The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,67
a muscle in his cheek. She saw him glance at Matteo, but the man was too busy working the crowd into a frenzy, extolling Lord Roth’s considerable virtues.
“Two thousand, one hundred,” Lady Hammerton shouted.
An undaunted Vittorina tossed her head. “Two thousand, two.”
Isobel frowned as the noise in the room swelled. The woman was out to win. She squared her shoulders, armed only with a name and a promissory note, and shifted into the rear of the room where the shadows cloaked her.
She cleared her throat. “Two thousand, three.”
“Too much for me,” Lady Hammerton said, though a knowing smile played over her lips as their eyes connected for a scant instant. Isobel cursed and hunched her shoulders. Had the old harridan recognized her?
“Two thousand, four,” Vittorina said, a slight waver in her voice.
Isobel clenched her jaw. “Three thousand pounds.”
“Three thousand in the back,” Matteo said, dark eyes dancing. The bidding had already exceeded that of the Duke of Westmore. “Lady in green,” he said to Vittorina, who craned her neck to see who had the audacity to out-bid her while Isobel shifted silently out of her view. “What say you?”
“Three thousand, one hundred,” Vittorina said, though her throat bobbed nervously, her face going tight. Isobel didn’t know the ins and outs of bidding, but she knew how to read people, and the woman was visibly anxious about the sum she had just offered. Three thousand must have been her limit.
“This is my pond,” Isobel said to herself, and then louder, knowing she didn’t have to go as high as she did but going anyway. She was making a point, even if it was only to herself. Go big, or go back to Chelmsford. “Five thousand.”
The noise was thunderous as she shifted again from the spot where she’d called out the bid. The dark fabric of her clothing made it easy to slip through the crowds as people turned, desperate to identify the voice with the deep pockets. She saw Winter’s eyes combing the crowd, silver igniting the gray in the stage lighting so that they seemed almost feral.
She’d lowered her voice, but something deep inside her warned that he knew who she was and that he would find her. Slowly, Winter’s eyes panned toward her, and with every inch, her breath stuttered. Though she knew he could not see her clearly where she stood in the shadows, her heart fought against her ribs like a frantic beast. She felt it deep in her bones—that raw, elemental connection she only felt with him. Did it go both ways? Did he sense her on a soul-deep level as she sensed him?
“Do I hear five thousand, one?” Matteo asked, his face bright with glee.
No one spoke, but the energy and excitement in the air were palpable.
“That’s too rich for my blood,” Vittorina snarled. “I withdraw.”
Matteo clapped and rang a golden bell. “Sold to the mystery bidder in the back for the sum of five thousand pounds! Come forward, announce yourself, and claim your prize.”
The room simmered down to a whisper as the crowds parted. Isobel took a deep breath and stepped forward, keeping her head low so that her face wasn’t immediately visible. She felt it the moment Winter’s eyes landed on her, and for a second, she was grateful for the dim lighting. She kept her voice low, its tones deep, offering no further clue to her identity.
“I fear the only name I can give you for now, sir, is Lady Darcy.”
Chapter Sixteen
Make the beast with two backs. Shakespeare came up with that gem, not me.
– Lady Darcy
Winter cursed the crowd, the gloom, and Matteo in the same breath. While he was glad that Vittorina had been outbid, the sum he’d fetched had been beyond exorbitant, and he couldn’t bloody see who had made the tender. All he could make out was what looked like a slender young man dressed in black. After Matteo’s invitation for the bidder to come forward and make a claim, he’d heard the person say: I fear the only name I can give you tonight, sir, is Lady Darcy.
He’d almost groaned.
Just what he needed. Though this Lady Darcy, unlike the other courtesans, seemed to be garbed in men’s clothing. A Mister Darcy, then. Perhaps, it was simply a rich young man looking for guidance or advice. He’d been approached by such fledgling bucks in the club before. Matteo neared, and Winter’s irritation renewed. The man knew better than to accept such large offers…they’d long since learned that when