The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,56

her lips during their wedding night either, but rather the corner of her mouth. And in the maze, she’d kissed him.

“You’re kissing me,” she said when he licked and bit his way back up to her lips.

“Yes.”

“Why now?” she breathed.

“I don’t know.”

For a moment, he stared at her lips as though he was fighting an internal battle, one he eventually lost as he closed his mouth over hers with a growl. His tongue was almost violent, chasing hers and drawing it into his mouth, plunging and retreating in an erotic dance that made her core ache. A part of her understood what he’d meant…kissing was so intimate, almost as intimate as lovemaking itself. But now, he explored every inch of her as if he couldn’t get enough, sipping at her lips and then devouring them with guttural groans that ripped from his chest. As if he were starving for her.

Good God, his hunger fed hers, made her blood molten. She couldn’t get enough either—his sinful taste, his feel, his everything. Her needy fingers dragged down to his lapels, slipping underneath his waistcoat. She wanted to feel bare skin, but she would be content with the fine lawn of his shirt. Winter wasn’t idle, his fingers chasing the length of her spine from her shoulders to the curve of her bottom, kneading and grinding her to him where she felt his arousal like a brand against her belly. His possessive touch made her mindless with need. He could lift her skirts and take her now and she would welcome it. He could tell her to go to her knees and she would drop willingly.

Minutes or an eternity passed before he tore himself away, panting. Isobel fought back a blush at the passionate intensity of their kiss. Anyone could have stumbled upon them, and despite the fact that Vauxhall Gardens was a favorite rendezvous for lovers, it was still public. From the nearby moans coming through the hedges, however, they weren’t the only couple stealing a moment for themselves.

Silence spun between them, and then suddenly another whistle blew in the distance, indicating that the lamps that made the gardens so famous were about to be lit. Isobel glanced up as the first of the hanging multicolored lamps above them chased away the encroaching dark, followed by another and then another.

The full effect was magical, illuminating the trees like a fairy-tale wonderland. Trailing her gaze, Winter glanced up, his heartbreakingly handsome face outlined in flickering blue and yellow light. His thumb brushed against her sore bottom lip.

“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he agreed, though Isobel knew he wasn’t talking about the spectacle of the lights. She could feel his gaze trained on her. Her eyes met his, her throat tightening at what she saw there. Recognizing the melting desire in his eyes, she fought the urge to push to her toes and seal her mouth back to his, which made his next words a slap in the face.

“You need to go back to Chelmsford, Isobel. You don’t belong here.”

Stung, she recoiled. How could he be so cruel after the intimacy they’d just shared? But from his cooling expression, she saw the interlude now for what it had been—he’d been kissing her goodbye.

“And Lady Vittorina does?” she shot back bitterly.

“This has nothing to do with her,” he said.

“Then what does it have to do with, Winter?” she bit out. “The fact that you don’t want a wife in London putting a crick in your plans?”

“No.”

“Why? Because you kissed me and that scared you?”

His eyes glittered, jaw going tight. “Because I don’t want you here. Vittorina’s presence only opened my eyes. I can’t change and I will never be the husband you want.”

The snarled words gutted her. Isobel poked him right in the middle of his chest, ignoring the way his eyes flared or the fact that his muscles were hewn from stone. She was beyond caring about decorum at this point. She was already too far gone to stop herself.

Too furious. Too jealous. Too hurt.

“You are a heartless bastard,” she snapped, “and I wish I’d never met you.”

Chapter Thirteen

Love is a competitive sport. Play or be played.

– Lady Darcy

She hated him.

He’d hurt her unconscionably. But it had to be done. Vittorina’s presence had been a much-needed kick in the gut. She’d lied about being with child and almost trapped him, and now for whatever reason, she was here in London. Her appearance, though unwelcome, was the brutal reminder he needed that women could not