Page 77 of The Rakehell of Roth
Dearest Friend, if you intend to enjoy the benefits and pleasures of conjugal love, communication is the cornerstone of any relationship.
– Lady Darcy
Isobel swiped her tears angrily away. Though she swore that she wouldn’t shed any more tears for Winter Vance, here she was doing just that. Sobbing as though she was the first girl in history to ever have her heart trampled upon by a cruel, unfeeling man.
God, he was a blackguard. A rotter. The worst kind of scoundrel.
And she was married to him.
“I hate him,” she whispered.
Her sister’s eyes met hers, compassion swimming in them. “I know it feels like you do at the moment, but you don’t. You’re just upset.”
“Don’t patronize me, Astrid.” Isobel sniffed. “I hate him enough to shoot him or strangle him with my bare hands. And that isn’t love, it’s assassination.”
The duchess laughed and patted her rounded abdomen. It was only by chance that she’d accompanied Beswick to London, given her advanced state of pregnancy, and had sent a note of her arrival to Isobel only that afternoon. Apparently, Astrid had insisted she was sick of the country, and because the duke was so besotted and couldn’t deny his wife, she was here for the week. Isobel couldn’t have been more grateful for her sister’s presence.
“Trust me, I’ve felt the same with Thane on more than one occasion. But those we love have a certain knack for getting under our skins.”
Isobel blinked. “I don’t love Winter.”
“Don’t you?”
“He’s a rogue without a heart,” she said. “There’s not much there to love, trust me. He doesn’t want me here in London. He doesn’t wantmeat all. I’ve lost track of how many times he told me to go trotting back to Chelmsford like a good, biddable pet.” She paused for breath. “And let’s not talk about that club of his. Goodness, if you only knew!”
“I know about The Silver Scythe,” her sister said.
Momentarily thwarted from her tirade, Isobel gaped. “What?”
“It’s Beswick’s social club of choice. He frequents it for the gambling.” A secret smile touched her lips as she caressed her baby bump, making Isobel’s jaw drop to the floor. “Though we’ve visited the private side on occasion. Eight months ago to the day, in fact.”
“Astrid!” Isobel’s cheeks flushed red. “Did you know Winter owned it?”
She shook her head. “News to me, and I’m your older sister, Izzy, not a nun.” Her lips curled with a pointed glance to her swollen belly. “Obviously.”
“I don’t need to know the sordid details of your love life!” She sipped her tea and pulled a grimace. “Gracious, don’t you have anything stronger? I suddenly feel the need to wipe these images of you and Beswick conceiving my newest niece or nephew from my brain.”
She was only half joking. Her gaze slid to Astrid’s bump, nearly obscured by the clever design of her dress. One wouldn’t guess she was with child unless one looked, but pregnancy made her sister radiant. Isobel was unprepared for the brutal stroke of envy that slashed through her. She’d always hoped for children of her own, but that dream was now well and truly out of reach.
“Shouldn’t you be entering your confinement?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Shortly, in a few weeks or so. I feel ridiculously healthy.”
Isobel frowned. “What made you want to make the journey to London?”
“No reason,” her sister said quickly and reached to pour a fresh cup of tea, though she was impeded by her protruding stomach. Isobel grinned and took the teapot from her, refilling both their cups. “Can’t a girl simply want to see her sister?” Astrid asked.
“Not when she’s about to pop, no.”
The duchess chuckled, though she avoided Isobel’s eyes. “I’m weeks away from popping, trust me. I needed a break from the tedium of North Stifford. In any case, Pippa was late in arriving. I assume this one will be as well. I am in no danger, other than being in constant need to relieve myself.”
“Whereismy darling niece?” Isobel asked. “Did she accompany you and Beswick?”
“No, though she was dreadfully disappointed to miss out. She’s missed you terribly.” Astrid peered at her over the rim of her teacup. “How has it been, besides your errant husband, of course? Have you seen anyone of note? Any familiar faces?”
It was a rather odd question. Who exactly did Astrid expect her to see? Isobel didn’t know anybody. She thought back to the time she might have glimpsed the Earl of Beaumont, and shook her head. It was no use bringing him up—it would only upset Astrid. Even if hewerehere, her sister had Beswick, and Isobel had the protection of Winter’s name, if not the man himself.
She sighed and thought about the rest of Astrid’s question. “The season hasn’t been what I expected. It’s exhausting for one. A never-ending carousel of balls and musicales and soirees, all designed to make a girl positively fed up. I miss the country and the fresh air, and being myself.”
