Page 40 of The Rakehell of Roth
Oh, dear God. Isobel felt so unbearably hot that she was sure she would swoon. Her throat felt dry and her heart pounded against her ribs like a demented thing. The painting in front of her was lewd, depicting sexual congress between many frolicking partners in a public garden, and it was indecent, horrifying, and scandalously arousing. But that hadn’t been the catalyst to set her off.
That had been Winter’s gravelly rasp against her ear that had nearly made her eyes roll back in her head. She’dfelthis lips graze her ear, and Lord help her, she wanted to feel his teeth graze over her skin. Feel him suck that sensitive lobe into his mouth as he’d done before near the wishing well.
No, the fire shooting through her body was a direct result ofhim, not because of filthy art that she and Clarissa had already pored over in scandalous delight. For research, of course. Isobel reached for her fan and realized too late that she didn’t have one. It hadn’t been provided with the dress. Her gloved fingers curled into fists at her sides. She wasn’tthatinnocent, she wanted to declare to Winter, but her mouth refused to cooperate.
Everythingrefused to cooperate.
She could only stand still like a rabbit caught in the sights of a very, very hungry wolf. Willing her body to move, she breathed out and wrenched her eyes from the painting, only to fall on another that was twice as bawdy. She snatched her gaze away.
Good Lord, there were filthy paintings everywhere the eye could see, and all she could feel was her husband’s huge frame against her back, caging her in. Her senses were battered on so many fronts—visual stimulation, his body bracketing hers, the deeply masculine scent of him, the rough cadence of his breathing. The only thing missing was taste and the feral need brewing inside of her to turn and seal her mouth to his.
She needed to take control of a situation that was quickly spiraling out of control.
She had to take charge.
Isobel found her voice. “These are interesting. It’s certainly not Ackermann’s,” she said, referring to Rowlandson’s printer on the Strand, The Repository of Arts.
“Indeed.”
She didn’t have to turn to feel his surprise that she was familiar with the artist or his body of work. Score one for her. She needed to retune this game of theirs. Winter’s fingers gripped her elbow and her entire body tensed, but he only meant to lead her down the rest of the eye-opening corridor. Another black lacquered door stood at the end, for which he produced a large gold key and turned it in the lock. It slid open on noiseless hinges.
“Welcome to what we call the Underground, Lady Darcy,” he said.
To the untrained eye, the club looked exactly like the rest of the mansion they had walked through. Sumptuous decor, exquisite furnishings, not a guinea spared, but Isobelfeltthe difference. The air felt silkier against her skin as if she were walking into a web of sin. Tingles exploded across her body in a rash of gooseflesh as she followed Winter, her own darkly handsome Hades, luring her into the depths of the Underworld.
No, he’d called it the Underground.
Isobel repressed a shiver. Not of fear…of something else. Some intoxicating combination of desire and dread. Panic warred with the promise of pleasure. But as she strolled with Winter past other masked people who paid them no mind, she wasn’t afraid. For some mysterious reason, she trusted him. Foolish, perhaps, but there it was. He wanted her gone, but she felt it deep in her bones that she wasn’t in any danger. And she was curious, oh so curious to learn about her perplexing, secretive, and dangerously attractive husband.
In here, Winter wore a simple gray mask. Isobel suspected that most people knew who he was from the subtle way their gazes slid his way. Or perhaps it was the prowling presence of him—the true predator in a field full of prey. Even in a place as dark as this one, he reigned. The Prince of Darkness, as beautiful and deadly as a fallen angel. And by God, some wanton part of her wanted to succumb to whatever he would promise.
Focus, Isobel. The game is yours. Be Lady Darcy.
“Where are we going?” she asked in a convincingly stable voice.
“Have you eaten?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Then dinner.”
She couldn’t possibly eat a single bite. She was much too hot. Too wound up. But when they entered a large salon with an intimate corner cubicle set for two and delectable scents reached her nostrils, her stomach gave an obnoxious grumble. Thankfully, with the low strains of music in the background, it hadn’t been noticeable. Perhaps that was why she was feeling light-headed…she was simply hungry.
Though hunger pangs didn’t usually strike between her legs.
Isobel nearly giggled at the thought.
There were no chairs but a luxuriously padded bench seat that curved into the wall, much like the one in a carriage, which forced them to sit side by side. When they were seated, her gaze canvassed the space. Like the previous supper room she’d glimpsed, this one left no stone unturned in terms of extravagance. Unlike the previous dining room, however, these occupants all wore masks. It made a fluttery feeling emerge in her belly, that sensation of being in a forbidden place. It excited her.
She paused, remembering what Clarissa had said, and panned the room again. Beside the masks and the overindulgence, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “I have to admit, my lord, I’m surprised. This all seems rather tame.”
“Look again,” Winter said.
Isobel acquiesced, this time, taking in details her eyes had missed before. Naughty but gorgeously wrought sculptures, much like the crude paintings in the entrance corridor, graced the edges of the room. Her eyes lifted to the cherubic mural painted on the ceiling that boasted a distinct lack of clothing and a definite lack of morality.
It was only then she saw that the footmen wore practically nothing. They were dressed in black and gold livery, but beneath their open jackets, hints of bare skin were visible. She’d been too intent on the food before, though now she gasped. As wine was poured by a particularly handsome servant with a roguish smile—and a gaping jacket showcasing his well-defined chest—Isobel caught her breath.
Gracious, it was beyond scandalous! How had she not noticed? Clearly she’d been distracted by her husband. She opened her mouth and then closed it. They were all gorgeous, every single one of them, and they all screamed lust. Or maybe that was just her. Her mouth gaped as that very same footman led a scantily dressed older lady from a nearby table to a door at the far end.
