old tactics. I know you, and you’re looking for a way out. I think you like him and he likes you.”

  “He does?”

  She gave an exasperated sniff. “He took you for a turn in Cock Alley, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Clarissa!” Isobel bit out with a giggle, cheeks flaming. “That doesn’t always mean a man likes a woman. It could be just sex.”

  “Fine, apart from the fact that he’s hot for you and head-over-heels in lust, I think he cares about you. Trust me, that man has no eyes for anyone else when you’re in the room. I saw it at the first ball we attended. You didn’t see Winter’s face at the exhibit, when he thought you were hurt. I’ve never seen anyone look at someone the way he looked at you…as though he’d almost lost something precious beyond measure. Anyone with a smattering of sense can see it.”

  “If you say so,” Isobel said dubiously.

  “I know so.”

  Still, by the time they pulled up to Winter’s residence, Isobel’s heart had settled into her throat. She was in the middle of calming herself enough to climb out of the coach when Clarissa gave an absurdly shrill squeal.

  “Oh, there’s Oliver! And he’s looking so much better.”

  Sure enough, her brother-in-law was descending the staircase, his face wreathed in its usual dour lines. Didn’t the man ever smile? Isobel couldn’t fathom what Clarissa saw in him, but to each her own, she supposed.

  Clarissa pushed past her. “I’ll get a ride with him. That way, you can take this coach when you’ve finished and not have to worry about me.”

  “Clarissa, you don’t even know where he’s going.”

  She winked. “Oh, I’m going to convince him to take me to Gunter’s for an ice.”

  Isobel watched as a bold Clarissa sauntered over to Oliver, tucking her arm in his and batting her eyes up at him. Isobel half expected Oliver to give his usual reaction and reject her, but instead, she was astonished to see her stern brother-in-law actually crack a smile. Clarissa turned back with a jaunty wave, giving her a thumbs-up, and then they both disappeared into Oliver’s waiting coach.

  Well, wonders would never cease.

  Smiling, Isobel drew a breath, trying to drum up the courage to go to the door, when it opened and her husband strode out. Hat and cane in hand, Winter looked utterly delectable. She sucked in a breath at the windblown, gorgeous sight of him, and ducked down. He took no notice of the plain coach, instead intent on flagging down a passing hackney. She frowned—why wouldn’t he avail himself of his own horse or carriage?

  “Follow that hack,” she told her coachman before she could change her mind.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Her brain spun with scenarios. Where on earth was he going? It didn’t take long for her to guess that the tightly-packed, run-down houses they rode past were in Covent Garden or spot the seven-road irregular square that gave the warren its name, Seven Dials.

  After a few more minutes, the coach rolled to a stop and she peered out of the narrow window to see Winter descending the hackney in front of what looked like an old church. Her heart dropped to her stomach as a beautiful blonde joined him. Recognition was slow to hit, but when it did, she felt it everywhere like a blow she couldn’t dodge.

  Contessa James—the opera singer over whom he’d allegedly fought a duel.

  She watched in horror as he kissed her cheek and the voluptuous singer flung her arms about his neck with a cry. Winter didn’t detach, but hugged her back, in full view of passersby, and judging from the wolf whistles, there were a few. After their lengthy embrace, they disappeared together into the building.

  Isobel’s heart crumbled inside her chest even as she climbed down from the coach. Was it a bawdy house? Some kind of gaming hell?

  “My lady,” the coachman warned. “It’s not safe
here.”

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Ignoring his protests, she crossed the street to the well-kept building, only to nearly crash into her husband on his way out. “That was fast,” she said for lack of anything better to say.

  His gray eyes widened with shock and then alarm. “Isobel, what are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she bit out. Was that guilt slinking through his eyes? “Meeting the mistress you claim not to have? Contessa what’s-her-name?”

  Speechless, he stared at her. “It’s not like that.”

  “Then explain it to me,” she said, slamming her hands on her hips, uncaring of the curious crowd they were drawing. “Because it sure as hell looks like a bawdy house to me.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s a shelter. My shelter. I own it.”

  “You own it,” she repeated dumbly, staring anew at the facade and seeing the plain bronze plaque affixed to the side of the door: Prudence Vance, In Memory.

  “For my sister.”

  …

  “Your sister?” his wife repeated, pale blue eyes widening.

  Winter blew out a sigh. “She died not too far from where you’re standing right now. We found her in an opium den. She had no place to go and ended up here in Seven Dials. Daughter of a duke with no way out but death.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Her eyes shone with the glimmer of tears, the scent of honeysuckle curling into his nose and chasing away the ripe stench of the vicinity. “I didn’t know you owned a shelter.”

  “No one does. Besides Westmore.”

  Winter frowned at the accumulating crowd. He was dressed in a pair of nondescript brown breeches and unassuming coat, while she still wore an obviously well-tailored and costly blue silk and muslin day dress. From the avid looks she was getting, it wouldn’t take much for a mob to gather or for the pickpockets to make quick work of any loose buttons, coin or other easily removable possessions. While he could handle himself, he didn’t want her in harm’s way.

  He had no idea how she’d come to be here and whether she’d followed him, but this wasn’t the place to discuss it. “Did you come by carriage?” he asked.