The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,25

more about his mistress. Perhaps the lad would give him some insight. Something he could use to turn the tables, because right now, he could only bluff his way through it with so much bravado. He was holding on by a thin thread, his body on edge and bracingly alive. Even now, he fought a primal urge to pick her up, fling her over his shoulder, and bear her to his lair like a bloody caveman. For a moment, he almost considered it. That would set the ton’s tongues to wagging.

“Are you going to stand there and ogle me for the rest of the evening?” she snapped as the first few strains of music began.

“I do love a woman in control. So direct,” he drawled, leading her into the first turn. “It appears you’ve grown up, kitten.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? It suits you.”

Her lips pinched. “If I am a feline, what does that make you? A slobbering, oversexed hound?”

He wanted to laugh at her tart-tongued reply, but there was too much at stake. Winter’s smile was slow and practiced, his voice lowering for her ears only the next time they came together. “I’ve been called many things, I assure you, but slobbering isn’t one of them. Unless of course, I’m lodged between a woman’s thighs.”

Isobel’s mouth opened in a soundless gasp, one elegant, gloved hand flying to her lips. “You…you unspeakable—”

“Rake? Scoundrel? Roué?” he supplied helpfully. “I’ve heard them all, love.”

“I’m sure you have,” she muttered.

Suddenly, a spark of blue fire appeared in those wintry eyes. A purposeful, hard stare brimming with resolve. It coasted over his skin and inched down his spine to settle low in his belly. Winter experienced the same sensation he’d had that first evening in his foyer when she’d announced her intention to be in London for the season.

Of some invisible challenge being tossed down.

“I suppose there’s only one thing left to do, then,” she said.

He arched a brow. “What’s that?”

“Give a hound something to chase.”

A coy, playful smile curved her lips as she twirled away on the ballroom floor, throwing such a sultry look over her shoulder that made every inch of him—every extra inch—rise up at rigid attention. Thank God he hadn’t worn silk or something equally flimsy. The attendees at the ball would have gotten an eyeful. As it was, he was lucky the buttons to his falls weren’t bursting loose from the sudden intense pressure at his groin.

“You’re playing with fire, kitten,” he growled, catching her by the wrist, once she returned to him.

She pinned her bottom lip between her teeth and stared up at him. “Then I’d advise against getting burned, Lord Roth. Or scratched.”

Hell on a fucking stick.

Damn but she roused his blood.

A cocktail of excitement and lust coursing through him, Winter grinned, relishing the sport ahead. His saucy minx of a wife was in for the lesson of a lifetime.

Chapter Six

Dancing is a sneaky way to test the merchandise. This is no time to be shy. Performance on the ballroom floor is indicative of performance in the bedchamber.

– Lady Darcy

Isobel had not thought this through.

She was locking horns with a master of seduction, while she was a mere novice. Even with Lady Darcy cheering her on in the background, she felt out of her element, flailing in the deep part of a lake just to keep her head above water.

Her husband’s strong arms grasped her around the waist, hauling her much closer than she’d expected in the next few steps, his other gloved hand tightening around hers. They could be naked for all the protection the layers of fabric between them provided…on their hands and elsewhere. The heat of his body burned through them like paper, scorching her, threatening to incinerate her.

Good God, she was out of her mind. For her, getting burned wasn’t worth the risk, not with a man like Winter. He’d laugh and leave her in ashes.

Isobel knew the waltz well enough, as she’d been forced to learn the steps with an overeager Clarissa. But by no decent stretch of the imagination was this lewd, burningly brazen display it.

“Lord Roth, that’s a bit too close,” she grit out. “We’re supposed to be twelve inches apart.”

“It’s supposed to be this way,” he replied, his low rasp at the shell of her ear doing unimaginable things to the rest of her as he guided her effortlessly across the floor. The blackguard. He knew exactly what he was doing. “You haven’t been in London long enough to know