Page 4 of The Rakehell of Roth
The carriage ride had been an absolute disaster. A complete and utter calamity. Despite Isobel’s efforts, once more, to have a mature, adult conversation with her husband, she had failed spectacularly. The marquess had glowered at her as though vacillating between tossing her bodily from the coach, wanting to incinerate her with his eyes, and staring at her as if she were his next meal.
The last had made her uncomfortably hot.
Was this what her wedding night would be like? Hot, uncomfortable, and impossible to predict? While she wasn’t in the least experienced, those hungry looks had awakened feelings in her she didn’t even know she had—a choked sensation in her breast, overheated skin, blood that felt like thickened honey, and the outrageous need to throw herself across the coach and scale his huge body like a monkey on a tree.
Without a stitch of clothing.
Thank God her thoughts were private, though she was sure that some of them might have been visible on her face, given the tightening of his brow and his restless shifting on the opposite bench. Twice, out of the corner of her eye, she’d seen the heel of his palm grind into his lap, but she hadn’t dared to let her eyes drift anywhere below his chin. It simply wasn’t proper. At least her behavior was beyond reproach, even if her thoughts weren’t.
Because those werebeyondshameless.
It was a miracle Isobel had been able to keep her composure intact when they finally arrived at Kendrick Abbey.
“Are you well, my lady?” Winter asked after the footman helped her down in the well-kept courtyard. “You seem…flustered.”
“The coach was rather warm,” she replied, grateful for the bite of the crisp early evening air. “And I’m nervous to meet His Grace.”
“Don’t be. Kendrick isn’t here. He’s in Bath. He spends most of his time at his estate there, taking the waters. With any luck, it will just be Oblivious Oliver.” At her questioning look, he shrugged. “My brother.”
“Oh,” she said. Isobel didn’t know he had a brother, but there were a lot of things she didn’t know about her new husband. She had years to learn, however. Grasping his gloved hand, she smiled up at him. He gave their joined hands a quizzical look but did not pull his away. Isobel took that as a good sign as she surveyed her new home and its occupants.
The servants were all lined up to welcome their new mistress, and she greeted each one of them, from the butler to the housekeeper to the footmen, with sincere warmth.
She would get to know each of them more later.
For now, Isobel followed her husband up to their suite of rooms, taking in as much as she could of the abbey’s impressive interior, from its vaulted ceilings to its meticulously polished furnishings. Isobel was no stranger to fortune, but this took her appreciation of wealth to a new level. Her husband’s chambers, though not the master, had a sumptuously decorated interconnecting bedroom. The decor was just as lavish as the rest of the house.
“Are you hungry?” Winter said. “I’ve asked Mrs. Butterfield to send up a tray for an early supper. I’ve also rung for a lady’s maid to prepare you a bath.” He paused at the threshold, his gaze unfathomable. “In the meantime, I must find my brother and take him to task for not being there to receive us properly. I’ll return shortly.”
Isobel gave him a soft smile, grateful for his thoughtfulness and equally glad he did not insist she accompany him. She was a bundle of nerves as it was, knowing their wedding night was forthcoming. A bath and a meal would help.
Hours later, she’d finished both, and despite eating the delicious fare alone—Winter had yet to return—Isobel couldn’t relax. It was her first time in a strange place and finding herself eased was impossible. After changing into her night rail, she’d climbed into the huge bed. Would Winter prefer her under the blankets? Above them? In bed at all? In an attempt to distract herself, she tried to read from a book she’d packed in her things but couldn’t concentrate. Her nerves were much too frayed.
Where was her husband? Would he come to her?
Stretching restlessly, she inched out of the bed and went to the window, where the full moon cast its silvery light over the gardens visible from her room. She and Astrid used to pretend to be fairies dancing under the moon when they were little girls. Like then, she had the urge to run outside barefooted, feel the grass beneath her toes, and spin around in circles until she collapsed with dizziness. The whimsical recollection made her smile.
The skin on her nape prickled and she whirled around, throttling a scream in her throat.
The Marquess of Roth stood at the connecting door, watching her.
Isobel blushed, realizing that the moonlight through the windowpanes rendered her filmy night clothes nearly invisible. She crossed her arms over herself, only to be stalled by Winter’s rasped, “Don’t.”
Obediently, Isobel dropped her arms. Her nerves returned in full force when he approached, only stopping when he was an arm’s length away, dark, tall, and foreboding. The moonlight caught his face, too, casting his angular features in silver shadows. He was dressed only in shirtsleeves, she realized breathlessly, and her eyes traced the strong neck disappearing into the opened collar. His shirt was untucked from his trousers, his feet scandalously bare.
“I was waiting,” she murmured when he didn’t say anything.
“I trust everything was to your satisfaction?”
Isobel nodded, suddenly shy. “It was. Thank you, my lord.”
“Winter.”
She bit her lip, unable to say his given name in so intimate a setting. He stared at her for what seemed like forever before closing the gap between them, and she gasped when his hands closed over her waist. One large palm slipped down to caress her hip. Sensations flooded her untried body, pebbling her nipples beneath the lacy night rail. She clenched her jaw hard. It was that, or give way to the vulgar moans clambering up her throat.
“Do you know what to expect?” he asked. “Did your sister or mother advise you of the wedding night?”
“Yes, my aunt explained,” Isobel whispered. She would not admit the guidance she’d received from her Aunt Mildred was thin at best, though she had a general idea of the act and what it entailed. He would undress her. Impale her. Fill her with his seed. Even in her head, the process sounded awful. She swallowed hard, her muscles locking.
