The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,102

again, attraction had never been an issue for them. No, it was anything beyond that…like love.

“He won’t ever love me.”

Clarissa frowned. “What do you mean he won’t?”

“He’s incapable of it.”

Heart suddenly aching, Isobel stared out the small coach window to where her husband stood in conversation with the head officer. Even at a distance, hair askew with blood and grime crusting his face, he took her breath away. There was something so raw and powerful about him. Despite being surrounded by squalor and filth, he gleamed.

Isobel knew he had buried his heart because he felt that was what he deserved, but he didn’t see himself the way she did. He was a better man than what he gave himself credit for. She’d hoped to be the one to help him find happiness, but Winter didn’t want that with her. She’d told him she loved him and he hadn’t even acknowledged it in kind. His reply had been more than clear: That doesn’t excuse the risks you’ve taken, Isobel.

Not, I love you, too, Isobel.

Because he didn’t. Their marriage had begun with unrequited love, and that was all she still had…unreturned, one-sided feeling.

Isobel bit her lip, forcing back the tears that stung her eyelids. There was nothing for her here. She would go back to Chelmsford and be content with the life she had. There were many things to be grateful for—Clarissa, the twins, Kendrick, her sister, her niece, the breath in her lungs, the simple pleasures she enjoyed, Hellion… Life would go on, with or without Winter Vance.

“What will you do?” Clarissa asked.

“Go home,” Isobel said. “Perhaps help with Roth’s charitable endeavors, if he allows it. Try to be content.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Clarissa. From the start, I was too enamored and infatuated to see this for what it was…a marriage of practicality. I yearned for the fairy tale that my sister had, but Winter’s not my prince. He’s just a man and I’m a girl with impossible expectations.” She gritted her teeth, burying the pain and the need and the anguish that welled inside of her. “I’m going to go back to Chelmsford where I belong.”

Oliver let out a moan, his eyes flickering. “Belong with…him.”

“See?” Clarissa said, her own tears flowing freely. “Even the comatose man without a romantic bone in his body thinks you and Roth belong together.”

Isobel barked a hollow laugh. “He’s incoherent from a gunshot wound.”

“I think you’re making a mistake, Izzy. I think you should stay and fight for what you want. Fight for your marriage…and for what you both deserve.”

What she deserved. Isobel didn’t even know what that was anymore. She’d thought it was Winter, but how could a woman live with a man who could never love her? A man whose heart, if he even had one, was enclosed in layers and layers of impenetrable stone? Loving a man who didn’t want to be loved was an uphill battle with only one outcome—perpetual disappointment.

“I’m tired of fighting, Clarissa,” Isobel said. “I’m tired of losing.”

She’d already lost her heart. She couldn’t afford to lose everything else.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Love is like lemonade, Dearest Friend. It’s bloody hard work, but the lemons are worth the squeeze.

– Lady Darcy

“I need out of this bed,” Winter groused. “Out of this damned house.”

“Soon, my lord,” Matteo soothed, plumping the pillows behind Winter’s head like a mother hen and bustling around the room.

It’d been nearly a week of forced rest after he’d fallen unconscious again upon return to 15 Audley Street. Westmore had called for the doctor, who checked his pulse, pupils, and reflexes, and diagnosed a minor head injury, prescribing laudanum and rest. Winter had endured the rest but refused the laudanum. Five days later, his head ached, but he felt better. Despite the healing contusion on his skull, Winter wasn’t in that bad of shape.

And for God’s sake, he’d had enough of Matteo’s smothering.

The last time Winter had tried to get out of bed, a day ago, Matteo had enlisted the assistance of Ludlow, who took obscene pleasure in throwing his considerable weight around, despite growled threats of being turned out on his arse. Winter’s entire household had decided to mutiny, it seemed. Even Westmore, who took it upon himself to visit every day, guffawed each time Winter expressed his displeasure.

“You need your rest, sweet cheeks,” the duke had said, nonchalantly chewing on an apple and looking windblown and ruddy as though he’d just come in from a glorious ride. Winter knew he’d done it on purpose to needle him. “Dr. Barnes’s