Page 62 of The Rakehell of Roth
Vittorina’s eyes flashed with rage as she stepped closer. “Who do you think you are?”
Isobel drew herself to her full height, putting steel into her voice. “I’m the Marchioness of Roth, a fact you seem to have forgotten, and I don’t like being threatened. Now get out of here before I have you tossed out on your arrogant, vain, unwanted arse. No one likes a sore loser.”
Westmore’s muffled snort was covered up by the sound of Matteo’s laughter as Vittorina whirled with an angry huff and left.
“That was marvelous, Lady Roth. Christ, the expression on her face was priceless. She didn’t expect the mouse to have teeth and claws.” The duke let out a guffaw as he strode to the door. “I better make sure she leaves and doesn’t cause trouble.”
Isobel perused the salon, noting the dumbstruck look on her husband’s face. She wanted to stick a finger under his chin and close his gaping jaw. In truth, his expression made her feel a hundred feet tall. Which led her to part two of this expedition—she had a wager to win. She cleared her throat, eyes flicking to Winter’s man of affairs.
“Matteo?”
“Yes, my lady?”
She inhaled a confident breath, still channeling her inner Lady Darcy. Clarissa would be proud. “I wish for a moment with my winnings.”
Matteo’s grin was wide. “As you say, my lady.”
And then they were alone…well, alone, surrounded by hundreds of people in the club, any of whom could walk into the salon at any moment. Isobel didn’t care. There was only Winter. His gaze lashed to hers, and she almost quailed at the intensity of the conflicting emotions in them—shock, disbelief, humor, and most of all, lust. Bolts of heat shot through her as an answering desire coiled down her spine to settle between her legs.
Her core throbbed as their eyes locked, only intent on each other. The longer he stared at her, the more her body reacted. Her chest constricted painfully, the pulse between her thighs intensifying to dizzying levels. She shifted, the seam of her trousers rubbing against her sensitized skin and making her shudder.
Isobel licked her dry lips, her husband’s eyes fastening there and darkening instantly.
“Winter.”
“Come with me,” he rasped.
He turned and climbed a nearby staircase that led to a small well-appointed workspace. “What is this?”
“My office?”
She blinked her confusion. “Youroffice?
“Westmore and I own The Silver Scythe,” her husband said.
Well, that was news to her. In truth, it made her feel a little better if he’d been spending his nights here, and not in the private rooms she’d seen downstairs. A large paned-glass panel looked over the floor below, offering a bird’s eye view of the club. Shucking her coat, she scanned the space, curious for more insight into her enigmatic husband. It was pristine, boasting a large desk, plain but plush carpets, and a sofa along the length of one wall. Framed art and objects hung on the wall, adding splashes of color and culture. From his travels, she assumed. A framed sketch in pencil and charcoal drew her attention.
She let out a gasp as she recognized the subject of the portrait—it was Winter, sprawled in a chair in all his bare-chested glory, wearing only a cloth designed to look like a fallen leaf. It was entitledAdam in Winter.
“That was Lady Hammerton’s handiwork,” he said, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “Drink?”
“Yes, please,” she murmured, her eyes tracing over the fine lines and the intricacy of the light and dark shading, and then froze. “Did you say LadyHammerton?”
“The very same.” He chuckled and handed her a tumbler. “She and your aunt Lady Verne are quite the pair. She sketches erotic nudes while her partner in crime is obsessed with needlepoint, specifically crocheting the male phallus.”
Isobel let out a bark of laughter, grateful she hadn’t yet taken a sip or she would have spewed liquid everywhere. She recalled Astrid mentioning something like that, but Isobel hadn’t taken her seriously. “Those two are incorrigible.”
“Gifted, too. I can vouch for Lady H, though I’ve yet to see evidence of Lady V’s talent. However, Matteo has been a model and I’ve been told her work is rather…precise.”
Isobel laughed and her gaze fell back on the drawing. Lady Hammerton had nailed the squareness of Winter’s jaw, the strong line of his nose, and the sinful curve of his lips, hitched in a sensual half smirk. Isobel’s gaze traveled down the slope of his shoulders to the expertly drawn bare chest. Each muscle was painstakingly detailed, down to the dark indent of his navel and the angled vee of his lower abdomen. Isobel’s mouth went dry at the obvious hint of what lay under the scrap of fabric, and she blushed furiously.
“She’s quite good,” she said.
“She’s a wicked old harridan who couldn’t stop telling me how much she wished she were in her younger years so that she could put me through my paces.” He sipped his drink and stared at her over the rim of his glass. “I’d never felt like such a piece of meat about to be gobbled in my entire life.”
“Did she?”
He arched a brow, propping one hip on his desk. “Did she what?”
