Page 71 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Very well, but it’s not what you’re accustomed to, and you may see things that might harm your sensibilities.”
She firmed her jaw. “You might be surprised, Lord Roth, at what I’ve seen. I’m not a wilting daisy who swoons at the slightest provocation.”
Looking at her, all arctic rage and a spine of pure iron, he could believe it. There were things he was learning about his wife that made him question whetheranythinghe knew about her was accurate. He wanted to discover everything about her. And that was a dangerous want. Lusting after her body was one thing; being seduced by her courage or compassion or intelligence was a slippery slope he had no intention of nearing.
With a nod, he took her elbow and unlocked the door, ushering her into the spare but clean foyer of the building. An enormous man limped toward them, and Winter felt Isobel tense at his hulking appearance. Creighton was a pugilist who had had his jaw broken outside of the ring in an attempt to rig a prize fight, and beaten to within an inch of his life.
Astoundingly, Winter had found him alive in a pool of his own blood, left to die. He’d saved the man’s life, and Creighton had been loyal ever since. As porter, he was the only man allowed on the premises, tasked with the responsibility of protecting the vulnerable inhabitants from any forced entry.
“Forgot something, milord?”
Winter shook his head. “No, Creighton. This is…Lady Roth.”
The man’s eyes popped wide, his huge body forming a clumsy bow. “Milady.”
“He’s the overseer,” Winter explained. “Keeps the riffraff out.”
He led her down the corridor to a large staircase. It was a far cry from the dirty streets outside, and instead of rot and unwashed bodies, smelled faintly of antiseptic and clean linen. The soft murmur of voices wafted down the white-painted hallway from the rooms upstairs.
“Is this a hospital?” she asked, her eyes darting into some of the well-lit, clinical-looking rooms off the main hallway.
“No, but a doctor visits on occasion, should the need arise.” He drew a breath. “It’s simply a place for women and children to feel safe when they have nowhere else to go, or when they need help.”
A gasp left her lips. “There are children, here?”
“Sometimes. We try not to separate them from their mothers.”
Before she could form a reply, Winter guided her into what appeared to be a small salon. A maid curtsied and dashed out of the room, mumbling something about fetching a pot of tea. Isobel shook her head, but he didn’t stop the servant. He was usually the only visitor here, apart from the shelter’s constant trickle of residents.
“You fund all of this?” she asked.
He shrugged. “The auctions do for the most part. The money is put in a trust that’s managed by Matteo.”
“I thought Matteo was your man of affairs?”
Winter shook his head. “He also handles The Silver Scythe and other investments. He does what he wants when he wants basically.”
The maid returned with a tea tray, and though he knew Isobel wasn’t in the mind for tea, she thanked the girl sweetly. Her hands shook as she poured, though the minute she took a sip, she seemed to settle. She took several more before replacing the teacup on the tray and clearing her throat. “You built this for Prudence?”
Winter flinched, even knowing the question would be forthcoming. “She died from too much laudanum, and no one saw the warning signs. She was depressed, fearful, and had developed an unhealthy dependency. I was too late to help her. Westmore found her in a hovel covered in her own vomit and filth.”
Pain brimmed in her eyes. “I am so sorry.”
Winter exhaled. “Thank you. She got involved with a fucking opium eater who only wanted her money.” He swallowed his fury, though he noticed that Isobel didn’t so much as flinch at his oath. “I bought this place so that women like Prue can get help if they need it. To them, it could mean the difference between life and death.”
“That’s very noble of you.”
“It’s atonement,” he said. “I wasn’t there for her when she needed me.”
Isobel held his gaze, those pale blue eyes softening. “Is that why you’re so closed off?” she asked. “Is that why you won’t make this marriage a true one? Or want a family? It’s because of her, isn’t it?”
This had nothing to do with his sister. It had to do withhim. If he couldn’t protect his own sister, how the hell would he be able to protect anyone else? The only real motivation for this marriage was to protect his inheritance, he told himself firmly. “When Prue died, my heart died, too. There’s nothing left of it. Not for you, not for anyone.”
He watched her elegant throat swallow back what he could only assume was hurt at his cruel words, but she still reached for him. “Shutting everyone out isn’t the answer. Me, Kendrick—”
“Don’t,” he snapped. “You don’t know him.”
She advanced on him, not quailing at his temper. “No,youdon’t know him or what he’s been through, or what he feels because you don’t care to know. You’ve shut him out just as you’re trying to shut me out because it suits you.” She let out a shuddering breath. “Well, it doesn’t bloody suit me! What about what happened between us, Winter?”
