The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  “That all sounds wonderful, Roth,” his wife purred. “If I were wearing any drawers to speak of.”

  Point, set, and match to one Lady Roth.

  Winter threw himself back against the squabs and bit back a groan at the thought of his sultry wife wearing nothing beneath her skirts. He almost fell to his knees like a philistine on the floor of the carriage and groveled, begging for anything—a glimpse, a touch, a taste.

  “Be patient, my love,” she whispered, staring at him demurely from beneath her lashes. “Remember that good things come to those who wait.”

  He knew because he’d promised her the same while driving her mindless with pleasure.

  One thing was for sure, this ball was going to be bloody torture.

  Epilogue

  Two years later

  Clarissa and Oliver’s wedding breakfast had already broken all manner of wagers for number of quarrels, number of oaths whispered, which of Clarissa’s brothers would get into a brawl—the winner said all of them—and whether Clarissa would make herself a widow before the day was done. The wager for the length of engagement had been won by none other than her husband, and considering that the date kept getting pushed out for one ludicrous reason or another, it had been anyone’s guess when it would happen.

  The wedding itself at St. George’s, however, had gone off without a hitch, mostly because of the stern-faced presence of the Duke of Kendrick, whom no one wanted to aggravate or provoke. Even Winter had been on his best behavior, though he’d pulled Isobel into a deserted alcove early on.

  “What are you doing?” she had whispered.

  “Matteo has brought us presents from his recent trip home to Venice.” His voice lowered, his lips caressing her lobe and making her knees shake beneath her gown. “A few silk scarves and feather switches. I can’t wait to use them on you.”

  She’d been properly scandalized. “Winter, we’re in a church!”

  “I know,” he’d said. “Marry me, love?”

  “We’re already married.”

  He’d stared into her eyes, the moment made profound by the quiet of the beautiful church. “But if we weren’t, would you have me, Isobel?”

  “With all my heart.”

  Eyes aglow with love, he’d kissed her so soundly that she’d been bemused for half of the ceremony. In hindsight, Isobel knew why he’d asked the question. It was the same question he asked on occasion, as if to prove to her that he would always choose her as his wife, if ever given the choice again. And her response was always the same: with all my heart. Because she would always choose him. He was her wicked knight. Her imperfect prince. Hers.

  A familiar broad-shouldered figure made her veer toward the balcony doors.

  “Hiding out?” Isobel whispered in her father-in-law’s ear where he stood just inside the terrace, hands clasped behind his back.

  The duke turned, glancing fondly down at the sleeping baby in Isobel’s arms. “Just for a minute. How’s my lovely girl?”

  “She’s worn out,” Isobel said softly, brushing a kiss to the girl’s temple. To everyone’s surprise, Juliet had been born with a shock of auburn hair. Winter had shared that Prudence’s had been that same color as a child. Her eyes, however, were the exact same shade as Isobel’s.

  “You were quite terrifying this morning,” Isobel said, mentioning his no-nonsense brusqueness at the church.

  A slight smile curved the corner of his mouth. “All part of the plan, Izzy dear. Otherwise, my son would have lost sight of the important things.”

  “Which was?”

  “Getting his lovely bride to the altar in good time.” He shot her a conspiratorial grin. “Throwing my ducal weight around has its uses. No one wants to mess with the big bad duke.”

  Lips twitching, she shot him an arch glance. “That’s clever.”

  “You’re only realizing this now?” he asked.

  They shared a laugh and then walked together to the edge of the huge garden terrace at Vance House. Isobel glanced to the lawns where a game of lawn cricket for the children was being set up by Violet and Molly, while the intimidating Duke of Beswick was trying to teach his four-year-old daughter Philippa how to bowl the ball while he also tried to keep a close eye on his mischievous two-year-old son Maxton, who was supposed to be fielding. Though Max was busy eating a handful of grass at the moment.

  “Max, no!” Beswick groaned, bending down to wipe his son’s fingers clean.

  “But I’m a bunny, Papa,” the boy insisted. “And bunnies get hungry when hopping.”

  The duke nodded and gave him a kiss. “After this game, we’ll have a proper snack for little boys. Grass will make you ill, and we don’t want to miss out on cakes later, do we?”

  The boy’s eyes lit up as he nodded enthusiastically.

  Meanwhile at the other end of the makeshift cricket pitch, Isobel’s husband was showing their fifteen-month-old son how to hit, meaning that Winter was clutching a squirming toddler in one arm while attempting to swing a bat with the other. Unlike his quiet twin sister—older by a mere twelve minutes—James Darcy Vance had come screaming into the world like a warrior with a cap of blond fuzz and his father’s gray eyes. Also blessed with his father’s devilish charm, and much like his sister, he already had his grandfather wrapped firmly around his finger.

  “Winter,” Isobel called out, trying not to wake Juliet, though she slept like the dead. “He’s going to get clocked in the eye.”

  Both her son and her husband looked in the direction of her voice, and her heart filled with an incandescent joy at the sight of the two male loves of her life. Her son definitely favored his father in looks.

  “He’s a natural,” Winter crowed. “Going for the boundaries on this one.”

  “Careful with my namesake,” Kendrick called out as Violet got ready to bowl the first ball.

  Winter grinned. “Perhaps you should come down here and show him how it’s done, then.”

  Isobel shook her head as the prim and proper duke discarded his coat and gloves, skipped down the steps, and joined the mêlée to squeals of delight by the children. Isobel had the sneaking suspicion he’d been secretly feeding them sweets all week, much to the dismay of their parents. That said, it was wonderful how much the twins had brought their father and grandfather together. They often did things as a foursome, which delighted Kendrick to no end. And Isobel knew that he loved seeing his son working at being the best father he could be.

  The children’s nanny approached and Isobel passed the sleeping Juliet off with gratitude. Not that she didn’t love holding her daughter, but she was heavy. It was time for her nap anyway. Soon, James would follow, though he would battle until the last second before his eyes gave in to sleep.

  Her sister Astrid came up beside her where she was leaning on the balustrade and offered her a glass of champagne. Isobel smiled and declined, hiding her sudden blush. “I can’t.”

  Astrid’s eyes widened. “Are you…?”

  “Possibly. I’ve only just found out.”

  “Congratulations,” Astrid said. “Does Winter know?”

  Isobel shook her head and bit her lip. “I haven’t told him yet. I’m a bit afraid to tell him. He’s only just gotten comfortable with being a father to a pair of rambunctious twins.”

  Astrid fought laughter. “Didn’t he tell you he wanted eight children?”

  “He did, but I think he changed his mind after the first few months of no sleep with James and Juliet. Even with a children’s nurse, he insisted on trying things himself.”

  “He’s a good father,” Astrid said, her eyes panning from her own husband and children to where Winter stood with Kendrick and James. “How have things been?”

  This time Isobel couldn’t hide her telltale flush. “Can’t complain.”

  “Goodness, with a blush like that, it’s no wonder you�
�re with child.” Astrid barked a laugh and nudged her fondly in the shoulder. “My, how far you’ve come from that little girl who turned her nose up at anything that wasn’t proper.”

  “I guess she grew up.”

  Astrid met her gaze. “Into a remarkable woman. I’m proud to call you my sister, you know. Even though at times it’s hard to believe that the scandalous Lady Darcy came from that prim head of yours.”

  “And Clarissa’s.”

  “Oy, wenches, did I hear my name?” Clarissa squealed, edging her way between them and flinging an arm over each of their shoulders.

  “Goodness, Clarissa, you smell like the floor of a public house.”

  She gave an unladylike snort. “I do not! I am the bride. I smell like delicious.”

  “Yes, dear, you smell like delicious.” Isobel signaled to a nearby footman and gave Clarissa a glass of water. “Drink this. You’ll thank me.” Obediently, she drank the water, and Isobel made her drink another. “Don’t want to be too pissed for your wedding night, do you? You remember the code?”

  Clarissa brightened. “What would Lady Darcy do?”

  “Exactly.”

  Astrid laughed. “You two are ridiculous. Though I admit even I ask myself from time to time, what would Lady Darcy do? It seems you’ve spawned an entire generation of independent female thinkers.”

  “That was the plan,” Isobel said.

  Over the past year, she and Clarissa had mutually decided to retire the infamous Lady Darcy, despite her popularity. Her last letter to her adoring public had been equal parts heartfelt and scandalously vulgar, and had ended with an irreverent: now, piss off and make up your own minds! Seemed like her readers were vociferously taking her up on that.

  Though Lady Darcy had retired from her writing career, she wasn’t totally gone. Isobel had also donated the dowry that Winter had put aside in a trust for her to a handful of women’s shelters in poorer districts in London in Lady Darcy’s name. She and Clarissa had also decided to set up the Lady Darcy Fund for deserving young women who wanted an education but did not have the means to pay for one.

  A sudden wail made all three women perk up. Obviously exhausted and fighting it, James seemed to be throwing a tantrum. Winter made quick work of calming him down, though he hoisted him up on his shoulders and walked toward the house. Isobel met him at the entry, turned her face up for a kiss from her husband, and took the cranky toddler into her arms.

  “Nap time,” she said.

  “No nap, no nap, no nap,” he babbled. “Mama, no.”

  “Yes, nap,” Isobel said and hugged him close, humming a lullaby softly under her breath.

  By the time she’d climbed the stairs to the nursery, he was out like a blown candle. She tucked him into the cradle beside his sister’s, smiled at the nurse, and nearly crashed into her husband who was waiting outside the door.

  “Do I get tucked into bed?” he whispered, nuzzling her ear.

  As always, her blood simmered beneath her skin at the barest touch of his lips. “You’re a grown man and it’s not bedtime. And all the guests are downstairs.”

  “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

  His mouth found hers, and her fate was sealed. Once that man kissed her, she became his willing marionette, his to do with as he pleased. Winter’s clever tongue claimed hers urgently, leaving her breathless and wanting. Still kissing her, he scooped her up and walked briskly down a narrow corridor.

  “Where are we going?” she mumbled against his lips.

  “Somewhere private,” he said, dragging his mouth down the column of her throat, biting down and then soothing the sting with gentle licks. Isobel moaned, his mouth returning to drown out the sound before they could be heard.

  Somewhere private turned out to be a small room that looked like it had belonged to a governess at some time. Neither of them cared by that point. The room was empty but for a rack that looked like a curious combination between a spinning wheel and a clothes press that stood at one end. Winter directed her to the strange object and spun her to face it.

  “Hold the wheel and don’t move,” he whispered in her air. “And swallow those screams.”

  Desire unspooled through her at the needy rasp of his command. Her trembling arms reached up and held on for dear life as he lifted her skirts and positioned himself behind her. The air kissed her bare buttocks when one foot edged her ankles wider, her frame forming an X.

  “Winter…” she moaned, her body ready and weeping for him.

  Without a word, he entered her in one slick thrust, filling her, his hands covering her mouth so her groans would not be heard. She was completely blanketed by him from head to toe, and she loved every domineering second of it. It didn’t take long for either of them to reach their peaks—hers following quickly on the heels of his.

  “Winter, we’re going to have another baby,” she blurted.

  He kissed her neck and loosened her numb fingers, twisting her around to face him. “I know.”

  “You know?”

  His eyes dropped to her swelling décolletage. “I kiss these beauties every night. You don’t think I’d notice when a handful turns into two?”

  “Are you…pleased?”

  “Deliriously, my love.” He grinned and kissed her. “Only five more to go.”

  When their clothes had been put to rights, they crept back downstairs to the wedding breakfast with no one the wiser. No one except Astrid, whose brows were in her hairline when she caught sight of them; Clarissa, who started giggling uncontrollably; Oliver, who spared them a disparaging look; Kendrick, who chose to discreetly look away; and Beswick, whose face showed no emotion whatsoever, but that knowing glint in his eyes said it all.

  “No one knows,” Winter whispered down to her.

  “Our entire family knows, you wicked man!”

  Her dashing rogue of a husband gave an unapologetic grin. “Tell me then, love, what would Lady Darcy do?”

  Lady Darcy would smirk, throw her shoulders back, and own it.

  Isobel Helena Vance decided to do just that.

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  Acknowledgments

  First, I owe a tremendous thank-you to my brilliant editors, Heather Howland, Liz Pelletier, and Lydia Sharp. This time, it’s Team HALL for the win! Honestly, thank you so much for everything you’ve done for this book. To the fantastic production, design, quality assurance, and publicity teams at Amara, with special thanks to Stacy Abrams, Curtis Svehlak, Holly Bryant-Simpson, Riki Cleveland, Heather Riccio, Katie Clapsadl, Jessica Turner, Bree Archer, and Erin Dameron-Hill, thank you for all your hard work. To my agent, Thao Le, I can’t thank you enough for being in my corner every step of the way. To my friends and fellow writers who saw me through an incredibly challenging year—Katie McGarry, Wendy Higgins, Cindi Madsen, Damaris Doll, Vonetta Young, Kerrigan Byrne, Brigid Kemmerer, Ausma Khan, Angie Frazier, Lisa Brown Roberts, Jenna Lincoln, Alyssa Day, Jodi Picoult, Jen Fisher, Stacy Reid, Heather McCollum, and my fearless golden girls: Aliza Mann, Sienna Snow, Sage Spelling, MK Schiller, and Shaila Patel—thank you for everything. To all my loyal readers, forever friends, family, fans, bloggers, booksellers, and librarians who spread the word about my books and humble me with your unwavering support, I have so much gratitude and appreciation for you. Thanks, Mom, you’ve always got my back! Finally, to the lights of my life—Cameron, Connor, Noah, and Olivia—I couldn’t do this without you. Love you.

  About the Author

  Amalie Howard is the bestselling author of The Beast of Beswick, one of O, The Oprah Magazine’s 24 Best to Read, and the coauthor of the #1 bestsellers in regency romance and Scottish historical romance, My Rogue, My Ruin and What A Scot Wants. She has also penned several award-winning young adult novels, critically acclaimed by Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, VOYA, School Library Journal, and B
ooklist. Of Indo-Caribbean descent, she has written articles on multicultural fiction for The Portland Book Review and Ravishly magazine. She currently lives in Colorado with her husband and three children. Visit her at amaliehoward.com.

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