Page 45 of The Rakehell of Roth
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 knowyou. 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 go to the duke if she didn’t cease her advances, the duchess tried to discredit him, but Kendrick wouldn’t hear of it.”
“You’re lying.”
“And then she punished poor Prue for no reason at all, simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Why haven’t you told me this before?”
Westmore shrugged. “Because Prue asked me not to. She didn’t want you to lose your mother’s love as she had.”
“Do Clarissa or her brothers know?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Agape, Winter stared at his oldest friend, shocked to the core at the revelations, but before he could answer, a commotion from the other room reached them. A high-pitched scream filtered through the air, and then he was pushing past the duke, his long legs taking him around the bend to where the crowd was the thickest. His eyes searched desperately for yellow and found none. Relief was fleeting. The odds were slim that Isobel or Clarissa were in that mêlée, but he had to make sure.
His heart shriveled as he heard the sound of Isobel’s voice. “Help. Get help, please!”
Fear punching through him, Winter shoved through the crowd with Westmore on his heels. He was mad with worry, growling at anyone in his path. “Get out of the way, for God’s sake, or I will remove you bodily, so help me.”
The violence in his voice must have done the trick, because the throng parted, and the sight that greeted him nearly made the strength drain from his body. Both Isobel and Clarissa were on the floor, but it was the sight of the red staining Isobel’s ivory gloves that made his throat close. “Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?”
“It’s not my blood,” Isobel said, her eyes wild with terror. “It’s Clarissa’s.”
Westmore took charge, calling for a constable and keeping the crowd at bay, while Winter skidded to a crouch beside the two women. There was a short but deep scratch on Clarissa’s upper arm. Uncaring of being in public or propriety, he ripped his cravat from his neck and pressed it to her wound. She winced but didn’t make a sound, even as he wrapped and tied the white cloth around the injury.
