The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  She. Loved. Him.

  Winter’s mind spun with unmitigated joy, but then slowed as he rejected the admission in the same breath. She shouldn’t love him. No, she was simply overcome by emotion, just as he’d been earlier. It happened to the best of men.

  “That doesn’t excuse the risks you’ve taken, Isobel. I won’t allow you to put yourself in harm’s way. I forbid you—”

  Her eyes flashed with injury, but she ducked her head swiftly. “To what? Leave my bedchamber? Cross the street? Ride in a carriage? Being female does not make me weak. I made the decision to follow you with my own capable brain. I took measures against possible harm, in my disguise and my weapons.”

  “A man should protect his wife.”

  Her chin lifted in defiance. “And should a wife not do the same for her husband?”

  He gave a reluctant chuckle. She was the sort of woman who wouldn’t need any man to fight a duel for her—she’d do that on her own. Or defend him, as the situation warranted. He’d never seen anything more magnificent as the proud, fierce look on her face when she’d punched Vittorina.

  I’m not spineless, she’d said.

  No, his brilliant, reckless, headstrong, stubborn wife certainly was not.

  Their heated stand-off was interrupted by the arrival of several coaches in the adjacent square. Isobel bolted from the alley just as Clarissa descended one of the carriages. Oliver was close behind her, wearing the most aggravated look on his face. A slew of Runners followed on horseback, as men led by Matteo and Westmore from the other carriages rushed forward to round up the fallen footpads and take them into custody.

  “Oh, good God, Izzy,” Clarissa cried, seeing her. “You’re covered in blood! Are you hurt?”

  “No,” Isobel said, protesting with a groan as her friend threw her arms around her and dragged her into a suffocating embrace. “Not my blood. Someone else’s.”

  Winter blinked, his eyes tracking the spots of scarlet on Isobel’s tattered coat. He hadn’t even checked to see if she’d been hurt. Instead, he’d mauled her like a slavering dog. Self-disgust lanced through him.

  “Lord Roth,” the head officer said, “should we restrain the lady as well?”

  Winter’s gaze went to Vittorina, who was cursing a blue streak, where she was being detained beside Cain. “Get your damned hands off of me! Don’t you know who I am? I’m a lady, and I’ll see you all whipped for your insolence.”

  “Yes, but not with the others. She will be returned to her father in Rome.”

  Her eyes grew huge. “No! Do you know what he will do to me? Please, don’t send me back, I beg of you. I’ll do anything.”

  He had an inkling of what her father would do, given that the man had threatened it in the past when confronted with the behavior of his unruly, unrepentant daughter. Vittorina’s future had a nunnery in it. “You made your bed, now it’s time for you to enjoy the spoils.”

  “You’re a bastard, Roth.”

  “My father would disagree.”

  His gaze met his brother’s, his sorrow and guilt overwhelming. “I’m so sorry,” Oliver said. “It’s all my fault. Cain pretended to be a friend, a peer who had fallen on hard times. I knew who his fiancée was to you. I wanted…I suppose I wanted to wound you…” He trailed off helplessly. “But I had no idea who Beaumont was or his previous connection to Isobel until Clarissa explained it to me on the way here. She gave me an earful.”

  “It’s done now,” Winter said. “Forgotten. Forgiven.”

  His brother’s damp eyes met his. “Just like that?”

  “Yes.” Winter clapped him on the shoulder, wincing at the pain that lanced across his ribs.

  “Why?” Oliver whispered.

  He pulled him into an embrace. “Because that’s what brothers do.”

  A furious shout and ensuing commotion had them both spinning as Edmund Cain burst free from the man securing him and reached for the pistol sheathed in its holster on the Runner’s belt. His eyes were wild as he waved the weapon and backed away. Knowing he was cornered as several of the Runners responded in kind with their own guns, he pointed it in Winter’s direction.

  Suddenly, with a manic howl, he shifted his aim, directing the muzzle at Isobel, and Winter’s heart shriveled in his chest. “Shoot me, and she dies, too,” he bellowed.

  “Put down the gun, Cain,” the Duke of Westmore said. “Even if you get the shot off, we both know what will happen.”

  He blanched, but curled his lips in a sneer. “I’d rather die than rot in prison, and I’ll take her with me.” The gun wavered, Cain’s crazed stare colliding with Winter’s. “She’s mine!”

  “Don’t try it!” Westmore warned at the same time that the hammer cocked, but it was too late.

  The blast of a discharged weapon filled the air as a wild-eyed Winter lunged in front of Isobel, his single focus her safety, but instead of a lead ball lodging into his chest, the only impact he felt was the muscled force of Oliver’s body crashing into his and shoving him out of danger. Pain hammered Winter’s skull, a spray of something warm splashing into his face.

  “Winter!” he heard someone scream. “Oh God, he’s been shot!”

  His chest compressed as the breath was crushed from him as his vision went dark. Fuck, was he dying?

  “No, no,” someone else cried. “It’s not him. It’s Lord Oliver.”

  His senses returned to make out Oliver’s groan from above him. The pounding pain in his skull wasn’t from a gunshot…his head had smashed into the packed gravel when his brother crashed into him, taking the bullet that had been meant for Isobel. The one that Winter had meant to take.

  Westmore bent over the two of them. “Bullet went clean through. Roth, that’s a nasty gash. Good news, though, you’ll both survive.”

  “That seemed rather more heroic in my mind,” Oliver muttered with a pained wince. “Getting shot bloody hurts.”

  A weak chuckle slipped from Winter. “You saved Isobel and me.”

  Oliver nodded, his blue eyes filled with emotion. “Brothers.”

  “Oh God, Olly,” Clarissa wept, descending in a flurry of skirts to pull Oliver in her lap, mindless of his yelp of pain.

  Winter blinked. Olly?

  Isobel crouched beside Winter, her face mixed with worry and relief, her lips twitching at the question in his eyes.

  “Don’t ask,” she murmured. “They’ve been at it for weeks. How’s your head?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “What were you thinking, you daft man?” Clarissa was chiding, tears running down her cheeks. “A few inches over and you could have died. Heavens, you infuriating fool, I’m going to murder you with my bare hands when this is all over.”

  “Let me stop him from bleeding out first.” Westmore crouched down, a strip of linen in hand as he wrapped a makeshift tourniquet around Oliver’s shoulder to staunch the flow.

  “That hurts,” Oliver moaned.

  “Harden up.” Westmore grinned. “Trust me, the ladies will love it.”

  Winter saw Clarissa’s elbow aiming for Westmore’s jaw right before he passed out.

  …

  Ensconced in the quiet of the carriage while the head of the Runners spoke with Winter, who had awakened and insisted he was fine, Isobel watched as Clarissa ran her fingers through Oliver’s hair for the dozenth time. He was sitting half slumped into her lap on the seat opposite, his eyes closed.

  “Will he be all right?” Clarissa asked worriedly.

  “Westmore has some field experience with bullet wounds, I think,” Isobel replied. “I can’t believe you elbowed him.”

  “He deserved it.”

  Isobel pushed a smile to her lips, attempting to lighten the air and her friend’s tense expression. “Speaking of stories, who would have thought Oliver, of all people, the dashing hero? Think of the fodder w
e have for Lady Darcy.”

  “How can you joke at a time like this?” Clarissa cried. “Who cares about Lady Darcy? Oliver’s been shot, Roth cracked in the head, and you…don’t even get me started on the kind of danger you put yourself in with no care for your own safety. Goodness, my poor heart is a bloody wreck! It’s a miracle I haven’t collapsed from sheer anxiety.”

  Isobel bit back her smile at Clarissa’s dramatics. “Good thing your brothers taught me how to defend myself. Turns out they were right—a sturdy knee to the ballocks can fell even the largest of ne’er-do-wells.”

  Clarissa’s eyes widened. “You did what?”

  “Fed the former earl a taste of his own jewels,” she replied with a laugh. “Thanks to Lady Darcy’s Ballock-Busting, A Handy Guide for Ladies.”

  “Practical application is always excellent.” Clarissa’s lips twitched. “Good to know such advice works in the moment.”

  They shared a laugh, and Isobel rolled her eyes. “Good, I say. The patriarchy needs a bit of shaking up and who better to do it than us?”

  “Being Lady Darcy does have its advantages.”

  Oliver shifted in his seat, his eyes flicking open. A pair of glassy blue eyes focused on Isobel and then on Clarissa. “Was I hallucinating or did I just hear you say you were Lady Darcy?”

  Caught like a rabbit in a snare, Clarissa went scarlet. “You’re delirious with fever, dear.”

  “Just tell him,” Isobel said. “Or he’ll keep asking questions and we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “One half of Lady Darcy,” Clarissa grudgingly said. “The other half is sitting on the seat opposite. Surprised?”

  Oliver made a noise that sounded like a reluctant laugh, a rare smile curving his stern lips. “On the contrary, impressed.”

  “Now I know you’ve been badly injured,” Clarissa said with a grin.

  “Rabble-rousers, the two of you,” he murmured. Then he promptly closed his eyes and fell back asleep. A tear leaked from the corner of Clarissa’s eyes, her fingers feathering down Oliver’s cheek and cradling his head.

  “So, it’s him then?” Isobel asked, noting the tender way she stared at him.

  Clarissa gave a small nod. “We’ll probably be at each other’s throats within the week.” She let out a happy sigh. “He’s not so bad most days. Then again, I’m not so perfect, either. We make quite the pair, don’t we…the vicar and the vixen.” She giggled. “All I want to do is lead him astray and all he wants to do is keep me in line.”

  “Sounds like a match to me.”

  “What about you and Roth?” Clarissa asked. “The beauty awakened from her long slumber by her forever prince? I thought you looked cozy for a moment. Well, apart from all the bloodshed.” She shot her a side glance and lowered her voice. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you slinking out from that alley with whisker burns on your cheeks.”

  Isobel bit her lip, her body remembering the paces Winter had put her through in a matter of minutes. He had taken her hard and fast, and she’d loved every second of it. Loved the way his body had bracketed hers, loved the way he’d felt inside of her, loved how unhinged he’d been, as though he could barely control himself. Then again, attraction had never been an issue for them. No, it was anything beyond that…like love.

  “He won’t ever love me.”

  Clarissa frowned. “What do you mean he won’t?”

  “He’s incapable of it.”

  Heart suddenly aching, Isobel stared out the small coach window to where her husband stood in conversation with the head officer. Even at a distance, hair askew with blood and grime crusting his face, he took her breath away. There was something so raw and powerful about him. Despite being surrounded by squalor and filth, he gleamed.

  Isobel knew he had buried his heart because he felt that was what he deserved, but he didn’t see himself the way she did. He was a better man than what he gave himself credit for. She’d hoped to be the one to help him find happiness, but Winter didn’t want that with her. She’d told him she loved him and he hadn’t even acknowledged it in kind. His reply had been more than clear: That doesn’t excuse the risks you’ve taken, Isobel.

  Not, I love you, too, Isobel.

  Because he didn’t. Their marriage had begun with unrequited love, and that was all she still had…unreturned, one-sided feeling.

  Isobel bit her lip, forcing back the tears that stung her eyelids. There was nothing for her here. She would go back to Chelmsford and be content with the life she had. There were many things to be grateful for—Clarissa, the twins, Kendrick, her sister, her niece, the breath in her lungs, the simple pleasures she enjoyed, Hellion… Life would go on, with or without Winter Vance.

  “What will you do?” Clarissa asked.

  “Go home,” Isobel said. “Perhaps help with Roth’s charitable endeavors, if he allows it. Try to be content.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Clarissa. From the start, I was too enamored and infatuated to see this for what it was…a marriage of practicality. I yearned for the fairy tale that my sister had, but Winter’s not my prince. He’s just a man and I’m a girl with impossible expectations.” She gritted her teeth, burying the pain and the need and the anguish that welled inside of her. “I’m going to go back to Chelmsford where I belong.”

  Oliver let out a moan, his eyes flickering. “Belong with…him.”

  “See?” Clarissa said, her own tears flowing freely. “Even the comatose man without a romantic bone in his body thinks you and Roth belong together.”

  Isobel barked a hollow laugh. “He’s incoherent from a gunshot wound.”

  “I think you’re making a mistake, Izzy. I think you should stay and fight for what you want. Fight for your marriage…and for what you both deserve.”

  What she deserved. Isobel didn’t even know what that was anymore. She’d thought it was Winter, but how could a woman live with a man who could never love her? A man whose heart, if he even had one, was enclosed in layers and layers of impenetrable stone? Loving a man who didn’t want to be loved was an uphill battle with only one outcome—perpetual disappointment.

  “I’m tired of fighting, Clarissa,” Isobel said. “I’m tired of losing.”

  She’d already lost her heart. She couldn’t afford to lose everything else.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Love is like lemonade, Dearest Friend. It’s bloody hard work, but the lemons are worth the squeeze.

  – Lady Darcy

  “I need out of this bed,” Winter groused. “Out of this damned house.”

  “Soon, my lord,” Matteo soothed, plumping the pillows behind Winter’s head like a mother hen and bustling around the room.

  It’d been nearly a week of forced rest after he’d fallen unconscious again upon return to 15 Audley Street. Westmore had called for the doctor, who checked his pulse, pupils, and reflexes, and diagnosed a minor head injury, prescribing laudanum and rest. Winter had endured the rest but refused the laudanum. Five days later, his head ached, but he felt better. Despite the healing contusion on his skull, Winter wasn’t in that bad of shape.

  And for God’s sake, he’d had enough of Matteo’s smothering.

  The last time Winter had tried to get out of bed, a day ago, Matteo had enlisted the assistance of Ludlow, who took obscene pleasure in throwing his considerable weight around, despite growled threats of being turned out on his arse. Winter’s entire household had decided to mutiny, it seemed. Even Westmore, who took it upon himself to visit every day, guffawed each time Winter expressed his displeasure.

  “You need your rest, sweet cheeks,” the duke had said, nonchalantly chewing on an apple and looking windblown and ruddy as though he’d just come in from a glorious ride. Winter knew he’d done it on purpose to needle him. “Dr. Barnes’s orders, you know.”

  Winter had scowled. “I didn’t
need to rest that time Matteo rescued us from an angry mob in Venice, and I sustained three cracked ribs and a broken nose trying to save your arse.”

  “A cracked skull is slightly different,” an eavesdropping Matteo had put in. He’d eyed Winter, who’d put one leg over the side of the mattress. “Don’t make me get Ludlow!”

  A grudging Winter had replaced his leg.

  Ludlow, Matteo, Westmore, and the lot of them would pay when he was fully mended. It chafed that Isobel hadn’t visited. Matteo as well as Westmore had been surprisingly close-lipped about his wife, other than to say she was recovering. However, he needed to see her for himself.

  He’d sent countless messages to Vance House, but had received none in return. Oliver had also come by the day before, his shoulder bandaged and healing, though he’d been suspiciously unforthcoming as well, only to say that he was sure that Isobel was doing well, but he’d been busy of late with managing the duke’s estates. And no, Isobel hadn’t sent any messages for him.

  Upon reflection, Winter frowned. Everyone’s responses seemed far too similar and much too carefully guarded. He sat up and swung his legs over the bed. Two days before he’d risen to use the chamber pot and to have a bath and the effort had exhausted him. He felt much better now, and besides, he had a purpose. Isobel. There had to be a reason why she hadn’t been to see him.

  Iz like the verb.

  He almost laughed out loud. Winter still couldn’t reconcile the fact that she’d been disguised as a stable boy all along and he hadn’t recognized her, but little things kept coming back to him at random moments. Like Isobel herself…when he’d noticed that she had smelled like honeysuckle one afternoon in the yard and he’d remarked upon it. The saucy tart had deflected it with a careless her perfume makes my nose itch.

  Chuckling, Winter slid a pair of trousers on and found a clean shirt. He let out a breath as he tucked in his shirt tails and fastened the falls. Not bothering with a waistcoat or cravat, he shrugged into a nearby coat and found his boots. When he was done, he glanced at himself in the nearby mirror and winced. His gray eyes were bloodshot and a lovely purple bruise that was turning yellow flowered down one side of his temple. A few days’ growth of dark beard covered his cheeks. He grinned. Add in a gold earring and he’d look like a pirate who’d gotten on the wrong side of the law.