The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,45

in any danger. And she was curious, oh so curious to learn about her perplexing, secretive, and dangerously attractive husband.

In here, Winter wore a simple gray mask. Isobel suspected that most people knew who he was from the subtle way their gazes slid his way. Or perhaps it was the prowling presence of him—the true predator in a field full of prey. Even in a place as dark as this one, he reigned. The Prince of Darkness, as beautiful and deadly as a fallen angel. And by God, some wanton part of her wanted to succumb to whatever he would promise.

Focus, Isobel. The game is yours. Be Lady Darcy.

“Where are we going?” she asked in a convincingly stable voice.

“Have you eaten?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Then dinner.”

She couldn’t possibly eat a single bite. She was much too hot. Too wound up. But when they entered a large salon with an intimate corner cubicle set for two and delectable scents reached her nostrils, her stomach gave an obnoxious grumble. Thankfully, with the low strains of music in the background, it hadn’t been noticeable. Perhaps that was why she was feeling light-headed…she was simply hungry.

Though hunger pangs didn’t usually strike between her legs.

Isobel nearly giggled at the thought.

There were no chairs but a luxuriously padded bench seat that curved into the wall, much like the one in a carriage, which forced them to sit side by side. When they were seated, her gaze canvassed the space. Like the previous supper room she’d glimpsed, this one left no stone unturned in terms of extravagance. Unlike the previous dining room, however, these occupants all wore masks. It made a fluttery feeling emerge in her belly, that sensation of being in a forbidden place. It excited her.

She paused, remembering what Clarissa had said, and panned the room again. Beside the masks and the overindulgence, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “I have to admit, my lord, I’m surprised. This all seems rather tame.”

“Look again,” Winter said.

Isobel acquiesced, this time, taking in details her eyes had missed before. Naughty but gorgeously wrought sculptures, much like the crude paintings in the entrance corridor, graced the edges of the room. Her eyes lifted to the cherubic mural painted on the ceiling that boasted a distinct lack of clothing and a definite lack of morality.

It was only then she saw that the footmen wore practically nothing. They were dressed in black and gold livery, but beneath their open jackets, hints of bare skin were visible. She’d been too intent on the food before, though now she gasped. As wine was poured by a particularly handsome servant with a roguish smile—and a gaping jacket showcasing his well-defined chest—Isobel caught her breath.

Gracious, it was beyond scandalous! How had she not noticed? Clearly she’d been distracted by her husband. She opened her mouth and then closed it. They were all gorgeous, every single one of them, and they all screamed lust. Or maybe that was just her. Her mouth gaped as that very same footman led a scantily dressed older lady from a nearby table to a door at the far end.

“Are they…? Do they choose to do this?”

“Of course. And everyone who works here is compensated handsomely. Anything goes as long as it’s consensual.” His gaze tracked hers. “Jorge has worked here since its opening.”

“What are they going to do?” she blurted, her cheeks flaming hot.

Winter lounged back in his seat. “Whatever they want. Now, please, enjoy the meal.”

Dinner was efficiently served by more of the stunning footmen. Isobel ate and moaned as the exquisite flavors danced in her mouth—cream of turtle soup, followed by braised beef loin in wine, roasted pheasant, and a delicate fish in a beurre-blanc sauce. Isobel tried a little of everything, another sound of pleasure escaping her lips at first taste of the rich dessert served at the end. Dear God, she’d died and gone to heaven.

She glanced up. Winter’s eyes were glued to hers, his sharp cheekbones flushed, probably from the wine he’d consumed. “Good?” he rasped.

“Divine.”

“The chocolate is imported from Spain. It’s an aphrodisiac to enhance sexual pleasure.”

Isobel nearly choked on her mouthful. She’d had drinking chocolate before, but this was something else. A rich, layered torte that melted on her tongue and tasted like carnality on a plate. Who knew that food could be so sensual?

Or perhaps it was the searing look in her husband’s eyes as she licked a stray crumb from her lip. The growl that ripped from him went straight to