Wishes in Winter: A Wicked Winters World Book

by Scarlett Scott

  Fortune hunters.

  The phrase made him stiffen. His sire’s staggering obligation was not a topic he preferred to think about. The mere thought of the former duke gambling himself into oblivion before putting a pistol in his mouth filled him with an incapacitating rage. Alistair was on the brink of penury, just as many of the lords in attendance were, drawn by the lure of the Winter sisters and their massive dowries.

  But unlike the others, he was not attending the house party to snare a share of the Winter fortune.

  He was here to snare Lady Lydia Brownlow, whose dowry, while far surpassed by the Winters’ wealth, was immense on its own. Revelstoke was rich as Croesus, and in an effort to marry off Freckles this Season so the younger daughter, Cecily, could debut, he had been bandying about the value of her dowry everywhere he could.

  All London knew marrying her would result in a sizable fortune. It wasn’t the sole reason Alistair wanted to make Freckles his duchess, but he was uncomfortably aware his best friend may have cause to disagree should he ever discover the extent of his father’s debts.

  He very much did not want anyone—let alone Rand—interfering with getting what he wanted. And what he wanted the more he thought upon it was Freckles, who smelled of spring violets and possessed gray eyes that shimmered with intelligence, whose lush mouth seemed undeniably created for kissing.

  For his kisses, to be precise.

  His alone.

  He felt suddenly, fiercely possessive of her. He did not know what it was about her—he had tried to understand the force of his newfound, troublesome feelings without success—but somewhere betwixt that moonlit garden and this very moment, he had become determined to make Lady Lydia Brownlow his.

  If he was honest, it had begun before the Havenhurst ball. He could still recall the way she had felt in his arms the one and only time he had danced with her, and the moment when he had gazed into her upturned face and noticed her eyes contained vivid flecks of blue. Awareness had sparked between them even then. She had called him a rogue when he had complimented her dress, which had been a pink affair wholly unsuited to her personality. A strange stirring had occurred inside him.

  Ridiculous, he had told himself at the time. This is Freckles.

  And yet, that same thing had not moved one whit from its spot, lodged firmly in the vicinity of the heart he would have sworn he did not own. When he had called upon her following the ball, she had muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “jackanapes” when he had bowed before her and kissed her gloved hand. He had yearned to keep her trapped in his grip, to haul her away from their unwanted audience, and kiss her senseless.

  Devil take it, his cock was going hard, right here in the midst of the ballroom, before all and sundry. There was no hope for it—he must confess to Rand now, before he waded any deeper into these dangerous waters. He cleared his throat, deciding there was no delicate way to inform one’s oldest and best friend that one lusted after his sister and intended to marry her. “Rand, there is something I must discuss with you.”

  “Dear God, Warwick. If you intend to get serious, I need a drink that isn’t more suited to babes and ladies than men fully grown.” Rand downed the dregs of his punch in a final gulp, curling his lip after he swallowed. “Gads. I cannot believe I stooped so low as to consume such rot.”

  Alistair didn’t blame him. There was nothing he would like so much as a fine glass of port or a redoubtable whisky, but in their current environs, no such respite was forthcoming. “I am afraid that I must be serious.”

  “Blast, there is my sister and my mother,” Rand said distractedly. “Would you mind terribly if we greeted them? Father has sworn this house party is Lydia’s last chance to find a match so Cecily may come out, and perhaps if you show interest in her, it will inspire some of these clods to ask her for a dance, if nothing else.”

  He clenched his jaw. “Hold, Rand. Let us be clear: there is no lady I would prefer to greet more than Fr-Lady Lydia. Her intellect is far superior to every other lady of my acquaintance. Indeed, she is every other lady’s superior in all ways, including loveliness, for hers is a beauty that shines from within. No others can hope to hold a candle to it.”

  He meant every word. In fact, he would have liked to have said more. Freckles was not merely beautiful. She was vibrant. She was animated. Being in her presence was akin to standing beneath the heated summer sky—glorious, and yet one could so easily get burned. Rand was his friend, yes, but Alistair did not like the manner in which he spoke of Freckles, as though she were the recipient of social alms. Someone to be pitied, rather than worshipped.

  And Alistair meant to worship her as soon as possible. With his mouth and his tongue. But that was certainly not the sort of thing a man said to his best friend when the lady in question was his best friend’s sister.

  Rand gave him a questioning look. “My sister? Christ, Warwick. Tell me you are not waxing eloquent over my sister. If you are, I shall have to challenge you to a duel on principle.”

  His cheekbones went hot. How mortifying. He found himself gazing beyond his friend, to the place where—at long last—Freckles stood with her turban-wearing mother, the Duchess of Revelstoke. Freckles wore an ivory gown embroidered with roses that hugged her curvaceous figure and emphasized her luscious breasts.

  “I do not wax eloquent,” he forced himself to say through a mouth gone suddenly dry. “Ever. But by all means, do let us greet the Duchess of Revelstoke and Lady Lydia.”

  Rand grinned at him then. “I am joking about the duel, old chap. If you do want to marry Lyd, I should be relieved. One less bugbear. There is no other gentleman I would be more pleased to see her wed.”

  Alistair’s gut clenched as he wondered if his friend would feel the same way if he knew the truth.

  Chapter Two

  The last man she had expected to see at the country house party being held by Lady Emilia Winter and her husband Mr. Devereaux Winter was the Duke of Warwick.

  Lydia had been avoiding him with great success for the last few months, but as she watched him bearing down upon her with her brother in tow, she found herself frozen, unable to escape. Why had Rand not told her Warwick would be in attendance?

  Because he had likely been too busy with his paramour of the moment.

  Her beloved brother was a libertine of the first—and worst—order.

  “Warwick, for instance,” her mother continued in the midst of the matrimonial prospects diatribe Lydia had been doing her utmost to ignore, “would make an excellent match. Though I daresay he will ask for Lady Felicity’s hand, or perhaps even one of the dreadful Winter girls, he has not yet done so. It is not too late for you. You must smile, and you must endeavor to never speak of any of your odd notions. Do not mention that star poppycock, I beg. You could have a coronet. Just think of it, a coronet, my dear. Here he comes. Oh, do smile, Lydia. Smile.”

  Her mother said the last through gnashed teeth.

  Lydia ignored her, steeling herself against the weakness a man as breathtakingly magnetic as the Duke of Warwick produced in her. She would remain indifferent. He was a rake like her brother. A flirt. He was not interested in her, though it occasionally amused him to act as if he were.

  She was not the mouse to his cat. Indeed, she was no mouse at all. She would far prefer to be a mastiff, chasing his cat away where he could no longer torment her. Up a tree, perhaps.

  As he reached her, she fixed him with her sternest glare.

  A smile flirted with his sensual mouth and he bowed with his inimitable, sleek grace. Why, he even moved like a cat. “Your Grace, Lady Lydia.”

  Not Freckles this evening, then. But she ought not to be surprised, and so she squelched the throbbing surge of awareness that made her pulse leap. Of course, he would not dare to refer to her in such improper fashion whilst in public and before her mother. As he straightened, the full effect of him slammed into her with the force of a blow.

  Had all the air been stolen from the ballroom?
And was it her imagination at work, or did his gaze slip to her lips for a heartbeat before rising? He was insufferably handsome, his jaw pronounced, his nose straight, his lips full and sinfully carnal, his eyes blue and bright, cheekbones high. His dark, tousled hair only added to the allure.

  In short, he was so beautiful it made her ache in odd places. Places she had never had cause to notice before him.

  Pity that he was a rascal who preferred witless ninnies like Lady Felicity to ladies of wit and substance. Not to mention, that he had witnessed her doused in pond water, along with an innumerable series of unladylike events over the years of their acquaintance.

  “Lydia,” her mother ground out, sotto voce, as she pasted a beaming smile to her face and curtsied like a schoolgirl.

  Apparently, no lady was immune to Warwick in his superfine coat, buff breeches, and immaculate white cravat tied in the American fashion. She had to admit he cut a debonair figure, and he quite took her breath simply by standing before her. It was not fair for a man to be so glorious to look upon.

  Belatedly aware she stood mooning over Warwick as though she too were besotted by his good looks—she was not, she vowed—she swept into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  His solemn gaze lingered upon her, intent and seeking, and the smile that had seemed poised to dawn over his features did not come to fruition. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, Lady Lydia?”

  “You need not dance with me,” she said, her meaning clear.

  She would not accept his pity.

  “Oh, la, Lady Lydia.” Mother laughed as if she had just delivered the cleverest sally. “You do possess the most original sens de l’humour. Of course, the duke needs to dance with you.”

  “No, he does not,” Lydia denied.

  The Duchess of Revelstoke’s gaze could have pierced the Spanish armada as she glared at Lydia. “Yes,” she insisted, keeping an unnatural smile affixed to her lips. “He does.”

  “Do not go into high dudgeon, Mother. This is deuced awkward.” Rand’s brows snapped together as he looked from Lydia to Warwick. “Warwick has agreed to dance with Lyd as a favor, in hopes it may encourage other suitors, which she is already woefully wanting.”

  Their mother’s face went scarlet. Lydia’s stomach dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of her delicate slippers. She knew her brother did not realize he was occasionally an unfeeling oaf, or that he was making a cake of her before the last man in England that she wanted to think her a hopelessly on-the-shelf spinster.

  But he was.

  The thought gave her pause. Why should she care what the Duke of Warwick thought? Of course, she didn’t. But for some reason, she was once more ensnared in his gaze, and she swore she saw a glimmer of connection there. A lone spark kindled into a flame within her. She could not look away.

  “It would be my honor to dance with you, my lady,” the duke insisted quietly, his expression serious.

  She did not see pity in his gaze.

  “Oh,” her mother sighed, sounding breathless—which was utterly absurd, for she had known Warwick since he was in leading strings. “That would be lovely, Warwick. Lady Lydia would be pleased to accept. Would you not, dear?”

  What was it about the Christmas season that turned everyone’s brain to feathers? Even her own, for she wanted to dance with Warwick, she realized. His eyes had not wavered from hers. He waited, patiently, as though her answer was of the greatest import.

  “Yes,” Lydia accepted. “Of course, I will save you a dance, Duke.”

  The smile he had been withholding emerged then, and it was broad and mesmerizing and only served to enhance his masculine beauty, which was a feat in itself. She swallowed, thinking back upon that enchanted night in the garden. It could not be possible that he was interested in her. His words returned to her just then.

  You are fortunate then, that I am taller than you are, Freckles, and I do not take exception to a lady who is my intellectual equal or better. Save a dance for me.

  No. It could not be that the Duke of Warwick, who had only ever seen her as an irritant and a hanger-on, who was the most handsome and eligible bachelor in the beau monde, wanted her. That he wanted a bluestocking who was too tall for fashion, too opinionated by far, whose nose was decorated with freckles, and who preferred books to needlework and pianoforte any day.

  And yet, his regard told her that he was. Against all odds, the Duke of Warwick looked upon her now in the way a man looked upon a woman. Admiring. Wanting.

  The echo of her own fierce need sprang forth from somewhere deep within.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he told her, his tone soft and admiring. Genuine. With another bow, he turned and left.

  Her brother lingered for a moment, his expression contemplative. “Mother.” He bowed again. “Lyd.” Then he hastened after his friend.

  Lydia watched them depart, bemused, attempting to muddle through what to make of this most unsettling development.

  “Bravo, daughter,” her mother said into the silence, her voice vibrating with maternal pride. “The Duke of Warwick would be quite a feather in your cap.”

  Yes, he would. But Lydia didn’t want a matrimonial prize. Indeed, she didn’t even want to be wed. The only reason she stood in the ballroom at that very moment was because her parents had taken her choice away from her. She would do well not to forget that, and above all, not to imagine that a handsome rake like the Duke of Warwick would ever wed the spinster, bluestocking sister of his best friend.

  She was Freckles to him, nothing more.

  Chapter Three

  Lydia didn’t know which fact was more unsettling: that the Duke of Warwick had sought her out each day of the house party thus far or that Jane, her abigail and the woman tasked with guarding her virtue for the moment, had fallen asleep.

  They sat in a small parlor in one of the innumerable rooms of Abingdon House. Jane’s snores cut into the awkward silence that had descended upon the unexpected tête-à-tête. Jane was no longer a stickler for propriety, and while Lydia was fond of her, The abigail’s ineffectual presence was more than disconcerting today. It was downright dismaying.

  She refused to think of why Jane’s tendency to doze off in the corner had never bothered her before now.

  Warwick, being the rake he was, noticed the moment he was no longer under scrutiny. “Your maid appears to be sleeping,” he observed, his voice low and intimate.

  She flushed, keeping her eyes on Jane rather than on Warwick. He was unbearably handsome this morning, and looking upon him stirred a fresh ache deep within her, the sort of ache she had no wish to feel toward him. Most decidedly, an ache that would only land her in trouble from which there was no extrication.

  “She is not sleeping,” she improvised, lest he develop any wicked ideas. “She is praying.”

  “Ah, I see.” He sounded amused. “Her…piety is to be commended.”

  Another snore sounded across the room. Blast. Lydia firmed her lips. Warwick startled her by rising from his seat and quickly lowering his tall, lean frame at her side on the settee. She stared at his strong thigh, clad in perfectly fitted breeches, touching her gown.

  “Warwick, you are crowding me,” she grumbled. “It is unseemly for you to be sitting so near. Go back to your chair at once.”

  He ignored her, as had become his habit. If anything, he seemed to sidle closer. She once again caught a whiff of the decadent scent of his shaving soap, and though it grieved her to admit, she took an extra-deep breath on its account.

  “How can it be unseemly when your maid chaperones us so well?” An unrepentant grin livened his voice.

  She picked at the fall of her skirt, still not wanting to look upon him, particularly at this proximity. Last evening, he had claimed his dance at the welcome ball, and while there had been little opportunity for private conversation, he had gazed upon her with such concentration whenever their paths had crossed during the minuet, she had nearly tripped over her hem in her distraction. He had looked upo
n her with a smoldering sort of need that puzzled her as much as it thrilled her, all against her better judgment.

  “Jane is an excellent chaperone,” she felt obliged to defend. That much, at least, was true. Ordinarily, Lydia had no need of a chaperone at all. Until now. “If she is fatigued, it is merely because I have required her to chaperone me far more in the last few days as I spend time with friends than I ordinarily do. The poor dear is not to be blamed.”

  His fingers closed over hers, stilling them. “Gentlemen friends, Freckles?”

  Something in his tone—an underlying hardness—had her turning her head to meet his gaze, even as she noted that she was once again Freckles rather than Lady Lydia. “Yes, Warwick. Gentlemen friends. Your disbelief is quite insulting.”

  She didn’t add that she was surprised herself by the sudden attention. Particularly when she was competing with the lovely—and infamously wealthy—Winter sisters. Then again, her dowry was quite handsome, and the reason for this house party was clear—an entrée for the Winter sisters into polite society.

  Many of the gentlemen in attendance were searching for wealthy brides. Likely, her invitation had stemmed from her brother Rand, who, as the heir to a duke, would be quite a prize for any Winter daughter to snare. In spite of his rakish ways.

  Little did they know, Rand could not be tamed.

  Warwick’s jaw clenched, then. “Is your maid this slipshod with all your friends?”

  Yet another snore, this one louder than the last, rumbled across the room.

  Lydia thought for a moment. “Slipshod is rather an unkind choice of word, Warwick. She loves me like a daughter.”

  The duke gave an indelicate snort that was at odds with his effortless masculine elegance. “I do think granddaughter would be more apt. Listen here, Freckles, if she is snoring through all your suitors, something must be done.”

  He sounded rather indignant.

  Lydia considered him, wondering why on earth he should become so bothered by the somewhat lackluster performance of her maid as a chaperone. Why, it almost seemed as if he were jealous, but that was absurd. Wasn’t it? Of course, it was. He was who he was, after all, and she was a wallflower bluestocking who, barring recent developments, almost no one noticed.