Page 47 of The Rakehell of Roth
Oliver’s nostrils flared, but the hesitation that passed through his eyes was enough for Winter’s wrath to flare. “An earl. A business acquaintance.”
“You’re hiding something. I see it written all over you.”
“I would not hurt a woman.”
Winter’s fists clenched, itching to pummel his brother’s pursed face. “Well, too fucking bad because Clarissa was stabbed.”
“Stabbed?” he whispered. “How badly? Where?”
Oliver’s reaction was almost comical, and if Winter was in a more rational state of mind, it would have struck him sooner that his brother’s distress hadn’t been for Isobel…it was forClarissa. It was obvious that he harbored feelings for her. Deep feelings, if his horrified reaction was any indication. Given his response to the news, he would not have deliberately put either of them in danger.
It was the sole thing saving him from Winter.
“In the arm,” he said. “She’ll be fine if infection doesn’t set in.” Oliver went white, the blood draining from his face. Winter took brief satisfaction in seeing his coldhearted brother actually feeling some emotion for once, but then took pity on him. “Westmore is seeing to her and we’ve summoned Kendrick’s physician. They should be here shortly.”
The breath of relief Oliver exhaled was real. “Oh, thank God.”
Winter turned to stalk from the room, but then stopped at the door. “You might not have had a hand in this, Oliver, but Kendrick won’t be able to save your sorry arse if I find out you were in any way involved, mark my words.”
Chapter Twelve
Don’t carry a torch for a man who does not want you. It makes you look desperate and gauche. Have some pride and set your sights elsewhere.
– Lady Darcy
After the exhibition, the following days went from bad to worse in the form of one buxom Italian heiress, Lady Vittorina Carpalo. An utterly unwelcome blast from Winter’s past. He hadn’t seen Vittorina in years, not since his time in Italy. She was spoiled and vain, and didn’t care whom she had to ruin to get what she wanted. A handful of years ago, that had almost been Winter, and he’d only managed to escape her clutches by the skin of his teeth.
But now, here she was…on his brother’s arm, crossing Vauxhall Bridge, heading into the gardens for the latest grand gala, with Isobel strolling a few feet away in deep conversation with Kendrick. The whole thing stank, and it wasn’t a question of how, it was a question of why.
Whywas she withOliver?
Irritation hummed beneath the surface as he followed them past the pavilions and lush lawns with their marble statues and pillars, heading toward the supper boxes. Most of the lamps that made the gardens so special had not yet been lit—they would be following a whistle during supper when night fell—but the orchestra was already playing in the nearby rotunda.
Normally, Winter enjoyed visits to Vauxhall, considering the less than starchy atmosphere and the mix of social classes, but tonight he felt on edge. Not only because of Vittorina’s unwelcome presence, but because of Isobel. When Ludlow had informed him that Lady Roth was accompanying the duke and Lord Oliver to the gardens, Winter had been torn.
He did not want to be anywhere near his fatherorhis brother.
But he also wanted to keep an eye on his wife.
He had meant to stay away from Isobel, after ensuring that both she and Clarissa were healthy and well. The physician had pronounced Clarissa extremely lucky that the knife hadn’t been a few inches lower or deeper. As it was, the cut hadn’t needed stitching and had already closed on its own. Clarissa being Clarissa wore her wound proudly, loving the attention and the fact that she’d been in a knife fight. When Winter had drily remarked that being in a knife fight required actual fighting, she’d rolled her eyes and told him to mind his own business.
Isobel, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. She’d refused to leave Clarissa’s side, and Winter knew that it was only because of Clarissa’s insistence that she would be fine with the twins that Isobel had even ventured out at all. As far as he knew from servant gossip, it was the first time she’d been out in days.
Only to be pitted against a viper among women.
Christ! What had Oliver been thinking bringing Vittorina here? The question was, did his brother actually know who Vittorina was? It could be an unfortunate coincidence, but the truth was, he wouldn’t put anything past his brother, despite believing his innocence in the attack at the gallery. This could still be a ploy to discredit him in the eyes of their father…or worse, Isobel.
There was only one way to find out.
“Roth, darling, how lovely to see you!” Vittorina squealed when he joined them.
Winter had to hand it to her. One would think they’d held each other in great esteem or knew each other intimately with such a greeting, when their parting had been one of threats and physical violence. The only thing he wanted to do was shudder with revulsion as her cloying perfume filled his nostrils.
His gaze flicked to Isobel, who watched the scene unfold with wary curiosity. His father’s face remained inscrutable, though a brief emotion that Winter couldn’t discern flickered in his eyes. Winter had long given up trying to read the man—or trying to please him—so he simply ignored the duke and faced the raven-haired jezebel prowling toward him.
“Lady Vittorina,” he said, grasping her hand to keep her at arm’s length. “What a surprise to see you here in London.”
“Why so formal,Winter?” Calculating dark blue eyes met his when he bowed instead of kissing her knuckles. “And by the by, soon it will be Countess,” she said with a tinkling laugh that grated on his every nerve. “I’m betrothed, you see. To a British earl.”
