“Is that so?” D’Arque’s lips curved cruelly. “You may still be happy at the home, but as I understand it, the home has grown beyond you. Forgive me, but I believe with the illustrious patronesses it now has, you may even be an embarrassment.”
“Adam!” Isabel’s shocked gasp was out before she could think. She felt Winter’s forearm turn to steel beneath her fingers at the use of d’Arque’s Christian name.
Lady Margaret glanced at her curiously while d’Arque’s expression grew smug.
Isabel’s eyebrows rose coolly at him. She and Adam Rutledge may’ve been playing a sophisticated game of seduction for the last year, he may’ve made it subtly known that he was interested in a liaison, and she may’ve hinted that she wasn’t averse to the idea, but she’d never committed herself.
He had no right to look so damned complacent—and certainly no right to attack Winter in a show of male possessiveness.
Lady Margaret cleared her throat in the awkward silence. “I think Mr. Makepeace is an excellent manager and… and representative of the home.”
D’Arque bowed at Lady Margaret. “Your defense of Makepeace reflects well on your gentle character, my lady.”
Lady Margaret smiled tightly. “You make me sound like a tabby cat, my lord.”
“A tabby cat with claws.” Isabel grinned. “It really is too bad of you to tease Mr. Makepeace so, my lord. What do you care about managing an orphanage in any case?”
The viscount shrugged indolently. “Perhaps I’ve discovered a newfound urge to do good works?”
“Or perhaps you have an interest in something else in St. Giles?” Winter asked softly.
D’Arque’s brows knit in puzzlement, and Isabel looked up at Winter sharply.
“Such as?” the viscount drawled. “Do you accuse me of a secret taste for gin?”
It was Winter’s turn to shrug. “There are other things to consume in St. Giles besides gin. Girls, for instance.”
D’Arque’s brows slowly arched. “Surely you don’t think I prefer boys?”
“I have no idea,” Winter said coolly. “I don’t know you, after all, my lord, and there are some who are so depraved as to enjoy debauching children.”
“I do assure you that I like my females fully, ah, matured.” The viscount cast Isabel a significant glance.
She arched a brow and looked away.
D’Arque suddenly clapped his hands, the gesture so abrupt and violent that Lady Margaret, standing beside him, shied. He was a man who had a well-established polite facade, but there was real anger now in his light gray eyes.
“Come,” the viscount cried. “Let us put our social skills, mine and Mr. Makepeace’s, to the test. I propose a contest of gentlemanly manners with an evening at the opera the first playing field. What say you, Makepeace?”
Isabel started to shake her head. The opera seemed a tame enough outing, but she didn’t trust Viscount d’Arque in his present temper.
“Done.” Winter’s voice was even and low, but there was no doubt that he was picking up a gauntlet thrown down.
“Splendid!” D’Arque’s eyes gleamed cruelly. “And to spice the stew, I shall invite several other gentlepersons of quality to help judge us.”
“Very well.” Winter inclined his head. “And now you must pardon Lady Beckinhall and me, for we are in search of the refreshments.”
“Ah.” D’Arque bowed ironically. “Please, don’t let me keep you from your social rounds.”
Winter turned and strode away through the crowd. People took one look at his face and stumbled out of his way, while Isabel skipped to keep up with his long legs.
“You needn’t run from the room,” she panted, trying to keep her voice low.
“You would prefer I stay and knock that ass down?” Winter snapped.
“You would never do such a thing—it’s not in your nature.”
His oblique glance was sharp. “Perhaps you know nothing of my nature.”
She lifted her chin. “I think I do. I think you take pride in repressing all your emotions, carefully tucking them away behind the bland mask you wear in public. I think you fear to feel too deeply, perhaps fear to feel at all.”
He cast her an incredulous look.
“It’s true. I’ve been studying you this last week. Besides,” she said more practically, “hitting d’Arque would merely make his point.”
They had come to an alcove off the main ballroom, discreetly hidden by several large vases and statuary. He pulled her inside then halted and swung her around, and she saw his eyes were burning black. He took her upper arms, holding her in an angry grip.
“His point that I’m some kind of half-ape, barely fit for civilized society?” he demanded, his voice a low vibration of outrage. “Is that what you think? Are you mortified to be seen on my arm in front of your lover?”
“He’s not my lover,” she hissed.
“He wants to be.”
“Yes, he does!” she flung out, tired of male rage, tired of this man flirting with her and then withdrawing.
“And is that what you want, too?” he growled, his mouth twisted harshly. “Do you want to lie with him?”
She lifted a taunting shoulder. “Perhaps.”
His face was so close to hers that she could feel his breath upon her lips. His eyes dropped to her mouth and she knew: He was going to kiss her. She’d finally feel Winter Makepeace’s mouth on hers, finally find out what lay beneath the mask. For a moment she forgot where they were, who they were. She wanted him. Wanted to tear the neck cloth from around his throat, open his shirt, and lay her mouth there, against the hot beat of his heart. She lifted her face, parted her lips, urged him on with her eyes.
Instead he raised his head, blinking as if he were coming out of a darkened room.
Winter Makepeace looked at her and she saw it, the moment his eyes shuttered, the second he regained his mask and drew away from her, both physically and emotionally.
He stepped back, lifting his hands from her. “I beg your pardon, Lady Beckinhall. That was quite unforgivable of me.”
She wanted to scream with frustration. Instead she inhaled, wishing she could free herself from passion as abruptly as he appeared to. “No, Mr. Makepeace, what is quite unforgivable is your apology.”
HE’D NEARLY BROKEN his unspoken vow. He’d nearly kissed a woman—nearly kissed Isabel.