The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  Following her wide-eyed stare, he let his gaze trace the decor, feeling another surge of pride as he took in the rich fittings of the gaming room—felted card tables, mahogany furniture, and thick-piled Persian carpets. Elegantly dressed men and women occupied the space, some playing, others mingling. Most of them were easily recognizable, since none of them wore masks. It wasn’t required, not in this part of the club.

  People came to The Silver Scythe to see and be seen—the crème de la crème of the aristocracy. Lords, ladies, princes, princesses, maharajas, sultans, politicians, old money, new money. Wealth was power, and the power in this room spilled from it like overflowing wine.

  “Would you prefer to use another name while we are here?” Winter asked his silent wife, though her eyes were drinking in every detail below.

  She blinked owlishly up at him, her pale blue eyes glittering like gems from the depths of the purple mask. “Why would…oh!”

  “You don’t have to, but some of our more reticent members prefer to have a nom de guerre, if you will.”

  “Lady Darcy,” she said without pause.

  Winter wanted to laugh. Isobel was the furthest thing from the infamous Lady Darcy. For one, Lady Darcy would be dripping in confidence, armed only with her wits, her charm, and a smile. He also itched to tell her that there were likely already at least three such named women in attendance below, given the rage for the anonymous author.

  He arched a brow. “You know who Lady Darcy is?”

  Blue eyes met his with a hint of fire in them. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “And yet you still choose that name?”

  Isobel came to a halt, forcing him to stop at her side, just in front of the supper room where tables were set with sparkling crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and the finest of china. She took a minute to scan the room, her expressive eyes flashing with admiration. “Does that shock you, my lord? That a lady of my delicate sensibilities would read such a scandalous periodical?”

  “Not at all,” he said as he turned them down a wide velvet-paneled corridor. Winter nodded to the enormous man guarding the door at the end, and they were granted entry. “One has to learn somehow. She’s as good a teacher as any, I suppose.”

  A blush of color rose in her cheeks. “She is rather blunt.”

  “Refreshing, I would counter.”

  Isobel peered up at him. “Are you an admirer, Lord Roth?”

  “Of Lady Darcy?” he asked and she nodded. “I find her wit and candor energizing, though I suspect that the true Lady Darcy is an old biddy with nothing but time on her hands and a wealth of stories beneath her belt, giving advice to poor unsuspecting misses. There are bets in the betting book at White’s and here as well as to her identity. Some say she’s a man.”

  “Truly?” She shook her head, a small smile playing about those plush lips. “I disagree,” she went on after a protracted look. “I think Lady Darcy is newly married with a scoundrel of a husband, and she invented her nom de plume as a means of curiosity and escape.”

  Now it was his turn to stare, one eyebrow rising. “A bit close to home perhaps?”

  “You don’t believe she could be me?” Isobel asked.

  This time he did laugh. Loudly. Enough to draw the attention of several masked guests sitting in tucked-away alcoves. As he steered them past after a brisk nod of greeting, Winter glanced at his wife’s lovely features visible beneath the mask, sweeping down her neck to her swelling décolletage. The rich color made the silver flecks in her eyes glow and the creaminess of her skin seem even more luminous.

  “No,” he said finally.

  “Why not?”

  He led her down another mazelike hallway, this one lit with golden sconces and set with paintings of a distinctly erotic nature. He wondered if she’d noticed. Winter paused in front of a particularly suggestive garden scene by Thomas Rowlandson. He didn’t have long to wait before the sweetest gasp left her parted lips, her eyes arrested on the piece.

  A pink tongue darted out to wet her lips before a quivering palm rose to rest on her breast. Her skin turned a delectable shade of pink as he bent forward, his mouth so close to her ear that he could feel the heat of her skin.

  “That’s why,” he whispered. “You’re much too innocent, little beauty.”

  …

  Oh, dear God. Isobel felt so unbearably hot that she was sure she would swoon. Her throat felt dry and her heart pounded against her ribs like a demented thing. The painting in front of her was lewd, depicting sexual congress between many frolicking partners in a public garden, and it was indecent, horrifying, and scandalously arousing. But that hadn’t been the catalyst to set her off.

  That had been Winter’s gravelly rasp against her ear that had nearly made her eyes roll back in her head. She’d felt his lips graze her ear, and Lord help her, she wanted to feel his teeth graze over her skin. Feel him suck that sensitive lobe into his mouth as he’d done before near the wishing well.

  No, the fire shooting through her body was a direct result of him, not because of filthy art that she and Clarissa had already pored over in scandalous delight. For research, of course. Isobel reached for her fan and realized too late that she didn’t have one. It hadn’t been provided with the dress. Her gloved fingers curled into fists at her sides. She wasn’t that innocent, she wanted to declare to Winter, but her mouth refused to cooperate.

  Everything refused to cooperate.

  She could only stand still like a rabbit caught in the sights of a very, very hungry wolf. Willing her body to move, she breathed out and wrenched her eyes from the painting, only to fall on another that was twice as bawdy. She snatched her gaze away.

  Good Lord, there were filthy paintings everywhere the eye could see, and all she could feel was her husband’s huge frame against her back, caging her in. Her senses were battered on so many fronts—visual stimulation, his body bracketing hers, the deeply masculine scent of him, the rough cadence of his breathing. The only thing missing was taste and the feral need brewing inside of her to turn and seal her mouth to his.

  She needed to take control of a situation that was quickly spiraling out of control.

  She had to take charge.

  Isobel found her voice. “These are interesting. It’s certainly not Ackermann’s,” she said, referring to Rowlandson’s printer on the Strand, The Repository of Arts.

  “Indeed.”

  She didn’t have to turn to feel his surprise that she was familiar with the artist or his body of work. Score one for her. She needed to retune this game of theirs. Winter’s fingers gripped her elbow and her entire body tensed, but he only meant to lead her down the rest of the eye-opening corridor. Another black lacquered door stood at the end, for which he produced a large gold key and turned it in the lock. It slid open on noiseless hinges.

  “Welcome to what we call the Underground, Lady Darcy,” he said.

  To the untrained eye, the club looked exactly like the rest of the mansion they had walked through. Sumptuous decor, exquisite furnishings, not a guinea spared, but Isobel felt the difference. The air felt silkier against her skin as if she were walking into a web of sin. Tingles exploded across her body in a rash of gooseflesh as she followed Winter, her own darkly handsome Hades, luring her into the depths of the Underworld.

  No, he’d called it the Underground.

  Isobel repressed a shiver. Not of fear…of something else. Some intoxicating combination of desire and dread. Panic warred with the promise of pleasure. But as she strolled with Winter past other masked people who paid them no mind, she wasn’t afraid. For some mysterious reason, she trusted him. Foolish, perhaps, but there it was. He wanted her gone, but she felt it deep in her bones that she wasn’t in any danger. And she was curious, oh so curious to learn about her perplexing, secretive, and dangerously attractive husband.

  In here, Winter wore a simple gray mask. I
sobel suspected that most people knew who he was from the subtle way their gazes slid his way. Or perhaps it was the prowling presence of him—the true predator in a field full of prey. Even in a place as dark as this one, he reigned. The Prince of Darkness, as beautiful and deadly as a fallen angel. And by God, some wanton part of her wanted to succumb to whatever he would promise.

  Focus, Isobel. The game is yours. Be Lady Darcy.

  “Where are we going?” she asked in a convincingly stable voice.

  “Have you eaten?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Then dinner.”

  She couldn’t possibly eat a single bite. She was much too hot. Too wound up. But when they entered a large salon with an intimate corner cubicle set for two and delectable scents reached her nostrils, her stomach gave an obnoxious grumble. Thankfully, with the low strains of music in the background, it hadn’t been noticeable. Perhaps that was why she was feeling light-headed…she was simply hungry.

  Though hunger pangs didn’t usually strike between her legs.

  Isobel nearly giggled at the thought.

  There were no chairs but a luxuriously padded bench seat that curved into the wall, much like the one in a carriage, which forced them to sit side by side. When they were seated, her gaze canvassed the space. Like the previous supper room she’d glimpsed, this one left no stone unturned in terms of extravagance. Unlike the previous dining room, however, these occupants all wore masks. It made a fluttery feeling emerge in her belly, that sensation of being in a forbidden place. It excited her.

  She paused, remembering what Clarissa had said, and panned the room again. Beside the masks and the overindulgence, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “I have to admit, my lord, I’m surprised. This all seems rather tame.”

  “Look again,” Winter said.

  Isobel acquiesced, this time, taking in details her eyes had missed before. Naughty but gorgeously wrought sculptures, much like the crude paintings in the entrance corridor, graced the edges of the room. Her eyes lifted to the cherubic mural painted on the ceiling that boasted a distinct lack of clothing and a definite lack of morality.

  It was only then she saw that the footmen wore practically nothing. They were dressed in black and gold livery, but beneath their open jackets, hints of bare skin were visible. She’d been too intent on the food before, though now she gasped. As wine was poured by a particularly handsome servant with a roguish smile—and a gaping jacket showcasing his well-defined chest—Isobel caught her breath.

  Gracious, it was beyond scandalous! How had she not noticed? Clearly she’d been distracted by her husband. She opened her mouth and then closed it. They were all gorgeous, every single one of them, and they all screamed lust. Or maybe that was just her. Her mouth gaped as that very same footman led a scantily dressed older lady from a nearby table to a door at the far end.

  “Are they…? Do they choose to do this?”

  “Of course. And everyone who works here is compensated handsomely. Anything goes as long as it’s consensual.” His gaze tracked hers. “Jorge has worked here since its opening.”

  “What are they going to do?” she blurted, her cheeks flaming hot.

  Winter lounged back in his seat. “Whatever they want. Now, please, enjoy the meal.”

  Dinner was efficiently served by more of the stunning footmen. Isobel ate and moaned as the exquisite flavors danced in her mouth—cream of turtle soup, followed by braised beef loin in wine, roasted pheasant, and a delicate fish in a beurre-blanc sauce. Isobel tried a little of everything, another sound of pleasure escaping her lips at first taste of the rich dessert served at the end. Dear God, she’d died and gone to heaven.

  She glanced up. Winter’s eyes were glued to hers, his sharp cheekbones flushed, probably from the wine he’d consumed. “Good?” he rasped.

  “Divine.”

  “The chocolate is imported from Spain. It’s an aphrodisiac to enhance sexual pleasure.”

  Isobel nearly choked on her mouthful. She’d had drinking chocolate before, but this was something else. A rich, layered torte that melted on her tongue and tasted like carnality on a plate. Who knew that food could be so sensual?

  Or perhaps it was the searing look in her husband’s eyes as she licked a stray crumb from her lip. The growl that ripped from him went straight to her lady parts. Wanting to torture him just a little, she scooped the last bite and raised her fork to his lips.

  “If that is truly its purpose, perhaps you should have some as well.”

  Watching her, he accepted it, opening his mouth and curling his tongue around the tines. The tension between them shot through the roof. Her chest tightened and her nipples pebbled against her dress. But Isobel wasn’t the only one affected. Winter’s eyes were so dark with need, his pupils had nearly swallowed the gray irises.

  “So, besides fare fit for the devil himself, what else is here?” she asked, wiping her mouth with her napkin.

  “Whatever one desires.”

  Isobel swallowed, the words lost in her tight throat as he angled his body toward her. The moment was interrupted, thankfully, when a masked gentleman stopped and claimed Winter’s attention. Air flooded her lungs as though they’d been held prisoner.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Roth,” the man said. “Just a quick matter of the auction. Apologies.”

  An irritated Winter glanced at her. “This won’t take a moment, Isobel.”

  “Please,” she murmured.

  They clearly knew each other. The man seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she could not place him. As her eyes wandered over the other diners and the footmen, a wicked idea came to her.

  Time to take back the reins.

  Removing her glove, she slid the hand resting on her lap beneath the table to Winter’s knee. The embroidered tablecloth hid the movement from view. The only outward sign that he’d noticed her daring act was a slight intake of breath. He kept his attention focused on the gentleman. Heartbeat thundering in her ears, she inched up his rock-hard thigh, marveling at the muscle she felt there. He was not a man prone to laziness, if evidenced by his corded strength.

  But his deliciously muscular thighs were not the goal.

  That prize rested at the top of them. According to Lady Darcy’s detailed instructions—knees, thighs, groin—in that order. Save the trophy for last. Men liked to be teased, but not too much. A firm handhold was best.

  Isobel bit her lip—she could barely muster up the courage to inch upward, much less worry about grip. She was attempting to stage an epic seduction when she had no blasted idea what she was doing. She’d never touched a man there.

  It’s a body part, she told herself, like a knee.

  Gathering her courage, she resumed her exploration, freezing when her marauding fingertips encountered the rock-hard ridge in the crotch of his trousers. Isobel nearly choked on her inhale. It was nothing like a knee at all! She steeled herself and inched forward, knuckles sliding along its impressive length. Her husband put the male organs on display in Rowlandson’s lewd drawings to utter shame. Her mouth went dry as her fingers learned his shape.

  Giving her wine a nonchalant sip with her free hand, she peered up at the men who were still in quiet discussion. Winter gave no sign that he was affected by her tentative exploration.

  Time to change that. Step two: grasp firmly.

  She filled her palm with him and did just that.

  It was then that he lifted his own glass with a shaking hand and drained the contents, though he did not pull away or put a stop to her attentions. A gratified smile took over her lips.

  Good Lord, he was thick and long, pulsing against her even through the layers of his clothing. She fisted him, gently squeezing and running her fingers along his thick staff to the tip. One fingertip traced the rounded crown, a bead of wetness soaking through the black fabric. A choked noise reached her e
ars and she shot him an innocent glance.

  “Did you say something, my lord?” she murmured, drawing the gazes of both men. She froze, her hand in place, her thumb drawing tiny circles over him. His girth jerked in her palm, more fluid dampening her skin. Winter’s face could be hewn from rock, though his eyes burned…with lust and the promise of retribution.

  “No,” he croaked.

  The gentleman on the other side of the table wore a diverted expression, and Isobel felt a beat of alarm. Oh God, he didn’t guess what she was doing, did he?

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll leave you to your…dinner,” he said with an amused twinkle in his eye, and walked off. Isobel felt a blush take over her entire body at the intonation of the last word. She refused to entertain any shame, however.

  A heavy palm covered hers. “Just what do you think you are doing, Isobel?”

  “You did say I could do whatever I desired,” she replied saucily, with much more confidence than she felt. “Do you not like it?”

  “Does it feel like I don’t like it?” he growled.

  She lifted her gaze to his, taking in his clenched jaw. “No.”

  …

  That was because her innocent touch had nearly made him spill in his pants like a schoolboy. Christ, the boldness of her. Fisting his shaft while Westmore was standing there with that knowing smirk on his face. It wasn’t hard to deduce what was going on under the table, if not from Winter’s own monosyllabic responses to the rigid cast of his features. But he hadn’t wanted to stop her—it had felt too good.

  Even now, his cock begged for release. He was so close to spending in his trousers, held back only by pure will. He’d watched her the entire night so far, unable to take his eyes away. She’d taken in everything with unvarnished delight, consumed every bite of her meal with such pleasure that he’d been rapt. And unbearably, excruciatingly aroused.