The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,54
there was no evidence of any marchioness. How have you been? You do look well, darling. I must say the years have been more than kind.” Her gaze swept over him, unmistakable appreciation flaring in her eyes as her voice lowered. “I’ve missed you.”
He balked at the look in her eyes and shrugged off her hold. “How is it that you’re here?”
Vittorina laughed gaily. “Oh, Lord Oliver took pity on me when my plans with my fiancé fell through and invited me along. But I had no idea you were coming. And the duke of course, as well as his lovely companion, Lady Isobel.”
The way she said it, as though Isobel and Kendrick were a couple, made Winter’s blood crawl, and the irrational bite of jealousy he was beginning to hate reared its head. Isobel was his, damn it! It didn’t matter if it was only in name. “Lady Roth,” he ground out.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lady Roth,” he said. “My marchioness in the flesh. Enough evidence for you?”
It was worth it just to see the astonishment roll across Vittorina’s face. He had no idea why Isobel hadn’t been properly introduced and he didn’t care.
“How…lovely.” The sentiment sounded more like a curse, but Winter ignored her to move toward Isobel.
“Your Grace,” he said to his father with a mocking bow.
The duke inclined his head. “Roth.”
“I didn’t expect to see you in a place like this, mixing with the plebeians. Has hell frozen over, I wonder?” Winter turned to his wife without waiting for any reply, his rigidity softening slightly. “My lady.”
“Lord Roth,” she murmured, her own greeting guarded.
“How are you faring this evening?” he asked in a low voice. “It’s good to see you out and about. Any news on Clarissa?”
She canted her head. “She was the one who practically booted me out of Vance House, so you can expect that she’s well on the mend.” She glanced over to the stern-faced duke who had moved to the adjoining box to converse with an acquaintance. “I’m the only reason His Grace is here. He accompanied me this evening at his insistence, so you can cease to worry whether hell is in an unusually frigid condition.”
“Good to know.” With a chuckle, Winter arched a brow at his father’s uncharacteristic kindness. In the past, Kendrick wouldn’t have been caught dead in a place like Vauxhall. It was much too vulgar and uncouth for him, despite it being frequented by the Prince Regent and many other top-lofty aristocrats. And yet…here he was. For Isobel’s sake.
His eyes narrowed on the man in question, and as if he’d felt the stare, a blue gaze connected with Winter’s. To his surprise, the usual silent judgment he’d come to expect wasn’t there. Instead, the duke looked almost regretful, those piercing eyes shadowed. For the first time in months, Winter truly took in his father’s face. Kendrick wasn’t old by any means, but he had…aged.
A shrill giggle cut through the air as Vittorina laughed at something Oliver said, and Winter caught the tail end of her remark. “The marquess and I go way back, and you know what they say—once a rake, always a rake.”
He felt Isobel bristle, but she only worried her lip and clasped her hands together. Perhaps she hadn’t heard. But then she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze and the frost there slammed into him like an icy blast. “Who, exactly, is that lady to you?”
He opened his mouth, but someone else beat him to it.
“His former betrothed,” Vittorina drawled, eyes glittering with malice as she strolled over. “The betrothal you stole.”
…
Isobel exhaled, the breath leaving her body in a wild rush. White spots danced before her eyes as the ground felt like sponge beneath her feet. Gracious, she would not swoon. Had Winter been engaged before marrying her? To this woman?
“We were never betrothed,” Winter was quick to say. His gaze swung to his brother’s, his fists clenching at his sides. “If you have orchestrated this meeting on purpose, brother dear, I have to warn you that it is in excruciatingly poor taste.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oliver said. “It was a favor to her fiancé, a recent acquaintance of mine.”
When Isobel and the duke had arrived at the gardens, she had thought the lady had been a friend of Oliver’s. Introductions had been made, and though it had struck her as odd that Oliver had introduced her informally as Lady Isobel before crossing the bridge into Vauxhall, she hadn’t