The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,3

was bloody sweltering.

He tugged at his collar. “What do you enjoy doing, then?”

“I like balls,” she replied shyly, and the ones in his pants throbbed in approval even though they had nothing to do with the event in question. “I liked dancing with you at Lady Hammerton’s very much.”

“Did you?” His voice sounded choked, even to his own ears.

Nodding, Isobel’s tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Winter dug his fingers into the bench. Everything she did and said was so artless and yet so deeply erotic he felt it in his bones. Christ, he needed to get in control! Oblivious to his deteriorating composure, she warmed to filling the silence with conversation while he descended into silent torture.

“I also enjoy playing the pianoforte, though I’m not very adept, I’m afraid. My sister accuses me of pounding the keys too hard at times.”

Oh, bloody hell, there was no way she didn’t know what she was doing to him with those provocative words—mounting, balls, pounding—but her pretty face remained earnest and sincere, not an ounce of artifice to be seen.

It was just him then, lost in the mire of obscenity.

Control, for the love of God, Roth.

“Anything else?” he managed politely.

She brightened at his interest. “I enjoy embroidery. It’s a wonderful, ladylike pastime. Though I do not enjoy getting pricked.”

Winter made a strangled noise. It was no use. He was going to fucking die.

…

The carriage ride had been an absolute disaster. A complete and utter calamity. Despite Isobel’s efforts, once more, to have a mature, adult conversation with her husband, she had failed spectacularly. The marquess had glowered at her as though vacillating between tossing her bodily from the coach, wanting to incinerate her with his eyes, and staring at her as if she were his next meal.

The last had made her uncomfortably hot.

Was this what her wedding night would be like? Hot, uncomfortable, and impossible to predict? While she wasn’t in the least experienced, those hungry looks had awakened feelings in her she didn’t even know she had—a choked sensation in her breast, overheated skin, blood that felt like thickened honey, and the outrageous need to throw herself across the coach and scale his huge body like a monkey on a tree.

Without a stitch of clothing.

Thank God her thoughts were private, though she was sure that some of them might have been visible on her face, given the tightening of his brow and his restless shifting on the opposite bench. Twice, out of the corner of her eye, she’d seen the heel of his palm grind into his lap, but she hadn’t dared to let her eyes drift anywhere below his chin. It simply wasn’t proper. At least her behavior was beyond reproach, even if her thoughts weren’t.

Because those were beyond shameless.

It was a miracle Isobel had been able to keep her composure intact when they finally arrived at Kendrick Abbey.

“Are you well, my lady?” Winter asked after the footman helped her down in the well-kept courtyard. “You seem…flustered.”

“The coach was rather warm,” she replied, grateful for the bite of the crisp early evening air. “And I’m nervous to meet His Grace.”

“Don’t be. Kendrick isn’t here. He’s in Bath. He spends most of his time at his estate there, taking the waters. With any luck, it will just be Oblivious Oliver.” At her questioning look, he shrugged. “My brother.”

“Oh,” she said. Isobel didn’t know he had a brother, but there were a lot of things she didn’t know about her new husband. She had years to learn, however. Grasping his gloved hand, she smiled up at him. He gave their joined hands a quizzical look but did not pull his away. Isobel took that as a good sign as she surveyed her new home and its occupants.

The servants were all lined up to welcome their new mistress, and she greeted each one of them, from the butler to the housekeeper to the footmen, with sincere warmth.

She would get to know each of them more later.

For now, Isobel followed her husband up to their suite of rooms, taking in as much as she could of the abbey’s impressive interior, from its vaulted ceilings to its meticulously polished furnishings. Isobel was no stranger to fortune, but this took her appreciation of wealth to a new level. Her husband’s chambers, though not the master, had a sumptuously decorated interconnecting bedroom. The decor was just as lavish as the rest of the house.

“Are you hungry?” Winter said. “I’ve asked Mrs. Butterfield to send up