Page 59 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Next year,” the duke promised.
“Devil take it, get a chamber, you two,” Winter growled.
“What crawled up your arse, Roth?” Westmore asked.
Not a what. More of awho. But he didn’t say anything. He had no idea why he was so irritable. Based on the monies tallied from the earlier auctions by other members, they were on track to exceed last year’s donations to the shelter house in Seven Dials. He should have been pleased, but for the past few days, everything had felt out of sorts. Nothing seemed tomatter.
And he knew exactly why.
After Vauxhall, Winter had distanced himself. There was no way he could give Isobel what she wanted. A husband who could love her back. Children. Hope for a happy future. She wanted a fairy tale, but Winter wasn’t the hero of their story, even if he’d pretended to be once upon a time. The truth was, he was the villain—the evil lord who imprisons the princess.
“Do you think Lady Hammerton will be back this year, Roth?” Westmore asked. “She was the only reason you won last year, if you recall.”
Winter shrugged, shoving his dark thoughts away. The notorious lady had paid an astronomical sum for him to sit for some portraits. Nude. Well, partially nude. He’d had to wear a large leaf-like cloth over his genitals. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he’d learned a lot from the raunchy, high-spirited widow, which was why he knew she couldn’t be Lady Darcy. She’d also mentioned that she admired the chit, whoever she was.
In any case, it was Westmore’s year to win. Since the inauguration of the first charity auction, they’d been neck and neck from year to year, pegs above all the other gentlemen.
“May the best man win,” he said.
They didn’t have many rules, but those they had were strict: no sexual conduct unless by consensual agreement and no breaking the law.
Winter watched from the sidelines as Matteo introduced the duke. The noise was deafening. Winter might be a rogue, but Westmore was in a whole other league. Within minutes, the bidding war had escalated into the thousands, with shrieks of excitement and anger punctuating the chatter. He almost laughed as Westmore strutted his way like a preening peacock across the stage at the end of the cavernous ballroom. It was a wonder the man was still unwed, but he’d never seemed interested in marriage.
A long time ago, Westmore had been a friend to Prue. In hindsight, his sister’s death had hit the man hard, though Winter had been too wrapped up in his own anguish to notice. That was when he’d buried his heart and swore to never let anyone in.
Perhaps Westmore had done the same.
“Sold,” Matteo shouted. “To the lady in the scarlet cloak, Lady J.”
Winter’s eyebrows crept up as the woman walked forward to complete the transaction. If he wasn’t mistaken, the woman calling herself Lady J was actually Lady Jocelyn Capehart, the unmarried daughter of the Duke of Tyne. Her family and Westmore’s had been at odds for decades. What was she doinghere? His eyes met Westmore’s and the surprise in them mirrored his. Nonetheless, she signed over the payment and it was a binding contract, meaning Westmore was hers for one night.
There was no time to dwell on it, however, as Matteo waved Winter out. Cheering filled his ears as he stalked across the stage, welcoming his guests with a smile. Even though it was a masquerade, some people chose to dress up, others chose to dress down, others wore magnificent costumes, and a daring few chose to wear the smallest amount of clothes possible. Everyone was encouraged to be themselves, or use other identities, if they so desired. As a result, there were quite a few Lady Darcys in the crowd.
Winter bit back a smile at how many of the so-called Lady Darcys resembled courtesans. He was still of the mind that Lady Darcy was part of the upper crust and wouldn’t be caught dead at an assembly like this. Or maybe shewashere…in disguise, wearing a symbolic mask like the rest of them.
…
Isobel’s heart was pounding against her ribs as Winter appeared on stage.
God, he made her blood sing.
Tall and intimidating, the man was a handsome-as-sin devil, his brown, freshly trimmed hair falling carelessly over his brow, those piercing gray eyes scorching through the crowd. A small smirk graced his full lips, reminding her of how they’d felt on hers. Isobel clenched her thighs together, cursing the tight fabric that made her feeleverything.
Every layer, every seam, every ridge.
She’d arrived with enough time to view a few of the last gentlemen up for auction. Many of the members, both male and female, had auctioned themselves and their services earlier, from what she could tell. The gentlemen auction, however, was the crème de la crème, and the last two to be auctioned would be Westmore and Roth.
Matteo bowed low. “As our last gentleman of the evening, I am honored to present Lord Winter Vance, the Marquess of Roth. As you can see for yourselves, Lord Roth is physically fit, can carry a passable tune, loves a glass of whiskey and a good book, enjoys wit and conversation, and is skilled in all the ways that count.”
Isobel couldn’t control the helpless clench of her thighs at the sultry smirk on Winter’s face.
Matteo shook his finger back and forth at the squeals and sighs in the rapt audience. “However, as you all know, unlike the Duke of Westmore, Lord Roth is married and as such, his services tonight will be restricted at his discretion. He also reserves the sole right to reject any bid.”
To Isobel’s surprise, those statements didn’t dim the enthusiasm. If anything, the sighs multiplied. Did the many hopefuls in attendance expect to convince the marquess otherwise?
“The bidding will start at one thousand pounds,” Matteo said.
“One thousand, one hundred,” an excited voice called out.
