The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,20
for?” he snarled.
Oliver shoved the end of a cheroot in his face. “This was the culprit that started the fire. The brand you favor.”
“Along with half the gentlemen in London.” Winter arched an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe, brother, that that cigar end survived when half the mews did not? I’ve been here breaking my back to save the building and all the horses.”
“Getting the authorities,” Oliver snapped.
Isobel snuck a glance at Winter’s face and almost recoiled at the leashed violence she saw there. “And no, brother, I was not here smoking in the mews, so whoever started this fire either had something to prove or another agenda. Where were you?”
Oliver’s face went puce. “How dare you? Are you suggesting—?”
“Enough, Oliver, I’m too tired to argue.” Winter cut his brother off with a weary gesture. “I arrived earlier to check on my two horses stabled here—with Kendrick’s permission, might I add—only to discover a corner of the mews already on fire.”
“And Lady Roth?” Oliver couldn’t help taunting in a smarmy voice that made Isobel want to kick him right in the teeth. “Did you come to see her?”
Notwithstanding her deep-seated urges to take her odious brother-in-law to task, Isobel was also curious as to what Winter’s response would be, and was prepared to make a mad dash for the house to change into a gown should he answer in the affirmative. She was disappointed, however, when the marquess ground his teeth, turned on his heel without a word, and walked back the way he’d come.
Apparently, such a trifling question did not even deserve a response.
Chapter Five
If in any doubt of your own dancing skills, depend on exceptional manners and witty conversation. And be free with your compliments. Men adore hearing how wonderful they are.
– Lady Darcy
Ensconced in the opulent card room at The Silver Scythe, Winter stared at his current hand of cards and decided to fold. He was bored out of his mind. Perhaps bored wasn’t the right word.
He was agitated, anxious, on edge.
Rattled.
All because his wife was in town. His gorgeous, desirable, and unwelcome wife whose name had been on everyone’s lips for the better part of a week. And she was on the best of terms with his father, of all people.
Winter had wrongly assumed the straitlaced Duke of Kendrick would take one look at the green country girl with no outstanding lineage that his disappointment of a son had married and purse his lips in everlasting disgust. Instead, he’d done the opposite and taken her under his wing. Winter hadn’t expected them to become allies, let alone come to London together for the season. That was simply not cricket. The development had blindsided him.
Notwithstanding the tiny fact that his wife had turned into a deuced temptress.
Even now, his blood fired at the thought of her.
“Roth,” the Duke of Westmore said, clapping him on the back. “Surprised to see you here.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” Winter drawled, staring in disgust at his new hand of cards, which wasn’t any better than the last. His luck had turned and landed in the communal chamber pot, along with what was left of his flagging humor.
“Saw your lady wife over at the Beddingford bash. She looked spectacular. The fops have already proclaimed her an original, an incomparable, this season’s everything.” Westmore’s grin was all teeth. “Wherever have you been hiding her?”
Winter experienced an urge to punch the man in his smirking mouth, and then caught himself. He must be out of sorts. Wulfric Bane, the Duke of Westmore, was one of his longtime friends and didn’t deserve missing teeth because Winter couldn’t seem to control himself whenever anyone mentioned his wife. Her beauty, her charm, her bloody incomparableness.
“I haven’t been hiding her,” he snapped. “She prefers the country.”
Until now, apparently.
In truth, he hadn’t given her a choice, though he hadn’t been completely cut off from updates as to her welfare. Mrs. Butterfield had sent him meticulous reports. In the beginning, they’d come regularly, and then had dwindled after Winter had strongly suggested to the housekeeper that he didn’t require them with such detail or frequency. Too many reminders of her had done more ill than good.
“I didn’t even know you were married, Roth,” another man across the table said, Viscount Something or Other. “Who’s the lucky chit?”
Winter’s eyes narrowed on him. Perhaps he would be up for fisticuffs if the viscount kept flapping that hairless, weak-chinned gob of his. “No one you’d know. She never had a season.”