Page 18 of The Rakehell of Roth
Isobel shook her head. “Not anymore.”
“And you are her groom?”
“In training, milord.” She paused. “For Mr. Randolph over yonder.”
“What’s your name?”
“Iz. Like the verb.” Isobel almost swore and inwardly kicked herself. Lowly servants wouldn’t know the first thing about grammatical concepts, but luckily, he was too distracted to notice her slip. Winter was staring at a man who was heading toward him, rage in every ground-covering step.
Isobel’s heart sank as she took stock of the arrival. Oliver. She was already pushing her luck with one Vance brother. Two of them together spelled disaster. To her gratitude, Randolph had returned to her side, and she shifted behind him just as Oliver swung a wild punch at his brother’s face. Winter moved out of the way, his eyes glinting dangerously.
“What the hell was that for?” he snarled.
Oliver shoved the end of a cheroot in his face. “This was the culprit that started the fire. The brandyoufavor.”
“Along with half the gentlemen in London.” Winter arched an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe, brother, that that cigar end survived when half the mews did not? I’ve been here breaking my back to save the building and all the horses.”
“Getting the authorities,” Oliver snapped.
Isobel snuck a glance at Winter’s face and almost recoiled at the leashed violence she saw there. “And no,brother, I was not here smoking in the mews, so whoever started this fire either had something to prove or another agenda. Where wereyou?”
Oliver’s face went puce. “How dare you? Are you suggesting—?”
“Enough, Oliver, I’m too tired to argue.” Winter cut his brother off with a weary gesture. “I arrived earlier to check on my two horses stabled here—with Kendrick’s permission, might I add—only to discover a corner of the mews already on fire.”
“And Lady Roth?” Oliver couldn’t help taunting in a smarmy voice that made Isobel want to kick him right in the teeth. “Did you come to see her?”
Notwithstanding her deep-seated urges to take her odious brother-in-law to task, Isobel was also curious as to what Winter’s response would be, and was prepared to make a mad dash for the house to change into a gown should he answer in the affirmative. She was disappointed, however, when the marquess ground his teeth, turned on his heel without a word, and walked back the way he’d come.
Apparently, such a trifling question did not even deserve a response.
Chapter Five
If in any doubt of your own dancing skills, depend on exceptional manners and witty conversation. And be free with your compliments. Men adore hearing how wonderful they are.
– Lady Darcy
Ensconced in the opulent card room at The Silver Scythe, Winter stared at his current hand of cards and decided to fold. He was bored out of his mind. Perhapsboredwasn’t the right word.
He was agitated, anxious, on edge.
Rattled.
All because his wife was in town. His gorgeous, desirable, and unwelcome wife whose name had been on everyone’s lips for the better part of a week. And she was on the best of terms with hisfather, of all people.
Winter had wrongly assumed the straitlaced Duke of Kendrick would take one look at the green country girl with no outstanding lineage that his disappointment of a son had married and purse his lips in everlasting disgust. Instead, he’d done the opposite and taken her under his wing. Winter hadn’t expected them to become allies, let alone come to London together for the season.Thatwas simply not cricket. The development had blindsided him.
Notwithstanding the tiny fact that his wife had turned into a deuced temptress.
Even now, his blood fired at the thought of her.
“Roth,” the Duke of Westmore said, clapping him on the back. “Surprised to see you here.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” Winter drawled, staring in disgust at his new hand of cards, which wasn’t any better than the last. His luck had turned and landed in the communal chamber pot, along with what was left of his flagging humor.
“Saw your lady wife over at the Beddingford bash. She looked spectacular. The fops have already proclaimed her an original, an incomparable, this season’s everything.” Westmore’s grin was all teeth. “Wherever have you been hiding her?”
Winter experienced an urge to punch the man in his smirking mouth, and then caught himself. He must be out of sorts. Wulfric Bane, the Duke of Westmore, was one of his longtime friends and didn’t deserve missing teeth because Winter couldn’t seem to control himself whenever anyone mentioned his wife. Her beauty, her charm, her bloody incomparableness.
