Page 38 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Not much, though apparently it’s been a pastime of Prinny’s lately,” Clarissa said. “All rather hush-hush of course. Rumor has it that he’s been a frequent visitor to Marylebone where he visits with a woman by the name of Theresa Berkley and her merry band of mistresses.”
Isobel’s eyes widened as Molly and Violet gasped and covered their mouths. “Truly?”
“You three are actually surprised?” Clarissa scoffed. “That roué will do anything in the pursuit of pleasure, even being flogged while tied to a wooden steed.”
Molly’s mouth fell open. “Now you’re jesting.”
“Heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“Which horse? And how did you manage to do that?” Violet asked. Isobel was curious, too. It wasn’t like men were open about bawdy talk in front of gently bred ladies.
Clarissa grinned. “Easy. I told Harold he had no idea what a Berkley Horse was, and of course, he went straight to Derrick who couldn’t wait to set him straight about the nature of a good flogging. A bunch of gossiping fishwives, my brothers.”
Isobel shook her head. “One of these days, they’ll catch you, and what will happen then?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, they are a boundless treasure trove of salacious information.”
“Forget your brothers, you twits,” Violet said with breathless exasperation. “Open the boxes so I can see the dress beforeIhave to flog someone!”
Isobel sniffed as she reached for the first of the boxes and opened it. She parted the sheets of delicate fabric. “No one’s flogging anyone. That’s not my cup of tea and it shouldn’t be yours, either. It’s not proper.” Though it didn’t explain why ribbons of heat curled through her veins and converged in an insistent pulse between her legs. She ignored it and lifted the delicate gown from its confines.
All of them let out matchingoohs.
The dress was fit for royalty. Yards and yards of rich satin the color of shimmering amethysts gave the illusion of liquid movement. The stitching was so fine, the seams nearly invisible. Tiny seed pearls and crystals adorned the bodice and the hem. It was almost too lovely to look at, much less wear. The other boxes contained a pair of slippers, ivory gloves, a cloak made of some velvety-soft fabric, and an intricate mask.
She pulled it out. Designed in shades of purple to match the glimmering hues of the dress, feathers and diamonds studded its stunning surface. It would cover half of her face, shielding her identity from view, and for that she was grateful. Unlike the usual masks, it did not have a handle, but a pair of silk ribbons that were meant to tie around her head.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” she murmured aloud, pressing the racy mask to her face and feeling a different kind of heat diffuse through her body.
Clarissa moved to stand beside her, humor replaced by solemnity. “Then don’t. You’re in charge.”
“But then I lose.” She bit her lip, a finger tracing one violet plume. “I’m here to make him grovel, and if I can’t even wear this dress, what hope do I have of winning this ridiculous wager I’ve made to have him begging for my attentions?”
“You can do this, Izzy,” Clarissa said. “And you have us behind you all the way. Show that husband of yours who wears the trousers!”
“This is a gown and I’m in over my head,” she said, staring at her three friends.
“Then you swim,” Violet said brightly.
Molly frowned. “Or sink.”
“Shutup, Molly!” Clarissa and Violet cried in unison.
But they were both right—one of the two would happen. Isobel stared at herself in the nearby mirrored glass, barely recognizing herself beneath the mask. As rakish as he was, Winter would never let any real harm befall her nor would he suffer her reputation to be ruined. If she had to guess, this outing was meant to teach her a lesson and have her running back to Chelmsford.
She’d been the one to throw down the challenge, after all.
Now she just had to strap on her big-girl stockings and see the wager through.
Chapter Ten
Dearest Friend, the erotic art of Mr. Thomas Rowlandson provides a wealth of practical instruction. Gather your smelling salts and your pearl necklaces. Do not say I did not warn you.
– Lady Darcy
The vision in violet ascending the steps of The Silver Scythe could not possibly be real. Winter had been unable to form any coherent sentences since he’d collected her at Vance House. In the carriage, apart from a soft greeting, she had remained mostly silent. Nerves, he gathered. He felt them, too, batting around in the pit of his stomach. Though he had no inkling of whyhewas nervous. This was meant to unbalanceher.
But the minute he’d seen her, the tables had turned.
