The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,26

it.”

“I have,” she said. “You’re being vulgar. People are staring. Cease this and release your grasp at once.”

“No.”

She clenched her teeth. “I will leave you here.”

His grin was slow and seductive, his hand tightening on her waist. His fingers were so hot that Isobel feared they’d leave scald marks on her skin. “You won’t.”

She stiffened at his tone. “How do you know?”

“You don’t want to embarrass my father, who is watching us like a hawk as we speak.”

The fight left her body in a rush as her wandering gaze found the duke, who was indeed watching them with an unreadable expression on his stoic face. Isobel suppressed a frustrated sigh. Of course the blasted bounder was right. She could not—would not—shame Kendrick.

“I do not think you are familiar with the waltz,” she snapped. “None of the other couples are dancing this closely.”

“None of them have my skill.”

“Is that so?” she returned, determined to ignore the imprint of his long-fingered hands and the shivers tracing over her skin like butterfly wings.

“I’ve had lots of practice.”

She wanted to roll her eyes and punch him in his conceited head, but settled for a bland smile instead. “So I’ve heard.”

He remained silent for a few more beats, his hold loosening marginally as though he knew she wouldn’t flee as she’d threatened. And after a moment of wary internal debate, Isobel let herself relax into his expert lead. There was something so freeing about dancing, notwithstanding the fact that if one had a talented partner as Lord Roth clearly was, it felt as though she was barely touching the ground with the tips of her jeweled slippers.

This was one of the things she’d missed. The balls and the dancing. She’d had the barest glimpse of a season with her aunt and uncle when they’d all but forced her to accept the Earl of Beaumont’s suit. Isobel had relished every bit of the social life in London for the short time she’d been here, despite her revulsion for the earl himself.

As if her thoughts conjured his visage, on the next turn, Isobel’s eyes caught on a gentleman who could have been Beaumont’s very twin standing at the edge of the ballroom. She faltered a step before reason could intervene. The earl was no longer welcomed in England, so it could not be him. The last she had heard, he’d fled to the Continent in disgrace, his title and fortune having been stripped by the Prince Regent.

And yet, her eyes scoured the edges of the crowd, just to be sure.

The man, had there actually been one, was gone.

“What is the matter?” Winter asked.

“I thought I saw someone.”

“Who?” He frowned and glanced around the ballroom.

“No one,” she said, meaning it. “I made a mistake.”

Her second mistake was to look at up at Roth, hearing the almost protective note in his voice. The breath whooshed from her lungs, that intense gray stare burning into hers…as tangible as the strong arms banded about her. Isobel swallowed, her cheeks on fire as her nerves sizzled with awareness. One smoldering look and she was ready to wave a white flag. Beg him to kiss her. Tell him to do anything he wanted. The concern in his gaze melted into amusement as his sinful mouth curled in gratification.

“See something you want, kitten?” he purred.

“I told you, don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

Isobel narrowed her eyes in affront. “I’m not a housecat.”

Something like agreement flashed in his eyes as he studied her, his gaze falling from her eyes to her lips, and then back up. “No, you’re not. You’re a tigress.”

That gray gaze of his darkened, swirling with storm clouds and smoky desire. Desire she had somehow put there. Desire that now transferred liberally to her, making her breasts tighten and her body feel distractingly achy. God, the man could incinerate drawers with a glance, and right now, she was on the verge of going up in flames. She licked her lips, her pulse ratcheting as she stumbled on the next step and gripped at him for purchase.

“Problem, kitten?”

“No.” Isobel nearly stomped on his instep in frustration at the nickname. He would only keep saying it to provoke her if she gave him a response. “The floor was slick just there.”

Winter’s smile was all teeth. “Slick, is it?”

The low rasp of his words, as intended, shot straight to her throbbing core. Blast it, she couldn’t do this! A few filthy words and victory was in his grasp. Isobel’s breath hitched, her entire body slumping like