Page 39 of The Rakehell of Roth
Fuck, he should have instructed Matteo to dress her in a sack. Though he had a sneaking suspicion that his wife would make that look appealing, too. And that tantalizing mask that drew attention to her piercing eyes and luscious pout. Hell, it made him want to see her in it alone, wearing nothing else. As a result, he’d been as hard as stone even before her sultry honeysuckle scent had filled the carriage. For him, the short ride had been torture.
Thank God, she hadn’t wanted to talk, because he was sure he would have spouted a load of nonsense. By the time they arrived, however, he had composed himself enough to remember his manners, offering his arm as he led her into the marble foyer of the sumptuously decorated converted mansion. He was particularly proud of his little club, which he’d bought years ago with the Duke of Westmore, and together they had transformed the place from rundown supper club to extraordinary, invitation-only oasis for the wealthy and connected. No expense had been spared for comfort. Or pleasure.
Membership was thriving and business could not be better. One day, he hoped to offer Kendrick a grand tour of what went on behind closedprivatedoors. The duke would keel over. His brother, too. Oliver only knew of the non-secret part of the club, though the fact that a duke’s son was a gaming hell owner galled both of them to no end. Never mind that the establishment brought in hundreds of thousands of pounds. Vice was a profitable business.
Instead of entering the main hall after divesting themselves of their cloaks, Winter led Isobel up a side staircase barred by a black velvet rope. A silent man stood there, who let them pass without a word. Winter saw his wife worry her lip with her teeth, and he hid his smile. Good, she was uneasy. He wanted her to be. They reached the top of a jutting alcove that looked over much of the first floor.
Following her wide-eyed stare, he let his gaze trace the decor, feeling another surge of pride as he took in the rich fittings of the gaming room—felted card tables, mahogany furniture, and thick-piled Persian carpets. Elegantly dressed men and women occupied the space, some playing, others mingling. Most of them were easily recognizable, since none of them wore masks. It wasn’t required, not in this part of the club.
People came to The Silver Scythe to see and be seen—the crème de la crème of the aristocracy. Lords, ladies, princes, princesses, maharajas, sultans, politicians, old money, new money. Wealth was power, and the power in this room spilled from it like overflowing wine.
“Would you prefer to use another name while we are here?” Winter asked his silent wife, though her eyes were drinking in every detail below.
She blinked owlishly up at him, her pale blue eyes glittering like gems from the depths of the purple mask. “Why would…oh!”
“You don’t have to, but some of our more reticent members prefer to have anom de guerre,if you will.”
“Lady Darcy,” she said without pause.
Winter wanted to laugh. Isobel was the furthest thing from the infamous Lady Darcy. For one, Lady Darcy would be dripping in confidence, armed only with her wits, her charm, and a smile. He also itched to tell her that there were likely already at least three such named women in attendance below, given the rage for the anonymous author.
He arched a brow. “Youknow who Lady Darcy is?”
Blue eyes met his with a hint of fire in them. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“And yet you still choose that name?”
Isobel came to a halt, forcing him to stop at her side, just in front of the supper room where tables were set with sparkling crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and the finest of china. She took a minute to scan the room, her expressive eyes flashing with admiration. “Does that shock you, my lord? That a lady of my delicate sensibilities would read such a scandalous periodical?”
“Not at all,” he said as he turned them down a wide velvet-paneled corridor. Winter nodded to the enormous man guarding the door at the end, and they were granted entry. “One has to learn somehow. She’s as good a teacher as any, I suppose.”
A blush of color rose in her cheeks. “She is rather blunt.”
“Refreshing, I would counter.”
Isobel peered up at him. “Are you an admirer, Lord Roth?”
“Of Lady Darcy?” he asked and she nodded. “I find her wit and candor energizing, though I suspect that the true Lady Darcy is an old biddy with nothing but time on her hands and a wealth of stories beneath her belt, giving advice to poor unsuspecting misses. There are bets in the betting book at White’s and here as well as to her identity. Some say she’s a man.”
“Truly?” She shook her head, a small smile playing about those plush lips. “I disagree,” she went on after a protracted look. “I think Lady Darcy is newly married with a scoundrel of a husband, and she invented hernom de plumeas a means of curiosity and escape.”
Now it was his turn to stare, one eyebrow rising. “A bit close to home perhaps?”
“You don’t believe she could be me?” Isobel asked.
This time he did laugh. Loudly. Enough to draw the attention of several masked guests sitting in tucked-away alcoves. As he steered them past after a brisk nod of greeting, Winter glanced at his wife’s lovely features visible beneath the mask, sweeping down her neck to her swelling décolletage. The rich color made the silver flecks in her eyes glow and the creaminess of her skin seem even more luminous.
“No,” he said finally.
“Why not?”
He led her down another mazelike hallway, this one lit with golden sconces and set with paintings of a distinctly erotic nature. He wondered if she’d noticed. Winter paused in front of a particularly suggestive garden scene by Thomas Rowlandson. He didn’t have long to wait before the sweetest gasp left her parted lips, her eyes arrested on the piece.
A pink tongue darted out to wet her lips before a quivering palm rose to rest on her breast. Her skin turned a delectable shade of pink as he bent forward, his mouth so close to her ear that he could feel the heat of her skin.
“That’s why,” he whispered. “You’re much too innocent, little beauty.”
…
