The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,2
it from virginal pink to passionate red. The urge had taken him by surprise. The honeysuckle scent of her satiny skin had been an aphrodisiac. When he’d grazed the corner of her mouth and seen her undisguised longing, the bolt of lust tunneling through him had nearly brought him to his knees.
Just like it threatened to do now.
Ripping his gaze from her tempting lips, he let it drift down the elegant line of her throat. He imagined tasting the skin there, nuzzling her fluttering pulse beneath his lips, and inhaling more of her sweet, flowery smell. Winter bit back a groan. He would no doubt sample both later…when he’d be expected to do his marital duty. Hell. He’d have to hold himself in check. Make it perfunctory. And most of all, quick. The act was a necessary obligation, nothing more, because he had an inkling that this woman could be the end of him.
“Did you enjoy seeing your sister?” he asked, his voice rough edged. They’d called in at Beswick Park after leaving Lady Hammerton’s. Her rousing entertainments had gone well into the dawn hours.
His wife startled, attention flying to him. “Yes, of course, my lord. Thank you for arranging the visit.”
“Call me Winter,” he said.
She flushed. “Winter.”
His wife turned the full force of those ice-blue eyes on him, and for a moment, it felt like his skin had been seared by lightning. But that gaze also shone with no small degree of infatuation. It didn’t take much to interpret the shy glances and the soft blushes whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.
This was why it could never work.
He wanted sex and a warm body; she wanted sonnets and his soul.
The plain truth was that he’d needed to marry. An expedient wedding was the answer to Winter’s problems and hers—and he’d jumped at the solution. His father’s recent codicil stated if he wasn’t married by his twenty-first birthday, he wouldn’t get a finger on the rest of his inheritance until he was thirty. That was over a decade away! The social club he’d opened with his best friend, the Duke of Westmore, using the first portion of his inheritance, was in its infancy. Anything could happen.
Which was why marriage was a lesser evil—it paid to be prepared.
And Winter didn’t have to court anyone, endure evenings at Almack’s, or worry about matchmaking mothers, fortune hunters, and the like. Isobel Everleigh was the perfect choice for a quiet, dutiful bride. He did not intend to be another casualty to fate, love, or beautiful women. He’d seen too much of what marriage and dependence had done to his own mother and his sister to ever want that deadly yoke for himself. Love made people weak and foolish, and drove them to madness or worse.
And Isobel—as perfect a bride as she might be—was no exception.
Reluctant amusement built in his chest. Oh yes. His sister definitely would have laughed herself silly at his predicament that he’d gone and gotten himself wedlocked to a jejune, enraptured debutante with romantic starbursts in her eyes.
She’s just what you deserve, Win, she would have teased. The angel to your devil.
Right now, his devil wanted to strip the angel bare. Make her writhe and moan. Corrupt her with sin.
“What’s your home like?” Isobel asked, interrupting his depraved thoughts, her sweet voice flicking against his senses. He’d much rather hear that soft voice screaming with pleasure, head thrown back and eyes glazed, golden curls tumbling down…
Damnation. Stop.
Winter cleared his tight throat. “Kendrick Abbey is much like Beswick Park, I suppose. Rolling hills, manse, ornamental ponds, a lake, tenants, the usual.” He waved an arm, guessing that she might share her sister’s penchant for horses. “You can ride to your heart’s content.”
“I don’t care for horses.”
A frown creased his brow. “You don’t?”
“One threw me when I was a girl,” she explained with a pretty blush. “My sister insisted I get back on, but I was much too timid. They frighten me, really. To be honest, mounting such an enormous, powerful animal makes my pulse race.”
Winter stared at her, his frown deepening as his pulse kicked up a notch. Was she being facetious? At his look, his wife bit her lip, and his stare swung to that moistened, plump roll of flesh when she released it. Hell if he didn’t want to taste it. Winter tore his gaze away and focused on the delicate slope of her nose. Yes, that was a safe bet.