The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  “Yes, yes, you’ll inherit the bulk of whatever’s unentailed, if he has anything to say about it. Everyone here knows how rich you will be, I’m sure.”

  Oliver scowled. “Everyone who counts.”

  Winter glanced over his shoulder, wondering how and why their relationship as brothers had gone so terribly wrong. There were two years between them, but it could have been twenty. Oliver had been born with a tree-stump up his arse and a granite boulder of a chip on his shoulder. He would have been the perfect choice to be the next uptight Duke of Kendrick, not Winter. But the stringent rules of primogeniture could not be overturned, sadly.

  And unless Winter died, blood made him Kendrick’s heir.

  His brother’s mouth tightened. “Why are you here, Winter?”

  “I was invited.”

  The fulminating tension between them solidified to something resembling stone. Stone about to shatter. As though sensing the mounting danger, anyone standing on the edge of the ballroom and looking at them had given them a wide berth.

  “Gracious, you two, you’re frightening away all the eligible young men,” a lively feminine voice cut in. “And what’s an unmarried girl without prospects to do if your incessant glowering chases them away?”

  Winter turned, his smile shifting into the real thing as Clarissa strolled toward them. He hadn’t seen her in years, though Mrs. Butterfield had reported that Isobel had taken a strong liking to Mr. Bell’s daughter and they’d become fast friends. That had been another development he hadn’t expected.

  Clarissa was Clarissa.

  Wild and unrepentant as a girl, forever chasing after her boisterous brothers on the parklands at Kendrick Abbey, and always wearing an impish grin on her face. Clarissa was the complete opposite of the recalcitrant, shy woman he’d married. He frowned, touching on the more recent impressions of his kitten-turned-tiger wife. Now, the two women seemed to have a lot more in common.

  A dangerous amount, it seemed. Winter wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing. He remembered the rebellious, openly challenging look his wife had given him, and revised his initial assessment. Definitely bad.

  “Lord Roth, how lovely to see you,” Clarissa said, her green eyes dancing. “You look well. Better than well, actually.” She accepted his kiss on her gloved knuckles and turned to Oliver. There, the smile withered on her face, a guarded look replacing it. “Lord Oliver.”

  “Miss Bell,” Oliver intoned flatly with a curt bow, and Winter eyed him in surprise.

  His brother did not even look at Clarissa, his gaze trained pointedly on the ballroom floor. The strain blooming between them eclipsed the ugly tension that had been there before. Winter’s eyes narrowed. It seemed he’d missed more over the past three years than what had gone on with his own wife. He suddenly had the distinct urge to stir up trouble. Payback made for an excellent distraction.

  Grinning to himself, he turned to Clarissa. “Are you here for the season as well, then?”

  “What’s left of it,” she said. “Along with the dreary dregs of the marriage prospects, that is.”

  Winter couldn’t help noticing with inhuman delight that her gaze veered toward his brother before fastening elsewhere. So there was something there.

  He nodded sagely. “Dregs, indeed.”

  “Have you seen Izzy?”

  “Don’t you mean Lady Roth?” Oliver interjected, his tone oozing disdain. “If so, then unless she has already moved on, I believe she is near the refreshments room.”

  Clarissa’s mouth went flat before it was overtaken by a sugary sweet smile. “Why, are you offering to escort me there, Lord Oliver? How truly gallant of you.” Her disparaging tone matched his, suggesting that she didn’t think he was gallant in the least. It would goad the pretentious Oliver into fury, Winter knew.

  “No, I was merely answering your question.”

  “Figures, then,” she replied.

  His lips curled. “What does?”

  “You aren’t a gentleman.”

  Winter felt like he was caught in the middle of a furious tennis match, just barely dodging the ball whizzing back and forth. He waited for a break before clearing his throat. “Actually, Oliver was just saying how much he wanted to dance. It’s truly fortunate that you arrived, Clarissa.”

  Identical glares pinned him in place. He grinned.

  “This looks fun,” an amused voice said.

  Winter’s hilarity faltered as he looked into the cool blue gaze of his wife. She was even more stunning up close, but he kept his instant response at bay, even as he reached for her hand and drew it to his lips. “My lady, how lovely you are this evening.”

  She inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Every inch the regal marchioness, she glowed. Even her flaxen hair shone, coiffed in elegant curls that framed her face to perfection. Winter scowled, wondering why he was cataloguing his wife’s assets. He should be thinking of ways to scare her back to Chelmsford. She’d challenged him, after all, and he’d accepted. Here was a perfect opportunity to rise to that challenge, to prove he bloody well could handle his own wife.

  A dance, then. Something to unbalance and shake her off that perfect pedestal.

  He’d meant to goad Oliver with the dance comment, but perhaps he could hit two birds with one stone. The tension between Clarissa and Oliver was too good to pass up, and he needed to unsettle his irritatingly composed wife.

  A dance would be that stone.

  “I was just saying how much my brother wanted to dance with Clarissa. I believe I hear the strains of a waltz.” Ignoring Oliver’s pinched expression, he extended an elbow to his wife. “Shall we, then?”

  Isobel’s eyes widened, her gaze flying to Clarissa, whose face looked like she’d come upon a steaming dung heap in the middle of the ballroom, before returning to Winter, who kept his expression purposely innocent. “You wish to dance? With me?”

  “We’re all dancing.”

  “No, we are not.” Clarissa’s furious denial came through clenched teeth.

  “No,” Oliver snapped at the same time.

  Winter laughed loudly, drawing as much attention as he could. “It’s delightful to note that the cause of this scene is not me.” His voice rose to a dramatic stage whisper. “A refusal to dance by the favored son of the Duke of Kendrick? An unmarried woman’s reputation in peril?” Winter’s gaze slanted to Isobel as he threw a dramatic hand to his chest. “Gracious, who or what could possibly be the cause of such a delicious on-dit?”

  Now three pairs of murderous eyes glowered at him.

  Several bystanders inched closer the minute the hint of scandal had reared its wicked head. Despite his claims to the contrary, he would be at the center of it, Winter knew. The wildly improper Rakehell of Roth, surrounded by his straitlaced brother, an unmarried female, and said rakehell’s beautiful, mysterious wife? Gossip would fly faster than fire.

  “Dance with him,” Isobel said to Clarissa in a low voice.

  “But—”

  “He’s right. The gossip will be insufferable if you do not,” she said calmly. Her hard gaze turned to Oliver as she said the one thing that would motivate him. “Do not shame the duke, Lord Oliver. His eyes are upon you right at this moment.”

  That frigid stare impaled Winter next. He lifted an eyebrow as she took his measure, her disdain of his methods stamped in her expression. With a huff, she turned in a swirl of silvery skirts and moistened her plump lips, her thick fringe of lashes falling to her cheeks in a demure look that didn’t fool him one bit. Every single eye in the place watched as he strode after the one woman who apparently did not swoon at his feet and collapse in a mindless heap from his attentions.

  Moving into place on the ballroom, they lined up and she placed a stiff palm in his.

  “Well, you’ve gotten your way and what you wanted. Happy now?”r />
  “Not yet,” he murmured huskily. “But I intend to be once you tell me why you’re in town.”

  For a moment, her outward composure slipped, her cheeks pinkening even as her body hitched slightly as if she meant to storm off and leave him there. A succinct and incendiary cut direct. In her place, Winter would have done it, just to fuel the gossip mill. But he did not know what was truly behind this little game his wife was playing and why she’d come to London. A gleam of fury glinted in her wintry eyes. For all their iciness, she was burning at the seams. Like her horse. Hellion.

  Winter vowed to talk to that young groom and find out more about his mistress. Perhaps the lad would give him some insight. Something he could use to turn the tables, because right now, he could only bluff his way through it with so much bravado. He was holding on by a thin thread, his body on edge and bracingly alive. Even now, he fought a primal urge to pick her up, fling her over his shoulder, and bear her to his lair like a bloody caveman. For a moment, he almost considered it. That would set the ton’s tongues to wagging.

  “Are you going to stand there and ogle me for the rest of the evening?” she snapped as the first few strains of music began.

  “I do love a woman in control. So direct,” he drawled, leading her into the first turn. “It appears you’ve grown up, kitten.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why? It suits you.”

  Her lips pinched. “If I am a feline, what does that make you? A slobbering, oversexed hound?”

  He wanted to laugh at her tart-tongued reply, but there was too much at stake. Winter’s smile was slow and practiced, his voice lowering for her ears only the next time they came together. “I’ve been called many things, I assure you, but slobbering isn’t one of them. Unless of course, I’m lodged between a woman’s thighs.”

  Isobel’s mouth opened in a soundless gasp, one elegant, gloved hand flying to her lips. “You…you unspeakable—”

  “Rake? Scoundrel? Roué?” he supplied helpfully. “I’ve heard them all, love.”

  “I’m sure you have,” she muttered.

  Suddenly, a spark of blue fire appeared in those wintry eyes. A purposeful, hard stare brimming with resolve. It coasted over his skin and inched down his spine to settle low in his belly. Winter experienced the same sensation he’d had that first evening in his foyer when she’d announced her intention to be in London for the season.

  Of some invisible challenge being tossed down.

  “I suppose there’s only one thing left to do, then,” she said.

  He arched a brow. “What’s that?”

  “Give a hound something to chase.”

  A coy, playful smile curved her lips as she twirled away on the ballroom floor, throwing such a sultry look over her shoulder that made every inch of him—every extra inch—rise up at rigid attention. Thank God he hadn’t worn silk or something equally flimsy. The attendees at the ball would have gotten an eyeful. As it was, he was lucky the buttons to his falls weren’t bursting loose from the sudden intense pressure at his groin.

  “You’re playing with fire, kitten,” he growled, catching her by the wrist, once she returned to him.

  She pinned her bottom lip between her teeth and stared up at him. “Then I’d advise against getting burned, Lord Roth. Or scratched.”

  Hell on a fucking stick.

  Damn but she roused his blood.

  A cocktail of excitement and lust coursing through him, Winter grinned, relishing the sport ahead. His saucy minx of a wife was in for the lesson of a lifetime.

  Chapter Six

  Dancing is a sneaky way to test the merchandise. This is no time to be shy. Performance on the ballroom floor is indicative of performance in the bedchamber.

  – Lady Darcy

  Isobel had not thought this through.

  She was locking horns with a master of seduction, while she was a mere novice. Even with Lady Darcy cheering her on in the background, she felt out of her element, flailing in the deep part of a lake just to keep her head above water.

  Her husband’s strong arms grasped her around the waist, hauling her much closer than she’d expected in the next few steps, his other gloved hand tightening around hers. They could be naked for all the protection the layers of fabric between them provided…on their hands and elsewhere. The heat of his body burned through them like paper, scorching her, threatening to incinerate her.

  Good God, she was out of her mind. For her, getting burned wasn’t worth the risk, not with a man like Winter. He’d laugh and leave her in ashes.

  Isobel knew the waltz well enough, as she’d been forced to learn the steps with an overeager Clarissa. But by no decent stretch of the imagination was this lewd, burningly brazen display it.

  “Lord Roth, that’s a bit too close,” she grit out. “We’re supposed to be twelve inches apart.”

  “It’s supposed to be this way,” he replied, his low rasp at the shell of her ear doing unimaginable things to the rest of her as he guided her effortlessly across the floor. The blackguard. He knew exactly what he was doing. “You haven’t been in London long enough to know it.”

  “I have,” she said. “You’re being vulgar. People are staring. Cease this and release your grasp at once.”

  “No.”

  She clenched her teeth. “I will leave you here.”

  His grin was slow and seductive, his hand tightening on her waist. His fingers were so hot that Isobel feared they’d leave scald marks on her skin. “You won’t.”

  She stiffened at his tone. “How do you know?”

  “You don’t want to embarrass my father, who is watching us like a hawk as we speak.”

  The fight left her body in a rush as her wandering gaze found the duke, who was indeed watching them with an unreadable expression on his stoic face. Isobel suppressed a frustrated sigh. Of course the blasted bounder was right. She could not—would not—shame Kendrick.

  “I do not think you are familiar with the waltz,” she snapped. “None of the other couples are dancing this closely.”

  “None of them have my skill.”

  “Is that so?” she returned, determined to ignore the imprint of his long-fingered hands and the shivers tracing over her skin like butterfly wings.

  “I’ve had lots of practice.”

  She wanted to roll her eyes and punch him in his conceited head, but settled for a bland smile instead. “So I’ve heard.”

  He remained silent for a few more beats, his hold loosening marginally as though he knew she wouldn’t flee as she’d threatened. And after a moment of wary internal debate, Isobel let herself relax into his expert lead. There was something so freeing about dancing, notwithstanding the fact that if one had a talented partner as Lord Roth clearly was, it felt as though she was barely touching the ground with the tips of her jeweled slippers.

  This was one of the things she’d missed. The balls and the dancing. She’d had the barest glimpse of a season with her aunt and uncle when they’d all but forced her to accept the Earl of Beaumont’s suit. Isobel had relished every bit of the social life in London for the short time she’d been here, despite her revulsion for the earl himself.

  As if her thoughts conjured his visage, on the next turn, Isobel’s eyes caught on a gentleman who could have been Beaumont’s very twin standing at the edge of the ballroom. She faltered a step before reason could intervene. The earl was no longer welcomed in England, so it could not be him. The last she had heard, he’d fled to the Continent in disgrace, his title and fortune having been stripped by the Prince Regent.

  And yet, her eyes scoured the edges of the crowd, just to be sure.

  The man, had there actually been one, was gone.

  “What is the matter?” Winter asked.

  “I thought I saw someone.”

  “Who?” He frowned and glanced aroun
d the ballroom.

  “No one,” she said, meaning it. “I made a mistake.”

  Her second mistake was to look at up at Roth, hearing the almost protective note in his voice. The breath whooshed from her lungs, that intense gray stare burning into hers…as tangible as the strong arms banded about her. Isobel swallowed, her cheeks on fire as her nerves sizzled with awareness. One smoldering look and she was ready to wave a white flag. Beg him to kiss her. Tell him to do anything he wanted. The concern in his gaze melted into amusement as his sinful mouth curled in gratification.

  “See something you want, kitten?” he purred.

  “I told you, don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?”

  Isobel narrowed her eyes in affront. “I’m not a housecat.”

  Something like agreement flashed in his eyes as he studied her, his gaze falling from her eyes to her lips, and then back up. “No, you’re not. You’re a tigress.”

  That gray gaze of his darkened, swirling with storm clouds and smoky desire. Desire she had somehow put there. Desire that now transferred liberally to her, making her breasts tighten and her body feel distractingly achy. God, the man could incinerate drawers with a glance, and right now, she was on the verge of going up in flames. She licked her lips, her pulse ratcheting as she stumbled on the next step and gripped at him for purchase.

  “Problem, kitten?”

  “No.” Isobel nearly stomped on his instep in frustration at the nickname. He would only keep saying it to provoke her if she gave him a response. “The floor was slick just there.”

  Winter’s smile was all teeth. “Slick, is it?”

  The low rasp of his words, as intended, shot straight to her throbbing core. Blast it, she couldn’t do this! A few filthy words and victory was in his grasp. Isobel’s breath hitched, her entire body slumping like a rabbit caught in an inescapable snare.

  “You’ll never win, you know,” he taunted. “This game you’re playing.”