The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,50

Academy was doing nothing for him. No, instead his attention was fixated on the two women walking arm in arm ahead of them, perusing the paintings and stopping to converse here and there. One was Clarissa, and the other, his wife.

The tempting minx was under his skin, her scent in his nose, her image burned into his brain…the feel of her elegant hand stroking him. Lust drizzled into his blood, threatening to enflame parts of him that needed to behave in public. He could not get the sensation of her caressing him so boldly out of his head. And now that her groom, Iz, had let slip that she was more enamored of him than she led anyone to believe, it seemed he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He was fucking obsessed.

“You should do something about that,” Westmore murmured at his side.

Winter suppressed the violent urge to punch the duke in the teeth. God knew why he’d invited the man in the first place once he’d discovered from a very obliging Ludlow where his bride had planned to go today. It was crowded enough that she hadn’t seen him yet, though he knew it would only be a matter of time. For now, he enjoyed watching her, at least when Westmore wasn’t provoking him with asinine comments.

“About what?” he said.

“Your wife.” The duke grinned. “I can feel your frustration from here and it’s making my ballocks ache. The devil knows why you didn’t let her work that sap out at the club when it’s obvious she wants it. Bed her and be done with it.”

“She wants a child.” He frowned. “She said she expected it when we married, but now she knows that I won’t. I can’t give in.”

Westmore shrugged a shoulder. “What’s the problem?”

“You know how I feel,” Winter said, glaring at his friend. “It’s what Kendrick wants, and I’d die before ever giving that man any satisfaction.”

They stopped in front of a portrait of children painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence. Westmore pursed his lips, and Winter prepared for the rubbish that would no doubt come spewing forth. “This could be you…a parcel of brats, being painted by a celebrated artist.”

“I do not want children.”

“Because of Kendrick or because of you?”

Winter’s eyes flicked to the woman in the sunflower-yellow dress, an indescribable urge taking hold of him. In another lifetime, he might have considered such a thing. If he didn’t revile his father so much. If his whole life hadn’t been about stamping out the insufferable Vance blood from his veins. He moved on to the next painting, one eye trained on the swatch of yellow.

“You know why.”

A firm hand grasped his arm and steered him into a deserted corner of the hall. “This is not the time or the place, but you have to let it go, Roth,” Westmore said. “Prue is dead. Denying yourself a family will not bring her back.”

“How dare you?” Winter seethed, yanking his body back.

“I dare because no one else will, you arrogant jackass. You don’t listen to Matteo, you barely speak to Ludlow, and now, you’re refuting a possible future of happiness with a woman you’re clearly obsessed with—and married to, might I add.”

“You know nothing.”

“I know enough,” the duke countered, keeping his voice low, though they were already garnering attention from others. “And I know you. Let it go, my friend, and allow yourself a chance to be fucking happy.”

Winter’s nostrils flared, fury pouring through him in hot waves. “Prue never got that chance, did she?”

Westmore loosed a breath, the pity in his gaze too much to bear. “So you’ll prefer to be angry and alone in some obscure way to punish yourself for failing her and in some fuck-you to your father, instead of being content with a wife and a family?”

“Yes,” he gritted out. “And don’t pity me. I choose this. For my mother. For Prue.”

A hand squeezed his shoulder. “We both know Prue would not have wanted this for you. It would have killed her to see your heart so consumed with bitterness.” He paused, obviously conflicted to go on. “And there are things about your mother you don’t know.”

“What are you talking about?”

Emotions chased across his face, but resolve remained. “I never told you but years ago, the duchess tried to seduce your father’s solicitor and she threw a fit when he refused her. Prue saw it all. That was when things took a turn for the worse. After Mr. Bell made it clear that he would