The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,24

ball whizzing back and forth. He waited for a break before clearing his throat. “Actually, Oliver was just saying how much he wanted to dance. It’s truly fortunate that you arrived, Clarissa.”

Identical glares pinned him in place. He grinned.

“This looks fun,” an amused voice said.

Winter’s hilarity faltered as he looked into the cool blue gaze of his wife. She was even more stunning up close, but he kept his instant response at bay, even as he reached for her hand and drew it to his lips. “My lady, how lovely you are this evening.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord.”

Every inch the regal marchioness, she glowed. Even her flaxen hair shone, coiffed in elegant curls that framed her face to perfection. Winter scowled, wondering why he was cataloguing his wife’s assets. He should be thinking of ways to scare her back to Chelmsford. She’d challenged him, after all, and he’d accepted. Here was a perfect opportunity to rise to that challenge, to prove he bloody well could handle his own wife.

A dance, then. Something to unbalance and shake her off that perfect pedestal.

He’d meant to goad Oliver with the dance comment, but perhaps he could hit two birds with one stone. The tension between Clarissa and Oliver was too good to pass up, and he needed to unsettle his irritatingly composed wife.

A dance would be that stone.

“I was just saying how much my brother wanted to dance with Clarissa. I believe I hear the strains of a waltz.” Ignoring Oliver’s pinched expression, he extended an elbow to his wife. “Shall we, then?”

Isobel’s eyes widened, her gaze flying to Clarissa, whose face looked like she’d come upon a steaming dung heap in the middle of the ballroom, before returning to Winter, who kept his expression purposely innocent. “You wish to dance? With me?”

“We’re all dancing.”

“No, we are not.” Clarissa’s furious denial came through clenched teeth.

“No,” Oliver snapped at the same time.

Winter laughed loudly, drawing as much attention as he could. “It’s delightful to note that the cause of this scene is not me.” His voice rose to a dramatic stage whisper. “A refusal to dance by the favored son of the Duke of Kendrick? An unmarried woman’s reputation in peril?” Winter’s gaze slanted to Isobel as he threw a dramatic hand to his chest. “Gracious, who or what could possibly be the cause of such a delicious on-dit?”

Now three pairs of murderous eyes glowered at him.

Several bystanders inched closer the minute the hint of scandal had reared its wicked head. Despite his claims to the contrary, he would be at the center of it, Winter knew. The wildly improper Rakehell of Roth, surrounded by his straitlaced brother, an unmarried female, and said rakehell’s beautiful, mysterious wife? Gossip would fly faster than fire.

“Dance with him,” Isobel said to Clarissa in a low voice.

“But—”

“He’s right. The gossip will be insufferable if you do not,” she said calmly. Her hard gaze turned to Oliver as she said the one thing that would motivate him. “Do not shame the duke, Lord Oliver. His eyes are upon you right at this moment.”

That frigid stare impaled Winter next. He lifted an eyebrow as she took his measure, her disdain of his methods stamped in her expression. With a huff, she turned in a swirl of silvery skirts and moistened her plump lips, her thick fringe of lashes falling to her cheeks in a demure look that didn’t fool him one bit. Every single eye in the place watched as he strode after the one woman who apparently did not swoon at his feet and collapse in a mindless heap from his attentions.

Moving into place on the ballroom, they lined up and she placed a stiff palm in his.

“Well, you’ve gotten your way and what you wanted. Happy now?”

“Not yet,” he murmured huskily. “But I intend to be once you tell me why you’re in town.”

For a moment, her outward composure slipped, her cheeks pinkening even as her body hitched slightly as if she meant to storm off and leave him there. A succinct and incendiary cut direct. In her place, Winter would have done it, just to fuel the gossip mill. But he did not know what was truly behind this little game his wife was playing and why she’d come to London. A gleam of fury glinted in her wintry eyes. For all their iciness, she was burning at the seams. Like her horse. Hellion.

Winter vowed to talk to that young groom and find out