“Two thousand, four,” Vittorina said, a slight waver in her voice.
Isobel clenched her jaw. “Three thousand pounds.”
“Three thousand in the back,” Matteo said, dark eyes dancing. The bidding had already exceeded that of the Duke of Westmore. “Lady in green,” he said to Vittorina, who craned her neck to see who had the audacity to out-bid her while Isobel shifted silently out of her view. “What say you?”
“Three thousand, one hundred,” Vittorina said, though her throat bobbed nervously, her face going tight. Isobel didn’t know the ins and outs of bidding, but she knew how to read people, and the woman was visibly anxious about the sum she had just offered. Three thousand must have been her limit.
“This is my pond,” Isobel said to herself, and then louder, knowing she didn’t have to go as high as she did but going anyway. She was making a point, even if it was only to herself. Go big, or go back to Chelmsford. “Five thousand.”
The noise was thunderous as she shifted again from the spot where she’d called out the bid. The dark fabric of her clothing made it easy to slip through the crowds as people turned, desperate to identify the voice with the deep pockets. She saw Winter’s eyes combing the crowd, silver igniting the gray in the stage lighting so that they seemed almost feral.
She’d lowered her voice, but something deep inside her warned that he knew who she was and that he would find her. Slowly, Winter’s eyes panned toward her, and with every inch, her breath stuttered. Though she knew he could not see her clearly where she stood in the shadows, her heart fought against her ribs like a frantic beast. She felt it deep in her bones—that raw, elemental connection she only felt with him. Did it go both ways? Did he sense her on a soul-deep level as she sensed him?
“Do I hear five thousand, one?” Matteo asked, his face bright with glee.
No one spoke, but the energy and excitement in the air were palpable.
“That’s too rich for my blood,” Vittorina snarled. “I withdraw.”
Matteo clapped and rang a golden bell. “Sold to the mystery bidder in the back for the sum of five thousand pounds! Come forward, announce yourself, and claim your prize.”
The room simmered down to a whisper as the crowds parted. Isobel took a deep breath and stepped forward, keeping her head low so that her face wasn’t immediately visible. She felt it the moment Winter’s eyes landed on her, and for a second, she was grateful for the dim lighting. She kept her voice low, its tones deep, offering no further clue to her identity.
“I fear the only name I can give you for now, sir, is Lady Darcy.”
Chapter Sixteen
Make the beast with two backs. Shakespeare came up with that gem, not me.
– Lady Darcy
Winter cursed the crowd, the gloom, and Matteo in the same breath. While he was glad that Vittorina had been outbid, the sum he’d fetched had been beyond exorbitant, and he couldn’t bloody see who had made the tender. All he could make out was what looked like a slender young man dressed in black. After Matteo’s invitation for the bidder to come forward and make a claim, he’d heard the person say: I fear the only name I can give you tonight, sir, is Lady Darcy.
He’d almost groaned.
Just what he needed. Though this Lady Darcy, unlike the other courtesans, seemed to be garbed in men’s clothing. A Mister Darcy, then. Perhaps, it was simply a rich young man looking for guidance or advice. He’d been approached by such fledgling bucks in the club before. Matteo neared, and Winter’s irritation renewed. The man knew better than to accept such large offers…they’d long since learned that when it got to those levels, it was usually driven by something personal. With Vittorina, it had been, but he was unclear on the identity or motive of the bidder in black.
“Why didn’t you stop the bidding to confirm the identity of the last?” he growled under his breath. “You know the rules.”
Smile faltering, Matteo frowned. “You did not give me the signal that it was of concern or that the pot would be limited.”
That was true. He hadn’t. “Apologies, you’re right.”
How had Vittorina even procured an invitation anyway? Winter knew that a few of the sought-after invitations were sold off for small fortunes, usually by very desperate men. Some were stolen. Westmore always made it a point to track down the transgressors, taking great pleasure in making them pay in some way or another, which was a huge deterrent for thieves, but it didn’t always work.
Invitations were sent out to nonmembers only after careful consideration, and usually to those who had deep coffers and could afford future membership. Most of the peerage, especially the younger set, was obsessed about getting them. The names of the invitees were painted with a special watermark, but they’d been negligent about verifying names in recent years. Case in point were Lady J who’d won Westmore, Vittorina, and the mystery man in black.
Winter stood, aware that he was still being watched by an avid audience. The Duke of Westmore joined him on the stage. They both bowed to a thunderous wave of applause.
“Thank you for your patronage, esteemed guests.” The duke grinned. “And if you desire membership, your applications will be personally considered. As you well know, we are the only club in London that allows female membership. Coin is king—pay the tithe and entry to your greatest fantasies will be granted. For now, let the celebration begin. Explore, gamble, eat, drink, dance, and be merry, my friends!”
They left the stage, moving back to the salon adjoining the staircase leading up to Winter’s office. Winter tugged on his cravat, loosening the expertly tied cloth so he could suck in a lungful of air. Hell, he needed a drink.
“Well done, man,” Westmore crowed, clapping him on the back. “Five thousand is a fortune.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Has the bidder come forward?”
“Not yet, my lord,” Matteo said with an apologetic look.
A suspicious thought occurred to him and he slanted an arch glance at the duke. “Was this your idea of a jest?”
“No, of course not,” Westmore replied. “I’ve much better use for five thousand quid.” Winter let out a disbelieving noise. Five thousand was a drop in the bucket for the smug scoundrel, and they both knew it. Westmore paused, mouth twitching. “Though it’s a bloody brilliant idea. I should have thought of it, just to toy with you.”
“Did you put someone up to it?”
“Wish I did. Some other gentleman besides me is madly in love with you.” He faked a dramatic sigh. “I might have to call them out.”
“Did you see him?” Winter asked, ignoring his jesting.
“Side view,” Westmore said. “He was tallish, lean, dressed in black. Might have worn a wine-colored cravat. Young. Kept moving through the crowds in the back and he wore a hat so I couldn’t quite see his face.”
Winter wished he had gotten a better look. At the very least, his view had been fleeting. He had felt a vague sense of awareness as if he’d known the man. Then again, in his particular line of debauchery, he crossed paths with much of the beau monde and the demi monde. And he hadn’t gotten a clear look at the man’s face. Well, he would know soon enough.
A commotion at the door drew their attention as Vittorina shoved her way through, eyes spitting fury. Her face—one that Winter had once considered beautiful—twisted into an ugly sneer. “Did you get a look at your bidder? It’s a man.” Her vicious gaze turned sharp with spite. “Tell me, Roth, does your wife know of your peculiar tastes?”
“My tastes are my business,” he replied easily. “And we don’t suffer those seeking to spread shame here.”
Winter was about to order her removal from the club, when he was distracted by the presence of a new arrival. The man in black—the winning bidder. A discomfiting rush of visceral awareness hummed through him at the sight of a pair of scarlet lips and a slender but curved figure better suited to a siren than
a man. He blinked, his jaw falling open at the long legs encased in snug black trousers above a nipped-in waist and pert breasts, recognition hitting his gut and descending straight to his hardening groin.
Bloody hell if the mystery bidder wasn’t his fucking wife.
…
“This looks fun,” Isobel said into the sudden silence. She removed her hat, tendrils of blond hair falling into her face, and was rewarded with the satisfaction of seeing Vittorina’s face fall.
“You won the bid?” Winter burst out, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes.
She smiled, enjoying his expression, too, and the undisguised lust that had swept across his face the moment he’d realized it was her. “Is that any way to greet your wife, Roth?”
Westmore’s loud laughter cut through the silence as he moved forward with a bow. “You look ravishing tonight, Lady Roth, or should I say, Lady Darcy.” He shook his head, his eyes filled with mirth. “This cannot get any better.”
But of course it could, because Vittorina found her voice. She closed the distance between them, getting into Isobel’s space. “You do not know him like I do. He will come back to me.”
“So you’ve said,” Isobel replied easily, undaunted by the woman’s proximity or threats. “Though I’ve yet to see any evidence of him falling into your arms.”
“You’re nothing but a country mouse he was forced to marry!”
Isobel lifted a shoulder. “That might be so, but at least that’s a damn sight better than a woman who throws herself at a married man and can’t take no for an answer.”
Vittorina’s eyes flashed with rage as she stepped closer. “Who do you think you are?”
Isobel drew herself to her full height, putting steel into her voice. “I’m the Marchioness of Roth, a fact you seem to have forgotten, and I don’t like being threatened. Now get out of here before I have you tossed out on your arrogant, vain, unwanted arse. No one likes a sore loser.”
Westmore’s muffled snort was covered up by the sound of Matteo’s laughter as Vittorina whirled with an angry huff and left.
“That was marvelous, Lady Roth. Christ, the expression on her face was priceless. She didn’t expect the mouse to have teeth and claws.” The duke let out a guffaw as he strode to the door. “I better make sure she leaves and doesn’t cause trouble.”
Isobel perused the salon, noting the dumbstruck look on her husband’s face. She wanted to stick a finger under his chin and close his gaping jaw. In truth, his expression made her feel a hundred feet tall. Which led her to part two of this expedition—she had a wager to win. She cleared her throat, eyes flicking to Winter’s man of affairs.
“Matteo?”
“Yes, my lady?”
She inhaled a confident breath, still channeling her inner Lady Darcy. Clarissa would be proud. “I wish for a moment with my winnings.”
Matteo’s grin was wide. “As you say, my lady.”
And then they were alone…well, alone, surrounded by hundreds of people in the club, any of whom could walk into the salon at any moment. Isobel didn’t care. There was only Winter. His gaze lashed to hers, and she almost quailed at the intensity of the conflicting emotions in them—shock, disbelief, humor, and most of all, lust. Bolts of heat shot through her as an answering desire coiled down her spine to settle between her legs.
Her core throbbed as their eyes locked, only intent on each other. The longer he stared at her, the more her body reacted. Her chest constricted painfully, the pulse between her thighs intensifying to dizzying levels. She shifted, the seam of her trousers rubbing against her sensitized skin and making her shudder.
Isobel licked her dry lips, her husband’s eyes fastening there and darkening instantly.
“Winter.”
“Come with me,” he rasped.
He turned and climbed a nearby staircase that led to a small well-appointed workspace. “What is this?”
“My office?”
She blinked her confusion. “Your office?
“Westmore and I own The Silver Scythe,” her husband said.
Well, that was news to her. In truth, it made her feel a little better if he’d been spending his nights here, and not in the private rooms she’d seen downstairs. A large paned-glass panel looked over the floor below, offering a bird’s eye view of the club. Shucking her coat, she scanned the space, curious for more insight into her enigmatic husband. It was pristine, boasting a large desk, plain but plush carpets, and a sofa along the length of one wall. Framed art and objects hung on the wall, adding splashes of color and culture. From his travels, she assumed. A framed sketch in pencil and charcoal drew her attention.
She let out a gasp as she recognized the subject of the portrait—it was Winter, sprawled in a chair in all his bare-chested glory, wearing only a cloth designed to look like a fallen leaf. It was entitled Adam in Winter.
“That was Lady Hammerton’s handiwork,” he said, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “Drink?”
“Yes, please,” she murmured, her eyes tracing over the fine lines and the intricacy of the light and dark shading, and then froze. “Did you say Lady Hammerton?”
“The very same.” He chuckled and handed her a tumbler. “She and your aunt Lady Verne are quite the pair. She sketches erotic nudes while her partner in crime is obsessed with needlepoint, specifically crocheting the male phallus.”
Isobel let out a bark of laughter, grateful she hadn’t yet taken a sip or she would have spewed liquid everywhere. She recalled Astrid mentioning something like that, but Isobel hadn’t taken her seriously. “Those two are incorrigible.”
“Gifted, too. I can vouch for Lady H, though I’ve yet to see evidence of Lady V’s talent. However, Matteo has been a model and I’ve been told her work is rather…precise.”
Isobel laughed and her gaze fell back on the drawing. Lady Hammerton had nailed the squareness of Winter’s jaw, the strong line of his nose, and the sinful curve of his lips, hitched in a sensual half smirk. Isobel’s gaze traveled down the slope of his shoulders to the expertly drawn bare chest. Each muscle was painstakingly detailed, down to the dark indent of his navel and the angled vee of his lower abdomen. Isobel’s mouth went dry at the obvious hint of what lay under the scrap of fabric, and she blushed furiously.
“She’s quite good,” she said.
“She’s a wicked old harridan who couldn’t stop telling me how much she wished she were in her younger years so that she could put me through my paces.” He sipped his drink and stared at her over the rim of his glass. “I’d never felt like such a piece of meat about to be gobbled in my entire life.”
“Did she?”
He arched a brow, propping one hip on his desk. “Did she what?”
“Gobble you.” Her tongue slipped out to lick dry lips, and his eyes burned silver. Good Lord, if he kept looking at her like that, she was going to make a fool of herself.
His eyes might have set her on fire, but he stayed put and shook his head. “Said she didn’t seduce married men.”
Isobel blinked. “Wait, this was recent?”
“She was last year’s winner.”
It shouldn’t have been possible, but parts of her grew hotter and wetter. The scintillating thought that Winter might still look like that, only in the flesh beneath his clothes, was virtually impossible not to latch on to. And now, all she could think about was seeing him sprawled careless and indolent for her greedy perusal.
“I have to admit,” she said, gaze panning between him and the portrait. “I never thought I’d be jealous of an old lady.”
“Are you?”
She nodded. “Categorically. But I think it’s time we remedy that, don’t you?”
Consumed by a burst of lust that made her knees weak, Isobel moved away from the voluptuous portrait. She set down her whiskey and prowled over to the desk where her husband stood
, not stopping until she was wedged between his long legs.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a low rasp.
She took his drink and drained the rest, licking her lips with a smack that made him inhale sharply. “Claiming my hard-won prize.”
“Hard-won? With my money?” Winter laughed, the vibrations from his body rumbling into her, though he held himself like a statue. His hands now gripped the edges of the desk with such force that his knuckles went white. She smiled. Glad to see she wasn’t alone in her ungovernable reactions where he was concerned. Isobel resisted the urge to rub herself against him like a cat.
“I assure you, it’s my own money.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where did you get it?”
Isobel couldn’t tell him about Lady Darcy, not without Clarissa’s approval. Or the fact that they’d made quite a fortune from the popular periodicals, which would account for the five thousand pounds she’d so easily squandered for one night with her marquess.
It was time to collect. Time to bring her husband to heel.
Instead of answering, she pushed to her toes and sealed her mouth to his.
Chapter Seventeen
Dearest Friend, if you wish to learn about marital congress, also known as sex, tupping, fucking, prigging, basket making, rutting, rogering, strapping, or swiving, among others, go listen to a bawdy song. They are filthy but instructive.
– Lady Darcy
The silken press of her lips made Winter come unhinged.
One palm slid up her waistcoat-covered back, the other cupped her thigh beneath the tantalizing curve of her buttock, both holding her firmly in place. Those fucking trousers! They had made him wild with arousal to see those long, shapely legs so indecently outlined in that black fabric. He’d been sporting a mongrel of an erection the moment she’d taken off that hat and his brain had made the connection between voice and body.
The minute she had walked into the salon downstairs and he’d felt that first visceral, unmistakable tug, he’d known who she was. The bloody cheek of her! He should have put her over his knee the moment they were alone, but alas, she was in charge. Those were the rules, after all, and the time to say anything to the contrary was long past.
The Rakehell of Roth Page 18
