Winter’s Whispers

by Scott, Scarlett

  Forcing herself to dip into a curtsy, she tipped up her chin. “Good day, Mr. Winter. Thank you for finding Miss Wilhelmina.”

  He raised a brow. “Keep the creature where it belongs, Lady Francesca.”

  Dreadful man. Was he getting her name wrong intentionally? She would not doubt it.

  This time, she swept from the chamber without bothering to correct him.

  Chapter Two

  The last person Blade wanted to see was Devereaux Winter.

  Then again, mayhap the luscious, cat-smuggling Lady Felicity was the last person Blade wanted to see. Small creatures, particularly innocent ones who looked up at him with trusting, hazel eyes, made him want to punch something. And that went for both the lady and the ridiculously named kitten. Their gazes were irritatingly similar.

  “I trust you are not going to cause any trouble for either my family or my guests,” Winter was saying now in warning tones.

  “Thought it was my family, too,” he could not resist pointing out, before taking a sip of his drink only to realize it was negus.

  Blade spit the offensive stuff back into his cup. Where was some sturdy gin or smuggled Scots whisky when one needed it?

  Winter looked distinctly unimpressed. “You do not care for negus?”

  “No man with ballocks does,” Blade informed his half brother, not giving a damn that he was being rude.

  He did not bloody well want to be here, and he did not bloody well like Devereaux Winter. His half sisters were tolerable. The red-haired one, Christabella, was a duchess with a propensity for saying ridiculous things. He liked her well enough. The rest… Well, Blade was still deciding what he thought of them.

  Each sister was married to a lord, with the exception of the youngest, Bea, who was married to Winter’s business partner. Merrick Hart was a fine enough fellow; Blade reckoned all the lords had fire pokers up their arses. One of them, the Earl of Something—Blade couldn’t recall the name and the man hadn’t stepped foot inside their establishments, so he may as well not exist—was frowning at him now as if Blade had just produced an East End rat from his pocket.

  “I can assure you that I have ballocks, and can nonetheless enjoy the stuff,” Winter was saying.

  “Married life making you soft,” Blade muttered, setting the cup down upon a nearby table. “Haven’t you whisky?”

  “Of course I have whisky.”

  Thank Christ. How the hell would he have lasted for a fortnight in the monkery without getting proper spoony drunk?

  “I’ll have some of that instead, if you please, brother.” He cast an insincere smile in Devereaux Winter’s direction, knowing it would nettle.

  Not caring.

  “Before you have a drop, you will promise me you shall not cause so much as a crumb of a crumb’s worth of trouble,” Winter countered.

  “Hmm.” Blade pretended to ponder those words. “What about a crumb of a crumb of a crumb?”

  “No trouble,” Winter growled.

  “Pardon me, but you do not look like the sort of gentleman who is adept at keeping himself from any sort of trouble at all,” said Earl of Something.

  Adept. Fancy cove’s word. Blade thought he knew what it meant.

  “I ain’t a gentleman,” he said unapologetically, plucking his favorite knife from within his coat and lightly stroking his thumb over the blade.

  It was a gesture not intended to intimidate. Rather, Blade’s knives calmed him. It was an old habit, born from his days on the street before Devil and Dom found him. Best to walk about the rookeries with one’s hand on a weapon, especially for lads who had been built like a bean as he had once been. Those lads were easily overpowered. Fortunately, time and effort had strengthened him. He no longer required the knives unless he had a job to carry out. And even then, a pistol was a far preferable weapon.

  Not that he expected to have need of any sorts of weapons at this tedious affair.

  He was trapped here. Nowhere to escape to. Nothing but snow, aristocrats, family members he was only beginning to tolerate, and a virgin with a goddamn cat.

  He suppressed a shudder.

  “You shall be a gentleman for the duration of the house party,” Winter told him. “That was understood, along with all your invitations.”

  “You invited us because your wife wanted it, and she keeps your ballocks in her reticule,” Blade taunted.

  Everyone knew Devereaux Winter was hopelessly besotted with his wife. If Lady Emilia asked him to jump into the Thames in the heart of winter, the poor sot would take a dive. And likely drown, more fool he.

  Winter’s nostrils flared. “You will speak respectfully. Lady Emilia is my wife, and she has the heart of an angel.”

  “Would have to, if she is married to the likes of you,” Blade said.

  But instead of being outraged, Winter grinned. “Cannot argue. I am damned fortunate she is my wife.”

  May the Lord preserve him from ever becoming so stupid about a set of petticoats.

  Inexplicably, Blade’s mind traveled to thoughts of the deliciously lovely Lady Felicity. Of her legs, her wriggling rump. Her bosom. Those lips. Her flashing hazel eyes.

  He should have kissed her yesterday when he had the opportunity.

  Bloody hell, what was he thinking? He most certainly should not have kissed her. Not because he gave a damn about Devereaux Winter’s edicts, but because he did care about remaining in good standing with Dom and Devil and the rest of his siblings. They had all been infuriated by the results of his ill-advised duel. Consigning himself to hell—er, Oxfordshire—was his way of making amends.

  “I know the feeling all too well,” the Earl of Something said to Winter.

  The taste of negus was sickeningly sweet on Blade’s tongue. The ridiculous way the two other men in the room cared for their wives was equally repulsive.

  “I promise to behave,” he snapped. “Now where the devil is the whisky?”

  At least Demon, Gavin, and Genevieve would be arriving soon. Dom and his wife had just had a babe, and Devil and Lady Evie were expecting their first child any day, which had precluded them from traveling to the countryside. Blade had been sent early, thanks to that damned duel.

  “I am afraid a promise is not sufficient,” Winter said, cocking his head. “I think we need to be certain he shan’t cause any problems for the next fortnight, don’t you, Hertford?”

  Ah, Hertford.

  The Earl of Something was the bloody Earl of Hertford.

  The earl nodded. “How do you suppose we can make certain he will be the perfect gentleman?”

  Blade’s throat was getting itchy. His cravat was too damned tight. Tied by a servant Winter had sent to him that morning. Called himself a valet. Blade had never heard of the like.

  “Excellent question,” Winter said to the earl, as if they were conducting a dialogue without Blade’s presence. “Mayhap we should take his knife.”

  Fuck. Blade’s thumb stilled on the knife. This was his favorite blade. His lucky blade. It never left his side. He slipped it into his coat. “Not unless you fancy a broken wrist during your house party, milord.”

  Winter’s jaw tightened, the only sign Blade’s insult had hit its mark. Deveraux Winter was not an aristocrat; he’d never be a lord. This sprawling estate and manor house had belonged to his wife’s father, the duke, before he had purchased it. But one could not buy a title.

  “Something else,” Hertford suggested briskly, as if one of the most dangerous men in London had not just threatened the both of them.

  He was adept at blending into the scenery. It was what Blade did, how he reached his targets. Namely, Winter enemies. And there it was, he had used a fancy cove’s word in his own thoughts.

  Damn it.

  “My word. That ought to be enough,” he gritted. “We are family, are we not?”

  Including the earl. Which was quite bloody rich. The laugh of the century, at least.

  “No dallying with the guests,” his half brother ordered. />
  Devereaux Winter could have passed for Dom’s twin. They were both tall, broad, fierce. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and commanding. Both the leaders of their respective Winter clans. And they had the same thoughts, the same rigid adherence to their wives and honor.

  “Surely there may be some married ladies in attendance who require…distraction,” Blade tried.

  “No,” Winter bellowed.

  “You are fortunate you did not kill Penhurst in that foolish duel,” the earl added.

  Hell. The Earl of Hertford was a prude. And Devereaux Winter a killjoy.

  “I am an unrivaled marksman,” he said. “The idiot moved.”

  “Nevertheless, you can agree you have caused enough difficulties for our family,” Winter said.

  “Now it is our family,” Blade grumbled, plainly seeing the difference. “What do you want from me? Shall I carve a promise into my flesh? I came here to calm the waters, not to bedevil them. All I want is whisky and a comfortable place to avoid everyone for the next thirteen days.”

  Hertford and Winter exchanged a look.

  Blade read it. Disbelief.

  Fair enough; his reputation was black.

  “I promise,” he bit out. “You have my word. If I cause any trouble for you, I will give you all my weapons and my head on a pike. Trust me, I have had more than my fair share of trouble and quim both these last few weeks. All I seek is forgiveness.”

  Once more, Lady Felicity’s face rose in his mind. Haunting, tempting, taunting.

  He thrust all thoughts of her away and held his half brother’s gaze.

  Devereaux Winter studied him for a long time. At last, he nodded. “I trust you, Blade. Do not disappoint me.”

  Well, hell. Mayhap wealthy nibs like his half brother did not understand that sooner or later, everyone in one’s life was a source of disappointment. But never mind that. He would learn the lesson in his own time, and hopefully Blade would not be the one to do the teaching.

  All he had to do was keep to himself.

  That ought to be easy.

  Felicity rounded a corner in the hall and ran into something tall, hard, warm, and smelling of leather and…citrus and musk.

  Mr. Blade Winter.

  She would recognize that maddening scent anywhere.

  Her palms instinctively flattened against the muscled wall of his chest. She ought to retract them, but there was something about the dratted man that lured her just as it had the day before. His heat seared her.

  She pressed herself nearer. For one reckless moment only. Her breasts collided with him, their hips connecting. The air fled her lungs.

  Hands gripped her waist, steadying her. His impossibly blue gaze settled on hers.

  “Lady Frances,” came that deep, wondrous baritone.

  Mocking.

  Had he truly forgotten her name once more, or was he merely toying with her? She stared up into his handsome, unreadable countenance, and could not determine which it was.

  “Lady Felicity,” she corrected, mustering all the chill she possessed.

  But inside, oh, inside, she was aflame.

  From a touch, from a collision, from a man she otherwise found arrogant and ill-mannered. An insolent lout. It made no sense. What drew her to him? And why was she not retreating, stepping away, removing her palms from his chest? Why was she instead coasting them over the broad plane, absorbing his warmth and strength?

  “Lady Felicity,” he repeated, his tone intimate. His gaze settled on her lips, and it felt like a caress. Or a kiss.

  She was breathless. Mindless. An imbecile. My goodness, had she been caressing his chest? Felicity yanked her hands away, then gathered her wits and took a step in retreat.

  A step in haste, it would appear. She had forgotten she had been carrying a stack of books when she had rounded the corner, and they had fallen to the floor during the course of her impact with Mr. Winter. Now, she tripped over one of them.

  It was too late to compensate. She lost her balance and went down on her back in a rustle of silk.

  Acute embarrassment washed over her. She had landed upon her rump with unforgiving force, and pain radiated out, cementing her humiliation. She was not ordinarily so graceless. Indeed, all she had to recommend herself was her face and her elegance, since there was no dowry to speak of. How was she going to land a husband at this cursed house party—as she must do, for time was running out—if she could not keep from making a cake of herself before this rogue?

  She expected his laughter. More mockery.

  But instead, he thrust a hand out.

  She eyed it. There was a strange marking peeking from beneath his sleeve, atop his hand. On his skin… Why, it looked like a dagger, drawn on his flesh. She stared, fascinated. Heat slid through her with the torpor and sweetness of honey. His hand was large, callused. His fingers long. For a wild moment, she wondered what that hand would feel like upon her.

  “Do you intend to sit on the floor all day?” he asked, the rough baritone of his voice startling her from her foolish reverie.

  Of course, even in his offer of gentlemanly aid, he found a way to be surly.

  She settled her hand in his, the contact sending a strange sense of awareness through her. A frisson, sweeping up her arm, then down her spine, before ultimately pooling between her thighs. He pulled her to her feet in one easy motion, so quickly she felt dizzied for a brief, disconcerting moment.

  Or mayhap that was just the effect he had upon her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Winter,” she found the wits to say.

  He grinned, and the heat between her thighs flared once more. Good heavens, the rascal was truly beautiful in a wicked, tempting way she had never seen in another gentleman.

  She had to get ahold of herself. Calm her rapidly beating heart. She had come here to find a husband, and one with funds enough to support her younger sisters in their debuts, to offer them a dowry so they could make proper matches. Not to flirt with unacceptable strangers.

  “Going to give me my hand, or do you intend to keep it?” he queried wryly.

  Her cheeks were on fire. She dropped his hand as if it were fashioned of flame too. It may as well have been. This man would burn her. Ruin her. She knew it then and there.

  “Forgive me,” she mumbled, then busied herself with the business of collecting the books she had dropped in their impact.

  Stupid Felicity. Two years on the marriage mart, and hailed a beauty, a fine marital prize. And yet, she had squandered every chance for a husband because she had so foolishly believed she had time. That Papa’s debts were not as monumental as they were. She had been waiting for love. Now she would have to settle for a comfortable income. And there was no surer way to lose this last, precious chance than to dally with uncouth rogues.

  She had to think of Esme and Cassandra.

  But Mr. Winter did not leave her to her misery. Instead, he sank to his haunches and helped her retrieve the books. Even his presence burned through her, along with his scent. He was so maddeningly attractive. It was not his face, but something indefinable about him. He possessed an air of mystery, charm, and mayhem that was unspeakably compelling.

  For all the wrong reasons.

  He handed the books to her, and she rose to her feet. “Thank you, sir.”

  He stood with her, lingering. Not bowing and moving on. Just staring at her in that way he had. Assessing and yet…intimate. His stare was like a touch.

  She ought to flee. To curtsy and go. They were in one of the massive halls of Abingdon House, alone, and anyone could come upon them. It would be quite disastrous, if innocent enough.

  And yet, she stayed. Drawn to him. Icarus, flying too near the sun.

  “Is there something else you wished to say, Mr. Winter?” she asked, cursing herself for the breathlessness in her voice.

  His lips twitched. “Where is Miss Whistlewhiskers?”

  His impertinent question wrung a laugh from her. “Whistlewhiskers?”

  “Aye.” His grin de
epened. “What was I thinking? That would be a spoony name for a cat, wouldn’t it, my lady?”

  “Spoony?” She frowned at him, telling herself the dimple in his right cheek was not nearly as alluring as the warmth in her belly suggested it was.

  “Crazy,” he elaborated.

  “Are you suggesting Miss Wilhelmina is a crazy name for a kitten, sir?”

  The dimple remained, taunting her. “I’d never.”

  Drat the man, his rough accent—decidedly not aristocratic, hinting at his antecedents—was somehow intriguing. His voice was mellow and deep, pleasing to her ears. Even when he was being rude.

  He was not being terribly rude at the moment, however, and it only served to heighten her confusion. And her attraction. When he chose to charm, good heavens…

  “I think you are teasing me, Mr. Winter,” she said, clutching her books to her chest.

  Auntie Agatha was probably looking for her. She was Felicity’s chaperone for this country house party. Rather remiss at her task, it was true. But eventually, she noted Felicity’s absence. She would likely be noting it by now.

  Felicity really ought to go at once, instead of remaining here in this maddening man’s presence.

  He leaned nearer, stealing her breath once more. “If I were teasing you,” he said slowly, lowering his head so that he was devastatingly close, “you would know it, Lady Felicity.”

  He had gotten her name right that time.

  But that wasn’t what was making her dizzy. Or what was making her sway toward him, until his breath coasted over her lips in the prelude to a kiss she wanted, no matter how much she shouldn’t.

  It was the connection between them. She had felt it yesterday, in his chamber. A stunning sense of awareness, a remarkable difference, when their gazes had first clashed. She had told herself it was impossible. She had blamed her response on the blow she had taken to the head when she had rapped it beneath his bed.

  She realized she had been wrong. Because it was still here, simmering between them. Growing bigger and more pronounced with each passing second.