Page 61 of The Rakehell of Roth
Smile faltering, Matteo frowned. “You did not give me the signal that it was of concern or that the pot would be limited.”
That was true. He hadn’t. “Apologies, you’re right.”
How had Vittorina even procured an invitation anyway? Winter knew that a few of the sought-after invitations were sold off for small fortunes, usually by very desperate men. Some were stolen. Westmore always made it a point to track down the transgressors, taking great pleasure in making them pay in some way or another, which was a huge deterrent for thieves, but it didn’t always work.
Invitations were sent out to nonmembers only after careful consideration, and usually to those who had deep coffers and could afford future membership. Most of the peerage, especially the younger set, was obsessed about getting them. The names of the invitees were painted with a special watermark, but they’d been negligent about verifying names in recent years. Case in point were Lady J who’d won Westmore, Vittorina, and the mystery man in black.
Winter stood, aware that he was still being watched by an avid audience. The Duke of Westmore joined him on the stage. They both bowed to a thunderous wave of applause.
“Thank you for your patronage, esteemed guests.” The duke grinned. “And if you desire membership, your applications will be personally considered. As you well know, we are the only club in London that allows female membership. Coin is king—pay the tithe and entry to your greatest fantasies will be granted. For now, let the celebration begin. Explore, gamble, eat, drink, dance, and be merry, my friends!”
They left the stage, moving back to the salon adjoining the staircase leading up to Winter’s office. Winter tugged on his cravat, loosening the expertly tied cloth so he could suck in a lungful of air. Hell, he needed a drink.
“Well done, man,” Westmore crowed, clapping him on the back. “Five thousand is a fortune.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Has the bidder come forward?”
“Not yet, my lord,” Matteo said with an apologetic look.
A suspicious thought occurred to him and he slanted an arch glance at the duke. “Was this your idea of a jest?”
“No, of course not,” Westmore replied. “I’ve much better use for five thousand quid.” Winter let out a disbelieving noise. Five thousand was a drop in the bucket for the smug scoundrel, and they both knew it. Westmore paused, mouth twitching. “Though it’s a bloody brilliant idea. I should have thought of it, just to toy with you.”
“Didyou put someone up to it?”
“Wish I did. Some other gentleman besides me is madly in love with you.” He faked a dramatic sigh. “I might have to call them out.”
“Did you see him?” Winter asked, ignoring his jesting.
“Side view,” Westmore said. “He was tallish, lean, dressed in black. Might have worn a wine-colored cravat. Young. Kept moving through the crowds in the back and he wore a hat so I couldn’t quite see his face.”
Winter wished he had gotten a better look. At the very least, his view had been fleeting. He had felt a vague sense of awareness as if he’d known the man. Then again, in his particular line of debauchery, he crossed paths with much of thebeau mondeand thedemi monde. And he hadn’t gotten a clear look at the man’s face. Well, he would know soon enough.
A commotion at the door drew their attention as Vittorina shoved her way through, eyes spitting fury. Her face—one that Winter had once considered beautiful—twisted into an ugly sneer. “Did you get a look at your bidder? It’s a man.” Her vicious gaze turned sharp with spite. “Tell me, Roth, does your wife know of your peculiar tastes?”
“My tastes are my business,” he replied easily. “And we don’t suffer those seeking to spread shame here.”
Winter was about to order her removal from the club, when he was distracted by the presence of a new arrival. The man in black—the winning bidder. A discomfiting rush of visceral awareness hummed through him at the sight of a pair of scarlet lips and a slender but curved figure better suited to a siren than a man. He blinked, his jaw falling open at the long legs encased in snug black trousers above a nipped-in waist and pert breasts, recognition hitting his gut and descending straight to his hardening groin.
Bloody hell if the mystery bidder wasn’t his fucking wife.
…
“This looks fun,” Isobel said into the sudden silence. She removed her hat, tendrils of blond hair falling into her face, and was rewarded with the satisfaction of seeing Vittorina’s face fall.
“Youwon the bid?” Winter burst out, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes.
She smiled, enjoying his expression, too, and the undisguised lust that had swept across his face the moment he’d realized it was her. “Is that any way to greet your wife, Roth?”
Westmore’s loud laughter cut through the silence as he moved forward with a bow. “You look ravishing tonight, Lady Roth, or should I say, Lady Darcy.” He shook his head, his eyes filled with mirth. “This cannot get any better.”
But of course it could, because Vittorina found her voice. She closed the distance between them, getting into Isobel’s space. “You do not know him like I do. He will come back to me.”
“So you’ve said,” Isobel replied easily, undaunted by the woman’s proximity or threats. “Though I’ve yet to see any evidence of him falling into your arms.”
“You’re nothing but a country mouse he was forced to marry!”
Isobel lifted a shoulder. “That might be so, but at least that’s a damn sight better than a woman who throws herself at a married man and can’t take no for an answer.”
