The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  She blinked as though coming out of a trance. “Yes, it’s just over there,” she replied automatically, but when he took her arm and attempted to escort her toward it, she shook off his grasp. “No, I’m not going anywhere with you. Even if this establishment is for your sister, I’m not blind, Roth. I saw you go in with Contessa James.” Her voice faltered. “You fought a duel for her, if you recall.”

  Isobel wouldn’t believe him, but he was never involved with Contessa James. She’d wanted to get away from her current protector—a viscount who treated her abominably and had bruised her throat so badly weeks ago that she couldn’t perform on stage. When he’d threatened to cut out her tongue so she could never sing again, she’d come to Winter.

  It was why she’d been temporarily staying at the shelter, until she could find new accommodations. The viscount had thrown her out on her ear after Winter and Westmore had paid the man a sinister visit, letting him know in no uncertain terms what would happen if he ever laid a finger on the contessa again. That was the purported duel that had made the papers. But this wasn’t the place to clarify that.

  “It’s not like that,” he said again. “I will explain, but it’s not safe here, Isobel. Will you please let me get you home?”

  She stared at him, and then her glance slipped to the side as if only just taking stock of the infringing throng. “Take me inside.”

  God, she was a stubborn thing.

  “Very well, but it’s not what you’re accustomed to, and you may see things that might harm your sensibilities.”

  She firmed her jaw. “You might be surprised, Lord Roth, at what I’ve seen. I’m not a wilting daisy who swoons at the slightest provocation.”

  Looking at her, all arctic rage and a spine of pure iron, he could believe it. There were things he was learning about his wife that made him question whether anything he knew about her was accurate. He wanted to discover everything about her. And that was a dangerous want. Lusting after her body was one thing; being seduced by her courage or compassion or intelligence was a slippery slope he had no intention of nearing.

  With a nod, he took her elbow and unlocked the door, ushering her into the spare but clean foyer of the building. An enormous man limped toward them, and Winter felt Isobel tense at his hulking appearance. Creighton was a pugilist who had had his jaw broken outside of the ring in an attempt to rig a prize fight, and beaten to within an inch of his life.

  Astoundingly, Winter had found him alive in a pool of his own blood, left to die. He’d saved the man’s life, and Creighton had been loyal ever since. As porter, he was the only man allowed on the premises, tasked with the responsibility of protecting the vulnerable inhabitants from any forced entry.

  “Forgot something, milord?”

  Winter shook his head. “No, Creighton. This is…Lady Roth.”

  The man’s eyes popped wide, his huge body forming a clumsy bow. “Milady.”

  “He’s the overseer,” Winter explained. “Keeps the riffraff out.”

  He led her down the corridor to a large staircase. It was a far cry from the dirty streets outside, and instead of rot and unwashed bodies, smelled faintly of antiseptic and clean linen. The soft murmur of voices wafted down the white-painted hallway from the rooms upstairs.

  “Is this a hospital?” she asked, her eyes darting into some of the well-lit, clinical-looking rooms off the main hallway.

  “No, but a doctor visits on occasion, should the need arise.” He drew a breath. “It’s simply a place for women and children to feel safe when they have nowhere else to go, or when they need help.”

  A gasp left her lips. “There are children, here?”

  “Sometimes. We try not to separate them from their mothers.”

  Before she could form a reply, Winter guided her into what appeared to be a small salon. A maid curtsied and dashed out of the room, mumbling something about fetching a pot of tea. Isobel shook her head, but he didn’t stop the servant. He was usually the only visitor here, apart from the shelter’s constant trickle of residents.

  “You fund all of this?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “The auctions do for the most part. The money is put in a trust that’s managed by Matteo.”

  “I thought Matteo was your man of affairs?”

  Winter shook his head. “He also handles The Silver Scythe and other investments. He does what he wants when he wants basically.”

  The maid returned with a tea tray, and though he knew Isobel wasn’t in the mind for tea, she thanked the girl sweetly. Her hands shook as she poured, though the minute she took a sip, she seemed to settle. She took several more before replacing the teacup on the tray and clearing her throat. “You built this for Prudence?”

  Winter flinched, even knowing the question would be forthcoming. “She died from too much laudanum, and no one saw the warning signs. She was depressed, fearful, and had developed an unhealthy dependency. I was too late to help her. Westmore found her in a hovel covered in her own vomit and filth.”

  Pain brimmed in her eyes. “I am so sorry.”

  Winter exhaled. “Thank you. She got involved with a fucking opium eater who only wanted her money.” He swallowed his fury, though he noticed that Isobel didn’t so much as flinch at his oath. “I bought this place so that women like Prue can get help if they need it. To them, it could mean the difference between life and death.”

  “That’s very noble of you.”

  “It’s atonement,” he said. “I wasn’t there for her when she needed me.”

  Isobel held his gaze, those pale blue eyes softening. “Is that why you’re so closed off?” she asked. “Is that why you won’t make this marriage a true one? Or want a family? It’s because of her, isn’t it?”

  This had nothing to do with his sister. It had to do with him. If he couldn’t protect his own sister, how the hell would he be able to protect anyone else? The only real motivation for this marriage was to protect his inheritance, he told himself firmly. “When Prue died, my heart died, too. There’s nothing left of it. Not for you, not for anyone.”

  He watched her elegant throat swallow back what he could only assume was hurt at his cruel words, but she still reached for him. “Shutting everyone out isn’t the answer. Me, Kendrick—”

  “Don’t,” he snapped. “You don’t know him.”

  She advanced on him, not quailing at his temper. “No, you don’t know him or what he’s been through, or what he feels because you don’t care to know. You’ve shut him out just as you’re trying to shut me out because it suits you.” She let out a shuddering breath. “Well, it doesn’t bloody suit me! What about what happened between us, Winter?”

  “Your triumphant wager?”

  She swore under her breath. “You know damn well it was more than that.”

  God, he wanted to kiss those trembling lips, bury himself in her body, and forget for just one moment that his world wasn’t cobbled together from broken pieces. Even now, she was undaunted in her passion. One step. That was all it would take to gather her in his arms.

  He stepped away instead. “That was a mistake. Go back to Chelmsford, Isobel. Take a lover, have the child you want, I don’t care.” A lie. Just the thought of it soured his stomach and made him want to break something with his bare hands.

  “You wish to be cuckolded?” she whispered, eyes bright with tears.

  He made his gaze hard, raking her with it, his voice little more than a sneer. “It should go both ways, shouldn’t it?” She recoiled as if he’d slapped her, agony and betrayal filling her expression. Christ, he felt sick to even suggest such a vile thing, the pain on her face mirrored by the savage ache in his chest. God knew he couldn’t so much as look at another woman, and the thought of her with anyone else gutted him. But still, he pressed on. “What I truly want is for you to leave. Can’t you get that through your foolish little head?”

&
nbsp; They stared at each other in fraught, ugly silence, until his achingly beautiful wife squared her shoulders and swept from the room. Head high, she paused at the door, a queen addressing the most despicable of her subjects. “Go to hell, Roth.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I counter that with hell hath no fury like a woman with a purpose.

  – Lady Darcy

  “You look like a bag of shelled crabs,” Clarissa pronounced, barging into Isobel’s bedchamber, eyes narrowing at the discarded tea tray that was still full. “That got peed on by a bunch of drunken sailors. And then chewed up and spit out by sharks.”

  Her best friend’s assessment was probably true. Though Winter’s cruel words had hurt at the shelter, they had opened Isobel’s eyes. Hours and hours of cursing his existence had led to hours and hours of thinking. And the only conclusion she could come to was that her husband was irreparably broken, and that somewhere along the way, he’d convinced himself that it was better to shut out the world than to open himself up to anyone.

  Including her. Prue’s death had been the feather that had broken the horse’s back. And unless Winter wanted to change, no one—much less her—could force him to do so.

  “Tell me how you truly feel.” Isobel rubbed her sore eyes, knowing they would be rimmed in crimson since she’d spent the past two days sobbing into the bedclothes. She was surprised they weren’t more of a tear-sodden mess. “How did I ever get so lucky to have you as my best friend?”

  Clarissa propped her hands to her hips. “We promised never to lie to each other, didn’t we?”

  “True, but a little tenderness never hurt anyone.”

  “You don’t need me to be tender, Izzy. You like that I give the medicine to you straight. And right now, you’ve been in bed for two days.” Clarissa sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “You’re starting to smell.”

  “I am not!” Isobel squeaked, but then lowered her head to give a discreet inhale. “Some of the milk spilled this morning.”

  “And let me guess…you’re crying over it?” Giggling, she dodged the frilled cushion that Isobel threw at her head.

  “That’s the spirit,” Clarissa said. “Fight back, though I’m not the enemy here. That prize goes to your sap skull of a husband.”

  “I won’t disagree with you. Men stink. Especially ones who think they can tell you what to do and when to do it, just because the thought of being vulnerable for once in their lives scares the spit out of them.”

  “Don’t they just!” Clarissa burst out with uncharacteristic venom. “They can be the most clod-brained dolts in creation. It’s a wonder God had to give them two heads just so they could function. Honestly, imagine how eternally lost they would be if they only had to make do with one.” She rolled her eyes, warming to her diatribe. “Then again, it might make life easier if they only used the one below stairs. No mind games or perpetual misunderstanding. Lady Darcy should do an exposé on the male brain.”

  “God, no!” Isobel said. “The ton would never recover. Nor would Lady Darcy, I imagine. We exercise our minuscule freedoms within a male-dominated world view.”

  “It’s such a double standard, isn’t it?” her friend groused. “They want to have their pie and eat it, while we must do the baking, the cleaning, and watch our figure. We women need some pie, too, damn it!”

  Despite her tongue-in-cheek tone, Isobel picked up on some underlying bitterness and felt a stab of guilt that she hadn’t noticed Clarissa was also in a funk. “Did something happen with Oliver?”

  “Oliver who?”

  “You very well know who. Your tea-making abettor.”

  Huffing, Clarissa ducked her head to hide her blush, but injury glinted in her eyes. “Let’s just say that anything to do with tea is on hiatus.”

  “What did he do?”

  “The usual hot then cold, typical Oliver. Doesn’t know what he wants when it’s clear to everyone but him. Must run in the family.”

  “You deserve better.”

  “We both do,” Clarissa said. “Now get up. We’ll get the twins who are bored out of their minds from being stuck indoors all day, and we will take Oliver’s new barouche for a turn outside for some fresh air. Then we can all pick out future husbands.”

  “In Hyde Park?”

  Clarissa grinned, faking an affected voice and throwing her hand against her forehead. “What better place to see and be seen, darling. It is nearly five, the fashionable evening hour, after all.”

  Husbands aside, Isobel did need to get out of bed. Clarissa was right. She needed the fresh air, and she was sure that Clarissa needed a break as well. The twins, too. Being in mourning had to be hard. Isobel had been so caught up in her own drama that she hadn’t even thought about how Molly and Violet might be adjusting to London, considering it was improper for them to attend too many social functions.

  The last time she’d spoken to Violet, the woman had been complaining about the never-ending amount of needlepoint she’d been doing to stave off boredom. Guilt sluiced through Isobel. Lately, she avoided anything that involved a pair of knitting needles or embroidery hoops, but knew someone like Violet would also abhor the tedium. She should have been spending more time with the twins.

  “Good idea,” she said to Clarissa. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Get the twins and we’ll make an outing of it.”

  It didn’t take long for her to have a quick slipper bath and get dressed in a navy riding habit with silver buttons and matching trim. It was one of the fashionable new pieces that she had commissioned from Madame Pinot.

  “You look smart,” Clarissa said with an approving smile when Isobel emerged from her bedchamber. Clarissa had also changed into a forest-green habit that accentuated her figure, also one of the modiste’s creations. The twins waited on the landing, smiles on their faces. Even Molly looked excited at the prospect of going out for a spell.

  “Thank you, so do all three of you.”

  “We look like ghosts,” Violet said mournfully. “Drab riding habits are the worst. You and Clarissa look lovely, though. I can’t wait for half-mourning to be over, God rest Papa’s soul. He would want us to look our best, I think, and gray’s just not my color!”

  Molly sniffed. “Speak for yourself. I look fabulous in gray.”

  “You’re deluded, sister.”

  Laughing, they descended the staircase, only to bump into Oliver on the way out. The look he gave Clarissa was downright cold, though Isobel didn’t miss the way his blue eyes flared at the snug cut of Clarissa’s clothing. He might pretend he didn’t want her, but his gaze gave his inner desires away.

  Isobel grinned. “Don’t mind us, we’re off to find a husband for Clarissa.”

  Oliver opened his mouth, thought better of it, and then closed it, turning on his heel and striding away without a word. But from the rigid set of his shoulders, it was clear that he was furious. Good. Isobel ground her jaw. She’d had outside of enough with broody Vance men. A brisk outing would do her and Clarissa good.

  “Won’t Oliver be angry we’re taking his barouche?” she whispered as Randolph brought the conveyance around the front and the twins piled in.

  Clarissa’s grin was wicked. “Isn’t that the whole point?”

  Isobel grinned, her friend’s mischievous mood contagious. However, as they rode into the park, she found herself to be the subject of considerable attention and fevered conversation. Fans lifted and heads bowed. It was curious…and unsettling.

  “Something is wrong,” Isobel whispered to Clarissa who nodded, her brow furrowed.

  “Why’s everyone looking at us?” Molly asked.

  “And whispering?” Violet added, scowling.

  Clarissa frowned. “I will get to the bottom of this.”

  Isobel watched in silence as she directed Randolph to steer the carriage ov
er to a nearby throng of people, where she descended and spoke to them for several minutes, and then hurried back over with a handful of crumpled newssheets in hand. Isobel felt her insides tighten with dread as her friend climbed back into the barouche and shared them with the twins. Isobel bit her lip, watching them. Anything in there couldn’t be good, not with the pitying look on Violet’s and Molly’s faces. Isobel had enough experience with the gossip rags to know.

  “Izzy—”

  “Just hand it over,” Isobel said, reaching out a gloved hand.

  Violet passed them over with great reluctance, and Isobel drew in a clipped breath. What could be worse than her husband fighting a duel over an opera singer? She smoothed out the crinkled paper, the dark ink smudging. The first thing to jump out at her was the headline.

  FORSAKEN ITALIAN HEIRESS TELLS ALL

  And then her stomach turned as she took in the rest. It was worse than she had ever imagined, each word like lead ballast to the chest. Not only was Lady Vittorina claiming that Winter had left her brokenhearted after promising to marry her, but she was also saying that he’d left her and their child destitute and alone years ago to come back to England out of duty for a forced marriage to one Lady Isobel Everleigh. The newssheets painted her as the villain and Winter as the consummate womanizer.

  “Isobel, you know that they print untruths,” Molly said.

  Violet reached for her hand. “They’re full of lies.”

  White spots danced in front of Isobel’s eyes as her fingers fisted in the sheets. Oh, dear God, she was going to be ill. Right in front of everyone watching…with their condemning, scornful gazes. It didn’t matter if any of it was true—the ton thrived on gossip and this was just the kind of juicy morsel they enjoyed. Relished.

  “Isobel!” Clarissa said, sounding as though she’d been calling her name for some time. “What do you want me to do?”

  She focused on her friend’s face, licking dry lips, her heart in pieces. “Get me home, Clarissa.”