The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,72
which depicted sex in ways that would make a grown man blush. To his surprise, his sheltered little wife didn’t immediately fling the book back, but continued paging through its contents, rolling her lips between her teeth, that sultry flush of hers in full bloom now.
“Interesting,” she said, though her eyes didn’t meet his as she replaced it and selected another. It was Cleland’s, Fanny Hill, a flowery erotic novel about the adventures of a prostitute. To his eternal shock, a smile quirked her lips. “I’ve read this, though not this early edition, a later expurgated one.”
Winter was well aware his jaw had hit the floor. But he almost groaned at the next book she chose—one of nearly a dozen volumes by the disturbingly violent and cruel Marquis de Sade—La Nouvelle Justine. It was a graphically depraved account of one girl’s sexual encounters.
“Wasn’t the Marquis de Sade imprisoned for these by Bonaparte?” she asked.
“He was.”
She shot him a glance. “And yet you have them in your possession.”
“I do.” Despite the order to have the books destroyed by the Royal Court of Paris and the author’s imprisonment, Winter did not feel the need to defend his possession of the volumes, though the subject matter was one of extreme debate. However, he couldn’t stand to see any judgment in her eyes. He cleared his throat. “Hence the hard and fast rule of engagement at this club: permission and consent. As you might have gleaned, parts of this club cater to sensual play and fulfilling certain needs.”
Isobel replaced the book and moved on to the adjoining shelves. “Like flogging.”
He blinked. “Yes.”
“I saw some of the earlier sales with members auctioning off their services. One Lady Renly who enjoys the occasional birch switch and the cane went for quite a high sum. I’m surprised the regent wasn’t here to avail himself of your offerings.”
Curious fingers trailed across a decorative paddle carved from onyx as well as a birch rod, and once more, when his cock leaped, Winter was grateful for cover of the desk. The last thing he wanted was for her to assume he was any kind of sexual deviant, not that she would, but some people tended to shy away from the unfamiliar. The thought that she was not the prude he expected slid like silk through his mind.
“Lady Darcy covered that subject in some detail in one of her letters,” she went on. “She thought that switches were better kept green and in water for easier use.”
Winter’s groin tightened past the point of pain. He was aware. Those letters had brought on a slew of new members. He could barely get out a word as Isobel continued, oblivious to his worsening state.
“She was of the mind that the fetish probably had to do with all those young boys being sexually shamed and lashed at Eton or elsewhere,” she explained. “Or perhaps it stemmed from wanting to escape the rigid rules of the ton outside of the bedchamber?”
Hell, he wanted to put that well-informed mouth of hers to practical use.
But then she chuckled, holding a familiar periodical aloft. “I see you’re also a collector of Lady Darcy’s work.”
“I collect many things.”
Pale blue eyes regarded him over the top edge of the volume. “You said you didn’t think I could be her because I was too innocent. In truth, I fear you don’t know me at all, Lord Roth.” His mouth dried when she clasped her hands behind her back, causing the fabric of her waistcoat to pull tight over her breasts, as she sauntered back to the front of the desk. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I’m here?”
“How did you get here?”
She grinned. “Clarissa stole Oliver’s invitation.”
That was why he hadn’t seen his brother. “Is Clarissa here, too?”
“No.” Isobel shook her head, propping her left hip on the desk and giving him her profile, her right leg swinging. One hand reached up to unknot her cravat. He was so distracted by the long, elegant lines of her exposed throat that he barely took in her next words. “She’s at home playing nursemaid to your brother.”
“Clarissa and Oliver?” Though he’d assumed as much at the previous ball.
She laughed with a nod, twisting the fabric of her cravat between her fingers. “Apparently.”
“They detest each other, no?”
“Well, love and hate tend to walk the same path. Perhaps they have found some common ground.” She pursed her lips. “You haven’t asked why I stole the invitation and paid such an exorbitant amount for you.”