Page 50 of The Rakehell of Roth
Minutes or an eternity passed before he tore himself away, panting. Isobel fought back a blush at the passionate intensity of their kiss. Anyone could have stumbled upon them, and despite the fact that Vauxhall Gardens was a favorite rendezvous for lovers, it was still public. From the nearby moans coming through the hedges, however, they weren’t the only couple stealing a moment for themselves.
Silence spun between them, and then suddenly another whistle blew in the distance, indicating that the lamps that made the gardens so famous were about to be lit. Isobel glanced up as the first of the hanging multicolored lamps above them chased away the encroaching dark, followed by another and then another.
The full effect was magical, illuminating the trees like a fairy-tale wonderland. Trailing her gaze, Winter glanced up, his heartbreakingly handsome face outlined in flickering blue and yellow light. His thumb brushed against her sore bottom lip.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he agreed, though Isobel knew he wasn’t talking about the spectacle of the lights. She could feel his gaze trained on her. Her eyes met his, her throat tightening at what she saw there. Recognizing the melting desire in his eyes, she fought the urge to push to her toes and seal her mouth back to his, which made his next words a slap in the face.
“You need to go back to Chelmsford, Isobel. You don’t belong here.”
Stung, she recoiled. How could he be so cruel after the intimacy they’d just shared? But from his cooling expression, she saw the interlude now for what it had been—he’d been kissing hergoodbye.
“And Lady Vittorina does?” she shot back bitterly.
“This has nothing to do with her,” he said.
“Then what does it have to do with, Winter?” she bit out. “The fact that you don’t want a wife in London putting a crick in your plans?”
“No.”
“Why? Because you kissed me and that scared you?”
His eyes glittered, jaw going tight. “Because I don’t wantyouhere. Vittorina’s presence only opened my eyes. I can’t change and I will never be the husband you want.”
The snarled words gutted her. Isobel poked him right in the middle of his chest, ignoring the way his eyes flared or the fact that his muscles were hewn from stone. She was beyond caring about decorum at this point. She was already too far gone to stop herself.
Too furious. Too jealous. Toohurt.
“You are a heartless bastard,” she snapped, “and I wish I’d never met you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Love is a competitive sport. Play or be played.
– Lady Darcy
She hated him.
He’d hurt her unconscionably. But it had to be done. Vittorina’s presence had been a much-needed kick in the gut. She’d lied about being with child and almost trapped him, and now for whatever reason, she was here in London. Her appearance, though unwelcome, was the brutal reminder he needed that women could not be trusted. His mother was right—he could not let his guard down—and he foolishly had with Isobel.
Thinking back to what Westmore had revealed about his mother and her indiscretion, Winter frowned. The only way the duchess would have had any reason to be unfaithful would have been because of the duke…because she’d been driven to it. Maybe Prue hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen. Maybe she’d made a mistake. Either way, it didn’t change what he had to do now.
Confront Kendrick.
It was disgustingly early, but he did not care. Winter scrubbed a rough hand through his hair for what seemed like the hundredth time and yanked on the cravat that was slowly but surely strangling him. Dismounting his horse in the mews behind Vance House, he threw the reins to the waiting groom. Randolph, or Randy, as Iz had cheekily called him.
His eyes scanned the mews for the young, scarred stable boy. Oddly, he’d taken a liking to the impertinent lad. The boy spoke his mind, and it was obvious that Randolph had his hands full with him. He’d caught the older groom scowling in their direction more than once.
The boy was a lowly groom, but he strutted around like an upper servant, and he had no qualms about talking to a lord of Winter’s stature or reputation. He made a mental note to ask Beswick about him—the boy had mentioned being in the duchess’s employ before becoming Hellion’s caretaker. Winter wondered how bad the boy’s facial scarring was. If it was anything like the Duke of Beswick’s, he could understand the need for the covering. But he was of the distinct impression that the boy had bigger secrets.
“Where’s Iz?” he asked Randolph.
“Iz, my lord?” The man’s throat bobbed, brown eyes popping comically.
“The boy, the young pup who takes care of Hellion.”
The groom’s mouth fell open, his eyes shifting to the house in a panic. “Um…er…I…”
