Page 99 of The Rakehell of Roth
And then the rest of the story spilled out of her—how she and Clarissa had met, the start of the correspondence, the interest from her sister Astrid’s publisher, the anonymous publication to protect their reputations, and their cosmic rise to success. Winter’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t countenance a word of it. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed plausible. Isobel’s wit and intelligence were present on every page. Clarissa’s as well. His own cheeks warmed as he thought of several particularly irreverent pieces on carnal pleasure.
Good God, his wife’s mind was just about as debauched as his.
Dazed, he exhaled and reached for his forgotten tea. “What’s the next confession?” he mumbled. Mentally, he prepared himself, though nothing could be more shocking than what he’d just learned.
“I think I’m with child.”
This time, the unfortunate mouthful of tea shot across the table and splashed onto the windowsill. Wiping his mouth, Winter blinked at her, the uncertain, tremulous expression on her face driving him to his knees as he crept over to where she sat, his large hands spanning her flat silk-clad waist in wonder. “Truly?”
“I was due to have my courses when we first arrived here, and well, we’ve been so busy, I hadn’t noticed I’d missed them,” she said, her hands falling to his shoulders. “I think it happened when you came to collect me at Kendrick Abbey. Are you upset?”
Upset? Winter’s heart was beating so hard, it was about to burst through the narrow confines of his chest and throw its devoted self at her feet. His smile was so wide, it felt as if it might split his face into two. “I am the luckiest man on earth.”
“I’m so glad,” she burst out, flinging her arms around his neck.
Her lips found his and it was some time before they spoke again. By the time they broke apart, Isobel had joined him on the plush carpet, both their robes had been discarded, and they were both panting from mutually enthusiastic exertion.
“Not that I wish to give myself premature heart failure,” Winter said, propping to one elbow. “But are there any more secrets I need to be aware of?”
“Just one more.” Her fingers trailed down his damp chest. “That old wishing well of yours works.”
“How so?”
“Because you were right. It did know my deepest thoughts and desires, even before I knew them myself. It gave me everything I asked for—it gave me you.” Her beautiful eyes met his as her mouth curled into a mischievous smile. “I love you to the stars and back, Winter RidleyValiantVance.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Living happily ever after is not a fairy tale. The point is tolive.
– Lady Darcy
If happiness could be measured in tender looks and kisses, Isobel would be the richest woman in the world. They hadn’t tapered in the least, not when she and Winter finally descended from their love nest, not in the carriage on the way to Kendrick Abbey, and not through most of the dinner the duke had hosted in their honor.
Isobel was about ready to melt in her chair from the intense, scorching looks Winter had been sending her all evening. She hadn’t been joking when she’d teased him about being insatiable. Not that she was complaining…though it made things highly uncomfortable when all she wanted was to climb onto the lace tablecloth and offer herself up as a dinner course. As it was, her body was dreadfully damp and the scoundrel knew it.
Kendrick stood and cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s eyes. “I know that it’s proper for the men to retire to the library for a cigar and a brandy while the women withdraw to the salon, but if it pleases you all, I’d rather keep my family and friends close to me for as long as possible.”
Mouths practically dropped open in unison. The Duke of Kendrick breaking propriety was a momentous thing.
He laughed, a deep belly laugh that made Isobel feel light. “Come now, it’s not as though I suggested mounting a siege to rescue Napoleon.”
“Close, though,” the Duke of Westmore muttered, and even Oliver nodded.
“Brandy for everyone,” Kendrick said. “Or sherry if the ladies are so inclined.”
“Cigars, too, Your Grace?” Clarissa piped up from where she sat. She and Isobel had once filched some of the duke’s finest to do research for Lady Darcy, and had nearly suffocated themselves in the process.
“If you wish it, Clarissa,” the duke agreed benignly.
Winter shot Isobel a bemused look as though he couldn’t quite recognize this relaxed version of Kendrick with the father he’d known. It was true—the man was different, even more so ever since he and his son had reconciled. This breach in decorum, clearly, was a consequence of his new philosophy…sometimes, some rules needed to be thrown out the window.
Glasses were delivered, brandy and sherry poured, and cigars distributed. Isobel refused both, given her delicate condition, though she grinned to see that Violet was game enough to try. Molly, however, shook her head at her with no small amount of disgust. Oliver gave Clarissa a defeated look, knowing that nothing he could say would deter her. The two of them as a couple still made Isobel giggle, though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Oliver so happy. Clarissa, either. However, when they fought, the world knew it.
“A toast,” the duke said, lifting his glass of brandy. “To my daughter, Prudence, who should have been here with us. She is dearly missed.”
“To Prudence,” most everyone chorused, with the exception of Westmore, Isobel noted. After a moment, he lifted his glass, his mouth shaping something that looked likePrue, and then he drank. Within moments, however, his face relaxed back to its casual mien.
“I have an announcement,” Oliver said, shoving his seat back. His hairline was dampened and his face had gone the color of thinned milk. “Well, perhaps more of a question. A request, rather, that is if the lady is amenable and if she isn’t then, well, there won’t be an announcement. Oh, sod it, you twat,” he muttered to himself, and then dropped to one knee. “Miss Clarissa Bell, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? If you’ll have me?”
