The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,65
discovery and not getting in at all if two of us show up with one invitation. Best to play it safe just in case. I’m expecting a full account when you return.”
“What will you do?”
Clarissa shot her a wicked wink. “Make tea.”
“Oliver is ill.”
“That part of him isn’t.”
“There’s something truly wrong with you,” Isobel said as a discarded chemise came flying toward her face.
“Good thing you love me.”
Dodging the projectile, Isobel laughed wryly. “I do.”
…
Sitting in his private office in The Silver Scythe, Westmore shot Winter his trademark smirk, only this time it made Winter want to punch him in his blindingly white teeth. “Soldier up, Roth. Let’s see if you can go for half of what I got last year.”
Winter rolled his eyes. The annual charity auction of gentlemen at The Silver Scythe was in full swing. While he had no quarrel about being auctioned off to a horde of hungry heiresses with money to burn, he couldn’t be bothered to make more than the barest ounce of effort. They were lucky Matteo was willing to pick up the slack.
Three days’ growth of stubble had made Winter take on the appearance of a buccaneer and his valet had insisted on a top to bottom groom. Now, hair neatly trimmed, face shaved, nails buffed and polished, and dressed in formal togs, he was the epitome of polished lordliness.
“Lord Roth. Your Grace.” Matteo swept in, dressed to the nines with his usual elegance, tailored black trousers paired with an open crimson robe, and gold paint adorning his bare, muscular chest. The effect was as intended—completely shocking. “It’s a packed house tonight. We are almost ready to close the evening’s auction. All the others are completed.”
“Jesus, Matteo.” Westmore gave a mock groan. “The women aren’t going to bid a farthing for us humdrum Englishmen with you parading around in that.”
The man grinned and winked. “I can always dress you in some borrowed fare, Your Grace. Not to mention some body paint would do the trick. I’m sure the women would die for it. Your musculature is perfect.”
“Next year,” the duke promised.
“Devil take it, get a chamber, you two,” Winter growled.
“What crawled up your arse, Roth?” Westmore asked.
Not a what. More of a who. But he didn’t say anything. He had no idea why he was so irritable. Based on the monies tallied from the earlier auctions by other members, they were on track to exceed last year’s donations to the shelter house in Seven Dials. He should have been pleased, but for the past few days, everything had felt out of sorts. Nothing seemed to matter.
And he knew exactly why.
After Vauxhall, Winter had distanced himself. There was no way he could give Isobel what she wanted. A husband who could love her back. Children. Hope for a happy future. She wanted a fairy tale, but Winter wasn’t the hero of their story, even if he’d pretended to be once upon a time. The truth was, he was the villain—the evil lord who imprisons the princess.
“Do you think Lady Hammerton will be back this year, Roth?” Westmore asked. “She was the only reason you won last year, if you recall.”
Winter shrugged, shoving his dark thoughts away. The notorious lady had paid an astronomical sum for him to sit for some portraits. Nude. Well, partially nude. He’d had to wear a large leaf-like cloth over his genitals. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he’d learned a lot from the raunchy, high-spirited widow, which was why he knew she couldn’t be Lady Darcy. She’d also mentioned that she admired the chit, whoever she was.
In any case, it was Westmore’s year to win. Since the inauguration of the first charity auction, they’d been neck and neck from year to year, pegs above all the other gentlemen.
“May the best man win,” he said.
They didn’t have many rules, but those they had were strict: no sexual conduct unless by consensual agreement and no breaking the law.
Winter watched from the sidelines as Matteo introduced the duke. The noise was deafening. Winter might be a rogue, but Westmore was in a whole other league. Within minutes, the bidding war had escalated into the thousands, with shrieks of excitement and anger punctuating the chatter. He almost laughed as Westmore strutted his way like a preening peacock across the stage at the end of the cavernous ballroom. It was a wonder the man was still unwed, but he’d never seemed interested in marriage.