The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,13

even liked flowers. What in the hell was Ludlow asking? He turned to face the butler, not fooled by his obsequious expression. “My wife what?”

“Any correspondence or extravagantly romantic bouquets for her?”

He detected a lilt of sarcasm in the butler’s tone, but chose to ignore it. Winter hadn’t written to Isobel in years. He blinked. Not ever, actually. He was certain Matteo sent gifts and messages for birthdays and special occasions, though.

Winter glared at the butler for making him feel guilty. “No. Call for my horse. I’m going out.”

“You just returned home, my lord.”

“Are you my keeper now?”

Ludlow’s mouth had gone so thin, it was nearly invisible. “Someone has to be.”

“Now, see here—” Winter had had just about enough. He turned to give the man the blistering he deserved and stiffened as the front door to his house crashed unceremoniously open, letting in a burst of cool, fragrant wind.

A cloaked vision stood there as the enticing waft of flowers slammed into Winter. He couldn’t see beyond the heavily-brimmed bonnet, and for a moment, he thought the actress, Aline, had changed her mind about a frolic in the sheets with Matteo.

But Aline was petite. This new arrival was not.

Ludlow rushed toward the door in greeting, and froze as the woman chuckled and said something to him in a low, sultry voice. He couldn’t quite see the butler’s face. He also couldn’t catch the lady’s tones to recognize its owner, but they were decidedly refined. Most of his callers were from the demimonde, but the occasional aristocratic lady still found her way to 15 Audley Street looking for trouble and a tumble.

He caught his breath as Ludlow took her cloak, and her bonnet was removed in slow motion. A skein of silken, wheat-colored hair shook loose and a heart-shaped face came into view with glowing pinkened cheeks. Full, luscious lips parted, and he exhaled as a pair of unforgettable frosted-ocean eyes met his.

Recognition and lust hit him like a runaway carriage.

Because the stunning, surprising, and gracefully elegant vision standing in his foyer was none other than his lady wife—the Marchioness of Roth.

What the bloody devil was she doing here?

Winter stood stock still in utter disbelief as liquid heat unraveled in his groin, bursting through his veins like the fireworks over Vauxhall. He blinked, but the vision did not dissipate. Time had only fulfilled its promise with her youthful beauty, and the svelte changeling who now stood in his bride’s stead was a radiant goddess.

“Husband,” she said in a low greeting that went straight to his cock.

“What are you doing here?” he choked out.

A blond brow arched. “This is your home, is it not? And by extension, mine as well?”

“No.”

The corners of those kissable lips drifted upward at his curt denial. “Whyever not? Surely you haven’t forgotten you have a wife? Despite not having seen you in years, I hadn’t expected you to be in your dotage at so young an age, my lord.”

His jaw slackened. Winter was at a loss. He simply could not reconcile the confident virago who stood on his threshold with the demure, shy mouse he’d left behind three years ago. That girl had been unable to look at him without blushing. Without complete adoration glowing in her gaze. This woman looked like she could tear him apart with her eyes alone, chew him up and spit him out…spent, trembling, and gratifyingly wrecked.

To his utter dismay, the crotch of his trousers crowded to the point of pain, arousal shunting through him like a flood.

In three years, his attraction to her hadn’t abated in the least.

No, it had grown like a furtive beast, feeding on the scraps of his memory. The fragrant scent of her, the slick velvet feel of her. The moans she made as she came apart, her body convulsing around his, and his given name a benediction upon her lips. He’d hoarded the precious fragments like a beggar hoarding coin.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“This is no place for a lady. You should be at Vance House,” he told her in a hoarse voice. His father’s ducal residence was a few streets away, which, while still not far enough away, was not here.

Disdainful eyes traveled the ostentatious decor of the foyer and then flicked to his disheveled form. In his current state, cravat missing and coat discarded, Winter knew he looked like he’d been well and truly corrupted by his evening activities, even though he had spent the better part of four hours at his club poring over tedious expense