The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,63

those wintry eyes lit with flames.

God, he loved when she fired up at him. Even now, in the middle of a crowded ballroom, she put him through his paces. He inhaled as he guided her into a slightly clumsy turn. He was too distracted by the feel of her, the scent of her. She smelled of flowers and summer days. His gaze fell to her mouth, remembering the silken feel of those soft pink arches. Her sweet taste.

In the past, he’d never wanted to kiss anyone. For some deep-seated reason, kissing meant a level of involvement and care that he avoided, and over the years, he’d stopped doing it. And yet, all he wanted to do was kiss her, lose himself in her prickly softness, the tart sweetness that was hers alone. Mark every satin inch of her body with his mouth. Claim her as his.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d leaned forward.

“Roth,” she said, eyes going wide with alarm. “What are you doing?”

“I want to kiss you.”

Her cheeks bloomed, though fury still burned in her eyes. “Get ahold of yourself. You’re foxed, and this is neither the time nor the place. You might be the notorious Rakehell of Roth, with scandal and vice as your playground, but I beg you, do not shame us both.”

“You shouldn’t care what people think.”

“That’s just it, Lord Roth, maybe you should.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and left him in the middle of the ballroom floor. After a moment, he gave a jaunty bow to the unapologetic onlookers and strode away, ignoring the stares and the whispers. He was used to them. No doubt the gossip would be flying that his own wife had given him the cut direct. No more than he deserved, he supposed.

“That went well,” Westmore said, handing him a glass of water.

“Where did she go?”

The duke arched a brow. “Retiring room.”

“I’ve bungled it, haven’t I?” Winter muttered, downing the water. “She’ll despise me forever.”

Westmore smirked. “Can’t be any worse than how much she despises you already.”

“Fair point.”

He directed a waiting footman to bring him another glass of water, which he drank thirstily. The cumulative effect of four days of drowning his misery was taking a hard toll. But staying drunk had been the only way he’d been able to stop thinking about Prue…and Kendrick…and Isobel.

God, he was a sorry sack of shit. He didn’t need anyone. He never had. No matter what one sweet-mouthed, sharp-eyed angel made him feel, it was weakness, pure and simple.

And weakness could not be tolerated.

Chapter Fifteen

Use your mouth. Well, for those things, too. But what I mean is tell him what you’re going to do, how you’re going to do it, and what you did, in explicit detail. He’ll love it.

– Lady Darcy

A few days later, with barely two weeks left for her to win the wager, Isobel huddled with Clarissa in her bedchamber staring at the invitation on black cardstock with golden script. All it listed was a date and time, The Silver Scythe, and charity auction & masquerade beneath it. The thick card even had a special watermark on it, possibly to deter counterfeiters.

“Where did you get this?” Isobel whispered. “This looks fancy and exclusive.”

“I stole it from Oliver’s room.”

Isobel met her friend’s eyes. “What were you doing in Oliver’s room, Clarissa?”

“Having a tea party, what else?” she replied with an eye roll.

“I think tea is a euphemism for something else with you two.” Isobel stifled her snort. “We might have to title Lady Darcy’s next letter: ‘Adult Teatime, a short treatise on how to take one’s tea, how to pour, and how to swallow like a lady.’”

She didn’t see the pillow coming at her face until it was too late and she almost choked on her laughter. She sobered as she sat up and retrieved the fallen invitation. “Won’t Oliver miss this?”

Clarissa bit her lip. “He’s a little under the weather this evening and has taken to his bed early. I saw it the other day when we were…er…never you mind what we were doing, but I figured since he wasn’t going to use it tonight, you could go in his place.”

“Wait, did you steal this invitation from the duke’s son?”

She threw a dramatic hand to her chest. “Theoretically, it’s not really stealing if he isn’t physically able to go, is it? It’s more like bequeathing the invitation elsewhere. You’re like his second, standing in for him.”

“This isn’t a duel, and using fancy words like bequeath