The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,10

such a public rejection.”

The duke flinched. A year ago, the wretched marquess had cut his own father—a duke, no less—dead at a ball. It hadn’t done anything except pour salt in an old, raw wound between the two men, and the rumor mill had put it down to family intrigues that weren’t as rabidly exciting as Lord Roth’s other deliciously devilish escapades. Like his races in Hyde Park, bare-knuckle boxing, outrageous gambling, and illegal duels over opera singers.

“You must.”

A slight frown drew her brows together. “Why do you want me to go so badly? I’ve been content here in Chelmsford.”

She cringed at the lie. Content was a ludicrous stretch of the truth. If she didn’t have Clarissa, and more recently, the twins, she would have gone mad ages ago. But Isobel had long convinced herself that her situation was better than many other ton marriages that ended in disaster. She couldn’t hate her husband if she didn’t actually see him, could she?

She silenced the voice screaming an emphatic yes! and turned back to her father-in-law.

“I would like to hold my grandchild before I die,” the duke said.

Isobel’s brows rose at the turn in conversation and tried to hide the instant ache his words brought on. “You do realize that your son needs to participate for that to happen.” After years of fruitless waiting for her marauding husband to come to his senses, she’d long squashed that yearning, but it rose to torment her all the same whenever the duke mentioned grandchildren. “And you’re not going to die.”

“I will someday,” he said. “My son is far from happy. And I believe his happiness starts with you.”

She felt a twinge at the sadness in his voice. “He doesn’t even know me.”

“Not yet,” the duke said. “But I do, and you are perfect for him. He needs a woman like you. Someone with a backbone who won’t take his shit.”

Isobel gasped. Kendrick never swore. Perhaps he was as fed up with his son’s antics as she was. She sipped her rapidly cooling tea and contemplated the stern-faced man sitting across from her. “And you think that’s me?”

The duke studied her for a long moment. “What is it you want most out of life, Isobel?”

The question was one she’d put to herself many a lonely night abed. Isobel considered the answer. She wanted an enthusiastic, dutiful husband, and someday, a loving family like her sister and the Duke of Beswick had. She wanted companionship and friendship in a partner. She wanted a bit of adventure, passion, and maybe the chance to experience something new. And all of those things were out of her reach.

They would continue to be so long as she stayed in Chelmsford. Isobel fisted her hands in her skirts. Confronting Winter in town was daunting, but she knew she had to make some sort of stand. She deserved to be presented to society, not hidden away like some mistake. A part of her wanted to shake her odious husband until his teeth rattled, and then show him just what he’d been missing all these years. Flaunt her presence in his face.

Raise the daring Lady Darcy in the flesh.

Make him grovel. Make him sorry. Make him beg.

The thought made a dark thrill course through her veins. How often had she fumed to Clarissa about getting even? About pulling her husband up to scratch? This was her chance, and now, she even had Kendrick’s blessing.

Isobel’s hard gaze met her father-in-law’s. “Very well, I’ll do it. I’ll go.”

Because damned if she wasn’t going to make him regret making a fool of her for so long.

Chapter Three

It’s better to regret something you’ve actually had the guts to do, Dearest Friend, than to regret not doing anything at all.

– Lady Darcy

Winter regarded the tempestuous beauty currently ensconced in his private chambers and sighed. It would be the third one his man of affairs, Matteo, had discovered this month. More than a dozen in the last six. Aline Montburn, the leading actress of the Covent Garden theater, was all sable curls and legs that went on forever. But for the same three reasons he hadn’t been able to look at anyone else in over three years, Winter shook his head and departed the room.

She wasn’t blond.

Her eyes weren’t the color of the ocean touched by the sun in December.

And she wasn’t his wife.

Following his marriage, his false reputation as a rake had prevailed. Given that he was an owner of The Silver Scythe—his wildly popular social club,