Page 3 of The Rakehell of Roth
His wife turned the full force of those ice-blue eyes on him, and for a moment, it felt like his skin had been seared by lightning. But that gaze also shone with no small degree of infatuation. It didn’t take much to interpret the shy glances and the soft blushes whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.
This was why it could never work.
He wanted sex and a warm body; she wanted sonnets and his soul.
The plain truth was that he’d needed to marry. An expedient wedding was the answer to Winter’s problemsandhers—and he’d jumped at the solution. His father’s recent codicil stated if he wasn’t married by his twenty-first birthday, he wouldn’t get a finger on the rest of his inheritance until he was thirty. That was over a decade away! The social club he’d opened with his best friend, the Duke of Westmore, using the first portion of his inheritance, was in its infancy. Anything could happen.
Which was why marriage was a lesser evil—it paid to be prepared.
And Winter didn’t have to court anyone, endure evenings at Almack’s, or worry about matchmaking mothers, fortune hunters, and the like. Isobel Everleigh was the perfect choice for a quiet, dutiful bride. He did not intend to be another casualty to fate, love, or beautiful women. He’d seen too much of what marriage and dependence had done to his own mother and his sister to ever want that deadly yoke for himself. Love made people weak and foolish, and drove them to madness or worse.
And Isobel—as perfect a bride as she might be—was no exception.
Reluctant amusement built in his chest. Oh yes. His sister definitely would have laughed herself silly at his predicament that he’d gone and gotten himself wedlocked to a jejune, enraptured debutante with romantic starbursts in her eyes.
She’s just what you deserve, Win, she would have teased.The angel to your devil.
Right now, his devil wanted to strip the angel bare. Make her writhe and moan. Corrupt her with sin.
“What’s your home like?” Isobel asked, interrupting his depraved thoughts, her sweet voice flicking against his senses. He’d much rather hear that soft voice screaming with pleasure, head thrown back and eyes glazed, golden curls tumbling down…
Damnation. Stop.
Winter cleared his tight throat. “Kendrick Abbey is much like Beswick Park, I suppose. Rolling hills, manse, ornamental ponds, a lake, tenants, the usual.” He waved an arm, guessing that she might share her sister’s penchant for horses. “You can ride to your heart’s content.”
“I don’t care for horses.”
A frown creased his brow. “You don’t?”
“One threw me when I was a girl,” she explained with a pretty blush. “My sister insisted I get back on, but I was much too timid. They frighten me, really. To be honest, mounting such an enormous, powerful animal makes my pulse race.”
Winter stared at her, his frown deepening ashispulse kicked up a notch. Was she being facetious? At his look, his wife bit her lip, and his stare swung to that moistened, plump roll of flesh when she released it. Hell if he didn’t want to taste it. Winter tore his gaze away and focused on the delicate slope of her nose. Yes, that was a safe bet.
When had it gotten so hot in the carriage? It was bloody sweltering.
He tugged at his collar. “Whatdoyou enjoy doing, then?”
“I like balls,” she replied shyly, and the ones in his pants throbbed in approval even though they had nothing to do with the event in question. “I liked dancing with you at Lady Hammerton’s very much.”
“Did you?” His voice sounded choked, even to his own ears.
Nodding, Isobel’s tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Winter dug his fingers into the bench. Everything she did and said was so artless and yet so deeply erotic he felt it in his bones.Christ, he needed to get in control! Oblivious to his deteriorating composure, she warmed to filling the silence with conversation while he descended into silent torture.
“I also enjoy playing the pianoforte, though I’m not very adept, I’m afraid. My sister accuses me of pounding the keys too hard at times.”
Oh, bloody hell, there was no way she didn’t know what she was doing to him with those provocative words—mounting, balls, pounding—but her pretty face remained earnest and sincere, not an ounce of artifice to be seen.
It was just him then, lost in the mire of obscenity.
Control, for the love of God, Roth.
“Anything else?” he managed politely.
She brightened at his interest. “I enjoy embroidery. It’s a wonderful, ladylike pastime. Though I do not enjoy getting pricked.”
Winter made a strangled noise. It was no use. He was going to fuckingdie.
…
