The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  “Matteo!”

  Several minutes later, the man waltzed in, a banyan flowing in his wake, and scrutinized his charge with narrowed eyes. “Going somewhere, my lord?”

  “Yes, I need to see my wife. Have Ludlow summon the carriage.”

  If he didn’t know Matteo so well, he would have missed the infinitesimal furrow of his broad forehead, but he didn’t. His suspicions heightened. “You’re still not fully recovered, my lord, to venture out. I must—”

  “It’s been days,” Winter cut in. “As accommodating as I’ve been to the doctor’s draconian demands, I haven’t lost my ability to function. And unless you have something more to say, help me look presentable. I need to see her.”

  Matteo hesitated. “You cannot, my lord.”

  “Try to stop me. I’ll plow through you, Ludlow, and anyone else.”

  “You cannot because she’s not in London.”

  It took a moment for Winter to register the full measure of what he’d said. “Where is she?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “When did she leave?” he asked.

  Matteo canted his head. “The day after the attack.”

  “So you’ve all been lying to me?” he shouted, his fingers curling in powerless rage. He wanted to rail and yell and pummel something—preferably all his so-called mates—but his body probably would not cooperate.

  “The doctor said it was for the best, my lord,” Matteo said. “And it wasn’t precisely a lie. She is resting, only not in London. I’m sorry I could not tell you.”

  Winter closed his eyes, irritation tightening his belly. Of all the bloody nerve. Not only had they sequestered him against his wishes, they’d all been in cahoots to keep him in the dark. And now Isobel was gone. She’d run from him because he’d been too blockheaded to tell her he loved her back.

  “Lord Roth,” Ludlow said from the doorway. “His Grace, the Duke of Kendrick.”

  Winter gave the butler such a look of fulminating fury that the man visibly paled and rocked back, his eyes widening before he gulped and backed away. Winter waited until his father came into the room before turning the force of his anger on him. Because God knew, he’d been part of the deception, too. He opened his mouth, but his father lifted a hand, dismissing Matteo with a nod.

  “Before you say something you regret, Son, I gave the order for you not to be told,” the duke said. He lifted his hand again as Winter’s mouth opened to argue. “Not only was it to allow you the recuperation you needed, but it was also a particular request of your wife.”

  Winter blinked, his protest forgotten. Isobel had asked for them not to tell him?

  “Why?” he asked hoarsely.

  “I imagine that’s for her to share when she’s ready,” Kendrick said.

  He swallowed hard. “Where is she?”

  “Kendrick Abbey.”

  Winter felt his chest squeeze, the withered organ inside batting fiercely. Fuck. When had he lost the very heart he claimed not to have? He’d repeatedly ordered her to go back, to return to where she belonged, and she had. It was what he’d wanted…what he’d thought he wanted, and now that she was gone, he wanted to beg her to return. The only place she belonged was in his arms.

  “She left me,” he murmured. “I pushed her away because I don’t deserve her.”

  A long moment passed before the duke cleared his throat. “I loved your mother, but her designation of love differed greatly from mine. In the world of the ton, love doesn’t have much value, yet it is the most valuable thing we can hope to experience. And it’s worth fighting for.”

  “I—”

  “Let me finish,” his father said. “I know the duchess turned to you with her troubles—a burden that no young boy should have to bear. But you need to know the truth. She used my love, and yours, to serve her interests. Prudence got the worst of it.” Winter exhaled at the mention of his sister’s name. “She knew how much you adored that girl, as I did. Like Oliver, Prudence wasn’t mine in blood, but she was mine in every other way.”

  The confession stunned Winter. Oliver’s parentage had been a shock, but Prue? He’d never suspected, though once more, hindsight was perfectly clear. It’d been in the way his mother had treated both Oliver and Prue—in her reverence toward Winter and her subtle disdain toward the other two. She’d been exacting on Prue, forcing her to play the pianoforte until her nails broke and fingers bled. Forcing her to be perfect. His sister had been treated as though she wasn’t good enough, because in their mother’s mind, she wasn’t.

  “I should have seen it,” he muttered. “Done something.”

  “I overheard Prudence once telling her maid that she could never measure up—she wasn’t beautiful enough, clever enough, talented enough. And that she was done because she’d found out the truth, discovered your mother’s infidelity and her lies, and nothing would ever change who she was.” A harsh sound ripped from his father’s chest. “I couldn’t save her, tell her she was loved and so wanted. I failed her.”

  “We both did,” Winter said hoarsely.

  His mother especially. He wouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he knew that he had to let go of the darkness that he’d kept clamped around his heart. The past, though not what he’d thought it to be, was in the past. He could only look forward. Start afresh.

  “Isobel reminded me so much of her. Nothing will ever replace Prudence in my heart, but she brought so much light back to Kendrick Abbey. I couldn’t let you throw away one of the better things in your life, even if you think you don’t deserve it.” Kendrick’s eyes shone with something that looked suspiciously like pride. “And don’t think I don’t know about your shelter and the good you’ve done. I’m proud of you, Son.”

  His chest clogged with emotion, Winter embraced his father, feeling suddenly as if all the pieces of his life were falling into place. All except for one…the one that would make him complete.

  “I fucked up,” he murmured. “She told me she loved me, and I didn’t know what to say.”

  Kendrick nodded. “That girl has loved you from the start, Winter, and I knew you weren’t as inured to her as you pretended to be, even when you left her on my doorstep three years ago. You had to get out of your own way first.”

  “What do I do?” he asked.

  His ever-proper father gave him a look that bordered on exasperation. “You bloody well go and get her, Son.”

  …

  Isobel sat on her favorite hill, looking out at the scenic undulating hills of Kendrick Abbey. Tenant farms dotted the horizon at wide intervals, the lush landscape and verdant fields stretching between them as far as the eye could see, her favorite lake twinkling in the distance. Usually the view brought her peace, stunned her with its breathtaking beauty. But today, like all the days she’d ridden out before, her chest felt raw and her heart heavy.

  Everything hurt. Everything ached.

  She plucked at a piece of thistle on her breeches. It seemed like she’d come full circle. This was the exact spot she’d come to when she’d found out about Winter’s opera singer…when she’d read and screamed about every previous one of his exploits. Now, however, she knew better. He was a man who helped the helpless, who gave hope to those who had none. Who hid all his goodness and all his light behind a rakish reputation. He was as wild as the season he was named after, her Winter, but he was beautiful all the same.

  No, not hers.

  A sob broke from her lips and Isobel put a hand up to her mouth to stifle any that might follow. She’d spent every night drowning in a sea of tears, crying for something that would never be. It was a dangerous thing to love the possibility of a man versus who he truly was. But if only he could see himself the way she saw him.

  Isobel’s heart clenched painfully, wrenching a groan from deep behind her ribs. When was it going to hurt less? Would it ever? People said time healed all
wounds, but she couldn’t fathom what she felt ever lessening in intensity. More fool her. She’d tried to guard her heart, but she couldn’t guard something that had already been given away. It would always be his.

  “Fuck,” she screamed. And then let out a laugh. She missed his filthy mouth, too. His complete lack of propriety, his inexorable amusement, his raw earthiness. Him.

  “Get over it, Isobel,” she said out loud. “You’re not the only woman to face heartbreak. You’ll survive.”

  Maybe she might not have the same happy-ever-after that her sister Astrid had gotten with the Duke of Beswick, but that didn’t mean Isobel couldn’t have her own version of happiness. Hers would just have to include an absentee marquess. Maybe one day he’d become the man she knew he was.

  As Isobel stared out at the bucolic countryside, her heart seemed to settle as if its master had come to some momentous decision. She would be happy.

  “What would Lady Darcy do?” she murmured.

  Lady Darcy would prevail. She would love fiercely and wholly, even if there was a risk of loss or the promise of pain because love was always worth it.

  Isobel watched the sun descend behind the hills, turning the landscape into a spectacular medley of oranges, golds, and reds. The natural beauty took her breath away. As much as she’d enjoyed the excitement of London, nothing could beat a perfect country sunset. She inhaled deeply, smelling the faint scent of wild roses and freshly turned soil on the light breeze.

  Hellion wandered over and knickered softly, as if reminding her mistress that it was time to ride back before it got too dark. That, and she was probably hungry.

  “I hear you, girl,” Isobel said, tucking her loose braid up into the confines of her cap. She patted the mare’s glossy neck as the horse gently nuzzled her. Isobel wondered if the mare sensed her sadness. She wouldn’t put it past Hellion—the horse was smarter than most. She stroked her velvety nose, staring into her intelligent brown eyes. “At least, I’ll always have you.”

  A thundering of hooves in the distance reached her ears. Isobel squinted into the dying flares of the sunset. A groom on a black horse galloped up the hill from the stables. Randolph or Mrs. Butterfield must have gotten worried and sent someone out to find her.

  She checked Hellion’s cinches, tightening the straps and making sure everything was in place before turning to reassure whichever groom they’d sent that she was fine and well.

  But when she looked up, her breath stuck in her throat at the sight of one windblown and utterly gorgeous Marquess of Roth. A smile curved his generous lips, those gray eyes gleaming like pieces of silver as he dismounted. It was all Isobel could do to keep her legs locked in place.

  She blinked, half expecting that she’d conjured him with her thoughts, but no, when she raised her lashes, he was still standing there. So tall and proud and astonishingly handsome that her anguished heart stuttered.

  Her eyes tracked over his fading injuries. The wound at his temple was still a motley of colors, though it was fading. He looked fit and healthy. Why was he here? Why had he come? She opened her mouth to ask but he beat her to it.

  “Why, Master Iz. You’re just the person I was looking for.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Pleasure in the bedchamber isn’t the answer to a good marriage, but it is the answer to a mutually satisfying one.

  – Lady Darcy

  Christ, his wife had never looked more beautiful. Dressed in the finest of gowns or a pair of worn breeches or nothing at all, she was easily the most stunning thing Winter had ever seen. And right now, she glowed, limned in the fading light of the sunset, like the earthly angel she was. He wanted to drop to his knees and revere her as she deserved. Beg her forgiveness for being such a stubborn jackass. Lay himself bare before her and take whatever she chose to give.

  “What are you doing here?” Isobel stammered, pulling the cap from her head, her cheeks going an endearing shade of pink.

  “I told you,” he said with a pointed stare to her breeches. “Looking for Iz.”

  Something like fire flickered in her pale eyes for a scant second, her chin lifting. “You found me. What do you want?”

  “I’d like him to get an urgent message to his mistress. That I, Winter Ridley Valiant Vance, would like to—”

  “Wait, Valiant is your middle name?” she interrupted.

  He gave a shrug. “No, but I thought it would win me some points of partiality.”

  “That’s not how middle names work,” she said in a prim voice, but he could see that she was fighting a smile.

  “Nicknames, then?”

  “We shall see, though vainglorious comes to mind as a more suitable choice,” she said and waved an arm. “Carry on, Lord Valiant. Iz has duties to attend to.”

  Winter bit back his own smile. God, he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless, but he knew that he had to make amends for the hurt he’d caused. Words had the power to build and demolish, and he needed to use his to fix what he’d so stupidly destroyed.

  “I would like to beg Lady Roth’s forgiveness for being an utter ass, and since you are someone she trusts implicitly, what can I do to win back her love?”

  Isobel blinked, her breath exhaling in a rush. “You wish to win her love?”

  “Yes.” He gave a wry smile. “Though I expect I look a fright at the moment with my unsightly injuries. She might find me too hideous to look upon.”

  “That must have been quite a blow to your ego,” she replied. “And to your many toad-eaters.”

  He shot her a wounded look. “There’s only one person’s opinion that matters to me, and that is my wife’s. Between you and me, she’s my favorite toadie. I’ve missed her terribly.”

  “Have you?” she whispered.

  “Inconsolably.”

  Her slender throat worked, her teeth sinking into that lower lip. “Do you love her then?”

  Winter stared at the woman he adored more than life itself, drinking in the beautiful lines of her face—those piercing wintry eyes, the barely there golden freckles spattered across that pert nose, her full, pink lips begging to be kissed.

  He thought of her generous heart, her easily given compassion, her loyalty, her fearlessness, and her passion. The way she constantly surprised him, kept him on his toes, made him think, made him feel. She was his light, his life, his everything.

  “With all my wasted heart,” he replied softly.

  “Good,” she said, her voice wobbling and a tear leaking from the corner of her eye. “I shall pass on the message. Though I expect that she will be amenable to your sentiments, but only after copious amounts of groveling.”

  “Naturally.” Heart swelling behind his ribs, Winter laughed and closed the distance between them. “May I kiss you now, Lady Roth?”

  “Please.”

  She met him halfway, her mouth fusing with his, her body lining up in exquisite symmetry, her soft to his hard, and Winter felt as though he’d come home. Her delicious lips parted and she licked at him eagerly, demanding entry. He gave it, kissing her back with helpless hunger, his tongue tasting hers and wanting more.

  “God, I’ve missed you,” he groaned against her lips. “Why didn’t you stay?”

  “You told me to leave,” she said. “Repeatedly.”

  “I was a prize jackanapes.”

  “Yes, you were. That was my nickname for you when you left me here.”

  “I must have deserved it.”

  Smiling, she pressed up against him until there was not a sliver of space between them. Her hands wandered down his back and slid beneath his coat before dipping to cup his backside. Desire drilled through him, hot and relentless, and he could feel his impossibly hard cock grinding into her abdomen. He wanted to pull away, but she wouldn’t let him, holding him tight. “But you’re here now, and that’s all that matters. I’
m certain you can think of ways to make it up to me.”

  He arched a brow. “Here?”

  “No one comes out here, except for me.” She grinned and unfastened the buttons of his coat, sliding it off his shoulders. “And Clarissa and the twins, but I expect that they already know what would happen if they sent you to find me.”

  Inexplicably, Winter felt heat climb up his neck. Did the entire estate suspect that he was about to ravage his wife? Did he even care? It was early evening, the sky shifting from blue to shades of red and orange as the sun began its descent. She certainly didn’t seem to mind that they were outside.

  Carefully spreading his coat onto the grass, he rose once more, standing in front of his magnificent wife. His breath quivered in his lungs—he hadn’t felt nerves like these since he was a boy. “Are you certain you don’t wish to return to the manse?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Her grin was wicked, though her cheeks bloomed scarlet. “I’ve been thoroughly corrupted by an unapologetic rake, it seems.”

  “Have you, Lady Roth?” he ground out as her nimble fingers made quick work of his waistcoat and untying his cravat. He pulled his shirt over his head and stood there as she stared at him, her jaw going slack and eyes lighting in bold appreciation as they slid over his bare chest and abdomen. His muscles flexed, and her pink tongue darted out to lick her lips. “Like what you see?” he rasped.

  “Very much.” Her hands dropped to the waistband above his falls, her knuckles feathering over the iron-hard bulge of him. “Grovel and impress me.”

  This woman. She’d be the death of him. The most glorious, splendid death and he wouldn’t regret a second of it. “Sit, love, and enjoy the show.”

  Her eyes widened, but she did as asked, lowering her graceful body to the ground atop his coat. A smirk rode her lips when she kicked off her boots, stripped off her stockings, and shucked off her own riding jacket, the small acts making his own heart race.