The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,60
her as she loved him. And my sister…” He fought audibly for breath. “When she died, she took all the light with her. I blamed him for it. No one could measure up to his exacting standards, not my mother, not Prue, and not me. No one bar Oliver even cared to try.”
She bit back a suspicious sniff, and a heavy, solemn gaze slid to her. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It’s no burden for a stripling.”
“I’m older than I look.” Her voice emerged as a croak. “I’m sorry for your loss, too. But at least you have Lady Roth to shoulder your burdens. She cares for you.”
“Does she?” His voice was so soft, she barely caught it.
“I heard it from her own lips, milord.”
Once more they lapsed into silence as they took the last turn toward the eastern edge of the park to return to Mayfair. Within short order, they were riding back into the Vance House mews and dismounting, and for a moment, Isobel mourned the loss of privacy and the moments they’d shared.
“I must be off.” A large hand came down on her shoulder, the light touch making her want to flee and nestle into him at the same time.
“What will you do?” Isobel asked. She didn’t have to explain as his gaze went to the windows of his father’s study.
“Duty is a noose, one I wish to avoid at all cost.”
She shook her head, unsurprised by the return to normal, caustic Winter. “And when the title falls to you, what of your tenants? The people who depend on you.”
“Oliver is much better suited to the task than a gambler, a rake, and a wastrel.”
She stared at him from under her cap, careful to keep her face in shadow. His beautiful gray gaze glittered in the dappled sunlight, breaking down the walls of her heart. “You’re more than that, milord.”
“Who says? You?”
“Squire turned stable boy turned sage.” She thrust her hands into her pockets and gave an insolent whistle. “You’d do best to listen, your lordship.” Before he could answer, she peered at the house. “There’s Lady Roth and Miss Clarissa now. Looks like they’ve been out spending your money.”
In the moment he took to look over his shoulder, she slipped away.
Chapter Fourteen
Dearest Friend, they say that love and hate are two sides of the same coin. I say the fine edge between them is passion. And besides, a little hate-fucking never hurt anyone.
– Lady Darcy
Dratted masks. They were everywhere.
It was fast becoming an absurd metaphor. Or perhaps a warning, one Isobel wasn’t heeding. Or maybe simply, this was the season for masquerades and they were the latest rage in the ton, because here she stood sipping a glass of lukewarm ratafia at yet another ball, garbed in a gown that cost more than a groom could make in a year, and yes, hiding behind a curved piece of gold-dusted papier-mâché attached to a rod.
Curse her life.
“Where’s your marquess?” Clarissa asked, lowering her own mask.
“How should I know?” she muttered back.
“Testy, are we?” Her friend grinned. “Turns out I know exactly what’s needed to fix what ails you. It involves hard, climbable muscles, sweet nothings”—she cut off dramatically—“better yet, no talking, though lots of nudity, sweaty skin on skin, panting—”
“Clarissa!” Isobel hissed. “We’re in public.”
“It’s loud, and besides, no one is paying any mind to us.”
But that wasn’t exactly true, Isobel noted sourly. The guests had been staring at her from the moment the majordomo announced her arrival on Oliver’s arm. Of course, the gossip fires had ignited shortly afterward, speculating as to Lord Roth’s whereabouts and whether his wife was having a secret liaison with his brother.
Kendrick had cried off tonight’s invitation, citing fatigue, but insisting that she and Clarissa attend, and he’d given Oliver a clear order to escort them. To Isobel’s surprise, Oliver had acquiesced without a fuss. Which reminded her…
“What’s going on between you and Oliver?”
Clarissa’s eyes popped wide. “I beg your pardon.”
Her gaze narrowed on her friend. “You turn rigorously polite when you’re trying to hide something. Don’t forget I know you.”
Cheeks pinkening, Clarissa’s mouth opened and shut, causing Isobel’s suspicions to heighten. “Nothing. He’s been solicitous since the incident at the gallery. He brought me tea.”
“So there is something going on? You wretch, why didn’t you tell me?” Isobel gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, you like him. You want to have his babies!”
“You’re so childish.” Clarissa’s eyes fell away. “He’s not so bad, not truly.”