Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d leaned forward.
“Roth,” she said, eyes going wide with alarm. “What are you doing?”
“I want to kiss you.”
Her cheeks bloomed, though fury still burned in her eyes. “Get ahold of yourself. You’re foxed, and this is neither the time nor the place. You might be the notorious Rakehell of Roth, with scandal and vice as your playground, but I beg you, do not shame us both.”
“You shouldn’t care what people think.”
“That’s just it, Lord Roth, maybe you should.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and left him in the middle of the ballroom floor. After a moment, he gave a jaunty bow to the unapologetic onlookers and strode away, ignoring the stares and the whispers. He was used to them. No doubt the gossip would be flying that his own wife had given him the cut direct. No more than he deserved, he supposed.
“That went well,” Westmore said, handing him a glass of water.
“Where did she go?”
The duke arched a brow. “Retiring room.”
“I’ve bungled it, haven’t I?” Winter muttered, downing the water. “She’ll despise me forever.”
Westmore smirked. “Can’t be any worse than how much she despises you already.”
“Fair point.”
He directed a waiting footman to bring him another glass of water, which he drank thirstily. The cumulative effect of four days of drowning his misery was taking a hard toll. But staying drunk had been the only way he’d been able to stop thinking about Prue…and Kendrick…and Isobel.
God, he was a sorry sack of shit. He didn’t need anyone. He never had. No matter what one sweet-mouthed, sharp-eyed angel made him feel, it was weakness, pure and simple.
And weakness could not be tolerated.
Chapter Fifteen
Use your mouth. Well, for those things, too. But what I mean is tell him what you’re going to do, how you’re going to do it, and what you did, in explicit detail. He’ll love it.
– Lady Darcy
A few days later, with barely two weeks left for her to win the wager, Isobel huddled with Clarissa in her bedchamber staring at the invitation on black cardstock with golden script. All it listed was a date and time, The Silver Scythe, and charity auction & masquerade beneath it. The thick card even had a special watermark on it, possibly to deter counterfeiters.
“Where did you get this?” Isobel whispered. “This looks fancy and exclusive.”
“I stole it from Oliver’s room.”
Isobel met her friend’s eyes. “What were you doing in Oliver’s room, Clarissa?”
“Having a tea party, what else?” she replied with an eye roll.
“I think tea is a euphemism for something else with you two.” Isobel stifled her snort. “We might have to title Lady Darcy’s next letter: ‘Adult Teatime, a short treatise on how to take one’s tea, how to pour, and how to swallow like a lady.’”
She didn’t see the pillow coming at her face until it was too late and she almost choked on her laughter. She sobered as she sat up and retrieved the fallen invitation. “Won’t Oliver miss this?”
Clarissa bit her lip. “He’s a little under the weather this evening and has taken to his bed early. I saw it the other day when we were…er…never you mind what we were doing, but I figured since he wasn’t going to use it tonight, you could go in his place.”
“Wait, did you steal this invitation from the duke’s son?”
She threw a dramatic hand to her chest. “Theoretically, it’s not really stealing if he isn’t physically able to go, is it? It’s more like bequeathing the invitation elsewhere. You’re like his second, standing in for him.”
“This isn’t a duel, and using fancy words like bequeath doesn’t change the fact that it’s thievery.”
“Fancy words categorically help.”
Pursing her lips, Isobel shook her head at her friend’s resolute face and stared down at the fancy cardstock, her fingers tracing over the edges. The idea of going back to the club was a titillating one, but there would be risks, unlike when she’d gone with Winter before. Still, a hum of excitement rose in her belly.
“What if Oliver wakes, feels recovered, and decides he wants to go?”
Clarissa grinned. “Then I shall use my imagination and distract him thoroughly. Don’t worry, dearest, I am never without a plan. And it’s always sisters before misters.” She patted Isobel’s shoulder when she didn’t smile back. “Trust me, from what I saw earlier, he’s not going to be in any shape to go out. You’re safe.”
“I don’t know about this, Clarissa. What if they know it isn’t mine?”
“They won’t.” Her friend bit her lip as though she had more to say, and then blew out a breath. “You have to go Isobel. I think that Italian woman is going to be there. Oliver told me that when they were at Vauxhall, she asked him about some special charity auction at The Silver Scythe. I think this might be it.”
“Why would Oliver tell you that?”
“Because I was digging for information on that hussy, what do you think?” She rolled her eyes skyward. “I asked him if her fiancé expected him to escort her anywhere else, and then promptly forbade him from doing so.”
Isobel blinked. “And you didn’t think to mention anything before?”
“You weren’t exactly in the best frame of mind after that outing, if you recall.” She shot her a wry look. Isobel had spent the entire next day in bed with chocolates and wine, being convinced by Clarissa and the twins of the benefits of not murdering her husband. “And honestly I didn’t even know he had an invitation.”
“It might not even be the same event.”
Clarissa sniffed, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Even if it wasn’t, put it this way…if that woman somehow managed to attend what is purported to be the most scandalous auction of the year at your husband’s club, and you were not there, consider how you would feel.” She waved the card like a precious trophy. “However, say there’s one invitation about to fall into the palms of your sticky little hands, are you going to use it? Or are you going to turn tail and cower, and let some other jade paddle in your pond?”
“Harsh, Clarissa.” Isobel winced at the choice of words, given that they were exactly what Winter had said about her hightailing it to Chelmsford.
Her best friend grinned. “I serve it cold.”
“Revenge?”
She smiled. “Truth.”
“So, you’re saying I should protect my pond?” she asked.
Clarissa nodded. “Yes, definitely protect the pond, and most of all, bring that man to heel. He deserves to know what he’s given up. Isn’t that why you came to London in the first place? Well, here’s your chance to win that wager and walk away with your head high.” She grinned. “And make some tea while you’re at it.”
“You’re obsessed with tea.”
“All women are, even if they won’t admit it,” Clarissa said sagely. “Tea meaning sex, obviously.”
Isobel stuck out her tongue. “I know what you mean.”
“So, do you want this invitation or shall I put it back where I found it?”
Isobel drew a deep breath and reached for the black rectangle. “Never let it be said that I am a quitter. I have a wager to win.”
Which was why exactly two hours later, Isobel found herself garbed in the very strange disguise of a female—albeit somewhat androgynous—highwayman. From the top of her wide-brimmed black hat, to the simple black cravat, ebony satin waistcoat, and raven superfine trousers and coat, to the tips of her polished boots, she exuded an air of mystery. Her blond hair was coiled into a knot at the base of her head, tucked into the hat, and her lips were painted a deep scarlet.
She stared critically at herself in the mirror. “I look like a walking riding crop.”
<
br /> “You are bloody gorgeous, woman,” Clarissa said. “Mysterious. Sultry. The epitome of Lady Darcy.” She wiped a mock tear from her eye. “Our precious, dirty little darling out in the world. God, our sweet baby grew up so fast.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Isobel said with a giggle. “Are you certain you don’t want to change your mind and come with me?”
She shook her head. “The invitation doesn’t specify additional guests. We risk discovery and not getting in at all if two of us show up with one invitation. Best to play it safe just in case. I’m expecting a full account when you return.”
“What will you do?”
Clarissa shot her a wicked wink. “Make tea.”
“Oliver is ill.”
“That part of him isn’t.”
“There’s something truly wrong with you,” Isobel said as a discarded chemise came flying toward her face.
“Good thing you love me.”
Dodging the projectile, Isobel laughed wryly. “I do.”
…
Sitting in his private office in The Silver Scythe, Westmore shot Winter his trademark smirk, only this time it made Winter want to punch him in his blindingly white teeth. “Soldier up, Roth. Let’s see if you can go for half of what I got last year.”
Winter rolled his eyes. The annual charity auction of gentlemen at The Silver Scythe was in full swing. While he had no quarrel about being auctioned off to a horde of hungry heiresses with money to burn, he couldn’t be bothered to make more than the barest ounce of effort. They were lucky Matteo was willing to pick up the slack.
Three days’ growth of stubble had made Winter take on the appearance of a buccaneer and his valet had insisted on a top to bottom groom. Now, hair neatly trimmed, face shaved, nails buffed and polished, and dressed in formal togs, he was the epitome of polished lordliness.
“Lord Roth. Your Grace.” Matteo swept in, dressed to the nines with his usual elegance, tailored black trousers paired with an open crimson robe, and gold paint adorning his bare, muscular chest. The effect was as intended—completely shocking. “It’s a packed house tonight. We are almost ready to close the evening’s auction. All the others are completed.”
“Jesus, Matteo.” Westmore gave a mock groan. “The women aren’t going to bid a farthing for us humdrum Englishmen with you parading around in that.”
The man grinned and winked. “I can always dress you in some borrowed fare, Your Grace. Not to mention some body paint would do the trick. I’m sure the women would die for it. Your musculature is perfect.”
“Next year,” the duke promised.
“Devil take it, get a chamber, you two,” Winter growled.
“What crawled up your arse, Roth?” Westmore asked.
Not a what. More of a who. But he didn’t say anything. He had no idea why he was so irritable. Based on the monies tallied from the earlier auctions by other members, they were on track to exceed last year’s donations to the shelter house in Seven Dials. He should have been pleased, but for the past few days, everything had felt out of sorts. Nothing seemed to matter.
And he knew exactly why.
After Vauxhall, Winter had distanced himself. There was no way he could give Isobel what she wanted. A husband who could love her back. Children. Hope for a happy future. She wanted a fairy tale, but Winter wasn’t the hero of their story, even if he’d pretended to be once upon a time. The truth was, he was the villain—the evil lord who imprisons the princess.
“Do you think Lady Hammerton will be back this year, Roth?” Westmore asked. “She was the only reason you won last year, if you recall.”
Winter shrugged, shoving his dark thoughts away. The notorious lady had paid an astronomical sum for him to sit for some portraits. Nude. Well, partially nude. He’d had to wear a large leaf-like cloth over his genitals. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he’d learned a lot from the raunchy, high-spirited widow, which was why he knew she couldn’t be Lady Darcy. She’d also mentioned that she admired the chit, whoever she was.
In any case, it was Westmore’s year to win. Since the inauguration of the first charity auction, they’d been neck and neck from year to year, pegs above all the other gentlemen.
“May the best man win,” he said.
They didn’t have many rules, but those they had were strict: no sexual conduct unless by consensual agreement and no breaking the law.
Winter watched from the sidelines as Matteo introduced the duke. The noise was deafening. Winter might be a rogue, but Westmore was in a whole other league. Within minutes, the bidding war had escalated into the thousands, with shrieks of excitement and anger punctuating the chatter. He almost laughed as Westmore strutted his way like a preening peacock across the stage at the end of the cavernous ballroom. It was a wonder the man was still unwed, but he’d never seemed interested in marriage.
A long time ago, Westmore had been a friend to Prue. In hindsight, his sister’s death had hit the man hard, though Winter had been too wrapped up in his own anguish to notice. That was when he’d buried his heart and swore to never let anyone in.
Perhaps Westmore had done the same.
“Sold,” Matteo shouted. “To the lady in the scarlet cloak, Lady J.”
Winter’s eyebrows crept up as the woman walked forward to complete the transaction. If he wasn’t mistaken, the woman calling herself Lady J was actually Lady Jocelyn Capehart, the unmarried daughter of the Duke of Tyne. Her family and Westmore’s had been at odds for decades. What was she doing here? His eyes met Westmore’s and the surprise in them mirrored his. Nonetheless, she signed over the payment and it was a binding contract, meaning Westmore was hers for one night.
There was no time to dwell on it, however, as Matteo waved Winter out. Cheering filled his ears as he stalked across the stage, welcoming his guests with a smile. Even though it was a masquerade, some people chose to dress up, others chose to dress down, others wore magnificent costumes, and a daring few chose to wear the smallest amount of clothes possible. Everyone was encouraged to be themselves, or use other identities, if they so desired. As a result, there were quite a few Lady Darcys in the crowd.
Winter bit back a smile at how many of the so-called Lady Darcys resembled courtesans. He was still of the mind that Lady Darcy was part of the upper crust and wouldn’t be caught dead at an assembly like this. Or maybe she was here…in disguise, wearing a symbolic mask like the rest of them.
…
Isobel’s heart was pounding against her ribs as Winter appeared on stage.
God, he made her blood sing.
Tall and intimidating, the man was a handsome-as-sin devil, his brown, freshly trimmed hair falling carelessly over his brow, those piercing gray eyes scorching through the crowd. A small smirk graced his full lips, reminding her of how they’d felt on hers. Isobel clenched her thighs together, cursing the tight fabric that made her feel everything.
Every layer, every seam, every ridge.
She’d arrived with enough time to view a few of the last gentlemen up for auction. Many of the members, both male and female, had auctioned themselves and their services earlier, from what she could tell. The gentlemen auction, however, was the crème de la crème, and the last two to be auctioned would be Westmore and Roth.
Matteo bowed low. “As our last gentleman of the evening, I am honored to present Lord Winter Vance, the Marquess of Roth. As you can see for yourselves, Lord Roth is physically fit, can carry a passable tune, loves a glass of whiskey and a good book, enjoys wit and conversation, and is skilled in all the ways that count.”
Isobel couldn’t control the helpless clench of her thighs at the sultry smirk on Winter’s face.
Matteo shook his finger back and forth at the squeals and sighs in the rapt audience. “However, as you all know, unlike the Duke of Westmore, Lord Roth is married and as such, his services tonight will be restricte
d at his discretion. He also reserves the sole right to reject any bid.”
To Isobel’s surprise, those statements didn’t dim the enthusiasm. If anything, the sighs multiplied. Did the many hopefuls in attendance expect to convince the marquess otherwise?
“The bidding will start at one thousand pounds,” Matteo said.
“One thousand, one hundred,” an excited voice called out.
Another hand flew up. “One thousand, two!”
Isobel’s eyes widened, a shocked giggle bursting out of her as she recognized the bidder. Good gracious, was that Lady Hammerton? The woman was ancient, but she lived with uncommon exuberance. It had been at her house party in North Stifford where she and Winter had exchanged marriage vows over three years ago.
Though Clarissa had explained that the scandalous auction was for charity, she couldn’t help wondering what the winners did with their prizes. The majordomo had said that the gentlemen had right of refusal and the activities weren’t carnal in nature, but she wasn’t so sure, given the looks on some of the bidders’ faces. What in God’s green earth would Lady Hammerton use him for? It boggled the mind.
“Two thousand.”
Heads turned in the crowd at the eight-hundred-quid leap, and Isobel gritted her teeth once the overconfident bidder came into view. Vittorina. Of its own volition, her gaze flicked up to her husband. The only sign he thought anything at all was the beat of a muscle in his cheek. She saw him glance at Matteo, but the man was too busy working the crowd into a frenzy, extolling Lord Roth’s considerable virtues.
“Two thousand, one hundred,” Lady Hammerton shouted.
An undaunted Vittorina tossed her head. “Two thousand, two.”
Isobel frowned as the noise in the room swelled. The woman was out to win. She squared her shoulders, armed only with a name and a promissory note, and shifted into the rear of the room where the shadows cloaked her.
She cleared her throat. “Two thousand, three.”
“Too much for me,” Lady Hammerton said, though a knowing smile played over her lips as their eyes connected for a scant instant. Isobel cursed and hunched her shoulders. Had the old harridan recognized her?
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