Gilded in Sin (Heiress, Book 5) (Ebook)

Isabella ground her teeth at having to attend yet another Season in town. Her third and her last if she had anything to say on the matter. It wasn’t to be borne to have to endure yet another humiliating three months in London pretending she wished to be courted by all the popinjays who tried to court her, dance, and pretend to be someone they were clearly not.
She may of course be a little jaded against the opposite sex, and she could not help feeling so after being disappointed by what was on offer these past years. No gentleman had ever even captured her attention, so how was she to give her heart if she could not be bothered half of the time to even give an inch of regard toward them.
They were all so false.
One in particular this Season to be more so than anyone else.
Lord Hartley Whitmore. How he was the elder brother to her sister’s beloved husband Lord Benedict she could not work out. At times, Isabella was certain Lord Whitmore was some off-cut from his family, so different the brothers seemed to be. Benedict was loving, a Christian man who was kind and affectionate and tried to help those who had less than he.
But the brother!
As if on cue to her thoughts of him, Lord Whitmore strutted into the Kenworthy’s ball, gathering as much attention as the man could attain and not shying away from the admiring glances most of the women threw his way.
“What a flirt.” Isabella pursed her lips into a displeased line, glaring at him. He really was the most infuriating man she’d ever met in her life. That he was back in London only made her final Season all the more grueling.
Having to watch him most nights throw a look, bestow a touch on whatever woman he deemed suitable, before disappearing somewhere into the gardens or house for a suspicious amount of time was almost enough to make her cast up her accounts.
The man had no shame. That he was now sort of related to her family was vexing.
“Lord Cust looks smart this evening,” Rosalind said at her side, nodding toward the earl who stood not far from them in conversation with a lady he’d been courting for several weeks now and was certainly not looking in her direction, as well her sister knew.
“He’s all but engaged. I think the ton will hear of the announcement any day now and it will not be to me.”
Isabella tried to keep the disdain, the disappointment from her tone, but even she knew she failed miserably at doing so. There was no use for it. Where her sisters had triumphed, she had failed.
Their marriages—all love matches—were highly praised and what other ladies in their social sphere strived for if at all possible. Alas, she was not one of them. Perhaps she’d been a little too prickly at times. A little too opinionated and judging, but that was only because her sisters had married so well that her standards were high.
She could not go low now.
“Bells, my sweet sister-in-law, how I’ve missed your scowling visage since I saw it last.”
“Whitmore.” His name sounded like she was spitting mud, and in truth she was. He was no better than the grime one found on the bottom of their slipper. “I’m not your sister-in-law, and nor do I need you to come over to me and speak. We get along perfectly well when you do not.”
He chuckled, a deep gravely sound that irritated her. She closed her eyes and fought for patience. She would not chastise him publicly and shame the family. Even if she wished to every time he dared speak to her.
Which was more often than she wanted.
“We do, do we not? Still, I enjoy our little tête-à-têtes. The balls we both attend just would not be the same without your smiling, happy visage to greet me each night. I do not know what I would do should I not be greeted with such affable love from my dearest sister-in-law.”
“Again, I’m not your sister-in-law, you dolt.” She met his eyes and saw the laughter in his green gaze. The man, for all his annoyances was, damn it all to hell and back, utterly too handsome for his own good. And he knew it, much to his downfall.
“Should you not be over there,” she gestured, “with the widow Lady Leveson? She looks like she’s pining for your attention and I’m certain you’re just dying to sneak off somewhere in this house and do what you’ve occupied yourself with these past weeks.”
Isabella watched him intently. As much as he tried to school his features to one of innocence she wasn’t fooled. Many illicit rendezvous occurred in the closed off rooms at these great events, she wasn’t so naïve not to understand.
“You’re a lady. You ought not know what I get up to here or anywhere.”
“I’m also getting quite long in the tooth and know enough. Not to mention those ladies you’ve been sneaking off with are only too happy to talk about their interludes with you later and not always as hushed as they should.”
“Really?” His smirk was bold enough that she fisted her hand at her side to stop herself from smacking it off.
“You’re pleased?” She narrowed her eyes on him. “You ought to be ashamed. At least get a mistress. What if one of the ladies you dally with ended in a compromising position? You’d be done for, and let us not forget you’ve already left England once due to scandal.”
“Which I was innocent of, need I remind you.” He moved closer to her and as much as she wished she could shuffle away, a large potted palm stopped her ability. “And since you know so very much about my intimate interludes, let me assure you that I’m always careful. I would never put my family name at risk, Bells.”
“It’s Lady Isabella to you.”
“I do like Bells more. Rolls off my tongue quite well.”
She met his eyes, noting all the laughter had faded from his gaze. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she quickly looked back toward the dancefloor. Isabella took a deep, calming breath, unsure what Lord Whitmore meant by his words, but having the uncanny belief he meant more than what he was saying.
But then, he liked to tease, to taunt, to be false, so no doubt he was trying to rattle her in a new and untested way than he had before.
“Well, I do not like it and you will call me by my honorifics until I give you leave to do differently, which I should warn you, will probably never occur.”
He slapped a hand across his chest and gasped. “You wound me, deeply. I do not know why you’re the only lady present in London who does not fall at my feet. Do I not charm you even a little? I try my utmost with you and yet you’re stoic and cold, very little give in your hatred of me.”
His words took the breath from her lungs, and she gaped. “I do not hate you, my lord, but I also do not think about you.” The lie slipped off her tongue and believably so, which she was thankful for. She did think of him, more than she ought, even if it was only in ways to throw mud in his direction or chastise him, nothing else.
He watched her and she fought not to fidget with her hands. “I’m determined to have you as my friend. We’re both similar creatures I feel. I’m a lone wolf, and you’re a lone kitty cat.”
“Kitty cat?”
His grin was infectious, and she fought not to smile at him. “Yes, kitty cat. All claws, until they find someone they love, and then they’re all pussies.”
Isabella rolled her eyes. “I fear you’re drunk and that you think far too much about cats. You ought to slink off and find tonight’s conquest. You’re wasting your precious time with me, especially when it can be spent more pleasantly elsewhere.”
“What makes you think that I’m not getting pleasure from our interlude?”
“This isn’t an interlude, it’s a conversation, and I’m not so green not to know what you do in the bowels of these grand homes isn’t pleasurable. I do read, my lord.”
He cleared his throat and adjusted his cravat. “I’m so pleased you said so, I was starting to think that you were far more experienced than a maid ought to be.”
Heat bloomed on Isbella’s cheeks at the realization of how her words were interpreted. “I’m not experienced at all. I’m merely not so naïve to be clueless as many of the other debutantes are each year.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’d hate for my kitty cat to be on the prowl.”
Isabella rolled her eyes and patted Whitmore’s chest as she moved to leave. A mistake the moment her palm touched the lapels of his coat and the hardness of his toned body that met her hand. Her mouth dried and she had to swallow to force the words out she wanted to say. “I’ll leave the prowling for the wolf. Good evening to you, Whitmore. Do try to not catch the pox.”
His hand closed over hers, keeping her from leaving momentarily. “I’ll try, just for you, Lady Bells…”