The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  The never made Isobel’s spine snap straight. Being dismissed by him in such a flippant way made her see red.

  Chin up, she told herself fiercely. You came to London with one goal. She didn’t come here to lose…or to go down without any semblance of a fight. She’d be damned if she’d turn tail and run just because her shameless flirt of a husband could seduce a doornail. He wasn’t immune from her touch, either, and that gave her power.

  Unhurriedly, she let her hand slide down his arm, shaping the well-defined muscle, and felt his entire body stiffen. “It’s cute that you think this is a game, Winter.”

  His eyes darkened at her use of his given name, and Isobel hid her smile. Careful not to call attention to her next move, she purposefully drifted off balance on the following turn, forcing them to almost collide with another couple, and let her knees buckle. The momentum shoved her side into his hard chest.

  “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said over her shoulder to the other couple before peering up at him, eyes wide and guileless. “Sorry, my lord, there must have been more…slickness.”

  Those full lips parted on a sharp inhale when he yanked her upright, a heated stare meeting hers as her hands gripped his waist…and a rigid length jutted into her belly. Isobel swallowed her gasp, her body going hot. Blast! If she wasn’t careful, she’d be a pile of cinders by the end of the wretched dance. But she would take him, too. He’d burn with her.

  That was the thing with flames—they didn’t care who they consumed.

  Pull yourself together and focus!

  Remembering why she’d deliberately stumbled in the first place, Isobel drew her gloved knuckles down his hard waist, dangerously close to the straining bulge in his trousers, while pretending to find her footing. His choked exhalation made her bite back a gratified grin. She wouldn’t be one half of Lady Darcy if she didn’t know what the state of those trousers indicated.

  Letting all the pent-up yearning she’d buried for three years show in her eyes, she took in a protracted breath that made her bodice rise and tighten. Winter’s gray eyes went almost black as they dropped to the creamy display of her rose-tinted décolletage. Thank God—and talented seamstresses—for creative padding. Her modest bosom had never looked better.

  Winter swallowed, his throat working compulsively.

  Isobel nearly burst into a wild giggle. So Clarissa’s long ago quip about heaving breasts and men’s inability to resist them was true! At the time, she’d told her friend that she was reading far too many penny romance novels, but it appeared that Clarissa’s pennies had been well spent if Roth’s smoldering gaze was any indication.

  Isobel quickly searched out her friend. Unlike the moral-smiting excuse for a dance she was forced to endure, Clarissa and Oliver were locked in a stilted embrace, both their forms wooden, their faces carved from marble.

  Poor Clarissa. Isobel would have to make it up to her somehow.

  But she had bigger problems to worry about…as in the man currently at her mercy. Isobel’s gaze slanted back to Winter. His face remained tight with strain. Good. She shifted again, inviting another tormenting brush of her body against her husband’s muscular thighs.

  Unfortunately, despite her purposeful machinations, his fingers felt as though they had branded through the layers of silk into her skin, and her bones were so molten that she could barely hold herself upright. Desire was a two-edged blade. Every movement of their bodies sent the flames between them burning higher. She couldn’t give up, but neither could she escape unscathed.

  After an interminable time, the music finally stopped, but Winter did not release her.

  “You are a tease, Lady Roth,” he murmured and the low hum of his voice went straight to her heated nether regions. The arrogant smirk that followed, however, made her temper rise.

  “It takes one to know one, does it not?”

  Isobel yanked her hand out of his and whirled away, leaving him there. His husky chuckle followed as she made her way to where the Duke of Kendrick was waiting. He arched an eyebrow that reminded her of his son’s. The resemblance made her scowl.

  She lifted her chin. “I wish to leave.”

  She also wished for a cold bath.

  One preferably housed within a glacier.

  In the depths of the Arctic.

  Kendrick didn’t bat an eye. Just inclined his head, offering her his arm without comment. By the time they had located a sullen Clarissa, retrieved their cloaks, and called for their carriage, both Isobel’s temper and her desire had cooled considerably. And as soon as they were en route to Vance House, the pressure in her lungs finally eased and she felt like she could breathe again. All it took was to be out of view of her husband.

  Winter had met her eyes across the ballroom as she’d been saying her goodbyes and winked. It had made her even more determined to beat him. Perhaps Clarissa would have some more ideas. If her friend ever spoke to her again, that was. Clarissa had not uttered a single word since her dance with Oliver, and the coach was fraught with uncomfortable silence. Thank goodness Winter’s brother had chosen to stay. His presence would have made the journey intolerable.

  It wasn’t until Isobel had bid the duke goodnight and she’d changed into her night rail that she was able to corner Clarissa in her bedchamber, already huddled under a mound of covers.

  “Will you never speak to me again?” she asked the lump.

  “I am sleeping, Isobel.”

  Isobel sighed at the curt use of her full name. “I’m sorry you had to dance with him, but it could not be helped.”

  A head popped up, green eyes blazing with fury. “You know how I feel about that man. Dancing with him was worse than purgatory. Worse than being dragged behind wild horses over a bed of nails without a stitch of clothing. Worse than…than…”

  “I get it.”

  “No.” She shook her head and gave a shudder. “No, you don’t.”

  “It was one waltz, Clarissa,” Isobel said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, but too many people were hanging on, ready to make a scene. If you want to blame someone, you can blame me, but we both know who was truly at fault. Winter instigated the whole thing. If Oliver had left you high and dry with that rancid look on his face, people in the ballroom would have wondered what was wrong with you.” She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “And you do wish to secure a husband out of all this, don’t you?”

  “Men stink,” Clarissa muttered, but she shoved the covers back in silent invitation.

  With a grateful smile, Isobel scooted up and tucked in beside her best friend. “They do, don’t they?”

  Clarissa turned to face her, a small grin overtaking her morose expression. “Speaking of waltzing, I thought Winter was going to deflower you then and there in the middle of the ballroom floor.”

  “He already deflowered me, remember?” she said dryly.

  “Pollinate, then.” She sighed. “Honestly, watching the two of you was the only way I could endure dancing with that dreary prude, Oliver. You should have heard him raging on and on about Winter’s proclivities. I almost told him that he would benefit from letting loose a little and taking a page from his brother’s book, but that man was truly born to be a vicar, not anything else. Those two could not be more polar opposites—the pervert and the prude.”

  “Was it that bad?”

  Clarissa rolled her eyes with a dramatic sigh. “Think of the worst possible thing you’ve ever endured and multiply it by a thousand. That still won’t cover it.”

  “What happened between the two of you?” Isobel asked, curious. “Surely you used to be friends growing up. You were friends with Winter, weren’t you?

  “Yes. We all were.” Clarissa’s eyes grew distant. “Unfortunately, Oliver never outgrew his childhood rivalry with Winter. It got more serious the older they became, and when Oliver got Winter injured when they were
fifteen, I decided enough was enough and confronted him about it. He accused me of being nothing but a naive little girl, in love with a boy who could never love her back, and then told the duke awful lies about me.” She pursed her lips. “I was never in love with Winter. He was like another brother to me. But Oliver could never get past his own biases. The man’s a bird-witted cod’s head who can’t see past his own nose to what is right in front of him.”

  Reading between the lines, Isobel gasped in disbelief. She couldn’t even focus on Clarissa’s creative name calling, though she would agree that Oliver was the worst kind of fool. “Good heavens, Clarissa, did you fancy Oliver?”

  “Hush, you’ll wake the twins.”

  “Stop evading and answer the question or maybe I will wake them and let them in on the juicy secret.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Clarissa set her lips into a scowl. “When I was a girl, maybe. Now, I despise him. And the feeling is nauseatingly mutual. Let’s talk about something more interesting than Lord Tight-Arse before I get angry all over again.”

  “Is it?”

  “Is it what?”

  Isobel smirked. “Tight.”

  Clarissa’s cheeks went crimson. “Shut up.”

  Laughing, Isobel narrowed her eyes as a thought occurred to her, given what she’d just learned and the fact that Clarissa might still harbor feelings for a man she claimed to hate. “Wait a moment,” she said, her suspicions deepening. “About that snooping mask you had in your possession the other day…”

  Clarissa groaned. “You were supposed to forget that.”

  Isobel shot her with an unblinking stare. “Confess, wench.”

  “Fine, very well. It is Oliver, if you must know. It’s only to get information, you see. I’m worried about him with Winter. He’s up to something and I’m determined to prove it.”

  “So let me get this straight—you’re spying on Oliver to protect Winter? That poor excuse for an explanation has more holes in it than a fishing net.”

  Clarissa nodded, but kept her eyes firmly on the ceiling. “It’s true.”

  Isobel didn’t believe that for one second. Clarissa was up to something. She rarely did anything without a thorough scheme. “So what do you think he’s planning then?”

  “I think he intends to discredit Winter somehow. I found notes in his room on The Silver Scythe and information about a meeting with an earl about a sum of money owed to him.”

  “What’s The Silver Scythe?”

  “A gentlemen’s gaming club, I think.” Clarissa gave another ferocious blush, her hands twisting in the folds of her night rail. “At least that’s what it looked like.”

  “Clarissa Gwendolyn Bell,” Isobel said in a hushed whisper. “Have you been to this gentlemen’s club?”

  “Only the outside,” she replied, her blush going deeper. “I followed Oliver there once without his knowledge.”

  Wide-eyed, Isobel chucked her friend in the arm. “You heathen! I must insist that if you return, I have to accompany you. Did you discover anything else in his room?”

  Clarissa shook her head. “It’s not enough that he covets Winter’s downfall; I worry things will get out of hand. I’ve never seen anyone so consumed with hostility, and it’s gotten worse over the years. Oliver can’t move past his own bitterness.”

  “And Winter? Have you told him of your concerns?”

  “Not recently. He thinks Oliver is irritating but harmless.”

  Isobel frowned. Oliver might be, but there were many other men who were far from harmless, who went out of their way to destroy people in pursuit of their own selfish desires. She and her sister had dealt with one firsthand.

  Now she was the Marchioness of Roth, protected by the powerful Duke of Kendrick, if not her own husband. Astrid had the same protection as Duchess of Beswick.

  The Earl of Beaumont was firmly in their past.

  Chapter Seven

  Subterfuge is an excellent tool in the waging of the seduction wars.

  – Lady Darcy

  “Aren’t you my special beauty,” Isobel crooned to the mare as she moved the curry comb in a circular motion down the horse’s hindquarters. Hellion loved being groomed, and here in London Isobel could only do that dressed as Iz the groom without causing a ruckus about a lady—gasp—doing manual labor and kneeling in the dirt.

  Randolph hadn’t stopped scowling since the moment she’d raced down to the stables, dressed in her breeches, shirt, cap, and mask. “My lady,” he’d chided. “You cannot keep doing this. What if you’re recognized? It will be my hide and yours if the duke discovers such tomfoolery.”

  “I’m wearing a mask,” she insisted. “No one will recognize me.”

  “There’s no fire anymore. Why are you even wearing a mask?”

  Isobel had shrugged. “I can say I’m disfigured, like the Duke of Beswick. That I suffered injuries to my face as a child. No one will question it as long as you back me up. Say you will, Randolph. Please.” She wasn’t above using bribery to get her way, but Randolph already knew she had a stubborn streak a mile long. She went the route of cajolery. “I’ll put in a word with the duke about the head groom position at Kendrick Abbey once Rodney retires.”

  His eyes had narrowed, but then he’d sighed in resignation. “If the duke finds out, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I promise he won’t.”

  Grumbling under his breath, he’d walked away, and Isobel had resisted the urge to hoot with triumph. She’d thought she would love the glamour of London, and she did. But she also missed the quiet spaces of Chelmsford and the freedom to be herself. Even if it meant donning a pair of ratty old breeches and spending time in a stable yard.

  “There, sweet girl,” Isobel murmured to Hellion. “Doesn’t that feel nice? I’ve missed you.”

  In town, she barely had time for herself, much less the mare. The invitations came in a deluge. Clarissa was thrilled, of course, but the thought of all of the endless socializing was overwhelming. Not to mention the interminable intrigues of who had the biggest fortunes, who was sleeping with whom, who planned to offer for whom, and who was getting jilted. Add in the cat-and-mouse game she was playing with her husband, and Isobel was ready to scream.

  She couldn’t get a handle on him. Isobel bit her lip. The dratted attraction was insufferable. Those eyes of his hadn’t lost their piercing quality, his smile still inspired wickedness, and his well-defined, masculine form made her own body sit up and take notice.

  Honestly, the constant state of arousal was tiresome.

  And on top of that, Lady Darcy’s clever methods of dealing with such sexual frustration were losing their efficacy. Such was the fate of being awakened with heart-pounding fantasies one didn’t need. Isobel wished she could go back in time, put herself back to sleep in dear old Chelmsford, and forget about her desirable, irresistible, maddening rake of a husband.

  He was the whole reason she’d needed to become Iz for the rest of the afternoon.

  She’d come to London to prove to him—and herself—that she wasn’t a country mouse he could ignore. To teach him a lesson and leave him wanting, just as he’d left her. If she truly wanted to channel Lady Darcy, she needed to retake the power he’d snatched from under her, and to do that, she had to up her seduction game. Her cheeks flushed.

  The question was, how did one seduce an utter horse’s arse?

  Hellion pranced and gave a whinny at her suddenly aggressive strokes, and Isobel gentled the motion. “Sorry, girl.”

  Isobel shoved thoughts of Winter from her mind. Grooming Hellion was tiring, and by the time she had gone over the horse with a soft brush and combed out the mare’s mane and tail, she was breathing heavily. The hard, mindless work was exactly what she’d needed to release the build-up of tension and fretfulness simmering in her veins. Maybe she should inform the other half of Lady Darcy that
vigorous activity cured sexual frustration. Somewhat.

  “There you go, my girl,” Isobel said, using a damp washcloth to gently clean the mare’s eyes and nose. “You look a treat.”

  The horse nudged her as if in thanks, and Isobel gave her an apple.

  After re-stabling the horse in her pen, Isobel refilled her oats, then moved outside to cool off. She was boiling in the coarse, ill-fitting clothing and her sweat-dampened mask. She longed to tear off the face covering and dunk her head in a bucket of water but didn’t dare to, not after Randolph’s warnings. Even though she couldn’t see them, there were eyes everywhere. Isobel splashed carefully, and then sat under a shady tree to munch on a second apple she’d tucked into her pocket and watch the men patch up the burned corner of the stable.

  The repair was nearly complete, and the workmen laughed and joked with each other. She snickered to herself at some of the bawdier jokes, but it was nothing she hadn’t heard before, not after being around Clarissa’s raunchy brothers. She missed those rascals terribly, too.

  Isobel was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the heavy footsteps approaching until their owner was right on top of her. God above, it was Lord Roth himself.

  “Are you looking for someone, milord?” she asked, peering up at him and taking a large, noisy bite of her apple beneath the loose hem of her mask.

  “I’m looking for you, as a matter of fact.”

  “Me?”

  Isobel froze at his tone, her breath catching. Did he know who she was? Had she been discovered after all? She opened her mouth and shut it. Even if he had, she didn’t know what she would say. Instead, she waited, shocked to the gills when he squatted down beside her. She hunched down more, keeping her face hidden. Thank God she reeked of horse and sweat, enough at least to not smell like a woman.

  Or his wife.

  Aside from breasts, Clarissa had elucidated that men were also exceedingly particular about scents. Isobel fought the urge not to inhale him and failed miserably. His own natural scent of pine and wintry air set her heart to hammering and her traitorous blood on fire. Dear God, why did he have to smell so deliciously divine? Like a forest covered in freshly fallen snow.