The Spinster and the Rake

by Eva Devon

  She blinked in confusion. “The show, my lord?”

  He leaned down to graze his lips over her cheek, the soft caress at odds with his mocking tone and taking her by surprise. Inhaling deeply as though scenting her skin, his nose drifted down the curve of her jaw until his mouth hovered over the corner of hers. Isobel’s lips parted of their own trembling accord, in unspoken invitation, which he did not accept.

  Kiss me, she wanted to beg.

  She didn’t. But shyly, she tilted her chin, trying to show him what she yearned for. With a muttered curse, the marquess reared back and stared at her with a strange blend of irritation and desire in those flinty eyes.

  Isobel swallowed her disappointment. “Did I do something wrong, my lord?”

  It felt like an eternity before that beautiful gray gaze landed on her, the brief hint of desire from earlier no longer present. Not one ounce of warmth came through his impassive regard. It wasn’t irritation now, she realized, but forced indifference. Why would he need to be indifferent?

  “No,” he murmured. “This is simply new to both of us.”

  “Marriage?”

  His lip curled. “Until death us do part, love.”

  The sentiment and endearment should have eased her, but the cynical way he uttered those words did not sound like the commitment and union they were meant to represent, though rather more of a curse. But then, once more as if in contradiction of himself, he lifted her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips. Ever so slowly, he brushed his mouth over her gloved hand, until she could feel her heartbeat throbbing in each fingertip. The gentleness of the caress undid any worry she had.

  If he touched her like this, they were going to be just fine.

  …

  Winter sat back against the velvet squabs of his coach and settled in for the ride to his father’s ancestral seat in Chelmsford, his family home and the only place he could take a wife.

  Bloody hell. Not a wife. His wife.

  God, how his sister would have cackled to see the great Winter Vance leg-shackled.

  I shall never marry! His twelve-year-old self had puffed his chest. Girls are annoying, just like bratty little sisters.

  Prue had paid his male posturing no mind. Then I shall curse you, my favorite brother, to marry the most beautiful angel in the world!

  And here he was.

  Married to exactly that.

  Winter forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He couldn’t go to his private estate, Rothingham Gable, for obvious reasons. For one, that particular abode was not prepared for a Lady Roth, given the week-long house party that had just been hosted there.

  He had not even been in residence. Rutland and Petersham and the rest of their fast set had run the show, desperate for some wild country fun to offset the terminal boredom of the season. While he missed them from time to time, those days of endless dissipation were over. They had been since Prue’s death. Not that anyone actually knew…or had noticed. People believed what they wanted to believe.

  Winter slanted his new wife a glance. Her attention was caught outside the small window, her face held in pensive thought. Her profile was exquisite, perfect in its symmetry from the classic line of her forehead to her delicate nose and pink rosebud pout. Isobel was young, fresh out of the schoolroom, but he couldn’t deny her exceptional beauty…or his irritating and inconvenient attraction to her.

  Christ, he wanted to debauch that mouth right there on the balcony—take it from virginal pink to passionate red. The urge had taken him by surprise. The honeysuckle scent of her satiny skin had been an aphrodisiac. When he’d grazed the corner of her mouth and seen her undisguised longing, the bolt of lust tunneling through him had nearly brought him to his knees.

  Just like it threatened to do now.

  Ripping his gaze from her tempting lips, he let it drift down the elegant line of her throat. He imagined tasting the skin there, nuzzling her fluttering pulse beneath his lips, and inhaling more of her sweet, flowery smell. Winter bit back a groan. He would no doubt sample both later…when he’d be expected to do his marital duty. Hell. He’d have to hold himself in check. Make it perfunctory. And most of all, quick. The act was a necessary obligation, nothing more, because he had an inkling that this woman could be the end of him.

  “Did you enjoy seeing your sister?” he asked, his voice rough edged. They’d called in at Beswick Park after leaving Lady Hammerton’s. Her rousing entertainments had gone well into the dawn hours.

  His wife startled, attention flying to him. “Yes, of course, my lord. Thank you for arranging the visit.”

  “Call me Winter,” he said.

  She flushed. “Winter.”

  His wife turned the full force of those ice-blue eyes on him, and for a moment, it felt like his skin had been seared by lightning. But that gaze also shone with no small degree of infatuation. It didn’t take much to interpret the shy glances and the soft blushes whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

  This was why it could never work.

  He wanted sex and a warm body; she wanted sonnets and his soul.

  The plain truth was that he’d needed to marry. An expedient wedding was the answer to Winter’s problems and hers—and he’d jumped at the solution. His father’s recent codicil stated if he wasn’t married by his twenty-first birthday, he wouldn’t get a finger on the rest of his inheritance until he was thirty. That was over a decade away! The social club he’d opened with his best friend, the Duke of Westmore, using the first portion of his inheritance, was in its infancy. Anything could happen.

  Which was why marriage was a lesser evil—it paid to be prepared.

  And Winter didn’t have to court anyone, endure evenings at Almack’s, or worry about matchmaking mothers, fortune hunters, and the like. Isobel Everleigh was the perfect choice for a quiet, dutiful bride. He did not intend to be another casualty to fate, love, or beautiful women. He’d seen too much of what marriage and dependence had done to his own mother and his sister to ever want that deadly yoke for himself. Love made people weak and foolish, and drove them to madness or worse.

  And Isobel—as perfect a bride as she might be—was no exception.

  Reluctant amusement built in his chest. Oh yes. His sister definitely would have laughed herself silly at his predicament that he’d gone and gotten himself wedlocked to a jejune, enraptured debutante with romantic starbursts in her eyes.

  She’s just what you deserve, Win, she would have teased. The angel to your devil.

  Right now, his devil wanted to strip the angel bare. Make her writhe and moan. Corrupt her with sin.

  “What’s your home like?” Isobel asked, interrupting his depraved thoughts, her sweet voice flicking against his senses. He’d much rather hear that soft voice screaming with pleasure, head thrown back and eyes glazed, golden curls tumbling down…

  Damnation. Stop.

  Winter cleared his tight throat. “Kendrick Abbey is much like Beswick Park, I suppose. Rolling hills, manse, ornamental ponds, a lake, tenants, the usual.” He waved an arm, guessing that she might share her sister’s penchant for horses. “You can ride to your heart’s content.”

  “I don’t care for horses.”

  A frown creased his brow. “You don’t?”

  “One threw me when I was a girl,” she explained with a pretty blush. “My sister insisted I get back on, but I was much too timid. They frighten me, really. To be honest, mounting such an enormous, powerful animal makes my pulse race.”

  Winter stared at her, his frown deepening as his pulse kicked up a notch. Was she being facetious? At his look, his wife bit her lip, and his stare swung to that moistened, plump roll of flesh when she released it. Hell if he didn’t want to taste it. Winter tore his gaze away and focused on the delicate slope of her nose. Yes, that was a safe bet.

  When had it gotten so hot in the carriage? It 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 a tray for an early supper. I’ve also rung for a lady’s maid to prepare you a bath.” He paused at the threshold, his gaze unfathomable. “In the meantime, I must find my brother and take him to task for not being there to receive us properly. I’ll return shortly.”

  Isobel gave him a soft smile, grateful for his thoughtfulness and equally glad he did not insist she accompany him. She was a bundle of nerves as it was, knowing their wedding night was forthcoming. A bath and a meal would help.

  Hours later, she’d finished both, and despite eating the delicious fare alone—Winter had yet to return—Isobel couldn’t relax. It was her first time in a strange place and finding herself eased was impossible. After changing into her night rail, she’d climbed into the huge bed. Would Winter prefer her under the blankets? Above them? In bed at all? In an attempt to distract herself, she tried to read from a book she’d packed in her things but couldn’t concentrate. Her nerves were much too frayed.

  Where was her husband? Would he come to her?

  Stretching restlessly, she inched out of the bed and went to the window, where the full moon cast its silvery light over the gardens visible from her room. She and Astrid used to pretend to be fairies dancing under the moon when they were little girls. Like then, she had the urge to run outside barefooted, feel the grass beneath her toes, and spin around in circles until she collapsed with dizziness. The whimsical recollection made her smile.

  The skin on her nape prickled and she whirled around, throttling a scream in her throat.

  The Marquess of Roth stood at the connecting door, watching her.

  Isobel blushed, realizing that the moonlight through the windowpanes rendered her filmy night clothes nearly invisible. She crossed her arms over herself, only to be stalled by Winter’s rasped, “Don’t.”

  Obediently, Isobel dropped her arms. Her nerves returned in full force when he approached, only stopping when he was an arm’s length away, dark, tall, and foreboding. The moonlight caught his face, too, casting his angular features in silver shadows. He was dressed only in shirtsleeves, she realized breathlessly, and her eyes traced the strong neck disappearing into the opened collar. His shirt was untucked from his trousers, his feet scandalously bare.

  “I was waiting,” she murmured when he didn’t say anything.

  “I trust everything was to your satisfaction?”

  Isobel nodded, suddenly shy. “It was. Thank you, my lord.”

  “Winter.”

  She bit her lip, unable to say his given name in so intimate a setting. He stared at her for what seemed like forever before closing the gap between them, and she gasped when his hands closed over her waist. One large palm slipped down to caress her hip. Sensations flooded her untried body, pebbling her nipples beneath the lacy night rail. She clenched her jaw hard. It was that, or give way to the vulgar moans clambering up her throat.

  “Do you know what to expect?” he asked. “Did your sister or mother advise you of the wedding night?”

  “Yes, my aunt explained,” Isobel whispered. She would not admit the guidance she’d received from her Aunt Mildred was thin at best, though she had a general idea of the act and what it entailed. He would undress her. Impale her. Fill her with his seed. Even in her head, the process sounded awful. She swallowed hard, her muscles locking.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he told her.

  With that, he untied the ribbons at he
r throat and wrists, and the flimsy garment pooled to the floor. Isobel held her breath, fighting her blush, as he took her nude body in, his face hard as if hewn from granite. A muscle jumped in that rigid jaw.

  “This first time might hurt,” he said. “But I will try to make it as painless as possible.”

  In a show of effortless strength, the marquess scooped her up and carried her to the bed, and she scrambled backward before he shucked off his own clothing and climbed on top of her. There wasn’t enough room to get a good view of anything, but good gracious, she could feel the hot brand of him on her thigh. Instead of making her frightened, it made her ache.

  Was her breathing supposed to be this shallow? Her heartbeat so fast? The sharpness of all the combined feelings was making her light-headed. Her muscles tightened again, though this time it wasn’t because of dread but excitement. Isobel had no time to process any of it before he bent toward her, his parted lips settling on her neck. Nerves forgotten, her skin burned at the erotic contact as his tongue swept over her flesh.

  The slow sensual lick was vastly different to the chaste, perfunctory peck he’d given her in the chapel, or the almost-kiss on the balcony, but she wasn’t complaining. He bit her earlobe, sucking it into his mouth, and her entire body shuddered. Good Lord, this wasn’t even kissing, it was…it was…devouring. The idea of his mouth trailing down her body in a similar fashion nearly made her eyes roll back in her head.

  Would he?

  As if she’d demanded it, he continued his journey south of her jaw until Isobel moaned, her hands climbing up to wind in her husband’s hair as she succumbed to his skill. Heavens above, she’d never felt more alive, more on edge. Every muscle in her body strained and shook as he reached the valley between her breasts, his lips wet and warm. She felt faint from the pleasure coiling in her stomach, her brain a muddled mess. Could a person die from such sensation? Surely it was possible.

  One more lick, one more dangerously sinful bite, and she’d be done for.

  A whimper broke from her. “Winter.”