The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,69

black trousers above a nipped-in waist and pert breasts, recognition hitting his gut and descending straight to his hardening groin.

Bloody hell if the mystery bidder wasn’t his fucking wife.

…

“This looks fun,” Isobel said into the sudden silence. She removed her hat, tendrils of blond hair falling into her face, and was rewarded with the satisfaction of seeing Vittorina’s face fall.

“You won the bid?” Winter burst out, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes.

She smiled, enjoying his expression, too, and the undisguised lust that had swept across his face the moment he’d realized it was her. “Is that any way to greet your wife, Roth?”

Westmore’s loud laughter cut through the silence as he moved forward with a bow. “You look ravishing tonight, Lady Roth, or should I say, Lady Darcy.” He shook his head, his eyes filled with mirth. “This cannot get any better.”

But of course it could, because Vittorina found her voice. She closed the distance between them, getting into Isobel’s space. “You do not know him like I do. He will come back to me.”

“So you’ve said,” Isobel replied easily, undaunted by the woman’s proximity or threats. “Though I’ve yet to see any evidence of him falling into your arms.”

“You’re nothing but a country mouse he was forced to marry!”

Isobel lifted a shoulder. “That might be so, but at least that’s a damn sight better than a woman who throws herself at a married man and can’t take no for an answer.”

Vittorina’s eyes flashed with rage as she stepped closer. “Who do you think you are?”

Isobel drew herself to her full height, putting steel into her voice. “I’m the Marchioness of Roth, a fact you seem to have forgotten, and I don’t like being threatened. Now get out of here before I have you tossed out on your arrogant, vain, unwanted arse. No one likes a sore loser.”

Westmore’s muffled snort was covered up by the sound of Matteo’s laughter as Vittorina whirled with an angry huff and left.

“That was marvelous, Lady Roth. Christ, the expression on her face was priceless. She didn’t expect the mouse to have teeth and claws.” The duke let out a guffaw as he strode to the door. “I better make sure she leaves and doesn’t cause trouble.”

Isobel perused the salon, noting the dumbstruck look on her husband’s face. She wanted to stick a finger under his chin and close his gaping jaw. In truth, his expression made her feel a hundred feet tall. Which led her to part two of this expedition—she had a wager to win. She cleared her throat, eyes flicking to Winter’s man of affairs.

“Matteo?”

“Yes, my lady?”

She inhaled a confident breath, still channeling her inner Lady Darcy. Clarissa would be proud. “I wish for a moment with my winnings.”

Matteo’s grin was wide. “As you say, my lady.”

And then they were alone…well, alone, surrounded by hundreds of people in the club, any of whom could walk into the salon at any moment. Isobel didn’t care. There was only Winter. His gaze lashed to hers, and she almost quailed at the intensity of the conflicting emotions in them—shock, disbelief, humor, and most of all, lust. Bolts of heat shot through her as an answering desire coiled down her spine to settle between her legs.

Her core throbbed as their eyes locked, only intent on each other. The longer he stared at her, the more her body reacted. Her chest constricted painfully, the pulse between her thighs intensifying to dizzying levels. She shifted, the seam of her trousers rubbing against her sensitized skin and making her shudder.

Isobel licked her dry lips, her husband’s eyes fastening there and darkening instantly.

“Winter.”

“Come with me,” he rasped.

He turned and climbed a nearby staircase that led to a small well-appointed workspace. “What is this?”

“My office?”

She blinked her confusion. “Your office?

“Westmore and I own The Silver Scythe,” her husband said.

Well, that was news to her. In truth, it made her feel a little better if he’d been spending his nights here, and not in the private rooms she’d seen downstairs. A large paned-glass panel looked over the floor below, offering a bird’s eye view of the club. Shucking her coat, she scanned the space, curious for more insight into her enigmatic husband. It was pristine, boasting a large desk, plain but plush carpets, and a sofa along the length of one wall. Framed art and objects hung on the wall, adding splashes of color and culture. From his travels, she assumed. A framed sketch in pencil and charcoal drew her