The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,42

boxes so I can see the dress before I have to flog someone!”

Isobel sniffed as she reached for the first of the boxes and opened it. She parted the sheets of delicate fabric. “No one’s flogging anyone. That’s not my cup of tea and it shouldn’t be yours, either. It’s not proper.” Though it didn’t explain why ribbons of heat curled through her veins and converged in an insistent pulse between her legs. She ignored it and lifted the delicate gown from its confines.

All of them let out matching oohs.

The dress was fit for royalty. Yards and yards of rich satin the color of shimmering amethysts gave the illusion of liquid movement. The stitching was so fine, the seams nearly invisible. Tiny seed pearls and crystals adorned the bodice and the hem. It was almost too lovely to look at, much less wear. The other boxes contained a pair of slippers, ivory gloves, a cloak made of some velvety-soft fabric, and an intricate mask.

She pulled it out. Designed in shades of purple to match the glimmering hues of the dress, feathers and diamonds studded its stunning surface. It would cover half of her face, shielding her identity from view, and for that she was grateful. Unlike the usual masks, it did not have a handle, but a pair of silk ribbons that were meant to tie around her head.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” she murmured aloud, pressing the racy mask to her face and feeling a different kind of heat diffuse through her body.

Clarissa moved to stand beside her, humor replaced by solemnity. “Then don’t. You’re in charge.”

“But then I lose.” She bit her lip, a finger tracing one violet plume. “I’m here to make him grovel, and if I can’t even wear this dress, what hope do I have of winning this ridiculous wager I’ve made to have him begging for my attentions?”

“You can do this, Izzy,” Clarissa said. “And you have us behind you all the way. Show that husband of yours who wears the trousers!”

“This is a gown and I’m in over my head,” she said, staring at her three friends.

“Then you swim,” Violet said brightly.

Molly frowned. “Or sink.”

“Shut up, Molly!” Clarissa and Violet cried in unison.

But they were both right—one of the two would happen. Isobel stared at herself in the nearby mirrored glass, barely recognizing herself beneath the mask. As rakish as he was, Winter would never let any real harm befall her nor would he suffer her reputation to be ruined. If she had to guess, this outing was meant to teach her a lesson and have her running back to Chelmsford.

She’d been the one to throw down the challenge, after all.

Now she just had to strap on her big-girl stockings and see the wager through.

Chapter Ten

Dearest Friend, the erotic art of Mr. Thomas Rowlandson provides a wealth of practical instruction. Gather your smelling salts and your pearl necklaces. Do not say I did not warn you.

– Lady Darcy

The vision in violet ascending the steps of The Silver Scythe could not possibly be real. Winter had been unable to form any coherent sentences since he’d collected her at Vance House. In the carriage, apart from a soft greeting, she had remained mostly silent. Nerves, he gathered. He felt them, too, batting around in the pit of his stomach. Though he had no inkling of why he was nervous. This was meant to unbalance her.

But the minute he’d seen her, the tables had turned.

Fuck, he should have instructed Matteo to dress her in a sack. Though he had a sneaking suspicion that his wife would make that look appealing, too. And that tantalizing mask that drew attention to her piercing eyes and luscious pout. Hell, it made him want to see her in it alone, wearing nothing else. As a result, he’d been as hard as stone even before her sultry honeysuckle scent had filled the carriage. For him, the short ride had been torture.

Thank God, she hadn’t wanted to talk, because he was sure he would have spouted a load of nonsense. By the time they arrived, however, he had composed himself enough to remember his manners, offering his arm as he led her into the marble foyer of the sumptuously decorated converted mansion. He was particularly proud of his little club, which he’d bought years ago with the Duke of Westmore, and together they had transformed the place from rundown supper club to extraordinary, invitation-only oasis for the wealthy and