Page 101 of The Rakehell of Roth
She smiled. “Children?”
“I want at least eight.”
Isobel giggled and pulled a face. “For a man who didn’t want children, you’ve certainly changed your tune. Two.”
“Six, if I must.”
“Three, then,” she said.
“Four and we can call it even.”
Isobel opened her mouth to protest and then he kissed her, his skill and sweetness making her forget her entire train of thought. In fact, when he pulled away, she was hard pressed to remember where she was and how she’d come to be there.
“You are devious, sir!”
Her cheeky husband grinned. “All’s fair in love and war, my beauty.”
…
Winter hadn’t wanted to return to town, instead enjoying the idyllic peace—and pleasures—of his country estate, but duty was an unforgiving master, if left untended for too long. Happily, Isobel had agreed to return with him, and as such, it hadn’t been as dreary as he’d expected. London was teeming with the end of the season almost upon them, and the Marquess and Marchioness of Roth were invited everywhere.
Besides that, to his immense surprise, Isobel had insisted on learning about the inner workings of the shelter house in the past weeks. She hoped to take over some of the duties from Matteo, specifically overseeing general management duties and fund allocation. It overwhelmed Winter how much it affected him that Isobelwantedto be involved. No other society lady of his acquaintance volunteered to work with the poor and downtrodden or get their hands dirty. Then again, his wife wasn’t like any other woman. She continued to astound him—in every conceivable way—from the bedroom to business to the ballroom.
He’d just finished meeting with Bow Street that had run quite late. The head of the Runners had wanted to follow up with him to close out the open investigation into his attack. Edmund Cain was sentenced to prison for the attempted murder of a peer, and Lady Vittorina Carpalo had been returned to the care of her father, and rumor had it, he’d sent her to an Italian convent the next day. Winter had no doubt she’d find some way to convince her father that she’d repented at some point, but that was for Lord Carpalo to worry about.
When the coach arrived at Vance House—he’d instructed Matteo to put 15 Audley Street on the market—he hurried up the stairs, handing his cloak off to a frowning Ludlow. “I know I’m late. Glowering at me doesn’t make time go any quicker.”
“But I enjoy it so,” the butler said in the driest possible tone.
“You’re lucky my wife likes you or I’d sack you.”
Ludlow gave him an unperturbed look. “You’re lucky she tolerates you or you’d be sleeping in the guest chamber.”
“Touché.”
Winter took the stairs two at a time, only to stop at the door to their bedchamber, watching as his wife sat at her dresser, fastening a pair of earbobs. Dressed in a midnight-colored gown, her hair twisted up into an intricate updo, she stole his breath.
“You’re a fucking dream.”
Isobel met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. “So eloquent, Lord Roth.”
Winter slammed the door behind him and proceeded to strip every inch of clothing before prowling toward her. Laughing, she raised her hand, warding off his approach. “No, I refuse for us to be any later than we already are. Go, your bath is waiting.”
“A kiss then?” he begged.
But his cruel wife shook her head. “No, because we both know where one kiss leads with us.” That was true as they’d learned on many previous occasions. “Furthermore, it tookthreemaids to get me into this dress,” she went on.
Winter couldn’t quite hide his disappointment as he veered toward the bathing chamber and climbed into the waiting tub. He glanced down at his raging erection—how on earth was he to get rid of that? He sighed. Desperate times. Isobel’s laughing voice reached him just as he’d fisted himself. “However, if you can hold out and behave, I’ll let you rip it off me later.”
At that erotic promise, Winter’s hand instantly fell away.
“God save great George our king…long live our noble king,” he sang at the top of his lungs while washing vigorously. “God save the king! God save the king, send him victorious, happy and glorious. God save the king, send him victorious, happy and glorious. Long to reign over us. God save the king!”
“Who let the feral cats out?” Matteo said, walking into the room and making a show of plugging his ears, even as Isobel convulsed in laughter in the background.
“It’s a meditation technique,” Winter said. “Now come on, man, help me get dressed before I have to sing it again. The quicker we get to Lady Hammerton’s, the faster we return home so I can deal with my evil wife.”
“Oh,” Matteo said with a grin. “Thatkind of meditation.”
