Page 51 of The Rakehell of Roth
Winter frowned. “It’s a simple question.”
“Running an errand, my lord,” Randolph burst out, his weathered skin the color of a pomegranate. “For special feed for her ladyship’s horse.”
“Very well. Why didn’t you just say so?”
“Apologies, my lord,” Randolph stammered with a bow. “Shall I give her a message?”
Her? Winter quirked a brow. Perhaps it was a mistaken slip of the tongue. The man seemed rather nervous. “No.”
Without wasting further time, Winter strode from the courtyard toward the house. He took the steps two at a time, not bothering to announce himself. It was becoming too much of a frequent thing, these troublesome visits to his father’s residence. First for Isobel, then for Oliver, and now for the duke. A handful of times in the last two weeks alone. It had to stop.
“Is the duke awake?” he practically growled at Simmons, his father’s butler.
“Yes, he’s in the breakfast room, my lord,” the man replied, his sphinx-like face giving away nothing, unlike Winter’s own butler. Ludlow could do with a lesson on minding his own business. The meddlesome servant had made no secret of the fact that he thought his master was lacking in his duty by ignoring his wife. But Winter had meant what he’d said to Isobel—he had no intention of changing his life.
Settling down.
Starting a family.
Becoming a duke.
His resentment bubbled over as he stalked through the pristine foyer toward the breakfast room. He wondered if Oliver was here and almost hoped that he was so he could crunch his fist into the worm’s face. Winter did not wait for Simmons to announce him before crashing open the door, his eyes finding the duke sitting at the table near the window, perusing neatly ironed newssheets.
“Lord Roth, Your Grace,” Simmons said, his voice holding a hint of reproach.
The duke looked up. “Ah, my prodigal heir,” he said, folding the papers. “Thank you, Simmons, that will be all.” Dismissing the two footmen in the room, Kendrick rose and walked to the mantel, where he poured two glasses of whiskey before glancing at Winter. “Drink?”
“It’s a little early in the day to imbibe, don’t you think?” Winter drawled, tugging off his gloves.
“Says who? The ducal police?”
Thatdry humor did not sound like his father at all. Winter stalled, a knot forming in his throat. When was the last time they had spoken? It had to have been years, and only by distant correspondence or via Oliver. And Winter knew he could only trust his brother as far as he could throw him.
He watched the duke lift the tumbler to his lips. “Why are you here in London?”
“Can’t a father want to see his son?”
“Answer the question,” Winter said.
“For my daughter-in-law’s sake,” he said without preamble. “She never had a season.”
His eyes narrowed. “She’s already married.”
The duke huffed a laugh when he resumed his seat at the table. “Is she? Because she hadn’t seen hide or hair of her husband in three and a half years. I suppose we both wanted to see if he was in good health.”
“You’ve seen that I am, so when are you leaving?” he asked with irritation, reaching for the second glass and downing its contents in one swallow. The liquor burned a scorching path to his suddenly unsettled stomach.
“Whenever Isobel is ready to leave.”
The sound of his wife’s name was like a blow to the chest. Winter turned and propped himself up against the desk. Though he could guess at his father’s reasoning for wanting him back in the fold—the man had always been about the dukedom, after all—he wanted to hear the truth from his lips. “What prompted you to accompany her?”
“It’s no secret that we’ve gotten close over the past three years.” A sad expression twisted his lips, his fingers flexing on the crystal tumbler. “In some ways, she reminds me of Prudence.”
The glass nearly shattered in Winter’s fist. “Don’t speak her name.”
“Same humor, same cleverness, same capacity to love the unlovable.” He eyed his fuming son. “Do you wish to throw that at me? Avenge your sister’s memory? Trust me, I’ve punished myself harder than you know.”
“She died because of you,” Winter seethed. “No one was ever good enough for you, so she ran away, right into the arms of a fortune hunting swindler.”
