The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  His sweet, innocent, demure wife was not as sheltered as she seemed.

  And that pleased him immensely.

  He rose, dragging on a robe, and met her at the small breakfast table near the window. It looked out upon Rothingham Gable’s lush gardens that even boasted an ornamental pond. A few white swans dotted its glassy surface, the late afternoon sun shimmering on the water.

  Isobel had fallen in love with it the moment they’d arrived, and Winter felt a stroke of guilt that he’d been remiss in not welcoming her here before. Rothingham Gable had been his sanctuary, and despite the vulgar rumors that surrounded the estate and a few parties that his friends enjoyed, it was his home.

  His beautiful marchioness poured him a cup of tea and refreshed her own, her movements both economical and elegant. Every move she made was full of grace…poetry in motion. He could watch her for hours. She sipped her tea and then bit into flaky bit of pastry. He stared, the sight of those lips and the glimpse of her even, white teeth mesmerizing. God, even the innocent act of her eating aroused him.

  “You’re staring, Lord Roth,” she said over the croissant.

  “Can you blame me? I’ve been ensorcelled by my nymph of a wife.” He accepted the proffered cup and sipped his tea. “So, about Lady Darcy.”

  She glanced at him over the gold-edged rim of her cup. “What about her?”

  “You’ve mentioned that you learned quite a bit from her.”

  She smiled. “I have.”

  “And I approve.” He smirked. “Heartily as it were.”

  Isobel set her cup down, an odd expression of discomfort crossing her face. She rolled her lips between her teeth and cleared her throat. “I have something to confess.”

  “You’re keeping secrets from your husband, Lady Roth?”

  “A few,” she muttered.

  His eyebrows rose at that, but he waved a hand for her to continue, despite the pinch of worry in his gut. Whatever secrets she had, she was entitled to them, given his part in leaving her alone for so long.

  “I’m Lady Darcy,” she said.

  He blinked and nearly spit out his mouthful of tea. That was not what he’d been expecting. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, half of her. Clarissa is the other half.”

  Winter shook his head. What in the ever-loving hell? “Are you pulling my leg, minx?”

  “I wish I was.”

  And then the rest of the story spilled out of her—how she and Clarissa had met, the start of the correspondence, the interest from her sister Astrid’s publisher, the anonymous publication to protect their reputations, and their cosmic rise to success. Winter’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t countenance a word of it. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed plausible. Isobel’s wit and intelligence were present on every page. Clarissa’s as well. His own cheeks warmed as he thought of several particularly irreverent pieces on carnal pleasure.

  Good God, his wife’s mind was just about as debauched as his.

  Dazed, he exhaled and reached for his forgotten tea. “What’s the next confession?” he mumbled. Mentally, he prepared himself, though nothing could be more shocking than what he’d just learned.

  “I think I’m with child.”

  This time, the unfortunate mouthful of tea shot across the table and splashed onto the windowsill. Wiping his mouth, Winter blinked at her, the uncertain, tremulous expression on her face driving him to his knees as he crept over to where she sat, his large hands spanning her flat silk-clad waist in wonder. “Truly?”

  “I was due to have my courses when we first arrived here, and well, we’ve been so busy, I hadn’t noticed I’d missed them,” she said, her hands falling to his shoulders. “I think it happened when you came to collect me at Kendrick Abbey. Are you upset?”

  Upset? Winter’s heart was beating so hard, it was about to burst through the narrow confines of his chest and throw its devoted self at her feet. His smile was so wide, it felt as if it might split his face into two. “I am the luckiest man on earth.”

  “I’m so glad,” she burst out, flinging her arms around his neck.

  Her lips found his and it was some time before they spoke again. By the time they broke apart, Isobel had joined him on the plush carpet, both their robes had been discarded, and they were both panting from mutually enthusiastic exertion.

  “Not that I wish to give myself premature heart failure,” Winter said, propping to one elbow. “But are there any more secrets I need to be aware of?”

  “Just one more.” Her fingers trailed down his damp chest. “That old wishing well of yours works.”

  “How so?”

  “Because you were right. It did know my deepest thoughts and desires, even before I knew them myself. It gave me everything I asked for—it gave me you.” Her beautiful eyes met his as her mouth curled into a mischievous smile. “I love you to the stars and back, Winter Ridley Valiant Vance.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Living happily ever after is not a fairy tale. The point is to live.

  – Lady Darcy

  If happiness could be measured in tender looks and kisses, Isobel would be the richest woman in the world. They hadn’t tapered in the least, not when she and Winter finally descended from their love nest, not in the carriage on the way to Kendrick Abbey, and not through most of the dinner the duke had hosted in their honor.

  Isobel was about ready to melt in her chair from the intense, scorching looks Winter had been sending her all evening. She hadn’t been joking when she’d teased him about being insatiable. Not that she was complaining…though it made things highly uncomfortable when all she wanted was to climb onto the lace tablecloth and offer herself up as a dinner course. As it was, her body was dreadfully damp and the scoundrel knew it.

  Kendrick stood and cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s eyes. “I know that it’s proper for the men to retire to the library for a cigar and a brandy while the women withdraw to the salon, but if it pleases you all, I’d rather keep my family and friends close to me for as long as possible.”

  Mouths practically dropped open in unison. The Duke of Kendrick breaking propriety was a momentous thing.

  He laughed, a deep belly laugh that made Isobel feel light. “Come now, it’s not as though I suggested mounting a siege to rescue Napoleon.”

  “Close, though,” the Duke of Westmore muttered, and even Oliver nodded.

  “Brandy for everyone,” Kendrick said. “Or sherry if the ladies are so inclined.”

  “Cigars, too, Your Grace?” Clarissa piped up from where she sat. She and Isobel had once filched some of the duke’s finest to do research for Lady Darcy, and had nearly suffocated themselves in the process.

  “If you wish it, Clarissa,” the duke agreed benignly.

  Winter shot Isobel a bemused look as though he couldn’t quite recognize this relaxed version of Kendrick with the father he’d known. It was true—the man was different, even more so ever since he and his son had reconciled. This breach in decorum, clearly, was a consequence of his new philosophy…sometimes, some rules needed to be thrown out the window.

  Glasses were delivered, brandy and sherry poured, and cigars distributed. Isobel refused both, given her delicate condition, though she grinned to see that Violet was game enough to try. Molly, however, shook her head at her with no small amount of disgust. Oliver gave Clarissa a defeated look, knowing that nothing he could say would deter her. The two of them as a couple still made Isobel giggle, though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Oliver so happy. Clarissa, either. However, when they fought, the world knew it.

  “A toast,” the duke said, lifting his glass of brandy. “To my daughter, Prudence, who should have been here with us. She is dearly missed.”

  “To Prudence,” most everyone chorused, with the exception of Westmore, Isobel noted. After a moment, he
lifted his glass, his mouth shaping something that looked like Prue, and then he drank. Within moments, however, his face relaxed back to its casual mien.

  “I have an announcement,” Oliver said, shoving his seat back. His hairline was dampened and his face had gone the color of thinned milk. “Well, perhaps more of a question. A request, rather, that is if the lady is amenable and if she isn’t then, well, there won’t be an announcement. Oh, sod it, you twat,” he muttered to himself, and then dropped to one knee. “Miss Clarissa Bell, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? If you’ll have me?”

  There was dead silence before the table erupted in cheers, Winter banging his fist on the tabletop so hard that all the glasses shook. “Well done, mate!”

  “She hasn’t answered yet!” Violet said.

  Spluttering, Clarissa had gone as red as a tomato as she gaped in surprise at Oliver. “Couldn’t you have waited until I didn’t have a mouthful of smoke?”

  “It’s a filthy habit,” he said. “You deserve what you get.”

  She glared daggers at him. “Don’t judge me.”

  “You judge me for lots of things.”

  “That’s different.”

  Winter groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake, say yes, Clarissa. No one else can put up with either of you. Yours is a match made in purgatory.” Two lethal stares pinned him, but he only grinned and lifted his glass. “To the happy couple? Misery loves company?”

  “You’re an arse, brother,” Oliver muttered.

  Clarissa rolled her eyes. “Yes, my lord, I will marry you.”

  “Hear, hear!” Kendrick said.

  They all cheered and drank, Isobel sipping from her water goblet and nearly choking herself when Winter tapped on his glass with a spoon and stood. “I have an announcement as well.”

  Isobel felt her heart hammer against her ribs. She hoped her husband meant the fact that they were expecting a baby, not the tidbit that she and Clarissa were Lady Darcy, which was no one’s business at all and still a secret. Kendrick had been in an agreeable mood of late, but that didn’t mean he would take lightly to his daughter-in-law being the author of such a scandalous periodical.

  Catching Clarissa’s suddenly horrified gaze, she shook her head. “Winter—”

  “Isobel and I are expecting, and I couldn’t be happier,” he said and glanced at the duke. “You’re going to be a grandfather, Your Grace.”

  Relief mingled with love as she stared at her father-in-law’s incredulous expression. Then his blue eyes softened and he smiled with so much joy that it made her chest tighten. “Goodness,” he said in a choked voice and swiped at the corner of his eye before lifting his glass. “Wonderful news, my dears.”

  Westmore rose, his affable smirk firmly in place, making Isobel wonder whether she’d imagined his solemnity earlier with Prudence’s toast. “Well, congratulations everyone. Sadly, I’m off. Things to see, people to do, hearts to break, and all that.”

  “You’re leaving?” Winter asked.

  Westmore winked. “I’ll see you when I see you, my friend. Business doesn’t run itself in London, you know. Not all of us have wives to keep us abed every day of the week.”

  “You know, you could have a wife, if you wanted,” Winter said.

  “You can’t chain this kind of charm down.” He grinned and nodded briskly to Kendrick. “Your Grace.”

  There was laughter as Westmore left the room, before Winter leaped to his feet and followed his friend out.

  “Everything all right?” Isobel asked him when he returned a few moments later.

  He kissed her brow. “Yes, that’s Westmore for you, unpredictable at the best of times.”

  Dinner culminated soon after that, and she and Winter decided to take a walk through the fragrant gardens. They bade the others goodnight, the duke pulling them both into a remarkably affectionate embrace, and once more saying how delighted he was.

  By the time she and Winter had made it into the gardens, they were both in need of a walk. Lamps were lit at frequent intervals along the path. The evening air was fresh, with the barest hint of rain on the light breeze.

  “Kendrick is happy with the news,” Isobel said, squealing as Winter turned and spun her up into his arms.

  “Not as happy as I am, my love.”

  Her husband carried her over to a bench beneath a wide elm tree and sat down beside her. “Soon I will be too big to carry,” she said, smoothing a hand over her middle.

  “You’ll never be too much for me. You and any children we have.”

  She smiled. “Children?”

  “I want at least eight.”

  Isobel giggled and pulled a face. “For a man who didn’t want children, you’ve certainly changed your tune. Two.”

  “Six, if I must.”

  “Three, then,” she said.

  “Four and we can call it even.”

  Isobel opened her mouth to protest and then he kissed her, his skill and sweetness making her forget her entire train of thought. In fact, when he pulled away, she was hard pressed to remember where she was and how she’d come to be there.

  “You are devious, sir!”

  Her cheeky husband grinned. “All’s fair in love and war, my beauty.”

  …

  Winter hadn’t wanted to return to town, instead enjoying the idyllic peace—and pleasures—of his country estate, but duty was an unforgiving master, if left untended for too long. Happily, Isobel had agreed to return with him, and as such, it hadn’t been as dreary as he’d expected. London was teeming with the end of the season almost upon them, and the Marquess and Marchioness of Roth were invited everywhere.

  Besides that, to his immense surprise, Isobel had insisted on learning about the inner workings of the shelter house in the past weeks. She hoped to take over some of the duties from Matteo, specifically overseeing general management duties and fund allocation. It overwhelmed Winter how much it affected him that Isobel wanted to be involved. No other society lady of his acquaintance volunteered to work with the poor and downtrodden or get their hands dirty. Then again, his wife wasn’t like any other woman. She continued to astound him—in every conceivable way—from the bedroom to business to the ballroom.

  He’d just finished meeting with Bow Street that had run quite late. The head of the Runners had wanted to follow up with him to close out the open investigation into his attack. Edmund Cain was sentenced to prison for the attempted murder of a peer, and Lady Vittorina Carpalo had been returned to the care of her father, and rumor had it, he’d sent her to an Italian convent the next day. Winter had no doubt she’d find some way to convince her father that she’d repented at some point, but that was for Lord Carpalo to worry about.

  When the coach arrived at Vance House—he’d instructed Matteo to put 15 Audley Street on the market—he hurried up the stairs, handing his cloak off to a frowning Ludlow. “I know I’m late. Glowering at me doesn’t make time go any quicker.”

  “But I enjoy it so,” the butler said in the driest possible tone.

  “You’re lucky my wife likes you or I’d sack you.”

  Ludlow gave him an unperturbed look. “You’re lucky she tolerates you or you’d be sleeping in the guest chamber.”

  “Touché.”

  Winter took the stairs two at a time, only to stop at the door to their bedchamber, watching as his wife sat at her dresser, fastening a pair of earbobs. Dressed in a midnight-colored gown, her hair twisted up into an intricate updo, she stole his breath.

  “You’re a fucking dream.”

  Isobel met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. “So eloquent, Lord Roth.”

  Winter slammed the door behind him and proceeded to strip every inch of clothing before prowling toward her. Laughing, she raised her hand, warding off his approach. “No, I refuse for us to be any later than we already are. Go, your bath is waitin
g.”

  “A kiss then?” he begged.

  But his cruel wife shook her head. “No, because we both know where one kiss leads with us.” That was true as they’d learned on many previous occasions. “Furthermore, it took three maids to get me into this dress,” she went on.

  Winter couldn’t quite hide his disappointment as he veered toward the bathing chamber and climbed into the waiting tub. He glanced down at his raging erection—how on earth was he to get rid of that? He sighed. Desperate times. Isobel’s laughing voice reached him just as he’d fisted himself. “However, if you can hold out and behave, I’ll let you rip it off me later.”

  At that erotic promise, Winter’s hand instantly fell away.

  “God save great George our king…long live our noble king,” he sang at the top of his lungs while washing vigorously. “God save the king! God save the king, send him victorious, happy and glorious. God save the king, send him victorious, happy and glorious. Long to reign over us. God save the king!”

  “Who let the feral cats out?” Matteo said, walking into the room and making a show of plugging his ears, even as Isobel convulsed in laughter in the background.

  “It’s a meditation technique,” Winter said. “Now come on, man, help me get dressed before I have to sing it again. The quicker we get to Lady Hammerton’s, the faster we return home so I can deal with my evil wife.”

  “Oh,” Matteo said with a grin. “That kind of meditation.”

  “Shut up.”

  With Matteo’s help, Winter was dressed in record time, and soon they were on their way to the Lady Hammerton’s mid-season ball. In the carriage, Isobel couldn’t stop smiling. Winter would be in a pleasant mood, too, if not for the baton in his trousers. He adjusted himself, watching as Isobel hid her grin behind a gloved hand. Minx. Two could play at this game.

  “You’ll pay for this, you know,” he promised softly.

  Her brilliant eyes met his. “I’m aware.”

  “First, I’ll rip that dress to shreds,” he said in a low voice. “Next, I’ll remove those silk stockings, warmed from the heat of your body, lash them around your wrists, and bind you to the bedposts for my pleasure.” Her sudden inhalation made him grin, her cheeks flushing with hot, delicious color. “Then when I’m good and ready, I’ll peel your chemise and drawers off with my teeth.”