Page 7 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Those sorts of things,” Isobel repeated. “He fought aduel, Clarissa. Over Contessa James of all people.”
Clarissa pulled a face. “Maybe he’s acting out,” she suggested mildly.
“He’s a grown man. How much acting out does he need to do?”
“Men mature differently than women,” her friend replied with the patience deserving of a saint instead of her usual speak-first-think-later temperament. “And he’s never recovered from his sister’s and mother’s deaths—you also know that as well as I do. Everyone knows that it left him in a terrible state. It’s the reason he and the duke don’t get along.”
“Grief shouldn’t make a man an absolute steaming arse-rag.”
Clarissa’s eyes sparked with reluctant approval, her mouth twitching at the inventive slur. “Shouldn’t have taught you to swear, either.”
“You shouldn’t have taught me a lot of things.”
Clarissa was the daughter of the Duke of Kendrick’s private solicitor, Mr. Bell, and the youngest of six, the other five all boys. From the moment she and Isobel had been introduced nearly three and a half years ago, they’d been inseparable, and everything Clarissa learned from her rambunctious brothers, she’d taught to Isobel.
And that meanteverything.
Isobel had been so sheltered that when the incorrigible, boisterous, and entirely too bold girl had asked her with a saucy grin if she wasup the pole yet, her eyes had gone wide and her mouth had gaped. “It only takes one time, you know,” her new friend had said knowingly. “To get with child.”
“No,” a scandalized Isobel had stammered. “I don’t think so.”
“What were his kisses like?” A curious stare had followed. “Did you stick your tongue in his mouth?”
“No!”
“Then you’re doing it wrong.”
Isobel had stopped blushing after the first life lesson—one involving how babies were made. That had been eye-opening, to say the least. Not that she hadn’t had a thoroughly erotic introduction to marital relations with her own clodpole of a husband, a union which had not borne any fruit of the newborn variety. By design, she’d learned since, as the marquess had withdrawn and spilled in the sheets. Perhaps, that, too, had been a blessing in disguise.
Though deep down, Isobel did not deny wishing for children of her own and a family to care for one day, blessing in disguise or not.
Thank God for Clarissa, the only light in what had promised to be a lonely and dismal existence. From then on, her self-ordained best friend had encouraged her to ask her anything, as inanything. And since it was much too shameful to voice certain inquiries out loud, Isobel chose to pen secret letters to which Clarissa provided answers in lewd, graphic, and gleeful detail.
After the first letter asking about what it was like to truly kiss a man, the impish Clarissa had replied with a scandalous masterpiece dedicated solely to the vagaries of kissing, including tongues, spit, and fish-faced puckers that had made the two girls dissolve into irreverent giggles.
Eventually, what had started out as naughty but instructive letters between friends had turned into a surprising windfall. Isobel’s sister Astrid, an authoress herself, had taken one look at the stack of scandalously frank correspondence, burst into laughter, and sent them off to her publishing man of affairs. While Astrid mostly published essays about women’s rights with the steadfast support of her own husband, her visionary publisher had seen opportunity with theDearest Friendletters. That had been the start ofThe Daring Lady Darcy.
All anonymous, of course.
Said publisher didn’t want to go to prison.
Lady Darcy’s instant success had taken them all by surprise. As it turned out, wicked advice to ladies of quality had been a shocking novelty, and the modest publication had risen to instant notoriety. From recipes to fashion to needlepoint, to physical and emotional intimacy, to scandalous erotic advice, there was no stone left unturned, no subject left untouched. The frank periodicals flouted decency, but readers were greedy for more.
“I should write Lady Darcy a letter on disemboweling unsuspecting husbands,” Isobel said, then with a grin, she added, “And hiding a body without getting caught.”
Clarissa cackled, eyes sparking with glee. “I’d have to do some research, but why not? I bet our readers would love that. What do you think of ‘A Lady’s Guide to Mariticide’?”
Isobel laughed with her friend, the hottest part of her anger draining away. She could always count on Clarissa to make her smile.
Thundering hooves interrupted their amusement.
“Your ladyship!” A panting groom rode out to meet them.
Isobel schooled her features into calm. “What is it, Randolph?”
“His Grace is in residence!”
Oh, good Lord, she had completely forgotten her father-in-law’s arrival!
