The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,66

to Prue. In hindsight, his sister’s death had hit the man hard, though Winter had been too wrapped up in his own anguish to notice. That was when he’d buried his heart and swore to never let anyone in.

Perhaps Westmore had done the same.

“Sold,” Matteo shouted. “To the lady in the scarlet cloak, Lady J.”

Winter’s eyebrows crept up as the woman walked forward to complete the transaction. If he wasn’t mistaken, the woman calling herself Lady J was actually Lady Jocelyn Capehart, the unmarried daughter of the Duke of Tyne. Her family and Westmore’s had been at odds for decades. What was she doing here? His eyes met Westmore’s and the surprise in them mirrored his. Nonetheless, she signed over the payment and it was a binding contract, meaning Westmore was hers for one night.

There was no time to dwell on it, however, as Matteo waved Winter out. Cheering filled his ears as he stalked across the stage, welcoming his guests with a smile. Even though it was a masquerade, some people chose to dress up, others chose to dress down, others wore magnificent costumes, and a daring few chose to wear the smallest amount of clothes possible. Everyone was encouraged to be themselves, or use other identities, if they so desired. As a result, there were quite a few Lady Darcys in the crowd.

Winter bit back a smile at how many of the so-called Lady Darcys resembled courtesans. He was still of the mind that Lady Darcy was part of the upper crust and wouldn’t be caught dead at an assembly like this. Or maybe she was here…in disguise, wearing a symbolic mask like the rest of them.

…

Isobel’s heart was pounding against her ribs as Winter appeared on stage.

God, he made her blood sing.

Tall and intimidating, the man was a handsome-as-sin devil, his brown, freshly trimmed hair falling carelessly over his brow, those piercing gray eyes scorching through the crowd. A small smirk graced his full lips, reminding her of how they’d felt on hers. Isobel clenched her thighs together, cursing the tight fabric that made her feel everything.

Every layer, every seam, every ridge.

She’d arrived with enough time to view a few of the last gentlemen up for auction. Many of the members, both male and female, had auctioned themselves and their services earlier, from what she could tell. The gentlemen auction, however, was the crème de la crème, and the last two to be auctioned would be Westmore and Roth.

Matteo bowed low. “As our last gentleman of the evening, I am honored to present Lord Winter Vance, the Marquess of Roth. As you can see for yourselves, Lord Roth is physically fit, can carry a passable tune, loves a glass of whiskey and a good book, enjoys wit and conversation, and is skilled in all the ways that count.”

Isobel couldn’t control the helpless clench of her thighs at the sultry smirk on Winter’s face.

Matteo shook his finger back and forth at the squeals and sighs in the rapt audience. “However, as you all know, unlike the Duke of Westmore, Lord Roth is married and as such, his services tonight will be restricted at his discretion. He also reserves the sole right to reject any bid.”

To Isobel’s surprise, those statements didn’t dim the enthusiasm. If anything, the sighs multiplied. Did the many hopefuls in attendance expect to convince the marquess otherwise?

“The bidding will start at one thousand pounds,” Matteo said.

“One thousand, one hundred,” an excited voice called out.

Another hand flew up. “One thousand, two!”

Isobel’s eyes widened, a shocked giggle bursting out of her as she recognized the bidder. Good gracious, was that Lady Hammerton? The woman was ancient, but she lived with uncommon exuberance. It had been at her house party in North Stifford where she and Winter had exchanged marriage vows over three years ago.

Though Clarissa had explained that the scandalous auction was for charity, she couldn’t help wondering what the winners did with their prizes. The majordomo had said that the gentlemen had right of refusal and the activities weren’t carnal in nature, but she wasn’t so sure, given the looks on some of the bidders’ faces. What in God’s green earth would Lady Hammerton use him for? It boggled the mind.

“Two thousand.”

Heads turned in the crowd at the eight-hundred-quid leap, and Isobel gritted her teeth once the overconfident bidder came into view. Vittorina. Of its own volition, her gaze flicked up to her husband. The only sign he thought anything at all was the beat of