Page 52 of The Rakehell of Roth
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 challenge to keep up with Hellion and her whippet of a groom, and just the effort Winter needed to grind his surging emotions to dust. Still, Hellion and Iz took the race easily by several lengths, and when he caught up to them, the lad chortled in triumph, pumping a fist into the air.
“Feel better?” Iz asked, trotting briskly past to cool down the lathered horse.
“Well done, you.” Winter shrugged and pushed a smile to his face. “Thanks for the race. I needed that, so thank you.”
“What’s wrong?”
He swallowed, his throat working, the words spilling out of him. “I had a sister. She died.”
…
Isobel wanted to weep at the unguarded, vulnerable agony on Winter’s face, and before she could help herself, her fingers had reached over to tug on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, milord. Death is never easy.”
“Are you familiar with it?” Winter asked, his gaze snapping to her hand.
Flushing, Isobel snatched it away. “Both my parents are dead.” She blinked, worried about her impulsivity or that he might make the obvious leap to connect the similarities between his wife and Iz. She hadn’t exactly been creative with her nickname. Winter might be distracted with his own concerns, but he wasn’t stupid. “Consumption,” she added swiftly, fighting a blush at the lie and grateful once more for her cloth covering.
The truth was her parents had died in an unfortunate carriage accident. Her sister Astrid had been convinced that it’d been foul play—an attempt by their unscrupulous uncle to inherit their father’s vast fortune—but nothing had ever been proven. Their uncle’s efforts to marry Isobel off to Beaumont had sharpened their suspicions, though he had not been successful. And his niece had married the intractable, complex man perched on the horse beside her, instead. She resisted another urge to touch him, keeping her hands firmly on Hellion’s reins.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Winter said.
