Page 55 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Someone should,” he retorted.
The strains of the next set sounded and Isobel reached to take the glasses of punch from her brother-in-law. “Why don’t you and Clarissa take a turn for the next dance? I’ll be fine here for the moment.”
Unlike the last time they were at a dance together, they both nodded shyly. Clarissa and Oliver. It boggled the mind. The two were like oil and water. Clarissa was bubbly and bright, and Oliver was sour and sullen. Stranger things had happened, Isobel remarked to herself as she watched her best friend blush prettily up at the man she’d apparently secretly pined for and also wanted to murder in the bloodiest of ways.
It made Isobel’s heart squeeze.
If two people who were such opposites could find each other and meet in the middle, why couldn’t she and Winter gain common ground? Then again, they weren’t like oil and water—they were flint and tinder. Explosive and lethal. And he’d told her to leave in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t want her here. Not that she’d expected to see him tonight, or the three previous functions since. He’d been avoiding everyone.Her, particularly, for whatever reason. Simmons had reported from Ludlow that Lord Roth wasn’t unwell or under the weather.
Typical man. Burying his feelings deep.
And they wentdeep, as she’d realized. She’d asked Clarissa to confirm what Winter had confided about the mysterious Vance sister, and even her friend’s face had gone tight.
“We’re not supposed to know or talk about it,” she’d said. “Prudence died from a self-administered dose of opium tincture.”
Isobel had gasped. “Self-administered?”
“That was the gossip. She was ruined by a fortune hunter and fled to Seven Dials. When they found her, it was too late to save her. The family was never the same after her death.”
The loss had shattered the only thing holding them together. And from what Isobel was able to gather, Winter had blamed the duke. It explained so much, but terrified her at the same time. A man who cut himself off from his family as Winter had done would be impossible to reach. It was no wonder he didn’t want children.
“A beautiful woman shouldn’t have to hold up pillars alone,” a deep male voice drawled.
Isobel swiveled to face the enormous, tawny-haired man standing behind her, recognizing him as the Duke of Westmore, Winter’s friend. “Your Grace, what a pleasure.”
“Wulfric, please, and the pleasure is mine, I assure you,” Westmore said, kissing her gloved knuckles. “I see our young heroine of the hour is feeling better after her experience.”
Isobel followed his gaze to where Clarissa was dancing with Oliver. She noted with dry amusement that they no longer moved like wooden peg soldiers. Her attention returned to the duke. Taller than her husband, he was handsome and well-heeled.
“Any news on the perpetrator?” she asked, knowing that Westmore had taken it upon himself to work with the Runners to identify their attacker.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
His tone implied that it was improbable but not impossible.
“Is Roth with you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him in days.”
Compassion shot across his face before it disappeared. “I’d wondered if he might be here since he was not at The Silver Scythe.”
“Has he been there, then?”
“Most nights, drowning in his cups and gambling until the wee hours of the morning.” An unreadable jade stare met hers. “Alone.”
Before she could pick apart his words for more, something flickered along her nape and the majordomo announced her husband’s name. “The Marquess of Roth and Lady Vittorina Carpalo.”
It was a cut she felt to her bones. She pasted a smile on her face and met her companion’s stare even as the noise in the ballroom rose to a fever pitch. “I know it’s untoward, but might I ask you to dance, Your Grace?”
…
Winter nearly missed one of the marble steps on his way down. If it weren’t for the woman at his side, he might have teetered head over arse. His muddled gaze sharpened on the black-haired lady next to him who had accosted him in the street when he’d descended from his carriage.Vittorina. Why was she glued to his side like a leech? He hated leeches.
Winter scrubbed at his face with a bare palm, wondering where his gloves had gone. Had he lost them? Oh Christ, why was the sodding room spinning? He wasn’tthatfoxed, was he?
“Winter,amore,” Vittorina cooed into his ear. “Take my arm.”
Even in his questionable state, he was aware of the curious eyes on them. He steered her out of the nearby door to a balcony, hauling deep gulps of air into his lungs to clear his head. He stalked to the balustrade, looking out at the dark gardens. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m married and you are engaged.”
