The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,70
attention.
She let out a gasp as she recognized the subject of the portrait—it was Winter, sprawled in a chair in all his bare-chested glory, wearing only a cloth designed to look like a fallen leaf. It was entitled Adam in Winter.
“That was Lady Hammerton’s handiwork,” he said, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “Drink?”
“Yes, please,” she murmured, her eyes tracing over the fine lines and the intricacy of the light and dark shading, and then froze. “Did you say Lady Hammerton?”
“The very same.” He chuckled and handed her a tumbler. “She and your aunt Lady Verne are quite the pair. She sketches erotic nudes while her partner in crime is obsessed with needlepoint, specifically crocheting the male phallus.”
Isobel let out a bark of laughter, grateful she hadn’t yet taken a sip or she would have spewed liquid everywhere. She recalled Astrid mentioning something like that, but Isobel hadn’t taken her seriously. “Those two are incorrigible.”
“Gifted, too. I can vouch for Lady H, though I’ve yet to see evidence of Lady V’s talent. However, Matteo has been a model and I’ve been told her work is rather…precise.”
Isobel laughed and her gaze fell back on the drawing. Lady Hammerton had nailed the squareness of Winter’s jaw, the strong line of his nose, and the sinful curve of his lips, hitched in a sensual half smirk. Isobel’s gaze traveled down the slope of his shoulders to the expertly drawn bare chest. Each muscle was painstakingly detailed, down to the dark indent of his navel and the angled vee of his lower abdomen. Isobel’s mouth went dry at the obvious hint of what lay under the scrap of fabric, and she blushed furiously.
“She’s quite good,” she said.
“She’s a wicked old harridan who couldn’t stop telling me how much she wished she were in her younger years so that she could put me through my paces.” He sipped his drink and stared at her over the rim of his glass. “I’d never felt like such a piece of meat about to be gobbled in my entire life.”
“Did she?”
He arched a brow, propping one hip on his desk. “Did she what?”
“Gobble you.” Her tongue slipped out to lick dry lips, and his eyes burned silver. Good Lord, if he kept looking at her like that, she was going to make a fool of herself.
His eyes might have set her on fire, but he stayed put and shook his head. “Said she didn’t seduce married men.”
Isobel blinked. “Wait, this was recent?”
“She was last year’s winner.”
It shouldn’t have been possible, but parts of her grew hotter and wetter. The scintillating thought that Winter might still look like that, only in the flesh beneath his clothes, was virtually impossible not to latch on to. And now, all she could think about was seeing him sprawled careless and indolent for her greedy perusal.
“I have to admit,” she said, gaze panning between him and the portrait. “I never thought I’d be jealous of an old lady.”
“Are you?”
She nodded. “Categorically. But I think it’s time we remedy that, don’t you?”
Consumed by a burst of lust that made her knees weak, Isobel moved away from the voluptuous portrait. She set down her whiskey and prowled over to the desk where her husband stood, not stopping until she was wedged between his long legs.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a low rasp.
She took his drink and drained the rest, licking her lips with a smack that made him inhale sharply. “Claiming my hard-won prize.”
“Hard-won? With my money?” Winter laughed, the vibrations from his body rumbling into her, though he held himself like a statue. His hands now gripped the edges of the desk with such force that his knuckles went white. She smiled. Glad to see she wasn’t alone in her ungovernable reactions where he was concerned. Isobel resisted the urge to rub herself against him like a cat.
“I assure you, it’s my own money.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where did you get it?”
Isobel couldn’t tell him about Lady Darcy, not without Clarissa’s approval. Or the fact that they’d made quite a fortune from the popular periodicals, which would account for the five thousand pounds she’d so easily squandered for one night with her marquess.
It was time to collect. Time to bring her husband to heel.
Instead of answering, she pushed to her toes and sealed her mouth to his.
Chapter Seventeen
Dearest Friend, if you wish to learn about marital congress, also known as sex, tupping, fucking, prigging, basket making, rutting, rogering, strapping, or swiving, among others,