Page 25 of The Rakehell of Roth
Those full lips parted on a sharp inhale when he yanked her upright, a heated stare meeting hers as her hands gripped his waist…and a rigid length jutted into her belly. Isobel swallowed her gasp, her body going hot. Blast! If she wasn’t careful, she’d be a pile of cinders by the end of the wretched dance. But she would take him, too. He’d burn with her.
That was the thing with flames—they didn’t care who they consumed.
Pull yourself together and focus!
Remembering why she’d deliberately stumbled in the first place, Isobel drew her gloved knuckles down his hard waist, dangerously close to the straining bulge in his trousers, while pretending to find her footing. His choked exhalation made her bite back a gratified grin. She wouldn’t be one half of Lady Darcy if she didn’t know what the state of those trousers indicated.
Letting all the pent-up yearning she’d buried for three years show in her eyes, she took in a protracted breath that made her bodice rise and tighten. Winter’s gray eyes went almost black as they dropped to the creamy display of her rose-tinted décolletage. Thank God—and talented seamstresses—for creative padding. Her modest bosom had never looked better.
Winter swallowed, his throat working compulsively.
Isobel nearly burst into a wild giggle. So Clarissa’s long ago quip about heaving breasts and men’s inability to resist themwastrue! At the time, she’d told her friend that she was reading far too many penny romance novels, but it appeared that Clarissa’s pennies had been well spent if Roth’s smoldering gaze was any indication.
Isobel quickly searched out her friend. Unlike the moral-smiting excuse for a dance she was forced to endure, Clarissa and Oliver were locked in a stilted embrace, both their forms wooden, their faces carved from marble.
Poor Clarissa. Isobel would have to make it up to her somehow.
But she had bigger problems to worry about…as in the man currently at her mercy. Isobel’s gaze slanted back to Winter. His face remained tight with strain.Good. She shifted again, inviting another tormenting brush of her body against her husband’s muscular thighs.
Unfortunately, despite her purposeful machinations, his fingers felt as though they had branded through the layers of silk into her skin, and her bones were so molten that she could barely hold herself upright. Desire was a two-edged blade. Every movement of their bodies sent the flames between them burning higher. She couldn’t give up, but neither could she escape unscathed.
After an interminable time, the music finally stopped, but Winter did not release her.
“You are a tease, Lady Roth,” he murmured and the low hum of his voice went straight to her heated nether regions. The arrogant smirk that followed, however, made her temper rise.
“It takes one to know one, does it not?”
Isobel yanked her hand out of his and whirled away, leaving him there. His husky chuckle followed as she made her way to where the Duke of Kendrick was waiting. He arched an eyebrow that reminded her of his son’s. The resemblance made her scowl.
She lifted her chin. “I wish to leave.”
She also wished for a cold bath.
One preferably housed within a glacier.
In the depths of the Arctic.
Kendrick didn’t bat an eye. Just inclined his head, offering her his arm without comment. By the time they had located a sullen Clarissa, retrieved their cloaks, and called for their carriage, both Isobel’s temper and her desire had cooled considerably. And as soon as they were en route to Vance House, the pressure in her lungs finally eased and she felt like she could breathe again. All it took was to be out of view of her husband.
Winter had met her eyes across the ballroom as she’d been saying her goodbyes andwinked. It had made her even more determined to beat him. Perhaps Clarissa would have some more ideas. If her friend ever spoke to her again, that was. Clarissa had not uttered a single word since her dance with Oliver, and the coach was fraught with uncomfortable silence. Thank goodness Winter’s brother had chosen to stay. His presence would have made the journey intolerable.
It wasn’t until Isobel had bid the duke goodnight and she’d changed into her night rail that she was able to corner Clarissa in her bedchamber, already huddled under a mound of covers.
“Will you never speak to me again?” she asked the lump.
“I am sleeping, Isobel.”
Isobel sighed at the curt use of her full name. “I’m sorry you had to dance with him, but it could not be helped.”
A head popped up, green eyes blazing with fury. “You know how I feel about that man. Dancing with him was worse than purgatory. Worse than being dragged behind wild horses over a bed of nails without a stitch of clothing. Worse than…than…”
“I get it.”
“No.” She shook her head and gave a shudder. “No, you don’t.”
“It was one waltz, Clarissa,” Isobel said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, but too many people were hanging on, ready to make a scene. If you want to blame someone, you can blame me, but we both know who was truly at fault. Winter instigated the whole thing. If Oliver had left you high and dry with that rancid look on his face, people in the ballroom would have wondered what was wrong withyou.” She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “And you do wish to secure a husband out of all this, don’t you?”
“Men stink,” Clarissa muttered, but she shoved the covers back in silent invitation.
