The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  “I wanted to see London.”

  “What’s wrong with the life you have in Chelmsford? You have everything there you could ever want.”

  “I don’t have you.”

  Winter blinked, her words crashing through him like a gale-force wind. “But you do. I’m your husband. You’re the Marchioness of Roth. What more do you want?”

  “Is it so hard to believe that I’m here for you?”

  He prowled toward her, but she did not flinch away as he came to a stop in front of her neatly arranged skirts. His wife glanced up at him, the picture of ladylike decorum. Wanting to crack that perfect composure, Winter bent so their faces were level, his arms grasping the top of the bench on either side of her, his body caging hers in. He thought he heard the tiniest gasp, though her expression remained quite unruffled.

  Ice-blue eyes seared into his, but she did not stop him when his nose grazed her temple. Winter inhaled, the scent of fresh grass and honeysuckle tickling his nostrils. She smelled like warm summer evenings on the lake. Out of the corner of his eye, Winter saw her bare fingers curling into the folds of her skirts, and he felt a beat of pure satisfaction.

  He trailed his nose down, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. Christ, her skin was just as he remembered…like the softest silk. A shallow exhale broke from her lips, but still, Isobel didn’t move away.

  “Yes, it is hard to believe, so tell me the truth,” he said, licking her lobe before sucking it into his mouth.

  “I did,” she replied breathlessly.

  He bit lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to punish her for the lie. Her gasp was reward enough for him to soothe the sting with a gentle swipe of his tongue. “Ready to be honest, or do you wish for more incentive?”

  Her sudden hesitation gave him pause. The lust simmering in his blood flared to a boil. He pulled away, his hot gaze fastening to hers. Pure need churned in their blue depths, her pupils blown with the same desires that dominated him. His stare dropped to her plush parted lips, and for a moment, Winter wasn’t sure who was the seducer and who was the seduced.

  “Christ,” he muttered, shifting backward.

  Isobel took in a lungful of air as though it was the first time she’d breathed in hours. Purpose grew in her gaze, eclipsing the remnants of passion. Her slender throat worked before she drew a deep breath. “Very well, if you want the plain truth of it, I intend to win you back.”

  The words detonated between them like a hidden landmine.

  That, Winter had not anticipated.

  He’d expected her to prevaricate and say she was bored, or she wanted a diversion, or Clarissa was on the hunt for a husband. Not this. Not a bald admission of wanting to win him. Winter hissed a breath through his teeth. He desired her, too, but that was beside the point. Want was a fluid word—she wanted a spouse and he wanted someone to fuck.

  Those two things were vastly different.

  Winter resisted the urge to step away and scowled, his arousal well and truly doused. His father had to have put her up to this. Was that why they’d come to London, to ambush him as a pair? Because Kendrick was desperate to secure his ducal legacy?

  He felt the usual anger unfurling inside of him. Rage at his father’s selfish desires, anger that he continued to use whomever he saw fit to gain his own ends, powerlessness to stop him. It was the same old story over again, only this time Isobel was the pawn.

  “Did Kendrick put you up to this?” The words emerged as a growl.

  “What? No, of course not.” She cleared her throat. “We might have discussed your absence, but this is what I want, Winter. My husband is what I want.”

  His given name on her tongue did unconscionable things to him, made his blood heat and desire storm through his body. For a second, all he could think about was hearing her moaning it, sobbing it, screaming it to the heavens. Anger twined with desire, and it was only by the most valiant of efforts that he held himself in place instead of bending her over that bench, fisting his fingers in the golden skeins of her hair, and giving in to his basest desires then and there.

  He doubted his sweet, innocent wife would approve.

  He’d only taken her once in the customary way that wouldn’t terrify a virgin. However, even thinking of her in such an erotic position—back arched, bodice down, and breasts filling his palms—was enough to inflame his blood anew. A small whimper escaped her lips as though she could sense his depraved thoughts…and his thinning control, held only by the smallest of tethers.

  Winter’s gaze snapped up. Her nostrils flared, pupils dilating while her body tensed, preparing itself to flee as though cognizant of being hunted by something innately dangerous. But instead of bolting as he fully expected her to, she held her ground, chest rising with shortened huffs. He tore his gaze away from the rosy flesh of her bosom, drawn up to where the tip of her tongue slipped out to sweep those plump lips.

  He wanted to do depraved things to that rosebud mouth. Kiss it. Fuck it. Own it.

  Christ, what the hell was wrong with him?

  “No,” he bit out. “No.”

  “No to being a husband?” she asked, breathless. “I’m your wife. It isn’t unreasonable for me to want you in my life, or the next step that comes with any marriage…a family. A child. Or are you incapable of it?”

  His head flew up at that, ice spearing through him.

  She frowned. “Don’t you require an heir?”

  His jaw clenched tight, the words a much-needed bucket of reason to his ruthless desires, bringing his sanity back like a sharp slap. “You are mistaken, Isobel. I do not want children. I am not in need of an heir, as I have Oliver, and Lord knows how much he craves the title.”

  “Then why did you marry me?” she asked. “You don’t want a wife or child and wish to live the life of an eternal bachelor. You can’t stand being in my presence to even have a civil conversation. Clearly we are unsuited, so why did you even bother?”

  Winter stilled. None of the answers that sprung to mind were appropriate: I wanted to bed you. I failed my sister. I wanted to be the hero, a better man.

  He looked away. “You needed a husband.”

  …

  It hurt to hear it—the bald truth of why the man she’d been infatuated with had married her—but after a few pained heartbeats, Isobel pulled herself together. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart or to berate herself for being foolishly naive.

  Because what he said was true. Her need of a husband had been the catalyst—a solution to escape betrothal to an unsuitable earl. What she had not expected was trading one form of the devil for another. In this case, someone who had no desire to be a husband, to be a partner, to be anything but an attention-seeking git.

  Who did not want a wife nor children, apparently.

  She’d come to terms with being ignored and cast aside as a wife, but the feeling of bitterness spreading in the pit of her stomach at his blatant refusal to build a family, damaged her more than she would have imagined. The picture of such a future seemed entirely too bleak…and devastatingly lonely.

  Where on earth had she gone wrong?

  Had she been so thoroughly mistaken in taking him for an honorable gentleman? She remembered his smiles and his devilish charm. He’d danced with her and flirted, and she’d fallen for it stock, lock, and barrel. What girl wouldn’t? But in hindsight, her own infatuation with his looks and personality might have blinded her to the truth of what lay beneath.

  Because he was not that man.

  Isobel pinned her lips, feeling his heated stare track the movement, and another burst of answering warmth bloomed within her. Winter might not desire her as a wife, but he keenly desired her as a woman. Then again, if all the tomfooleries printed by the gossip rags were true, he chased anything in a skirt.

  Even her…his objectionable wife.

  She ground her teeth together, t
he desire draining out of her limbs. She wasn’t naïve—she knew men like Winter had needs, and from what she’d seen at 15 Audley Street, she hoped he’d been smart and protected himself. Even the Prince Regent was rumored to have contracted syphilis. The rogues of the whole Carlton House set were infamous womanizers. Lady Darcy had done an illuminating exposé on sexual health, including the use of French letters, English riding coats, sponges, and the like, that had been quite eye-opening. All thanks to Clarissa, her unsuspecting brothers, and an enormous amount of blush-inducing research.

  A butterfly landed on her skirts and she studied it, wanting to touch its gossamer wings, but knowing the moment she tried, it would fly away. Eventually, the delicate thing took to the skies in search of sweeter pastures.

  Isobel loosed a bitter breath. Winter wasn’t a butterfly, and neither was he delicate.

  With a nod, she sent her husband an even stare. “I needed a spouse, but I did not expect to be held prisoner in the country.”

  “A prisoner?” he scoffed. “In a sprawling manor worth a bloody fortune?”

  “Your father’s estate,” she said softly.

  His mouth tightened as he uncurled that broad body of his and rose easily to his feet to move past the well. “I don’t see you complaining. You seem to have gotten rather close to the duke, after all.”

  “By necessity, I assure you.”

  He huffed a laugh over his shoulder. “Hedging your bets, my lady?”

  It took a moment for his meaning to register, and when it did, Isobel nearly screamed. Oh, that cockle-brained cur!

  Was he honestly suggesting that she was angling for his father? How dare he be so crass? Isobel wound her fists into her skirts, thankful that he’d risen and couldn’t see the disbelief and fury on her face. Of course he would assume something so utterly wrong.

  God, he made her want to kick him!

  She couldn’t fathom what an ass he was in her presence and yet so gentle in the company of Iz. Then again, he had nothing to prove with a humble groom. No mask to wear. No games to play. No meddling wives to chase away. Her eyes narrowed. That seemed to be exactly what he wanted…for her to be angry. To quit London. Quit him.

  Well, two could play at that game.

  “No, I’m not after your father,” she said, standing, her eyes finding him where he now stood at the edge of the clearing near a cluster of blooming rosebushes. His hooded gaze rested on her, but he kept his distance, as though he didn’t trust himself. “But if I were, why would that bother you? You seem to hedge your bets at every opportunity here in London.”

  A strange noise emitted from his chest, and after a beat, she registered it as laughter. Cold, hollow, unfeeling laughter. “That’s a husband’s prerogative, darling. And you shouldn’t have come to town if you did not wish your delicate senses to be offended.”

  “I’m not blind,” Isobel snarled. “I can read, and the newssheets reach Chelmsford just as well.” She stalked toward him and stopped just short of her skirts brushing his boot-clad toes. “Trust me, I’m well aware of your reputation, and my senses are inured to anything you have done or can possibly do.”

  Her lungs ached after the outburst and she breathed in heavily, the air charged between them. Winter’s face was unreadable, his lips a pressed white line and his fists knuckled at his sides. A muscle leaped in that chiseled jaw. He was predatorially still until he spoke, the low rumble making a quiver of sinful awareness ripple through her. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?” she echoed.

  A hand lifted to brush a stray tendril of hair from her brow. “Inured.”

  Drawn by the huskiness in his voice, Isobel’s body nearly swayed into his touch. Her gaze was imprisoned by a molten gray stare so full of wicked promise that her breath stuttered and her mouth went dry. His thumb drifted down her cheek to graze across her jaw and then her bottom lip. The intimate gesture immobilized her. She could almost taste his skin.

  “W…what are you doing?” she stammered.

  “Disproving your brave words.”

  Isobel gulped as his thumb pulled decadently against her lip, unsure whether to lean in and lick or rear back and bolt. The rough graze of skin against skin made her head spin. She wanted to suck the probing digit into her mouth and bite him as he’d bitten her earlobe.

  Good heavens, where had that thought come from?

  “That wasn’t a challenge,” she said, proud that there was no audible strain in her voice. “It was a statement of fact. Why do you think I came to London? I read that you’d fought a duel for some opera singer, and I thought if you were so hell-bent on living your most glorious life then I would get on with mine. If you do not require me to beget an heir, then this discussion is moot. I’ll find another way.”

  Winter’s stormy eyes narrowed to pinpricks, as if memorizing every dip, every curve in her mouth. Her lips tingled, and she licked them, catching the tip of his thumb in the process. His fingers firmed on her jaw, eyes flaring, when he leaned down as though he intended to replace his fingertip with his mouth. For an agonizing second, Isobel thought he might kiss her, but then he yanked away with a growl, his hand falling to his side.

  “What did you mean by that?”

  She frowned at his emphatic words. “By what?”

  “That you’ll find another way?”

  She tossed her head and stared at him, her chin jutting in challenge. “I’ve made no secret that I want to start a family, Winter, and I will do that with or without you. There are many children in need of care. I always wanted children of my own, but I know better than to expect this from you. You’ve made it perfectly clear that this isn’t what you want.”

  Air hit her flushed cheeks when he whirled toward the maze’s exit. Winter glanced over his shoulder, jaw working, an ugly chuckle breaking from him. He turned to face her, and the awful look on his face made her entire body brace for the impact of his reply. “You’re right, Isobel, it’s not. I would make the worst sort of father, worse even than my own.”

  Isobel took a step toward him and halted at the ice in his stare. “He’s not the same man you knew, Winter.”

  “And you think three years makes you an expert? I’ve dealt with him my entire life, been a living pawn on his chessboard—one to be moved and discarded at will, so trust me when I say without a shadow of a doubt that you are mistaken.”

  “So that’s it, then?” she bit out. “You’ll walk away from me?”

  Her cheeks heated at her boldness, but he only shrugged. “By law, I already have, dearest. Wedded and bedded as they say. Go back to Chelmsford where you belong. Or stay in London if you prefer. But there’s no way in hell either of us will ever share the same bed again.”

  Her temper pricked at his stony dismissal, and she gave in to it heedlessly. “And why, pray tell, is that?”

  “One and done, love.”

  Stung, Isobel glared at him, fingers knotting into her skirts as she fought the urge to rail and scream. It wasn’t her fault she was inexperienced. It was sodding well his! And yet, he was blaming her for it. Her eyes narrowed as something Clarissa had shared came back to her—a suspicion that Winter didn’t engage with women at his own assemblies, and hadn’t for the better part of five years. She loosed a breath. Could such a rumor be true?

  “Care to make a wager on that?”

  Winter’s eyes glinted with amusement. “I don’t make wagers for sport, but if I were a betting man, it wouldn’t take much to have you running back to Chelmsford with your tail between your legs within the month, wife.”

  The gauntlet fell between them, striking nerves in her body she didn’t know she possessed. Making her temper boil with indignation. He expected she would flee his very presence like the mouse he accused her of being? Well, she was no mouse. Not anymore.

  “I’ll wager that the only thing between my legs, darling, will be you,” she
countered saucily, her chin hiking with resolve as she stalked toward him. “And you’ll beg me for that honor.”

  His eyes smoldered beneath his brows. “Is that so?”

  “Count on it.”

  Then Isobel did the one thing she knew he would not expect. She shoved herself up to her tiptoes, grabbed his lapels, and planted a hard kiss on his stunned mouth before slipping between the hedges.

  Chapter Nine

  Don’t be afraid to be selective. Explore the menu. Be adventurous. No one wants to be stuck eating spotted dick for the rest of their lives.

  – Lady Darcy

  Three days later and Winter could still feel the warm press of his wife’s lips, taste the tart sweetness of her mouth. The kiss had been chaste, the arousal it had spawned had not been. He’d been in a coil for some time following, forced to cool his ardor on that bloody bench in the maze until he was in an appropriate state to return to the house. It had been an eternity since he’d kissed a woman…or allowed one to kiss him.

  She’d been all flashing, icy blue eyes and repressed temper, standing there like an angry angel lording over a mere mortal. And mortal Winter was in her presence. Never had he wanted to grovel more and plead that she have her way with him. Say yes to everything she commanded. Lay himself bare at her feet like a devoted disciple.

  Winter almost grinned at the recollection of her sinfully erotic boast that he’d be begging to be between her legs. Little did she know he already craved it with a vengeance. Those sleek thighs of hers haunted him. He’d had to relieve himself almost every night since that kiss…something he hadn’t done so often in years.

  There was only one thing to be done about it—he had to make her leave and get things back to normal. Get his life back on track. She wanted a husband? He would give her one…the one he knew she’d never accept. And he knew just the way to do it.

  “Matteo,” Winter called.

  He appeared on silent footsteps, garbed in fitted trousers and an exquisitely tailored coat. The man had exceptional taste. “Yes, my lord?”