The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,48
to recover from. He scrubbed at his face with his palm.
This whole evening had been a fucking terrible idea.
“Come,” he growled. “I’ll take you home.”
The tension between them in the carriage didn’t abate but was heightened by the confined space, his erection straining toward her as if it had a mind of its own. A mere two feet and a few paltry layers of clothing separated them. Six buttons and a flip of her skirts, and he could sink home. Groaning, Winter tugged at his cravat, focusing on anything but the accident waiting to happen sitting opposite him.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked softly.
“No,” he bit out.
“You’re upset.”
What man wouldn’t be with an erection the size of the English Channel that showed no signs of deflating any time soon? “Just leave it, Isobel.”
She leaned forward. “You’re angry with me.”
Winter’s lips flattened as he crudely cupped his distended cock, nearly hissing at the sensitivity. Blood roared in his ears. “No, I am not angry, but unless you intend to get on your knees here in this coach, wife, and put that mouth to better use, you’ll stop asking questions.”
Her eyes sparked, but for the rest of the ride, she remained blessedly silent.
Chapter Eleven
Solitary practices or vices, also known as erotic self-stimulation, will not stunt your growth nor will it stop development of the organs or create artificial maturity. That is simply ridiculous. It is your body, Dearest Friend. Learn it. Love it.
– Lady Darcy
Isobel’s thighs clenched over the sleek, powerful muscles of her horse as Hellion galloped down Rotten Row, kicking up thick clods of dirt in their wake. Sweat gleamed in patches on the mare’s hide, matching the perspiration that gathered on Isobel’s own neck and scalp. The dirt trodden track wasn’t the wild fields of Chelmsford, but it would do. And Isobel needed the release.
Unless you intend to get on your knees and put that mouth to better use…
God, the sodding words were on repeat in her head!
Crazed laughter bubbled through her. What she really needed was a different kind of ride, but this would have to do. Squirming in the saddle, Isobel pushed the horse harder. It was a risk to take Hellion out dressed as Iz, and rather different from grooming her in the privacy of the mews, but there was no way a highborn lady would get away riding astride in London without censure, and she’d been desperate for a bracing round of vigorous exercise.
Limbs trembling with exhaustion after the final run, she cooled off the horse as they returned at a much slower pace to the mews near Vance House, where she dismounted, only to be approached by Randolph with his usual scowl. He seemed surlier than normal. The reason for it was made evident when he nodded over his shoulder to the man who waited at the entrance to the stables.
Her husband—the object of her frustration.
She let out a shaky breath. Isobel hadn’t seen Winter since that disastrous evening at The Silver Scythe several nights ago. Though Clarissa and the twins had hounded her for days, she’d been tight-lipped about the experience. Admitting she’d felt her way around her husband’s groin didn’t strike her as something she wanted to share. In truth, she rather regretted her boldness, especially the tense ride home when his vulgar suggestion had stunned her into silence. A part of her had wanted to do as he’d asked—and shock him in return—but the truth was, even with Lady Darcy’s direction, she wasn’t that bold. No matter how intrigued she may have been by the idea.
Now, the marquess sat on the fence like he didn’t have a care in the world, his gaze tracking her movements. She handed Hellion off to Randolph, ignoring his look of reproach, as she made sure the cloth over her face and her cap were tucked in place. Isobel almost rolled her eyes. If he continued to act like a mother hen, he’d be the one to expose her true identity, not her.
“Top o’ the morning to you, milord,” she called out to Winter, drawing a look of disgust from the older groom. Heavens, it was turning out that her whole life was full of masks. “Randy said you were waiting for me?”
“Randolph,” the older groom growled, half lifting his palm to cuff her in the ear for her insolence and then thinking the better of it with a slight squawk of alarm. Isobel bit back a grin—it would have been what she deserved if