The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  A sudden commotion in the yard made her whirl around as a tall man strode into view. She blinked in silent shock, every muscle in her body going tight.

  No wonder Randolph had been skittish.

  Why was her dratted husband here?

  Isobel swallowed hard at the sight of him, though this wasn’t the suave marquess she knew. His jacket was missing, as was his cravat, the long, tanned column of his throat damp with grime and sweat. Thickly muscled forearms were visible from his rolled back shirtsleeves and flecks of ash streaked his brow.

  It was obvious he’d been neck-deep in the burning mews. Surprise rippled through her. She didn’t take him for a man who would get his hands dirty, but here he was. Covered in soot.

  He made no bones about heading straight toward her, and she opened her mouth to explain her unusual attire.

  “You, there, lad—fetch me a cup of water.”

  Isobel froze in place, mute. Goodness, did he not recognize her? Her hand almost lifted to the cloth at her face and hung in midair like a sparrow without a home.

  Winter speared her with an exhausted glance. “Did you hear me, boy? Water, please.”

  Mindful of her disguise, she lowered her voice to an imitation of rough gravel. “Aye, milord. Right away, your lordship.”

  She raced off to procure the water from the kitchens, returning to where he stood, stroking Hellion with a thoughtful expression. Mercurial gray eyes landed on her after he emptied the cup. “Whose horse is this?”

  Isobel hastily ducked her head. “Her ladyship’s,” she said, unable to keep the thread of pride from her voice. “Lady Roth. This beauty here is called Hellion.”

  The man visibly started, his throat working as he studied the mare belonging to her as if the horse harbored secrets that only her mistress would know. Shock and intense curiosity warred on his face. Isobel suspected he wasn’t normally this transparent, and he wouldn’t be…not in front of her. Then again, to him, she was just a stable boy. No one of consequence. There would be no need to hide his expressions.

  Fascinated, Isobel peeked up at him from beneath her cap. It was like getting a glimpse into something forbidden and she couldn’t help the delicious thrill that filled her. When his attention swung back in her direction, she quickly bent her head to hide her eyes. They were distinctive enough in color that he might recognize them, and Isobel did not wish to be exposed. She wanted more of this intriguing insight into her husband.

  “I thought she was afraid of horses,” he murmured.

  Isobel shook her head. “Not anymore.”

  “And you are her groom?”

  “In training, milord.” She paused. “For Mr. Randolph over yonder.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Iz. Like the verb.” Isobel almost swore and inwardly kicked herself. Lowly servants wouldn’t know the first thing about grammatical concepts, but luckily, he was too distracted to notice her slip. Winter was staring at a man who was heading toward him, rage in every ground-covering step.

  Isobel’s heart sank as she took stock of the arrival. Oliver. She was already pushing her luck with one Vance brother. Two of them together spelled disaster. To her gratitude, Randolph had returned to her side, and she shifted behind him just as Oliver swung a wild punch at his brother’s face. Winter moved out of the way, his eyes glinting dangerously.

  “What the hell was that for?” he snarled.

  Oliver shoved the end of a cheroot in his face. “This was the culprit that started the fire. The brand you favor.”

  “Along with half the gentlemen in London.” Winter arched an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe, brother, that that cigar end survived when half the mews did not? I’ve been here breaking my back to save the building and all the horses.”

  “Getting the authorities,” Oliver snapped.

  Isobel snuck a glance at Winter’s face and almost recoiled at the leashed violence she saw there. “And no, brother, I was not here smoking in the mews, so whoever started this fire either had something to prove or another agenda. Where were you?”

  Oliver’s face went puce. “How dare you? Are you suggesting—?”

  “Enough, Oliver, I’m too tired to argue.” Winter cut his brother off with a weary gesture. “I arrived earlier to check on my two horses stabled here—with Kendrick’s permission, might I add—only to discover a corner of the mews already on fire.”

  “And Lady Roth?” Oliver couldn’t help taunting in a smarmy voice that made Isobel want to kick him right in the teeth. “Did you come to see her?”

  Notwithstanding her deep-seated urges to take her odious brother-in-law to task, Isobel was also curious as to what Winter’s response would be, and was prepared to make a mad dash for the house to change into a gown should he answer in the affirmative. She was disappointed, however, when the marquess ground his teeth, turned on his heel without a word, and walked back the way he’d come.

  Apparently, such a trifling question did not even deserve a response.

  Chapter Five

  If in any doubt of your own dancing skills, depend on exceptional manners and witty conversation. And be free with your compliments. Men adore hearing how wonderful they are.

  – Lady Darcy

  Ensconced in the opulent card room at The Silver Scythe, Winter stared at his current hand of cards and decided to fold. He was bored out of his mind. Perhaps bored wasn’t the right word.

  He was agitated, anxious, on edge.

  Rattled.

  All because his wife was in town. His gorgeous, desirable, and unwelcome wife whose name had been on everyone’s lips for the better part of a week. And she was on the best of terms with his father, of all people.

  Winter had wrongly assumed the straitlaced Duke of Kendrick would take one look at the green country girl with no outstanding lineage that his disappointment of a son had married and purse his lips in everlasting disgust. Instead, he’d done the opposite and taken her under his wing. Winter hadn’t expected them to become allies, let alone come to London together for the season. That was simply not cricket. The development had blindsided him.

  Notwithstanding the tiny fact that his wife had turned into a deuced temptress.

  Even now, his blood fired at the thought of her.

  “Roth,” the Duke of Westmore said, clapping him on the back. “Surprised to see you here.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?” Winter drawled, staring in disgust at his new hand of cards, which wasn’t any better than the last. His luck had turned and landed in the communal chamber pot, along with what was left of his flagging humor.

  “Saw your lady wife over at the Beddingford bash. She looked spectacular. The fops have already proclaimed her an original, an incomparable, this season’s everything.” Westmore’s grin was all teeth. “Wherever have you been hiding her?”

  Winter experienced an urge to punch the man in his smirking mouth, and then caught himself. He must be out of sorts. Wulfric Bane, the Duke of Westmore, was one of his longtime friends and didn’t deserve missing teeth because Winter couldn’t seem to control himself whenever anyone mentioned his wife. Her beauty, her charm, her bloody incomparableness.

  “I haven’t been hiding her,” he snapped. “She prefers the country.”

  Until now, apparently.

  In truth, he hadn’t given her a choice, though he hadn’t been completely cut off from updates as to her welfare. Mrs. Butterfield had sent him meticulous reports. In the beginning, they’d come regularly, and then had dwindled after Winter had strongly suggested to the housekeeper that he didn’t require them with such detail or frequency. Too many reminders of her had done more ill than good.

  “I didn’t even know you were married, Roth,” another man across the table said, Viscount Something or Other. “Who’s the lucky chit?”

  Winter’s eyes narrowed on him. Perhaps he woul
d be up for fisticuffs if the viscount kept flapping that hairless, weak-chinned gob of his. “No one you’d know. She never had a season.”

  “Wasn’t she the younger Everleigh heiress?” Westmore interjected, sitting in an empty seat and either oblivious to—or purposely ignoring—his friend’s brewing foul mood. “I seem to recall hearing about a scandal a few years ago with the Duke of Beswick making quite the scene at Lady Hammerton’s Christmastide house party.” He paused and grinned. “Now there’s a lady with a few secrets beneath those skirts. They don’t make them like Lady H anymore.”

  “She’s older than Medusa,” Winter muttered.

  Westmore guffawed. “True, but the things she could teach, as you well know. Nothing wrong with a woman who knows her way around a man, I say.”

  “A few generations of men, at least.”

  Winter tugged on his cravat, the cloth tightening like a guillotine made of guilt. He wasn’t even sure why he was denigrating Lady Hammerton. Though she was old enough to be his mother, she was a good sort, and he’d married Isobel in the chapel on her estate with her backing, after all. And they’d spent some time together after one of his club’s infamous charity auctions.

  “I bet anything she’s Lady Darcy,” Westmore said.

  He arched a brow. “Not likely. Lady Darcy’s much too innocent to be that old harridan.”

  The men around him broke into raucous laughter and Winter gave a careless shrug. Perhaps innocent wasn’t the right word. Lady Darcy’s deeds would put a courtesan to shame, but something about the erotic letters—despite their salacious content—struck him as decidedly whimsical. No seasoned widow could ever sound so…hopeful.

  “Speaking of innocent young ladies,” Westmore said with a sideways glance at Winter. “Back to the delectable Lady Roth and the latest on-dit.” The smirk on his lips said he knew exactly what he was doing, the shameless bastard. “Do tell, Roth—is she anything like our daring Lady Darcy?”

  Winter’s groin clenched. The thought of Isobel on her knees, reenacting one of Lady Darcy’s more memorable correspondence, those pink lips parted and ready to take him, had Winter’s eyes nearly rolling back in his head.

  Fucking hell.

  No, she was a lady, and without reservation, the type to lie there and submit. He couldn’t fathom his decorous little wife doing anything so filthy as some of those letters had detailed. No matter how fast his imagination flew. Despite being a monk for the better part of three years, his memory was still perfectly functional.

  You could teach her, a voice whispered.

  The thought licked at his starving senses, and he shook his head to clear it.

  “My wife is none of anyone’s bloody business!” he growled.

  “Since when is England’s ultimate bachelor married?” another drunken lout burst out, nearly spilling his drink all across the table as his squinty gaze fell on him. “Is she a looker? She must be if she snared you. Thought you’d always sworn off wedlock, Roth?”

  Winter scowled. God, he was surrounded by drunkards and profligates. He stood, ignoring Westmore’s gratified look.

  “Where are you off to?” the duke asked innocently.

  Reaching for his gloves, Winter signaled the factotum. He bit the words through his teeth. “To retrieve my wife.”

  “I expect a full accounting!”

  “Go sod yourself, Westmore.”

  Outside the establishment, he directed his waiting coach to the Beddingford’s residence. He’d received the invitation weeks before but hadn’t accepted. Winter didn’t do ton events.

  Besides, he’d been ousted from too many ballrooms to count. Thank God he wasn’t on the recently married Marquess of Beddingford’s persona non-grata list. At least, not yet. Despite his reputation, the perfidious ton had welcomed him back with open arms when news of his own wealth had spread. Winter huffed a disgusted sigh. It’d been so long since he’d ventured into a Mayfair ballroom that Winter had no idea what he would be walking into.

  Gritting his teeth, he descended the carriage with a purposeful step and strode to the crowded foyer. His nostrils flared as the warm, overly perfumed air reached him. It was a crush, one that made him want to turn tail and race back to the informal, casual comforts of Covent Garden. He gave the servant near the majordomo his name, and didn’t wait before availing himself of a whiskey from a nearby footman.

  Gulping the drink, he surveyed the glittering crowd over the balcony at the top of the marble staircase—a dazzling display of immaculately groomed men and preening females garbed in every hue imaginable. There was no way he was going to find a woman he’d set eyes on once in three years in that mêlée.

  But in that, he was wrong.

  Isobel’s presence drew him like a magnetic force.

  His heart rate accelerated as his gaze fell on the slender, statuesque woman dressed in an ice-blue gown that was almost white in the middle of the bright ballroom. The lace-overlaid silk rippled around her as if it were alive with each elegant turn of the dance, and set off her blond hair and sun-kissed complexion to perfection.

  Every fluid movement of her body suggested grace and an underlying litheness. From what he’d gathered from her groom earlier, she obviously now enjoyed horseback riding. Winter had the sudden image of her straddling him with those long limbs, her head thrown back in complete abandon. Once more, his cock decided to make its presence known, but his arousal slaked considerably as his gaze settled on her dancing partner…his father.

  “The Marquess of Roth,” the majordomo intoned.

  Conversation came to a screeching halt, heads swiveling in his direction, and then resumed at a fever pitch. Winter arched a sardonic brow at the rampant attention suddenly directed his way before heading down the stairs. By the shocked whispers rising toward him, he was clearly preceded by reputation. A chuckle rumbled through his chest. There was only one person who could one-up his notoriety. If only Lady Darcy were real, they would have made quite the entrance.

  Winter knew the instant Isobel’s eyes landed on him, a visceral throb roaring through his body as if she’d somehow slid a palm over his skin. But before he could lock eyes with her, she twirled away, severing the raw connection.

  He stopped to pay his respects to Beddingford and his new marchioness. “Good to see you, Roth,” the marquess said. “I admit, I was surprised to hear your name.”

  “Don’t worry, my good man,” Winter said in an amused drawl. “I promise to behave. Now, introduce me to your better half.”

  Beddingford’s besotted expression nearly made Winter’s stomach turn. “Allow me to present my beautiful wife, Lady Beddingford.”

  “A pleasure, my lord,” the lovely brunette said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Twinkling brown eyes without the usual judgment he’d come to expect met his, as the marchioness offered him a regal nod. She was a beauty, one he did not recognize though she looked vaguely familiar.

  “Have we met?” he asked.

  Beddingford let out a laugh. “No, and thank God for it. We all know of your repute with the fairer sex. I would not have stood a chance.”

  Lady Beddingford patted her husband’s arm, her warm brown eyes shining with affection, and joined in his laughter. “Of course you would have.” She shot Winter a mischievous glance. “And while the devastating Lord Roth may set all the ladies’ hearts afire, mine only flutters for one particular marquess. Besides, Lord Roth is married, is he not?”

  “Ah, yes, Roth, what a colossal secret you’ve kept from everyone,” Beddingford said. “If Lady Roth hadn’t arrived in London with the elusive Duke of Kendrick on her arm as her very vocal advocate, no one would have believed her claims.”

  Winter’s mouth flattened. He curbed the violence of his words for the sake of the lady present. “If I recall, my marriage was announced quite publicly three years ago at Lady Hammerton’s yu
le ball. It wasn’t a secret. You were there, too, Beds.”

  The man colored at the old nickname with an apologetic glance to his wife. “Yes, well, but then you returned to town without the new Lady Roth. So everyone assumed that you had cried off the thing, or annulled it, or whatever.”

  “No.”

  To Winter’s surprise, Lady Beddingford cleared her throat and grinned up at her doting husband. “Now that that misunderstanding has been cleared up, I must hear about this nickname, darling. Beds, is it? It sounds too intriguing for words.”

  “My dear—”

  “Don’t make me ask Lord Roth,” she teased with a laugh. “I’m sure he’ll be only too happy to share some of your wild stories as young bucks.”

  The man’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. “He most certainly will not.”

  Winter laughed as Beddingford abruptly steered his wife toward the ballroom floor with a panicked look on his face. He couldn’t recall seeing his old friend ever looking so infatuated with a woman. Then again, Beddingford had never kept pace with the rest of their set. He’d attended all the requisite balls and maintained a decent reputation, whereas Winter had done the opposite. Anything to destroy his father’s perfect illusion of the Vance family. The man had sent his wife to her death and his only daughter into addiction. The cold devil deserved everything that Winter had given him.

  His gaze wandered to where his father was escorting Isobel toward the refreshments room, and Winter’s jaw clenched. Shouldn’t his wife come to receive him? Shouldn’t his perfectionist father encourage her to do so? It was a deliberate slight, one which Winter did not intend to rise to, no matter how provoked it made him.

  “Lost, Winter?”

  The voice came out of nowhere, but then his brother’s form materialized to his left. “Good God, Olly, can’t find anything better to do than stalk my every step?”

  “I was invited. And it’s Oliver.”

  “Obnoxious Oliver.”

  His brother made a strangled sound. “I see you haven’t lost your inflated sense of cleverness. Good to know that Father will eventually put his faith elsewhere, at least in the matter of the ducal estate.”