The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,58
a father want to see his son?”
“Answer the question,” Winter said.
“For my daughter-in-law’s sake,” he said without preamble. “She never had a season.”
His eyes narrowed. “She’s already married.”
The duke huffed a laugh when he resumed his seat at the table. “Is she? Because she hadn’t seen hide or hair of her husband in three and a half years. I suppose we both wanted to see if he was in good health.”
“You’ve seen that I am, so when are you leaving?” he asked with irritation, reaching for the second glass and downing its contents in one swallow. The liquor burned a scorching path to his suddenly unsettled stomach.
“Whenever Isobel is ready to leave.”
The sound of his wife’s name was like a blow to the chest. Winter turned and propped himself up against the desk. Though he could guess at his father’s reasoning for wanting him back in the fold—the man had always been about the dukedom, after all—he wanted to hear the truth from his lips. “What prompted you to accompany her?”
“It’s no secret that we’ve gotten close over the past three years.” A sad expression twisted his lips, his fingers flexing on the crystal tumbler. “In some ways, she reminds me of Prudence.”
The glass nearly shattered in Winter’s fist. “Don’t speak her name.”
“Same humor, same cleverness, same capacity to love the unlovable.” He eyed his fuming son. “Do you wish to throw that at me? Avenge your sister’s memory? Trust me, I’ve punished myself harder than you know.”
“She died because of you,” Winter seethed. “No one was ever good enough for you, so she ran away, right into the arms of a fortune hunting swindler.”
Kendrick sighed. “You won’t believe me, not after all this time, but nothing on earth could have stopped her from running away with that man. She was already lost to us.”
Winter growled with rage. “You could have done something.”
“Prudence was determined to ruin herself. Your sister was willful, you know that.” He drew a shattered breath, his voice thinning. “She’d discovered our deepest secret, you see.”
“What was that? That you were a shitty father?”
“The only regret I have, Winter, is that I didn’t tell you the truth sooner.”
Winter expelled a hollow laugh. “What goddamn truth? That Prue was an addict? That Mother cuckolded you because of what you did to her? Westmore already told me about Mr. Bell, but I don’t believe a word of it. You never loved her.”
“That’s not true, Son.”
“Enough, Kendrick.”
Winter swore foully under his breath. He’d had enough—all his father’s truths were lies. He had no thirst for more. He needed a ride, a round at Gentleman Jackson’s, something, anything to offset the tension coiling inside of him like a mindless beast.
He strode from the house to the mews, only to run into a familiar reedy figure tightening the cinches on his wife’s horse. Winter resisted the urge to look for Hellion’s mistress. He hadn’t even thought to ask for her, so focused he’d been on talking to the duke. Perhaps she was out.
“Heard you were looking for me,” Iz called out in a cool voice.
“Another time,” he snapped.
But true to form, the young groom ignored him, giving the mare one firm pat before stopping to level him with a stare Winter couldn’t see from beneath the brim of his cap. “I was about to take Hellion out for a gallop. You look like you could use one. Race you to the end of Rotten Row, old man. Winner calls the forfeit.”
Winter’s muscles bunched in anticipation. A bracing gallop was just the thing.
He mounted his horse while Iz mounted his, and they cantered together through Mayfair in silence until they came to the southern end of Hyde Park at the start of Rotten Row. It was much too early in the day for any real crowds, and by the time they arrived, Winter was a mess of undiluted nerves and conflicting emotions.
What truth could the duke possibly have to tell? What didn’t he understand?
Besides, what difference would it make now? For him. For Prue.
“Ready,” the boy said. “Steady. Go!”
And then they were off. Winter let himself go in the moment, giving in to the pure physicality of controlling a thousand pounds of racehorse muscle flexing beneath him. His purebred Arabian kept pace with Hellion, but Winter couldn’t help marveling at the lad’s skill on his wife’s horse. The two of them moved as one like the wind.
One day, he hoped to see Isobel put the mare through her paces. It was a