The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,62
swiveled to face the enormous, tawny-haired man standing behind her, recognizing him as the Duke of Westmore, Winter’s friend. “Your Grace, what a pleasure.”
“Wulfric, please, and the pleasure is mine, I assure you,” Westmore said, kissing her gloved knuckles. “I see our young heroine of the hour is feeling better after her experience.”
Isobel followed his gaze to where Clarissa was dancing with Oliver. She noted with dry amusement that they no longer moved like wooden peg soldiers. Her attention returned to the duke. Taller than her husband, he was handsome and well-heeled.
“Any news on the perpetrator?” she asked, knowing that Westmore had taken it upon himself to work with the Runners to identify their attacker.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
His tone implied that it was improbable but not impossible.
“Is Roth with you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him in days.”
Compassion shot across his face before it disappeared. “I’d wondered if he might be here since he was not at The Silver Scythe.”
“Has he been there, then?”
“Most nights, drowning in his cups and gambling until the wee hours of the morning.” An unreadable jade stare met hers. “Alone.”
Before she could pick apart his words for more, something flickered along her nape and the majordomo announced her husband’s name. “The Marquess of Roth and Lady Vittorina Carpalo.”
It was a cut she felt to her bones. She pasted a smile on her face and met her companion’s stare even as the noise in the ballroom rose to a fever pitch. “I know it’s untoward, but might I ask you to dance, Your Grace?”
…
Winter nearly missed one of the marble steps on his way down. If it weren’t for the woman at his side, he might have teetered head over arse. His muddled gaze sharpened on the black-haired lady next to him who had accosted him in the street when he’d descended from his carriage. Vittorina. Why was she glued to his side like a leech? He hated leeches.
Winter scrubbed at his face with a bare palm, wondering where his gloves had gone. Had he lost them? Oh Christ, why was the sodding room spinning? He wasn’t that foxed, was he?
“Winter, amore,” Vittorina cooed into his ear. “Take my arm.”
Even in his questionable state, he was aware of the curious eyes on them. He steered her out of the nearby door to a balcony, hauling deep gulps of air into his lungs to clear his head. He stalked to the balustrade, looking out at the dark gardens. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m married and you are engaged.”
“Edmund’s not here.” Hands slid up his back, twining around him. “You still want me, admit it.”
“No, I don’t,” he said and left her there.
Once inside, he scanned the ballroom, his eyes falling on a bright head of golden curls and something in his chest settled. The fist squeezing his lungs released a little, though it flexed in jealousy when he registered her dancing partner. Westmore. What the fuck was the duke doing dancing with Isobel?
Without thinking twice, he ignored the buzzing chatter around him and cut through the throng of dancers. He spied Oliver, though to his surprise, was happily dancing with none other than Clarissa. Didn’t those two hate each other? Winter blinked, wavering on his heels for a moment, and then remembered that Westmore was dancing with Isobel.
He shoved his way toward them, yanking on the duke’s arm. “That’s my wife.”
The music sputtered as every scandalized eye in the ballroom centered upon them, couples bumping into each other as they gawked.
“Roth, what are you doing?” Isobel said, her beautiful face turning pink.
“I want to dance with you.”
“You’re causing a scene,” she said. “And besides, I’m already dancing with someone.”
Winter scowled. “Fuck off, Westmore.”
The duke grinned and bowed. “Articulate as always, Roth.”
With a smirk, he took his leave, and then Isobel was where she belonged—in Winter’s arms. Music resumed and all was well with the world, until she smashed his instep with her heel, making him wince. “That’s for showing up late and with another woman.”
“She followed me in,” he protested.
Her lips thinned. “And I suppose she also conveniently followed you out to the balcony? I have eyes, Lord Roth, and I’m perfectly capable of seeing.” He was so intent on staring into her very beautiful eyes that he stumbled drunkenly on the next turn, nearly flinging her into the path of another couple. “Good God, sir, are you in your cups?”