Page 32 of The Rakehell of Roth
Winter blinked, her words crashing through him like a gale-force wind. “But you do. I’m your husband. You’re the Marchioness of Roth. What more do you want?”
“Is it so hard to believe that I’m here foryou?”
He prowled toward her, but she did not flinch away as he came to a stop in front of her neatly arranged skirts. His wife glanced up at him, the picture of ladylike decorum. Wanting to crack that perfect composure, Winter bent so their faces were level, his arms grasping the top of the bench on either side of her, his body caging hers in. He thought he heard the tiniest gasp, though her expression remained quite unruffled.
Ice-blue eyes seared into his, but she did not stop him when his nose grazed her temple. Winter inhaled, the scent of fresh grass and honeysuckle tickling his nostrils. She smelled like warm summer evenings on the lake. Out of the corner of his eye, Winter saw her bare fingers curling into the folds of her skirts, and he felt a beat of pure satisfaction.
He trailed his nose down, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. Christ, her skin was just as he remembered…like the softest silk. A shallow exhale broke from her lips, but still, Isobel didn’t move away.
“Yes, it is hard to believe, so tell me the truth,” he said, licking her lobe before sucking it into his mouth.
“I did,” she replied breathlessly.
He bit lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to punish her for the lie. Her gasp was reward enough for him to soothe the sting with a gentle swipe of his tongue. “Ready to be honest, or do you wish for more incentive?”
Her sudden hesitation gave him pause. The lust simmering in his blood flared to a boil. He pulled away, his hot gaze fastening to hers. Pure need churned in their blue depths, her pupils blown with the same desires that dominated him. His stare dropped to her plush parted lips, and for a moment, Winter wasn’t sure who was the seducer and who was the seduced.
“Christ,” he muttered, shifting backward.
Isobel took in a lungful of air as though it was the first time she’d breathed in hours. Purpose grew in her gaze, eclipsing the remnants of passion. Her slender throat worked before she drew a deep breath. “Very well, if you want the plain truth of it, I intend to win you back.”
The words detonated between them like a hidden landmine.
That, Winter had not anticipated.
He’d expected her to prevaricate and say she was bored, or she wanted a diversion, or Clarissa was on the hunt for a husband. Not this. Not a bald admission of wanting to winhim. Winter hissed a breath through his teeth. He desired her, too, but that was beside the point. Want was a fluid word—she wanted a spouse and he wanted someone to fuck.
Those two things were vastly different.
Winter resisted the urge to step away and scowled, his arousal well and truly doused. His father had to have put her up to this. Was that why they’d come to London, to ambush him as a pair? Because Kendrick was desperate to secure his ducal legacy?
He felt the usual anger unfurling inside of him. Rage at his father’s selfish desires, anger that he continued to use whomever he saw fit to gain his own ends, powerlessness to stop him. It was the same old story over again, only this time Isobel was the pawn.
“Did Kendrick put you up to this?” The words emerged as a growl.
“What? No, of course not.” She cleared her throat. “We might have discussed your absence, but this is what I want, Winter. My husband is what I want.”
His given name on her tongue did unconscionable things to him, made his blood heat and desire storm through his body. For a second, all he could think about was hearing her moaning it, sobbing it, screaming it to the heavens. Anger twined with desire, and it was only by the most valiant of efforts that he held himself in place instead of bending her over that bench, fisting his fingers in the golden skeins of her hair, and giving in to his basest desires then and there.
He doubted his sweet, innocent wife would approve.
He’d only taken her once in the customary way that wouldn’t terrify a virgin. However, even thinking of her in such an erotic position—back arched, bodice down, and breasts filling his palms—was enough to inflame his blood anew. A small whimper escaped her lips as though she could sense his depraved thoughts…and his thinning control, held only by the smallest of tethers.
Winter’s gaze snapped up. Her nostrils flared, pupils dilating while her body tensed, preparing itself to flee as though cognizant of being hunted by something innately dangerous. But instead of bolting as he fully expected her to, she held her ground, chest rising with shortened huffs. He tore his gaze away from the rosy flesh of her bosom, drawn up to where the tip of her tongue slipped out to sweep those plump lips.
He wanted to do depraved things to that rosebud mouth. Kiss it. Fuck it.Ownit.
Christ, what the hell was wrong with him?
“No,” he bit out. “No.”
“No to being a husband?” she asked, breathless. “I’m your wife. It isn’t unreasonable for me to want you in my life, or the next step that comes with any marriage…a family. A child. Or are you incapable of it?”
His head flew up at that, ice spearing through him.
She frowned. “Don’t you require an heir?”
His jaw clenched tight, the words a much-needed bucket of reason to his ruthless desires, bringing his sanity back like a sharp slap. “You are mistaken, Isobel. I do not want children. I am not in need of an heir, as I have Oliver, and Lord knows how much he craves the title.”
