Page 54 of The Rakehell of Roth
Dratted masks. They were everywhere.
It was fast becoming an absurd metaphor. Or perhaps a warning, one Isobel wasn’t heeding. Or maybe simply, this was the season for masquerades and they were the latest rage in theton, because here she stood sipping a glass of lukewarm ratafia at yet another ball, garbed in a gown that cost more than a groom could make in a year, and yes, hiding behind a curved piece of gold-dustedpapier-mâchéattached to a rod.
Curse her life.
“Where’s your marquess?” Clarissa asked, lowering her own mask.
“How should I know?” she muttered back.
“Testy, are we?” Her friend grinned. “Turns out I know exactly what’s needed to fix what ails you. It involves hard, climbable muscles, sweet nothings”—she cut off dramatically—“better yet, no talking, though lots of nudity, sweaty skin on skin, panting—”
“Clarissa!” Isobel hissed. “We’re in public.”
“It’s loud, and besides, no one is paying any mind to us.”
But that wasn’t exactly true, Isobel noted sourly. The guests had been staring at her from the moment the majordomo announced her arrival on Oliver’s arm. Of course, the gossip fires had ignited shortly afterward, speculating as to Lord Roth’s whereabouts and whether his wife was having a secret liaison with his brother.
Kendrick had cried off tonight’s invitation, citing fatigue, but insisting that she and Clarissa attend, and he’d given Oliver a clear order to escort them. To Isobel’s surprise, Oliver had acquiesced without a fuss. Which reminded her…
“What’s going on between you and Oliver?”
Clarissa’s eyes popped wide. “I beg your pardon.”
Her gaze narrowed on her friend. “You turn rigorously polite when you’re trying to hide something. Don’t forget I know you.”
Cheeks pinkening, Clarissa’s mouth opened and shut, causing Isobel’s suspicions to heighten. “Nothing. He’s been solicitous since the incident at the gallery. He brought me tea.”
“So thereissomething going on? You wretch, why didn’t you tell me?” Isobel gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, youlikehim. You want to have his babies!”
“You’re so childish.” Clarissa’s eyes fell away. “He’s not so bad, not truly.”
“But I thought you loathed the very air he breathed.” To Isobel’s stunned surprise, her friend went beet-red, which suggested she might be partaking of the same air of her former enemy. “Clarissa Gwendolyn Bell, what have you done?”
“Not here,” she hissed, practically using her mask as a shield.
Isobel grinned and repeated her friend’s words. “No one is paying any mind to us. Spill the beans before I’m forced to take drastic measures and find a drool-worthy shelf of muscles for you to climb, and I’m not talking about your crush on Lord Tight-Arse.”
“Izzy!”
“Doesn’t feel good now that the shoe is on the other foot, does it?” Isobel teased as Clarissa went from rosy-cheeked to flaming at the ears. “So, tell me, Clarissa dear, have you kissed him yet?”
“Kissed whom?” a deep voice interrupted.
Isobel nearly leaped out of her satin dress, her hands flying to her throat, only to see Oliver standing there with two refreshed glasses of punch, wearing an off-putting long-beaked plague mask. “Good God, don’t do that! You nearly gave me heart failure.”
“Kissed whom?” he repeated, his blue gaze tumbling to Clarissa, who was now attempting to impersonate a pickled beet.
For a second, his expression reminded her so much of Winter that Isobel nearly started. And even more curious, his cheeks were darkening with an embarrassed flush, too, though she suspected it might be jealousy. In hindsight, the tension between Clarissa and Oliver in the carriage on the way to the ball had been rather heightened—she’d been too busy mooning about Winter to pay them any mind.
“We were simply gossiping about future matches,” Isobel fabricated quickly since neither of them seemed capable of speech. “See over there, Lady Sarah Truebow is dancing with Lord Henley even though she’s been promised to another by her father. She secretly fancies him. But Lord Henley has been enamored with Lady Arabella for ages. Rumor is they’ve kissed in secret.” She pointed discreetly to a young woman dressed in yellow with a feathery mask. “She, however, despite her daring, doesn’t fancy marriage at all. It’s all very dramatic. Our very own blue-blooded, highborn theater production.”
Oliver’s confused gaze met hers. “How do you know this?”
“Keen powers of observation, my lord.”
“Where’s Roth?”
Her humor evaporated. “How should I know? I don’t have chains on the man.”
