Page 9 of Ruthless with a Rogue
A splotchy red bloomed over Finley’s face, and his mouth snapped shut with a clack, his nostrils flaring so wide Derek could see some exceptionally long nose hairs.He grimaced.What an unattractive picture the man presented.
“If you ever desire further education, feel free to call upon me.”Derek paused, gaze sweeping over the man.“As it appears, you are woefully deficient.”A rush spread through him.Christ, he loved being an arse.
Lord Finley sputtered as the other men’s gazes darted back and forth between each other.Except for Wessex.Wessex’s face lit up like a giddy schoolboy.Derek flicked an imaginary piece of lint from the arm of his coat and pulled his pocket watch from the fob pocket of his breeches.He had fifteen minutes before he needed to meet Lady Torrington.Best get a move on.
“A pleasure as always, gentlemen.”He nodded to the group, threw a smile at the red-faced, fuming Finley, and took his leave.
Meandering through the crowd, he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the exit, avoiding meeting anyone else’s gaze.Earlier in the night, Dorothea had huffed her frustration at her grandson’s disappearance withtwowomen in full view of the ton.She had made her sentiments quite clear with some choice words that almost had Derek blushing—almost—before promptly making her way to one of the card rooms.
He and Rafe were granted a reprieve from her plotting for another night.Though he had a feeling Rafe was in for an ear blistering tomorrow.Derek would conveniently make himself scarce for that.Dorothea was the scariest slip of a woman to ever walk this earth.
“The only reason he’s here is to cuckold some poor unsuspecting gentleman.He never even dances.”
Derek stiffened at the overloud whisper.It wasn’t necessarily about him, but—
“His behavior is abhorrent.Have you heard the shocking things he and the Iron Duke partake in?”
But it usually was.
A snicker sounded from behind him.“If I didn’t know better, I would say you sound jealous.Upset he isn’t vying for a place in your bed?”
Gritting his teeth, Derek pushed forward, having heard quite enough—but then had to veer backward, narrowly avoiding a collision with a couple making their way through the crush.
“Goodness, no!”the woman hissed.“I would never stoop so low as to be one of his trollops.But perhaps I could steer my dear Phillipa his way.What an advantageous connection that would be, to gain the wealth and power of the Marquess of Dunmore.”
There it was.No one had given him a second glance when he’d been drowning in debt of his father’s making.Add some shiny coin to a title, and suddenly, every gentleman wanted to know how he did it and every lady wanted to use their daughters to secure a piece of it.All the while saying how they truly felt behind their fans and games of cards.There was nothing redeemable about any of them.Manipulative, self-serving bastards who’d abandon or beat their children—or marry them off to someone like him—because it suited them.Or simply because they were all fucking sadistic.
Derek didn’t hide who he was, what he thought of them.He let them all know how he felt straight to their faces.He was an honest cove that way.The world couldn’t handle the truth.Couldn’t handle taking a long, hard look at themselves.And discovering they were all scum.
They got mad at him because he fucked their wives.Fucked their daughters.Sometimes both.But guess who approached him with those propositions?Derek didn’t chase after women; they chased after him.He wasn’t the one fathers and husbands should be angry with.Especially when they were out fucking their mistresses and whores anyway.Hypocritical filth.
Derek shoved through the crowd, guests gasping as he jostled them.They could go to the devil for all he cared.His vision dotted over, the blackness trying to swallow him.Blazes, he needed a drink.And a fuck.He reached inside his coat and whipped out his flask.He winked at an elderly matron throwing him a reproving glance and took a long swig in front of her.
They judged him, but he wasn’t the one being unfaithful; he wasn’t the one throwing away the family’s money over a roll of a die.They all wanted to use him for their own purposes.Before he could serve any purpose, where were they?Sleeping with his mother and taking his family’s money as his father so willingly doled it out over the baize.That’s where.A growl ripped from him.Fuckthe lot of them.
His gaze snagged on Lord Brambleton’s lumbering form on the dance floor, tossing around a slight, simply attired, golden-haired woman.He smirked over his flask.The poor mouse.Despite Brambleton’s awkward, jerky movements, the woman did an admirable job of remaining upright.
Derek pitied anyone who had to be within a few feet of Brambleton.Not only was he graceless, Brambleton tended to spew when he spoke.He recalled a recent card game with the lord, and his lips pulled back.The man carried around a disturbing smell, like a fish stand in the heat of summer.His stomach roiled.The poor woman.
The dance spun the woman around, and Derek’s gaze fell on her face.A grimace contorted her pretty features, eyes squeezed tight.He frowned, cocking his head to the side.Was she hopping?That was definitely not part of the waltz.Brambleton, you bacon-fed lout, you stepped on her foot, didn’t you?Derek didn’t often feel sympathy for others, but the unfortunate chit just earned his.Because, really, no one deserved that.
The woman recovered, a smile splitting her face, eyes opening to reveal large blue eyes.
And time stilled.
Large blue eyes.The deepest, truest shade he’d ever seen.
Even from his current distance, he could discern the cerulean hue with perfect clarity, like the Aegean Sea when he had traveled to Crete.
So.Bloody.Blue.
He couldn’t look away.Imprisoned.His heartbeat stumbled.Irrevocably altered.Then the dance spun the pair around and ripped those irises away from him.And ripped away the floor beneath his feet.Everything unsteady.He knew it wouldn’t even out until he caught sight of those eyes again.
Without warning, his flask was snatched from his grasp.All he could do was stare dumbly as he turned to find Lady Rutledge grinning at him, her black hair piled atop her head in a semblance of a coiffure, just as unruly as the woman herself.Lord Rutledge stood just behind her, his lips pressing together as he failed to bite back his smile.
Lady Rutledge passed the flask behind herself, using the flowing skirts of her deep red dress to hide it as she handed it off to her husband.She loved wearing the shocking blood-red color.An ode to her bastard status.
“My goodness, Lord Dunmore.I’ve never seen you so distracted before.To have left your whisky unguarded so…tsk tsk.And I know what vintage you keep in there.”
