The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,21
Everleigh heiress?” Westmore interjected, sitting in an empty seat and either oblivious to—or purposely ignoring—his friend’s brewing foul mood. “I seem to recall hearing about a scandal a few years ago with the Duke of Beswick making quite the scene at Lady Hammerton’s Christmastide house party.” He paused and grinned. “Now there’s a lady with a few secrets beneath those skirts. They don’t make them like Lady H anymore.”
“She’s older than Medusa,” Winter muttered.
Westmore guffawed. “True, but the things she could teach, as you well know. Nothing wrong with a woman who knows her way around a man, I say.”
“A few generations of men, at least.”
Winter tugged on his cravat, the cloth tightening like a guillotine made of guilt. He wasn’t even sure why he was denigrating Lady Hammerton. Though she was old enough to be his mother, she was a good sort, and he’d married Isobel in the chapel on her estate with her backing, after all. And they’d spent some time together after one of his club’s infamous charity auctions.
“I bet anything she’s Lady Darcy,” Westmore said.
He arched a brow. “Not likely. Lady Darcy’s much too innocent to be that old harridan.”
The men around him broke into raucous laughter and Winter gave a careless shrug. Perhaps innocent wasn’t the right word. Lady Darcy’s deeds would put a courtesan to shame, but something about the erotic letters—despite their salacious content—struck him as decidedly whimsical. No seasoned widow could ever sound so…hopeful.
“Speaking of innocent young ladies,” Westmore said with a sideways glance at Winter. “Back to the delectable Lady Roth and the latest on-dit.” The smirk on his lips said he knew exactly what he was doing, the shameless bastard. “Do tell, Roth—is she anything like our daring Lady Darcy?”
Winter’s groin clenched. The thought of Isobel on her knees, reenacting one of Lady Darcy’s more memorable correspondence, those pink lips parted and ready to take him, had Winter’s eyes nearly rolling back in his head.
Fucking hell.
No, she was a lady, and without reservation, the type to lie there and submit. He couldn’t fathom his decorous little wife doing anything so filthy as some of those letters had detailed. No matter how fast his imagination flew. Despite being a monk for the better part of three years, his memory was still perfectly functional.
You could teach her, a voice whispered.
The thought licked at his starving senses, and he shook his head to clear it.
“My wife is none of anyone’s bloody business!” he growled.
“Since when is England’s ultimate bachelor married?” another drunken lout burst out, nearly spilling his drink all across the table as his squinty gaze fell on him. “Is she a looker? She must be if she snared you. Thought you’d always sworn off wedlock, Roth?”
Winter scowled. God, he was surrounded by drunkards and profligates. He stood, ignoring Westmore’s gratified look.
“Where are you off to?” the duke asked innocently.
Reaching for his gloves, Winter signaled the factotum. He bit the words through his teeth. “To retrieve my wife.”
“I expect a full accounting!”
“Go sod yourself, Westmore.”
Outside the establishment, he directed his waiting coach to the Beddingford’s residence. He’d received the invitation weeks before but hadn’t accepted. Winter didn’t do ton events.
Besides, he’d been ousted from too many ballrooms to count. Thank God he wasn’t on the recently married Marquess of Beddingford’s persona non-grata list. At least, not yet. Despite his reputation, the perfidious ton had welcomed him back with open arms when news of his own wealth had spread. Winter huffed a disgusted sigh. It’d been so long since he’d ventured into a Mayfair ballroom that Winter had no idea what he would be walking into.
Gritting his teeth, he descended the carriage with a purposeful step and strode to the crowded foyer. His nostrils flared as the warm, overly perfumed air reached him. It was a crush, one that made him want to turn tail and race back to the informal, casual comforts of Covent Garden. He gave the servant near the majordomo his name, and didn’t wait before availing himself of a whiskey from a nearby footman.
Gulping the drink, he surveyed the glittering crowd over the balcony at the top of the marble staircase—a dazzling display of immaculately groomed men and preening females garbed in every hue imaginable. There was no way he was going to find a woman he’d set eyes on once in three years in that mêlée.
But in that, he was wrong.
Isobel’s presence drew him like a magnetic force.
His heart rate accelerated as his gaze fell on the slender,