The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,15

Isobel hadn’t been able to calm the deep, pulsating throb that had roared to life in her belly at the sight of him…that rich brown hair hanging carelessly over his brow, those gray eyes that had swirled like liquid smoke in the gloom, even though the whites of them had been bloodshot.

Heavy carousing would do that, she thought sourly.

But even a pair of reddened eyes and disheveled appearance could not detract from his raw physical appeal. Those broad shoulders and towering frame, his gorgeous, fallen-angel face that promised wicked delights. A rush of heat swamped her as her nipples tightened, her core clenching. Isobel buried her head in the pillows with a stifled shriek.

Why couldn’t life be easy? Was that so much to ask? She’d been promised he’d have rampant gout, thanks to a dissolute lifestyle, hadn’t she?

What would Lady Darcy have done?

Isobel let out a dry laugh. The dauntless Lady Darcy would have stripped to her naughty, lacy undergarments in Winter’s foyer and dragged the man to his bedchamber, whereupon she would have kept him abed for days, forcing him to make amends for three years of lost time with his tongue, his fingers, and his long—

She flung that errant thought away. As much as she could recall from her brief wedding night, Winter’s sex was neither too long nor too short, too thick or too thin. She had felt the blunt, sleek pressure of it, then a pinch of fullness, followed by an intense friction, and the shocking dissipation of pleasure that had gripped her entire body.

And then he’d left, forcing her fertile imagination to invent Lady Darcy.

Isobel ran her palms down her concave belly to the sharp bones of her hips and sighed. Despite her loneliness and her bitterness, she had remained faithful to her vows. A wry smile touched her lips. Though, if she was being fair, she had gotten quite a bit of her frustrations out through Lady Darcy. That version of herself lived the life that Isobel had been cheated of…one of youthful desire and exploration. One of female pleasure and satisfaction.

It was the reason the letters were so popular, she knew. Women had questions. They were sublimely romantic. And to no one’s surprise, they had many of the same needs as men and were largely unable to act on them. Especially if they were ladies.

She blushed. Good God, Winter would probably be horrified if he knew what kind of caprices her mind housed. Well, it was his own fault, really. That was the price of a banished wife’s existence in Chelmsford. One had to use one’s imagination, after all, and as it turned out, hers was puckishly creative.

Hers and Clarissa’s.

She was not alone in her written crimes of passion.

Although living in Chelmsford had kept her insulated from the ways of the ton, even Isobel wasn’t that green not to know that other highborn wives carried on discreet affairs when their husbands were away. The Countess of Mead, a headstrong woman, often boasted of her countless lovers, most of them her own footmen. Even that had been addressed in one of Lady Darcy’s letters—cuckolding one’s husband, a piece cleverly entitled “When the Cock Crows” that had scandalized men everywhere. The ladies had loved it.

But despite the occasional pang of latent desire from her written exploits, Isobel had no desire to make a cuckold of her husband. Atonement for his behavior, however, was another matter. Winter Vance needed to be taught a lesson, and in spite of her inexperience, Isobel wasn’t a shy, naive girl anymore. She had an arsenal of information at her fingertips. Education in lieu of experience was one of life’s greatest weapons.

Fate had given her a crate of lemons. She planned to drown her scoundrel of a husband in lemonade.

A commotion outside her bedchamber made her sit up just as the door burst open. “Rise and shine, my dearest friend,” Clarissa cried gaily, followed by Violet and Molly. “We have gowns to purchase, hearts to slay, and deviant husbands to torture!”

“Not us,” Violet grumbled. “We’re still in mourning for Papa. Though we do plan to live vicariously through you two, won’t we, Molly?”

“Not me,” Molly said. “I intend to lose myself in the library and live vicariously through the pages. I should have stayed in Chelmsford.”

“You don’t mean that.” Violet glared at her sister, and then turned back to Isobel. “Come on, Izzy, time to get up. Unlike Miss I-Love-Books-More-Than-People, I expect a full fashion show and all the details once