stole his breath.
“You’re a fucking dream.”
Isobel met his eyes in the mirror and smiled. “So eloquent, Lord Roth.”
Winter slammed the door behind him and proceeded to strip every inch of clothing before prowling toward her. Laughing, she raised her hand, warding off his approach. “No, I refuse for us to be any later than we already are. Go, your bath is waiting.”
“A kiss then?” he begged.
But his cruel wife shook her head. “No, because we both know where one kiss leads with us.” That was true as they’d learned on many previous occasions. “Furthermore, it took three maids to get me into this dress,” she went on.
Winter couldn’t quite hide his disappointment as he veered toward the bathing chamber and climbed into the waiting tub. He glanced down at his raging erection—how on earth was he to get rid of that? He sighed. Desperate times. Isobel’s laughing voice reached him just as he’d fisted himself. “However, if you can hold out and behave, I’ll let you rip it off me later.”
At that erotic promise, Winter’s hand instantly fell away.
“God save great George our king…long live our noble king,” he sang at the top of his lungs while washing vigorously. “God save the king! God save the king, send him victorious, happy and glorious. God save the king, send him victorious, happy and glorious. Long to reign over us. God save the king!”
“Who let the feral cats out?” Matteo said, walking into the room and making a show of plugging his ears, even as Isobel convulsed in laughter in the background.
“It’s a meditation technique,” Winter said. “Now come on, man, help me get dressed before I have to sing it again. The quicker we get to Lady Hammerton’s, the faster we return home so I can deal with my evil wife.”
“Oh,” Matteo said with a grin. “That kind of meditation.”
“Shut up.”
With Matteo’s help, Winter was dressed in record time, and soon they were on their way to the Lady Hammerton’s mid-season ball. In the carriage, Isobel couldn’t stop smiling. Winter would be in a pleasant mood, too, if not for the baton in his trousers. He adjusted himself, watching as Isobel hid her grin behind a gloved hand. Minx. Two could play at this game.
“You’ll pay for this, you know,” he promised softly.
Her brilliant eyes met his. “I’m aware.”
“First, I’ll rip that dress to shreds,” he said in a low voice. “Next, I’ll remove those silk stockings, warmed from the heat of your body, lash them around your wrists, and bind you to the bedposts for my pleasure.” Her sudden inhalation made him grin, her cheeks flushing with hot, delicious color. “Then when I’m good and ready, I’ll peel your chemise and drawers off with my teeth.”
“That all sounds wonderful, Roth,” his wife purred. “If I were wearing any drawers to speak of.”
Point, set, and match to one Lady Roth.
Winter threw himself back against the squabs and bit back a groan at the thought of his sultry wife wearing nothing beneath her skirts. He almost fell to his knees like a philistine on the floor of the carriage and groveled, begging for anything—a glimpse, a touch, a taste.
“Be patient, my love,” she whispered, staring at him demurely from beneath her lashes. “Remember that good things come to those who wait.”
He knew because he’d promised her the same while driving her mindless with pleasure.
One thing was for sure, this ball was going to be bloody torture.
Epilogue
Two years later
Clarissa and Oliver’s wedding breakfast had already broken all manner of wagers for number of quarrels, number of oaths whispered, which of Clarissa’s brothers would get into a brawl—the winner said all of them—and whether Clarissa would make herself a widow before the day was done. The wager for the length of engagement had been won by none other than her husband, and considering that the date kept getting pushed out for one ludicrous reason or another, it had been anyone’s guess when it would happen.
The wedding itself at St. George’s, however, had gone off without a hitch, mostly because of the stern-faced presence of the Duke of Kendrick, whom no one wanted to aggravate or provoke. Even Winter had been on his best behavior, though he’d pulled Isobel into a deserted alcove early on.
“What are you doing?” she had whispered.
“Matteo has brought us presents from his recent trip home to Venice.” His voice lowered, his lips caressing her lobe and making her knees shake beneath her gown. “A few silk scarves and feather switches.