The Rakehell of Roth Page 4

  With a twinge of regret, Winter shook his head. It had to be done. His marriage to her had to remain one of impartiality.

  No affections. No fondness. No weakness.

  “The lady has departed, my lord,” a musical baritone said from behind him.

  Winter turned and looked over his shoulder as he tore off his coat and unwound his cravat. “No luck in convincing her to stay, Matteo?”

  “Miss Montburn desired the main attraction, not the understudy, even if I am much better looking.” He smirked. “Her loss.”

  “Indeed.” Winter grinned at his friend. With his dark good looks, athletic build, and charismatic personality, most women who came to the residence didn’t mind when Matteo turned on the charm. “Did you tell her you have more money than the king and your phallus is revered on three continents?”

  A dark brow arched in amusement. “There are more important things than money, Roth.” He left the second declaration uncontested with a wink.

  Winter chuckled as Matteo retreated from the room. The man had his quirks, but Winter appreciated his dry humor, his deep intelligence, and his utter genius with numbers. They’d met during Winter’s grand tour in Italy and got on so well that Winter ended up offering him a position as his man of business with an enormous salary just to get him to leave his beloved Venice.

  He’d accepted both the position and Winter’s friendship, and hadn’t looked back. Over the years, he’d invested in several of Winter’s projects and oversaw most of them. Matteo seemed to have the Midas touch, but to Winter’s surprise, he gave most of his earnings away, claiming that he had no need for all of it. Even his villa in Venice had become a lodging house for people in need.

  Winter had once asked him why.

  Matteo had shrugged. “My mother was from a modest family. My grandparents threw her out with nothing when she was with child and she lived in poverty, making choices that no woman should have to make. It’s no hardship for me to help when I have more than enough. Everyone needs a hand sometime.”

  That had given Winter the seeds for his own idea, for a fund in Prue’s memory.

  It had exceeded his every expectation.

  Striding down the staircase, Winter met the butler’s irritated stare. Ludlow didn’t bother to hide his feelings that Winter’s place was at his wife’s side. But Winter had known him since he was a boy, and though he wouldn’t tolerate outright insolence, he had a soft spot for the man who had smuggled him biscuits as a child when he’d been naughty, which had been often.

  “Any correspondence, Ludlow?”

  “The latest copy of The Daring Lady Darcy was delivered, my lord, along with the newssheets.”

  Winter perked up. He had no idea who the irreverent author was, along with the rest of the nobility—the wagers at all the clubs had grown intense—but those ingenious little periodicals drove business to The Silver Scythe’s private rooms in twittering droves. Gentlemen, ladies, couples…all wanting to try Lady Darcy’s scandalous advice. He grinned. If he ever met the author, he’d shake their hand and offer them a bottle of his finest whiskey.

  Lady Darcy, the heroine in the letters, was both delicious and depraved, and her written explorations titillated the ton to no end. With the lilting prose of a Jane Austen novel, the debauched content was more along the lines of John Cleland’s Fanny Hill, a favorite of Winter’s own collection of expurgated literary works. The author of The Daring Lady Darcy was anonymous, and rightly so. No sane gentleman courted a prison sentence for obscenity, and some of the scenes flirted in the realm of the offensive.

  “Also,” Ludlow went on, “Lord Oliver did call in earlier.”

  Winter groaned, his good humor waning. “Wonderful. What did my dear stick-in-the-moors brother want?”

  The man was a gnat, always buzzing around, complaining about Winter’s lifestyle and grumbling that their family’s sterling reputation was being smeared. True, Winter wished he could walk away from his ducal birthright and stick it to his father, but he couldn’t deny that his family name and wealth had opened many doors.

  One of which was being able to use the first portion of the inheritance he’d received at eighteen to invest in The Silver Scythe. That venture had almost given the old man apoplexy, but Winter had earned money hand over fist, nearly quadrupling his investment in the social club during its third year. The profits gained in the last year had been staggering.

  From a scandalously young age, Winter had devoted himself to a life in the pursuit of pleasure. He’d dropped out of Oxford, flaunted his name and wealth, and generally made a spectacle of himself whenever he could. He’d earned his disreputable reputation within the ton, and worked tirelessly to keep it.

  Until Prue’s death changed everything.

  After that, admittedly, he’d struggled. For months he went through the motions, but the things that used to bring him pleasure only made him feel hollow. Days of debauchery no longer held any appeal, and wasting his life, even if to spit in his sanctimonious father’s face, seemed like an insult to the memory of his sister. He went back to university and got his act together. Made a plan with Westmore to buy The Silver Scythe. Got married as insurance.

  Winter still owned the outrageously successful club, but he wasn’t the same.

  “Lord Oliver said that he would return tomorrow,” Ludlow said, and cleared his throat as Winter turned to leave. “I’ve also heard word from the servant grapevine that His Grace’s residence at Vance House is being readied for the duke’s arrival in town.”

  Winter froze mid-step. “My father is coming to London?”

  “For the season. That is what I’ve heard, my lord.”

  “And what of my…er, Lady Roth?”

  The butler’s lips flattened imperceptibly. “Lady Roth is currently at Kendrick Abbey, my lord. Mrs. Butterfield writes that she is in excellent health, spends time with Miss Clarissa and the Fairfax twins, and visits with Her Grace, Lady Beswick, once a month. It is fortunate that they live only a short ride away. However, the duchess will soon enter her confinement with her second child, as you know.”

  Of course he knew. Beswick couldn’t stop talking about his three-year-old daughter, Philippa, and he was over the moon that his wife was pregnant again. Winter didn’t begrudge the man his joy, but his notion of happiness differed greatly from the settled duke. An evening of happiness for Beswick included childish romps and bedtime stories, whereas for Winter, it involved financial accounting, gambling, a spot of whiskey, and the occasional pining for a future he would never have.

  “Tell Matteo to send my congratulations to Beswick.” He paused. “And purchase an extravagantly romantic bouquet of flowers for his duchess. Don’t send a note. It will drive the duke crazy.”

  Winter smirked. The Duke of Beswick was possessive to a fault, and while his duchess had no eyes for any other, Winter loved aggravating his friend. The man wasn’t called the Beast of Beswick for nothing.

  Ludlow nodded. “And your wife, my lord?”

  Winter balked at the question. He had no idea what kind of flowers Isobel liked. Or if she even liked flowers. What in the hell was Ludlow asking? He turned to face the butler, not fooled by his obsequious expression. “My wife what?”

  “Any correspondence or extravagantly romantic bouquets for her?”

  He detected a lilt of sarcasm in the butler’s tone, but chose to ignore it. Winter hadn’t written to Isobel in years. He blinked. Not ever, actually. He was certain Matteo sent gifts and messages for birthdays and special occasions, though.

  Winter glared at the butler for making him feel guilty. “No. Call for my horse. I’m going out.”

  “You just returned home, my lord.”

  “Are you my keeper now?”

  Ludlow’s mouth had gone so thin, it was nearly invisible. “Someone has to be.”

  “Now, see here—” Winter had had j
ust about enough. He turned to give the man the blistering he deserved and stiffened as the front door to his house crashed unceremoniously open, letting in a burst of cool, fragrant wind.

  A cloaked vision stood there as the enticing waft of flowers slammed into Winter. He couldn’t see beyond the heavily-brimmed bonnet, and for a moment, he thought the actress, Aline, had changed her mind about a frolic in the sheets with Matteo.

  But Aline was petite. This new arrival was not.

  Ludlow rushed toward the door in greeting, and froze as the woman chuckled and said something to him in a low, sultry voice. He couldn’t quite see the butler’s face. He also couldn’t catch the lady’s tones to recognize its owner, but they were decidedly refined. Most of his callers were from the demimonde, but the occasional aristocratic lady still found her way to 15 Audley Street looking for trouble and a tumble.

  He caught his breath as Ludlow took her cloak, and her bonnet was removed in slow motion. A skein of silken, wheat-colored hair shook loose and a heart-shaped face came into view with glowing pinkened cheeks. Full, luscious lips parted, and he exhaled as a pair of unforgettable frosted-ocean eyes met his.

  Recognition and lust hit him like a runaway carriage.

  Because the stunning, surprising, and gracefully elegant vision standing in his foyer was none other than his lady wife—the Marchioness of Roth.

  What the bloody devil was she doing here?

  Winter stood stock still in utter disbelief as liquid heat unraveled in his groin, bursting through his veins like the fireworks over Vauxhall. He blinked, but the vision did not dissipate. Time had only fulfilled its promise with her youthful beauty, and the svelte changeling who now stood in his bride’s stead was a radiant goddess.

  “Husband,” she said in a low greeting that went straight to his cock.

  “What are you doing here?” he choked out.

  A blond brow arched. “This is your home, is it not? And by extension, mine as well?”

  “No.”

  The corners of those kissable lips drifted upward at his curt denial. “Whyever not? Surely you haven’t forgotten you have a wife? Despite not having seen you in years, I hadn’t expected you to be in your dotage at so young an age, my lord.”

  His jaw slackened. Winter was at a loss. He simply could not reconcile the confident virago who stood on his threshold with the demure, shy mouse he’d left behind three years ago. That girl had been unable to look at him without blushing. Without complete adoration glowing in her gaze. This woman looked like she could tear him apart with her eyes alone, chew him up and spit him out…spent, trembling, and gratifyingly wrecked.

  To his utter dismay, the crotch of his trousers crowded to the point of pain, arousal shunting through him like a flood.

  In three years, his attraction to her hadn’t abated in the least.

  No, it had grown like a furtive beast, feeding on the scraps of his memory. The fragrant scent of her, the slick velvet feel of her. The moans she made as she came apart, her body convulsing around his, and his given name a benediction upon her lips. He’d hoarded the precious fragments like a beggar hoarding coin.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “This is no place for a lady. You should be at Vance House,” he told her in a hoarse voice. His father’s ducal residence was a few streets away, which, while still not far enough away, was not here.

  Disdainful eyes traveled the ostentatious decor of the foyer and then flicked to his disheveled form. In his current state, cravat missing and coat discarded, Winter knew he looked like he’d been well and truly corrupted by his evening activities, even though he had spent the better part of four hours at his club poring over tedious expense accounts. Hence his rumpled appearance, though she wouldn’t know that.

  A tiny grin touched her lips, throwing him for a loop.

  Did she find something amusing?

  “What’s wrong with me staying here?” she asked innocently, though her arctic eyes warred with her soft words. For some reason, Winter had the feeling his wife was furious, though nothing showed in her calm demeanor…except for those eyes that glittered like sharpened ice, threatening to dagger him at any moment. The contradiction thrilled him and irritated him all at once, sliding under his skin like silk over a blade.

  “It’s a gentleman’s residence.”

  “Naturally,” his wife interrupted, retrieving her cloak and bonnet from Ludlow, who stood with his mouth uncharacteristically agape. She favored the butler with a sweet smile that made him snap to attention, a smitten look clouding his normally austere features. “You are right, my lord. I do intend to stay at Vance House.” Her mouth curved more as she turned back toward Winter, the decadent curve of those plump lips knocking him like a hammer to the ribs. “Your father insisted, of course. But I wanted to inform you myself that I was in town.”

  Winter scowled at the mention of the duke, his eyes narrowing at the fact that his father had known of his wife’s visit. “Why are you here, Isobel?”

  “A marchioness should be at her husband’s side, don’t you think?” A pair of brilliant, jewel-hard eyes speared him, daring him to challenge her. “I’m here for the season.”

  “The season?” he echoed, his brain slow on the uptake.

  “Yes.” His marchioness smiled, that full pout twisting in a way that made him suddenly want to do untoward, debauched things to it. “We wouldn’t want the ton to think you’ve lost your touch, would we, Winter?”

  His eyes narrowed. “In what way?”

  “That the Marquess of Roth can’t handle his own wife.”

  The words registered like fired shots. Winter blinked. Did his prim, shy bride just insult his masculinity? But then something like excitement licked up his spine. Strangely, it was the most alive he’d felt in months. Years. A slow grin replaced his scowl. His demure kitten had grown into a feline with razor-sharp claws, but whatever game his little wife intended to play, Winter would see it won.

  And then he would send her back to Chelmsford.

  “Trust me, love, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

  The Marchioness of Roth turned in a vicious whirl of satin skirts and glanced over her shoulder in the doorway, a sultry gaze boring into his, one that promised both satisfaction and destruction in equal measure. “Prove it then, love.”

  She made those four parting words sound like a gauntlet: See you at dawn.

  Winter stood there, stunned, for several loud heartbeats after his wife had left, leaving shrapnel in her wake.

  Ludlow pinned him with a gratified expression. “So, roses to Vance House, then, my lord?”

  “Sod off, Ludlow.”

  From the look of his wife, he was going to need a lot more than roses.

  Chapter Four

  In matters of seduction, Dearest Friend, the easiest way to catch an unattached gentleman’s eye is with confidence. Subtlety is for spinsters.

  – Lady Darcy

  Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell.

  Isobel sat straight up in the unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, her heart pounding from the dregs of her nightmare, trying to orient herself. She wasn’t in her bedchamber at home, at Kendrick Abbey. She was at Vance House. In London. Where her scoundrel of a husband was actively sowing his no-good oats, as was evident from the dreadful shape she’d witnessed him in last night. And where she’d effectively called him out in no uncertain terms.

  The nightmare was real, then.

  She sighed and slumped back down. From the accounts she’d read in the scandal sheets, Isobel had fully expected Winter to be living a bachelor lifestyle. What she hadn’t expected was the shocking, nerve-shattering effect he’d had on her. Or the fact that he had no jowls to speak of at all. And the tiny detail that three years later, he was still the most sinfully attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  Botheration.

  She’d ret
urned to the duke’s residence seething after her spontaneous visit to Audley Street, and not much of her anger had drained away overnight. She was still furious. Her husband had looked like he’d just crawled out of bed. In the middle of the afternoon. Whose bed was a question she did not want to dwell upon.

  Lamentably, Winter looked no worse for wear. In fact, those years looked unfairly good on his lanky frame—filling him out in places and hardening him in others. Isobel hadn’t been able to calm the deep, pulsating throb that had roared to life in her belly at the sight of him…that rich brown hair hanging carelessly over his brow, those gray eyes that had swirled like liquid smoke in the gloom, even though the whites of them had been bloodshot.

  Heavy carousing would do that, she thought sourly.

  But even a pair of reddened eyes and disheveled appearance could not detract from his raw physical appeal. Those broad shoulders and towering frame, his gorgeous, fallen-angel face that promised wicked delights. A rush of heat swamped her as her nipples tightened, her core clenching. Isobel buried her head in the pillows with a stifled shriek.

  Why couldn’t life be easy? Was that so much to ask? She’d been promised he’d have rampant gout, thanks to a dissolute lifestyle, hadn’t she?

  What would Lady Darcy have done?

  Isobel let out a dry laugh. The dauntless Lady Darcy would have stripped to her naughty, lacy undergarments in Winter’s foyer and dragged the man to his bedchamber, whereupon she would have kept him abed for days, forcing him to make amends for three years of lost time with his tongue, his fingers, and his long—

  She flung that errant thought away. As much as she could recall from her brief wedding night, Winter’s sex was neither too long nor too short, too thick or too thin. She had felt the blunt, sleek pressure of it, then a pinch of fullness, followed by an intense friction, and the shocking dissipation of pleasure that had gripped her entire body.