Page 14 of The Rakehell of Roth
HersandClarissa’s.
She was not alone in her written crimes of passion.
Although living in Chelmsford had kept her insulated from the ways of theton, even Isobel wasn’t that green not to know that other highborn wives carried on discreet affairs when their husbands were away. The Countess of Mead, a headstrong woman, often boasted of her countless lovers, most of them her own footmen. Even that had been addressed in one of Lady Darcy’s letters—cuckolding one’s husband, a piece cleverly entitled “When the Cock Crows” that had scandalized men everywhere. The ladies had loved it.
But despite the occasional pang of latent desire from her written exploits, Isobel had no desire to make a cuckold of her husband. Atonement for his behavior, however, was another matter. Winter Vance needed to be taught a lesson, and in spite of her inexperience, Isobel wasn’t a shy, naive girl anymore. She had an arsenal of information at her fingertips. Education in lieu of experience was one of life’s greatest weapons.
Fate had given her a crate of lemons. She planned to drown her scoundrel of a husband in lemonade.
A commotion outside her bedchamber made her sit up just as the door burst open. “Rise and shine, my dearest friend,” Clarissa cried gaily, followed by Violet and Molly. “We have gowns to purchase, hearts to slay, and deviant husbands to torture!”
“Not us,” Violet grumbled. “We’re still in mourning for Papa. Though we do plan to live vicariously through you two, won’t we, Molly?”
“Not me,” Molly said. “I intend to lose myself in the library and live vicariously through the pages. I should have stayed in Chelmsford.”
“You don’t mean that.” Violet glared at her sister, and then turned back to Isobel. “Come on, Izzy, time to get up. Unlike Miss I-Love-Books-More-Than-People, I expect a full fashion show and all the details once you return.”
“What do you have against books?” Molly yelled.
Isobel groaned, burying her head anew beneath the mound of pillows. “Must you all be so loud?”
“Of course we must.” Clarissa dragged the bedsheets to the side and then shoved open the curtains to the muted sunlight. She waved to an army of maids who bustled into the room. “You have an appointment with Madame Pinot for a fitting this afternoon.”
Violet let out a delighted shriek, which made Isobel cover her ears.
“She is very hard to get in to see,” Violet gushed, “but apparently, people move mountains for the Duke of Kendrick, and the chance to dress the mysteriously reclusive Marchioness of Roth, sister to the very outspoken, very contrary Duchess of Beswick.”
“Wonderful. I loathe fittings.”
“Liar.” Clarissa poked her in the side. “You love fashion.”
It was true. Isobel had always loved perusing the latest in women’s couture, even though Chelmsford offered little in terms of entertainment, besides the occasional social assembly. Now that she had the chance to choose and wear some of the newest trends, she should have been thrilled. Instead, she only felt uncertainty. The emotion must have showed on her face, because Clarissa sat on the edge of the bed and squeezed her arm.
“Think of the plan, sweeting. A woman’s style is part of her armory, and we must make sure yours is especially fitted for the occasion.” Clarissa leaned in, her voice a whisper for Isobel’s ears only. “Embody Lady Darcy. Make us proud.”
“Lady Darcy isn’t real,” Isobel whispered back.
She huffed with an aggrieved look. “Nonsense.”
“You’re taking this much too seriously, you realize,” Isobel said, sitting up and rubbing her head. The brandy she’d hunted down upon arrival at Vance House hadn’t helped much to put her to sleep but had left her with a throbbing headache.
Clarissa winked. “Take that back, wench. I’ll have you know I take sexual gratification very seriously.”
“Goodness, Clarissa, the servants!” Molly said, glancing at the nearest maid who had gone pink-cheeked.
Isobel, too, was sure her face bore the same color. It was a common occurrence in proximity to Clarissa, who lived to shock and titillate. Though Lady Darcy was an amalgamation of the two of them, the character’s predilection for the obscene came from Clarissa.
“Three years is a long time by anyone’s standards, Izzy,” Clarissa went on with a dismissive wave. “At least that’s what my brothers say. It can cause physical deformation for a man supposedly. In coloration, too.”
Isobel’s mouth dropped. “You are jesting.”
“I never jest about sexual organs.”
One of the maids made a choking noise.
“Clarissa!” both twins burst out.
Her eyes sparkled as she winked, waggling her eyebrows. “I happen to be an authority on the subject.”
