Page 56 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Edmund’s not here.” Hands slid up his back, twining around him. “You still want me, admit it.”
“No, I don’t,” he said and left her there.
Once inside, he scanned the ballroom, his eyes falling on a bright head of golden curls and something in his chest settled. The fist squeezing his lungs released a little, though it flexed in jealousy when he registered her dancing partner. Westmore. What the fuck was the duke doing dancing with Isobel?
Without thinking twice, he ignored the buzzing chatter around him and cut through the throng of dancers. He spied Oliver, though to his surprise, was happily dancing with none other than Clarissa. Didn’t those two hate each other? Winter blinked, wavering on his heels for a moment, and then remembered that Westmore was dancing with Isobel.
He shoved his way toward them, yanking on the duke’s arm. “That’s my wife.”
The music sputtered as every scandalized eye in the ballroom centered upon them, couples bumping into each other as they gawked.
“Roth, what are you doing?” Isobel said, her beautiful face turning pink.
“I want to dance with you.”
“You’re causing a scene,” she said. “And besides, I’m already dancing with someone.”
Winter scowled. “Fuck off, Westmore.”
The duke grinned and bowed. “Articulate as always, Roth.”
With a smirk, he took his leave, and then Isobel was where she belonged—in Winter’s arms. Music resumed and all was well with the world, until she smashed his instep with her heel, making him wince. “That’s for showing up late and with another woman.”
“She followed me in,” he protested.
Her lips thinned. “And I suppose she also conveniently followed you out to the balcony? I have eyes, Lord Roth, and I’m perfectly capable of seeing.” He was so intent on staring into her very beautiful eyes that he stumbled drunkenly on the next turn, nearly flinging her into the path of another couple. “Good God, sir, are you in your cups?”
“No. Not really. Maybe.”
“Which is it?” she snapped, those wintry eyes lit with flames.
God, he loved when she fired up at him. Even now, in the middle of a crowded ballroom, she put him through his paces. He inhaled as he guided her into a slightly clumsy turn. He was too distracted by the feel of her, the scent of her. She smelled of flowers and summer days. His gaze fell to her mouth, remembering the silken feel of those soft pink arches. Her sweet taste.
In the past, he’d never wanted to kiss anyone. For some deep-seated reason, kissing meant a level of involvement and care that he avoided, and over the years, he’d stopped doing it. And yet, all he wanted to do was kiss her, lose himself in her prickly softness, the tart sweetness that was hers alone. Mark every satin inch of her body with his mouth. Claim her as his.
Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d leaned forward.
“Roth,” she said, eyes going wide with alarm. “What are you doing?”
“I want to kiss you.”
Her cheeks bloomed, though fury still burned in her eyes. “Get ahold of yourself. You’re foxed, and this is neither the time nor the place. You might be the notorious Rakehell of Roth, with scandal and vice as your playground, but I beg you, do not shame us both.”
“You shouldn’t care what people think.”
“That’s just it, Lord Roth, maybeyoushould.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and left him in the middle of the ballroom floor. After a moment, he gave a jaunty bow to the unapologetic onlookers and strode away, ignoring the stares and the whispers. He was used to them. No doubt the gossip would be flying that his own wife had given him the cut direct. No more than he deserved, he supposed.
“That went well,” Westmore said, handing him a glass of water.
“Where did she go?”
The duke arched a brow. “Retiring room.”
“I’ve bungled it, haven’t I?” Winter muttered, downing the water. “She’ll despise me forever.”
Westmore smirked. “Can’t be any worse than how much she despises you already.”
