Page 13 of The Rakehell of Roth
“That the Marquess of Roth can’t handle his own wife.”
The words registered like fired shots. Winter blinked. Did his prim, shy bride just insult his masculinity? But then something like excitement licked up his spine. Strangely, it was the most alive he’d felt in months.Years. A slow grin replaced his scowl. His demure kitten had grown into a feline with razor-sharp claws, but whatever game his little wife intended to play, Winter would see it won.
And then he would send her back to Chelmsford.
“Trust me, love, you couldn’t be more wrong.”
The Marchioness of Roth turned in a vicious whirl of satin skirts and glanced over her shoulder in the doorway, a sultry gaze boring into his, one that promised both satisfaction and destruction in equal measure. “Prove it then,love.”
She made those four parting words sound like a gauntlet:See you at dawn.
Winter stood there, stunned, for several loud heartbeats after his wife had left, leaving shrapnel in her wake.
Ludlow pinned him with a gratified expression. “So, roses to Vance House, then, my lord?”
“Sod off, Ludlow.”
From the look of his wife, he was going to need a lot more than roses.
Chapter Four
In matters of seduction, Dearest Friend, the easiest way to catch an unattached gentleman’s eye is with confidence. Subtlety is for spinsters.
– Lady Darcy
Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell.
Isobel sat straight up in the unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, her heart pounding from the dregs of her nightmare, trying to orient herself. She wasn’t in her bedchamber at home, at Kendrick Abbey. She was at Vance House. InLondon. Where her scoundrel of a husband was actively sowing his no-good oats, as was evident from the dreadful shape she’d witnessed him in last night. And where she’d effectively called him out in no uncertain terms.
The nightmare was real, then.
She sighed and slumped back down. From the accounts she’d read in the scandal sheets, Isobel had fully expected Winter to be living a bachelor lifestyle. What she hadn’t expected was the shocking, nerve-shattering effect he’d had on her. Or the fact that he had no jowls to speak of at all. And the tiny detail that three years later, he was still the most sinfully attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on.
Botheration.
She’d returned to the duke’s residence seething after her spontaneous visit to Audley Street, and not much of her anger had drained away overnight. She was still furious. Her husband had looked like he’d just crawled out of bed. In the middle of the afternoon.Whosebed was a question she did not want to dwell upon.
Lamentably, Winter looked no worse for wear. In fact, those years looked unfairly good on his lanky frame—filling him out in places and hardening him in others. Isobel hadn’t been able to calm the deep, pulsating throb that had roared to life in her belly at the sight of him…that rich brown hair hanging carelessly over his brow, those gray eyes that had swirled like liquid smoke in the gloom, even though the whites of them had been bloodshot.
Heavy carousing would do that, she thought sourly.
But even a pair of reddened eyes and disheveled appearance could not detract from his raw physical appeal. Those broad shoulders and towering frame, his gorgeous, fallen-angel face that promised wicked delights. A rush of heat swamped her as her nipples tightened, her core clenching. Isobel buried her head in the pillows with a stifled shriek.
Why couldn’t life be easy? Was that so much to ask? She’d been promised he’d have rampant gout, thanks to a dissolute lifestyle, hadn’t she?
What would Lady Darcy have done?
Isobel let out a dry laugh. The dauntless Lady Darcy would have stripped to her naughty, lacy undergarments in Winter’s foyer and dragged the man to his bedchamber, whereupon she would have kept him abed for days, forcing him to make amends for three years of lost time with his tongue, his fingers, and his long—
She flungthaterrant thought away. As much as she could recall from her brief wedding night, Winter’s sex was neither too long nor too short, too thick or too thin. She had felt the blunt, sleek pressure of it, then a pinch of fullness, followed by an intense friction, and the shocking dissipation of pleasure that had gripped her entire body.
And then he’d left, forcing her fertile imagination to invent Lady Darcy.
Isobel ran her palms down her concave belly to the sharp bones of her hips and sighed. Despite her loneliness and her bitterness, she had remained faithful to her vows. A wry smile touched her lips. Though, if she was being fair, shehadgotten quite a bit of her frustrations out through Lady Darcy. That version of herself lived the life that Isobel had been cheated of…one of youthful desire and exploration. One of female pleasure and satisfaction.
It was the reason the letters were so popular, she knew. Women had questions. They were sublimely romantic. And to no one’s surprise, they had many of the same needs as men and were largely unable to act on them.Especiallyif they were ladies.
She blushed. Good God, Winter would probably be horrified if he knew what kind of caprices her mind housed. Well, it was his own fault, really. That was the price of a banished wife’s existence in Chelmsford. One had to use one’s imagination, after all, and as it turned out, hers was puckishly creative.
