The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,37

The rogues of the whole Carlton House set were infamous womanizers. Lady Darcy had done an illuminating exposé on sexual health, including the use of French letters, English riding coats, sponges, and the like, that had been quite eye-opening. All thanks to Clarissa, her unsuspecting brothers, and an enormous amount of blush-inducing research.

A butterfly landed on her skirts and she studied it, wanting to touch its gossamer wings, but knowing the moment she tried, it would fly away. Eventually, the delicate thing took to the skies in search of sweeter pastures.

Isobel loosed a bitter breath. Winter wasn’t a butterfly, and neither was he delicate.

With a nod, she sent her husband an even stare. “I needed a spouse, but I did not expect to be held prisoner in the country.”

“A prisoner?” he scoffed. “In a sprawling manor worth a bloody fortune?”

“Your father’s estate,” she said softly.

His mouth tightened as he uncurled that broad body of his and rose easily to his feet to move past the well. “I don’t see you complaining. You seem to have gotten rather close to the duke, after all.”

“By necessity, I assure you.”

He huffed a laugh over his shoulder. “Hedging your bets, my lady?”

It took a moment for his meaning to register, and when it did, Isobel nearly screamed. Oh, that cockle-brained cur!

Was he honestly suggesting that she was angling for his father? How dare he be so crass? Isobel wound her fists into her skirts, thankful that he’d risen and couldn’t see the disbelief and fury on her face. Of course he would assume something so utterly wrong.

God, he made her want to kick him!

She couldn’t fathom what an ass he was in her presence and yet so gentle in the company of Iz. Then again, he had nothing to prove with a humble groom. No mask to wear. No games to play. No meddling wives to chase away. Her eyes narrowed. That seemed to be exactly what he wanted…for her to be angry. To quit London. Quit him.

Well, two could play at that game.

“No, I’m not after your father,” she said, standing, her eyes finding him where he now stood at the edge of the clearing near a cluster of blooming rosebushes. His hooded gaze rested on her, but he kept his distance, as though he didn’t trust himself. “But if I were, why would that bother you? You seem to hedge your bets at every opportunity here in London.”

A strange noise emitted from his chest, and after a beat, she registered it as laughter. Cold, hollow, unfeeling laughter. “That’s a husband’s prerogative, darling. And you shouldn’t have come to town if you did not wish your delicate senses to be offended.”

“I’m not blind,” Isobel snarled. “I can read, and the newssheets reach Chelmsford just as well.” She stalked toward him and stopped just short of her skirts brushing his boot-clad toes. “Trust me, I’m well aware of your reputation, and my senses are inured to anything you have done or can possibly do.”

Her lungs ached after the outburst and she breathed in heavily, the air charged between them. Winter’s face was unreadable, his lips a pressed white line and his fists knuckled at his sides. A muscle leaped in that chiseled jaw. He was predatorially still until he spoke, the low rumble making a quiver of sinful awareness ripple through her. “Are you?”

“Am I what?” she echoed.

A hand lifted to brush a stray tendril of hair from her brow. “Inured.”

Drawn by the huskiness in his voice, Isobel’s body nearly swayed into his touch. Her gaze was imprisoned by a molten gray stare so full of wicked promise that her breath stuttered and her mouth went dry. His thumb drifted down her cheek to graze across her jaw and then her bottom lip. The intimate gesture immobilized her. She could almost taste his skin.

“W…what are you doing?” she stammered.

“Disproving your brave words.”

Isobel gulped as his thumb pulled decadently against her lip, unsure whether to lean in and lick or rear back and bolt. The rough graze of skin against skin made her head spin. She wanted to suck the probing digit into her mouth and bite him as he’d bitten her earlobe.

Good heavens, where had that thought come from?

“That wasn’t a challenge,” she said, proud that there was no audible strain in her voice. “It was a statement of fact. Why do you think I came to London? I read that you’d fought a duel for some opera singer, and I thought if you