She didn’t listen. She kept moving, twining through people congregated on the paths, knowing the danger and not caring. Vauxhall was rife with pickpockets and criminals, stronger people preying on the weak, and all manner of unsavory elements. She pushed deeper into the gardens, her heart hammering in her chest and her lungs so tight that she couldn’t draw a single breath of air.
A hand wrapped about her elbow, cutting her escape short in a grove. “Stop, Isobel. Please.”
Her bosom heaved as she turned to face her captor. “What do you want?”
“I wasn’t engaged to her, I swear it, and she was never with child. She’s lying to rile you, can’t you see that?”
Isobel sucked her lip between her teeth. “She’s still in love with you.”
“But I am not in love with her.”
She had no idea why she was getting so angry. Winter was allowed to have a past, but something about the woman was getting under her skin. The bold way she’d looked at him, as though she had some prior claim of ownership had pushed Isobel over the edge. Lady Vittorina was everything she could never be—voluptuous, confident, sensual. All the things that Isobel was pretending to be.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You were with her.”
“You’re my wife, Isobel, not her.”
“Then why can’t you act like it, damn it?” The violent outburst shot from her like lead ballast from a pistol. Her entire body trembled with the force of her emotion as she squared off against her husband, fists clenched at her sides. His eyes bored into hers, gray holding pale blue prisoner, the tension between them contracting and expanding like a live thing.
Isobel had no idea who closed the distance first, only that his lips were on hers, his tongue sliding across the seam and demanding entry. She gave it. She wanted it. Wanted him. Opening her mouth, Isobel welcomed him, meeting him stroke for stroke. Their teeth ground together as their bodies erased any space between them, his arms banded around her…her fingers knotted into the hair at his nape. She yanked. He groaned, his lips detaching for breath.
“Isobel—”
“Shut up and kiss me, Winter.”
She tugged his head down and took his lips with hers, giving him no quarter. His tongue flicked inside her upper lip, making her gasp against his mouth. And he kissed her…stole all her air until she was breathless. Senseless. He walked her backward along the gravel path until her back braced against a lamppost near a deserted rotunda. Shadowy forms drifted around them, but she was safe in his arms.
Winter broke away, his full lips swollen from the intensity of their embrace and his gray eyes almost swallowed by black. “Hell, I don’t do this.”
He kissed her again, his teeth nibbling her lower lip and then drawing away to kiss down her jaw and throat.
“Do what?” she mumbled, her own lips tingling and senses dazed.
“Kiss women,” he replied between kisses to her collarbone.
A dazed memory of their wedding night came back to her. Her new husband hadn’t kissed her then, at least not on her lips. He’d kissed her neck, much like he was now. And he hadn’t truly touched her lips during their wedding night either, but rather the corner of her mouth. And in the maze, she’d kissed him.
“You’re kissing me,” she said when he licked and bit his way back up to her lips.
“Yes.”
“Why now?” she breathed.
“I don’t know.”
For a moment, he stared at her lips as though he was fighting an internal battle, one he eventually lost as he closed his mouth over hers with a growl. His tongue was almost violent, chasing hers and drawing it into his mouth, plunging and retreating in an erotic dance that made her core ache. A part of her understood what he’d meant…kissing was so intimate, almost as intimate as lovemaking itself. But now, he explored every inch of her as if he couldn’t get enough, sipping at her lips and then devouring them with guttural groans that ripped from his chest. As if he were starving for her.
Good God, his hunger fed hers, made her blood molten. She couldn’t get enough either—his sinful taste, his feel, his everything. Her needy fingers dragged down to his lapels, slipping underneath his waistcoat. She wanted to feel bare skin, but she would be content with the fine lawn of his shirt. Winter wasn’t idle, his fingers chasing the length of her spine from her shoulders to the curve of her bottom, kneading and grinding her to him where she felt his arousal like a brand against her belly. His possessive touch made her mindless with need. He could lift her skirts and take her now and she would welcome it. He could tell her to go to her knees and she would drop willingly.
Minutes or an eternity passed before he tore himself away, panting. Isobel fought back a blush at the passionate intensity of their kiss. Anyone could have stumbled upon them, and despite the fact that Vauxhall Gardens was a favorite rendezvous for lovers, it was still public. From the nearby moans coming through the hedges, however, they weren’t the only couple stealing a moment for themselves.
Silence spun between them, and then suddenly another whistle blew in the distance, indicating that the lamps that made the gardens so famous were about to be lit. Isobel glanced up as the first of the hanging multicolored lamps above them chased away the encroaching dark, followed by another and then another.
The full effect was magical, illuminating the trees like a fairy-tale wonderland. Trailing her gaze, Winter glanced up, his heartbreakingly handsome face outlined in flickering blue and yellow light. His thumb brushed against her sore bottom lip.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he agreed, though Isobel knew he wasn’t talking about the spectacle of the lights. She could feel his gaze trained on her. Her eyes met his, her throat tightening at what she saw there. Recognizing the melting desire in his eyes, she fought the urge to push to her toes and seal her mouth back to his, which made his next words a slap in the face.
“You need to go back to Chelmsford, Isobel. You don’t belong here.”
Stung, she recoiled. How could he be so cruel after the intimacy they’d just shared? But from his cooling expression, she saw the interlude now for what it had been—he’d been kissing her goodbye.
“And Lady Vittorina does?” she shot back bitterly.
“This has nothing to do with her,” he said.
“Then what does it have to do with, Winter?” she bit out. “The fact that you don’t want a wife in London putting a crick in your plans?”
“No.”
“Why? Because you kissed me and that scared you?”
His eyes glittered, jaw going tight. “Because I don’t want you here. Vittorina’s presence only opened my eyes. I can’t change and I will never be the husband you want.”
The snarled words gutted her. Isobel poked him right in the middle of his chest, ignoring the way his eyes flared or the fact that his muscles were hewn from stone. She was beyond caring about decorum at this point. She was already too far gone to stop herself.
Too furious. Too jealous. Too hurt.
“You are a heartless bastard,” she snapped, “and I wish I’d never met you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Love is a competitive sport. Play or be played.
– Lady Darcy
She hated him.
He’d hurt her unconscionably. But it had to be done. Vittorina’s presence had been a much-needed kick in the gut. She’d lied about being with child and almost trapped him, and now for whatever reason, she was here in London. Her appearance, though unwelcome, was the brutal reminder he needed that women could not be trusted. His mother was right—he could not let his guard down—and he foolishly had with Isobel.
Thinking back to what Westmore had revealed about his mother and her indiscretion, Winter frowned. The only way the duchess would have had any reason to be unfaithful would have been because of the duke…b
ecause she’d been driven to it. Maybe Prue hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen. Maybe she’d made a mistake. Either way, it didn’t change what he had to do now.
Confront Kendrick.
It was disgustingly early, but he did not care. Winter scrubbed a rough hand through his hair for what seemed like the hundredth time and yanked on the cravat that was slowly but surely strangling him. Dismounting his horse in the mews behind Vance House, he threw the reins to the waiting groom. Randolph, or Randy, as Iz had cheekily called him.
His eyes scanned the mews for the young, scarred stable boy. Oddly, he’d taken a liking to the impertinent lad. The boy spoke his mind, and it was obvious that Randolph had his hands full with him. He’d caught the older groom scowling in their direction more than once.
The boy was a lowly groom, but he strutted around like an upper servant, and he had no qualms about talking to a lord of Winter’s stature or reputation. He made a mental note to ask Beswick about him—the boy had mentioned being in the duchess’s employ before becoming Hellion’s caretaker. Winter wondered how bad the boy’s facial scarring was. If it was anything like the Duke of Beswick’s, he could understand the need for the covering. But he was of the distinct impression that the boy had bigger secrets.
“Where’s Iz?” he asked Randolph.
“Iz, my lord?” The man’s throat bobbed, brown eyes popping comically.
“The boy, the young pup who takes care of Hellion.”
The groom’s mouth fell open, his eyes shifting to the house in a panic. “Um…er…I…”
Winter frowned. “It’s a simple question.”
“Running an errand, my lord,” Randolph burst out, his weathered skin the color of a pomegranate. “For special feed for her ladyship’s horse.”
“Very well. Why didn’t you just say so?”
“Apologies, my lord,” Randolph stammered with a bow. “Shall I give her a message?”
Her? Winter quirked a brow. Perhaps it was a mistaken slip of the tongue. The man seemed rather nervous. “No.”
Without wasting further time, Winter strode from the courtyard toward the house. He took the steps two at a time, not bothering to announce himself. It was becoming too much of a frequent thing, these troublesome visits to his father’s residence. First for Isobel, then for Oliver, and now for the duke. A handful of times in the last two weeks alone. It had to stop.
“Is the duke awake?” he practically growled at Simmons, his father’s butler.
“Yes, he’s in the breakfast room, my lord,” the man replied, his sphinx-like face giving away nothing, unlike Winter’s own butler. Ludlow could do with a lesson on minding his own business. The meddlesome servant had made no secret of the fact that he thought his master was lacking in his duty by ignoring his wife. But Winter had meant what he’d said to Isobel—he had no intention of changing his life.
Settling down.
Starting a family.
Becoming a duke.
His resentment bubbled over as he stalked through the pristine foyer toward the breakfast room. He wondered if Oliver was here and almost hoped that he was so he could crunch his fist into the worm’s face. Winter did not wait for Simmons to announce him before crashing open the door, his eyes finding the duke sitting at the table near the window, perusing neatly ironed newssheets.
“Lord Roth, Your Grace,” Simmons said, his voice holding a hint of reproach.
The duke looked up. “Ah, my prodigal heir,” he said, folding the papers. “Thank you, Simmons, that will be all.” Dismissing the two footmen in the room, Kendrick rose and walked to the mantel, where he poured two glasses of whiskey before glancing at Winter. “Drink?”
“It’s a little early in the day to imbibe, don’t you think?” Winter drawled, tugging off his gloves.
“Says who? The ducal police?”
That dry humor did not sound like his father at all. Winter stalled, a knot forming in his throat. When was the last time they had spoken? It had to have been years, and only by distant correspondence or via Oliver. And Winter knew he could only trust his brother as far as he could throw him.
He watched the duke lift the tumbler to his lips. “Why are you here in London?”
“Can’t a father want to see his son?”
“Answer the question,” Winter said.
“For my daughter-in-law’s sake,” he said without preamble. “She never had a season.”
His eyes narrowed. “She’s already married.”
The duke huffed a laugh when he resumed his seat at the table. “Is she? Because she hadn’t seen hide or hair of her husband in three and a half years. I suppose we both wanted to see if he was in good health.”
“You’ve seen that I am, so when are you leaving?” he asked with irritation, reaching for the second glass and downing its contents in one swallow. The liquor burned a scorching path to his suddenly unsettled stomach.
“Whenever Isobel is ready to leave.”
The sound of his wife’s name was like a blow to the chest. Winter turned and propped himself up against the desk. Though he could guess at his father’s reasoning for wanting him back in the fold—the man had always been about the dukedom, after all—he wanted to hear the truth from his lips. “What prompted you to accompany her?”
“It’s no secret that we’ve gotten close over the past three years.” A sad expression twisted his lips, his fingers flexing on the crystal tumbler. “In some ways, she reminds me of Prudence.”
The glass nearly shattered in Winter’s fist. “Don’t speak her name.”
“Same humor, same cleverness, same capacity to love the unlovable.” He eyed his fuming son. “Do you wish to throw that at me? Avenge your sister’s memory? Trust me, I’ve punished myself harder than you know.”
“She died because of you,” Winter seethed. “No one was ever good enough for you, so she ran away, right into the arms of a fortune hunting swindler.”
Kendrick sighed. “You won’t believe me, not after all this time, but nothing on earth could have stopped her from running away with that man. She was already lost to us.”
Winter growled with rage. “You could have done something.”
“Prudence was determined to ruin herself. Your sister was willful, you know that.” He drew a shattered breath, his voice thinning. “She’d discovered our deepest secret, you see.”
“What was that? That you were a shitty father?”
“The only regret I have, Winter, is that I didn’t tell you the truth sooner.”
Winter expelled a hollow laugh. “What goddamn truth? That Prue was an addict? That Mother cuckolded you because of what you did to her? Westmore already told me about Mr. Bell, but I don’t believe a word of it. You never loved her.”
“That’s not true, Son.”
“Enough, Kendrick.”
Winter swore foully under his breath. He’d had enough—all his father’s truths were lies. He had no thirst for more. He needed a ride, a round at Gentleman Jackson’s, something, anything to offset the tension coiling inside of him like a mindless beast.
He strode from the house to the mews, only to run into a familiar reedy figure tightening the cinches on his wife’s horse. Winter resisted the urge to look for Hellion’s mistress. He hadn’t even thought to ask for her, so focused he’d been on talking to the duke. Perhaps she was out.
“Heard you were looking for me,” Iz called out in a cool voice.
“Another time,” he snapped.
But true to form, the young groom ignored him, giving the mare one firm pat before stopping to level him with a stare Winter couldn’t see from beneath the brim of his cap. “I was about to take Hellion out for a gallop. You look like you could use one. Race you to the end of Rotten Row, old man. Winner calls the forfeit.”
Winter’s muscles bunched in anticipation. A bracing gallop w
as just the thing.
He mounted his horse while Iz mounted his, and they cantered together through Mayfair in silence until they came to the southern end of Hyde Park at the start of Rotten Row. It was much too early in the day for any real crowds, and by the time they arrived, Winter was a mess of undiluted nerves and conflicting emotions.
What truth could the duke possibly have to tell? What didn’t he understand?
Besides, what difference would it make now? For him. For Prue.
“Ready,” the boy said. “Steady. Go!”
And then they were off. Winter let himself go in the moment, giving in to the pure physicality of controlling a thousand pounds of racehorse muscle flexing beneath him. His purebred Arabian kept pace with Hellion, but Winter couldn’t help marveling at the lad’s skill on his wife’s horse. The two of them moved as one like the wind.
One day, he hoped to see Isobel put the mare through her paces. It was a challenge to keep up with Hellion and her whippet of a groom, and just the effort Winter needed to grind his surging emotions to dust. Still, Hellion and Iz took the race easily by several lengths, and when he caught up to them, the lad chortled in triumph, pumping a fist into the air.
“Feel better?” Iz asked, trotting briskly past to cool down the lathered horse.
“Well done, you.” Winter shrugged and pushed a smile to his face. “Thanks for the race. I needed that, so thank you.”
“What’s wrong?”
He swallowed, his throat working, the words spilling out of him. “I had a sister. She died.”
…
Isobel wanted to weep at the unguarded, vulnerable agony on Winter’s face, and before she could help herself, her fingers had reached over to tug on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, milord. Death is never easy.”
“Are you familiar with it?” Winter asked, his gaze snapping to her hand.
Flushing, Isobel snatched it away. “Both my parents are dead.” She blinked, worried about her impulsivity or that he might make the obvious leap to connect the similarities between his wife and Iz. She hadn’t exactly been creative with her nickname. Winter might be distracted with his own concerns, but he wasn’t stupid. “Consumption,” she added swiftly, fighting a blush at the lie and grateful once more for her cloth covering.
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