The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,39

the house. It had been an eternity since he’d kissed a woman…or allowed one to kiss him.

She’d been all flashing, icy blue eyes and repressed temper, standing there like an angry angel lording over a mere mortal. And mortal Winter was in her presence. Never had he wanted to grovel more and plead that she have her way with him. Say yes to everything she commanded. Lay himself bare at her feet like a devoted disciple.

Winter almost grinned at the recollection of her sinfully erotic boast that he’d be begging to be between her legs. Little did she know he already craved it with a vengeance. Those sleek thighs of hers haunted him. He’d had to relieve himself almost every night since that kiss…something he hadn’t done so often in years.

There was only one thing to be done about it—he had to make her leave and get things back to normal. Get his life back on track. She wanted a husband? He would give her one…the one he knew she’d never accept. And he knew just the way to do it.

“Matteo,” Winter called.

He appeared on silent footsteps, garbed in fitted trousers and an exquisitely tailored coat. The man had exceptional taste. “Yes, my lord?”

“Send an invitation to Lady Roth to accompany me to The Silver Scythe this evening. Instruct her that my carriage will arrive for her at ten sharp.”

Matteo’s deep brown eyes widened. “Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Might I remind you, my lord, that it’s masque night.”

Winter smiled. He was well aware of what night it was, especially in the private section of the wildly popular gaming club that catered to specific members. All highly confidential and consensual, of course. His valiant little wife would never recover.

“I am aware. Extend the invitation.”

The man bowed. “As you wish, though it is not much notice, and she will require a mask and a gown.”

Winter arched a brow. “A man of your talents shouldn’t find that too hard of a problem to address, now, should he?”

“I will visit Madame Pinot,” he said.

Isobel had visited the celebrated modiste herself upon arrival in London for the season, so her measurements would be on hand. He’d only recently received the bills, sent on from Oliver with a nasty note about the astronomical amounts for both Isobel and Clarissa.

The figures hadn’t daunted Winter—not to a man of his own personal wealth—but the itemized garments had left him wound as tight as a spring.

Gowns, slippers, chemises, night rails, silk stockings, lace-embroidered drawers. He’d been unable to function for a good hour just from the sheer torture of imagining Isobel clad in lacy undergarments with violet ribbons that teased her porcelain skin.

“Matteo?”

The man turned. “Yes, Lord Roth?”

“I want her in purple.”

After dressing, he made his way downstairs to the morning room where Ludlow had placed his pile of usual correspondence. He sifted through them while sipping on Matteo’s own brew of strong Italian coffee. As always, the social invitations arrived in droves. He couldn’t accept them all of course, nor was he inclined to, but he’d been particular about knowing where his wife and father would be. Now that he knew why she was here, he tossed them all to the side.

He’d rather sit in the gaming room at his club with a glass of whiskey and a hand of cards. Matteo had long since taken over masque night in the private portion as majordomo. But tonight would be different. Tonight, Winter would be experiencing it through the eyes of his soon-to-be-shocked-senseless wife.

He couldn’t wait.

Briefly, he wondered how her opinion of him would alter, whether she would look at him with censure and disgust, in much the same way that Oliver did, and something in his chest gave a small twinge. He shook himself hard. What she felt about him didn’t matter. What mattered was that she would return to Chelmsford.

After breakfast, Winter settled into his study to go over his many accounts and investments that spanned countries and continents.

Contrary to popular opinion, even a fake libertine still had to work.

…

Isobel stared at the handwritten note with a mixture of fascination and distrust. Her gaze panned to the gorgeous man who had delivered it. She’d caught a brief glimpse of him when she’d first arrived in London standing on the landing at Winter’s residence, but that glance had barely done him justice. He was tall and well-built with olive skin. Brown eyes gleamed over a strong nose and wide lips. He was nothing compared to Winter, of course, but Isobel still had