She had his attention.
Felicity reached his hands. Strong hands, big hands, work-roughened fingertips. Yes, this was him. Had she had any doubt, here was her proof. So, too, in the heat that slid through her. She recognized him. Her body recognized him. But another, deeper part of her did as well.
Her breath caught as his fingers unexpectedly linked with hers, but then she forced herself to continue as if she were unaffected. It would not do to allow him to see how much his nearness undid her.
“Small, dainty hands,” she said, continuing her campaign.
His fingers tightened on hers in warning.
She suppressed a smile of triumph, realizing she could not guess him to be any of the ladies in attendance lest she offer them the insult of suggesting they possessed the same muscled bearing as Mr. Winter.
Felicity attempted to tug her hands free, but he held her in his steady grasp, their fingers tangled.
“Come on then,” someone called. “Make your guess, Lady Felicity.”
“Who do you suppose the lady in question can be?” chortled yet another guest.
He gave her fingers another warning squeeze, as if to suggest he intended to get even with her following the game. She had no doubt he would try, and she was not entirely certain she would be sorry for it, though the rational part of her knew she must keep her distance. He was a rogue. A scoundrel.
Not husband material.
And she most definitely needed a husband.
But first, what was the matter with indulging in temptation?
“I am not certain,” she announced to the group of revelers, finally succeeding in removing her hands from his grasp. “Perhaps a bit more of an inspection.”
Titters met her words.
What had she expected? She was the sole one amongst them who was blindfolded. But she had pretense on her side, and she was enjoying the freedom to explore Mr. Blade Winter’s form, all while taunting him.
The upper hand was hers, at least for the next five minutes.
And she intended to enjoy it while she could.
She reached up, settling her hands on his jaw. The subtle prickle of his whiskers was a delightful abrasion against her seeking palms. She barely suppressed a shiver of awareness as she caressed along those sharp lines. She could not resist trailing her fingers over his lips next.
His breath coasted over her skin. His lips were soft, supple. She inhaled swiftly, the sound maddeningly sharp and loud in the sudden quiet of the drawing room. She had to put an end to this farce. It was affecting her far too much.
She stopped touching him. “Mr. Winter.”
“Excellent guess.” The wry baritone was familiar.
He was still near enough. A frisson swept down her spine. Her heightened senses knew the moment he stepped closer, reaching behind her to untie the knot on her blindfold. When it was removed, she blinked at the sudden brightness.
He was watching her with an expression she rather fancied a fox would wear before he caught his prey. He raised a golden brow, looking sinfully handsome.
“Tie the blindfold on me, then,” he told her, holding out the silken tie.
She took it from him, their fingers brushing. His gaze promised retribution. But she could not summon a modicum of regret.
Chapter Four
“My darling Mrs. Winter.” Devereaux Winter could not keep the smile from his lips as he greeted his beloved wife Emilia that evening in their chamber.
She was holding their infant son, Charles, in her arms, and she had never been more beautiful. Although theirs had begun as a marriage of convenience, it had quickly turned into an affair of the heart. Each day, he loved her more than the last. He was besotted with his wife, and he did not care who knew it.
“My love,” she said softly. “I was just holding him before taking him to the nursery. He is sleeping quite soundly, but I find myself hesitant to relinquish him, as always.”
She was a wonderful mama to their son. But then, he had known she would be. Gratitude swept over him as he gazed upon mother and child. His heart was so damned full.
Dev crossed the chamber and leaned down to bestow a kiss on first Emilia’s lips and then Charles’s head, taking care not to wake the sleeping babe. “There is my strong lad. Growing larger every day.”
Emilia’s smile was tender. “He has his papa’s size. Just a few months old and already so strapping.”
Dev was an immense man, he knew, with his own father’s broad shoulders and towering height. Those traits had been what made it apparent the bastard Winters—Dominic, Devil, Blade, Demon, Gavin, and Genevieve—shared a sire with him. Genevieve was tall for a lady, much like his sister Pru.
“Are you enjoying being here at Abingdon Hall for another Christmastide, darling?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
Last year’s country house party had become an annual tradition. The only difference was that last year, their primary aim had been to see his younger sisters happily married. Miraculously—and despite some scandal—they had succeeded. Each of his sisters was wed and happier than he could have hoped.
“I adore being here, as you know,” Emilia told him softly. “I am so pleased you invited your brothers and sister.”
“Half brothers and half sister,” he reminded her. Though in truth, what had begun as an acrimonious relationship between himself and the formerly secret offspring of his father had transitioned into something different.
He almost liked them.
Almost.
“Family,” she returned, “any way you say it.”
His wife—who possessed the heart of an angel—had been the architect of the thawing of the ice between himself and the bastard Winters. His fierce sense of family—once relegated to Emilia, their child, and his sisters and their families—had expanded. But then, Emilia had enlarged his life in so many other ways, he was hardly surprised by this latest feather in her cap.
“Family,” he agreed, unable to resist giving her tempting lips another kiss.
This one lingered. And deepened. She made a sweet, breathy sigh that undid him.
Dev forced himself to recall she was holding Charles and removed his lips from hers. “I warned Blade he is not to cause any trouble. If you hear word of any wrongdoing, I will toss him out on his arse.”
When Emilia had initially suggested they invite the other half of the Winter family—the half that hailed from the rookeries—to their country house party, he had been dubious. But Dom and Devil had married and settled down, and he had reluctantly decided to give the rest of them a chance as well.
Dom and Devil were also having babes, which meant they were not able to travel to Oxfordshire. Which also meant Dev was being saddled with the tremendous task of keeping his unruly half siblings in order.
“He will behave himself, I am certain,” Emilia said, stroking their son’s cheek, an expression stealing over her lovely face he knew too well. “I saw the way he has been watching Lady Felicity Hughes.”
“Emilia,” he said in a tone of mock warning. “Do not think it.”
“Some matchmaking could be just the thing to liven up this house party.” She flashed him a mischievous grin. “Besides, would you not like to see all your siblings happily settled?”
He groaned. “You did quite well last year, but this particular company of Winters is not at all the same.”
She raised a brow. “I beg to differ. You are Winters. Though you may have had vastly different upbringings, there is much in each of you that is the same. Not just your uncommon height and fierce sense of family.”
“Hmm.” He was not convinced. “You cannot be thinking of matching Lady Felicity with Blade. He just fought a duel and nearly killed the Earl of Penhurst. Lady Felicity is far too proper for a man of his sort.”
“Her aunt hinted that she must make a match, and soon. There are two younger sisters who must also have their come outs. Grace told me she sensed something between Lady Felicity and Blade. She would aid me in ma
tchmaking, I should think.”
“Emilia.” He tried to give her a disapproving frown, but how could he when she looked so damned beautiful, holding their son?
“You missed hoodman’s blind this afternoon,” she continued, her mind already decided. “If you had seen the way the two of them looked at each other, you would understand.”
He sighed. “I hate hoodman blind.” Then he kissed her mouth again. “But I love you.”
She smiled against his lips. “I love you, too. I shall take Charles to the nursery, and when I return, I will show you just how much.”
He already knew, but he was not about to argue. One more quick kiss, this one chaste, before he straightened. “Fair enough, but allow me to escort you, Mrs. Winter.”
Her smile deepened. “If you insist, Mr. Winter. I did miss you this evening when you were playing host to the gentlemen.”
“I missed you more,” he said.
Together, they took their sleeping son to the nursery.
Hoodman blind.
A damned drawing room game.
Blade was still disgusted with himself the next morning when he left the breakfast room. Ordinarily, a solid rasher of bacon, a plate of eggs, and some fruit was enough to please him. When a man knew what it was like to go hungry, he appreciated every meal he was given. But not even a belly full of excellent food could quell the irritation lurking within him.
There was no excuse for what he had done yesterday, no reason he had gone to the drawing room at all. Save one.
Her.
He had mingled with the other revelers all because he had known Lady Felicity would be there. And when she had been blindfolded, he had made certain he was the one with whom she came into contact first. She was not bloody well touching anyone else on his watch.
At least Demon, Gavin, and Genevieve were due to arrive soon, thank Christ. Mayhap he could distract himself with them. Regain his sanity. If indeed he possessed any.
He was questioning it more and more with each passing hour.
“There you are, Mr. Winter!”
He turned on his heel to find his hostess and sister-in-law, Lady Emilia Winter, approaching him. Despite the fact she was an aristocrat, daughter to a duke, she had been welcoming and friendly. Rather in the fashion of Dom’s and Devil’s wives.
Mayhap not all aristocratic ladies were awful.
He dismissed the notion. It hardly mattered anyway. It was not as if he were going to court Lady Felicity. Laughable! He had no need for a wife. There was an endless parade of petticoats waiting to share his bed. And take a wife? Ha! Never.
He bowed, astonished at himself. He was playing the gentleman with ease these days. “My lady. How may I be of service?”
“I was on my way to the yellow salon to fetch my sewing, but I also need to see to the entertainments planned for this evening. Do you think you might fetch it for me?” She smiled sweetly as she asked the question.
Christ. Did she not have a house filled with servants for such matters?
Yes, she did. But he was a guest. And damn it, although fetching sewing rankled, at least it would give him something to do. Something useful. Something that did not involve giving in to his base urges and seeking out the maddening Lady Felicity.
The minx had called his shoulders small and his hands dainty. His outrage at the time had been diminished by the extreme desire her nearness and slow, innocent caresses had inspired. Impertinent baggage.
“I would be more than happy to, Lady Emilia,” he said, forcing thoughts of her from his mind once more.
Abingdon House was a monstrous affair, but he had been in the yellow salon—it was where he had been duped into holding an infant the day before. He could find it on his own well enough.
“Thank you, Blade.” His half brother’s wife beamed. “Please do call me Emilia. We are family.”
Family. Still a strange notion, connected to these Winters. He still felt like a fish plucked from a river, suddenly thrust into a strange, unfamiliar world.
He blinked. “It would be my honor.”
His honor? Hell. Since when did a man born in the depths of the rookeries speak thus? Since when did Blade say such fucking tripe? Being in the monkery was making him spoony. The sooner he returned to London and this cursed house party was over, the better.
He bowed and made haste before he started dancing a cotillion or holding a quizzing glass to his eye. For a house that was filled with guests, the walk to the yellow salon was surprisingly bereft of any others.
Which was why, when he crossed the threshold of that chamber and found someone else within, he was taken aback. Initially by the presence of another. And then because of the identity of the room’s other occupant.
Her.
As if conjured from his tortured imaginings, Lady Felicity Hughes stood in the center of the room. Though her back was to him, he would recognize her anywhere. Warmth swept over him, landing in his groin. She was once more all ethereal elegance, dressed in a pale-yellow gown, her chestnut curls captured in a chignon. She had not realized he had entered the room, and he took a moment to admire her.
Just one.
Then he spoke, because now that he had her where he wanted her, how could he deny himself the opportunity to have his revenge upon her for the little game she had played at his expense the day before?
“Lady Felicity.”
She spun about on a shriek, hand flying over her heart, eyes wide. She had been holding a book in her hands, and the volume flew across the carpet, landing with a thud. He had truly given her a fright.
Blade grinned at her, unrepentant, and sauntered deeper into the room. “Do try to cease hollering. I would hate for the company to come racing here, thinking I have ravished you.”
“Mr. Winter! What are you doing here?”
Her cheeks had turned that delicious shade of pink he had come to know and enjoy. Her tone was one of chastisement. He wanted to kiss her breathless.
“I came to fetch our hostess’s sewing, at her request.” He bent down to retrieve the book she had flung when he had given her a start. “What are you doing here?”
“Give that to me,” she said, instead of answering his question.
He could not deny her defensiveness about the thin, leather-bound volume intrigued him.
“Don’t think I will,” he told her, glancing down at the unassuming cover.
She reached for it, her cheeks growing redder still.
This was not the distraction he had sought, but it was an even better one. His grin deepening, he held the book over her head, quite out of reach. There were two benefits to having been born the bastard of old man Winter. His height was one, his siblings the other.
“Mr. Winter, please.”
He liked the way she begged. It brought to mind other, more sinful means of begging. “Please what, Lady Felicity? I am afraid you will have to elaborate.”
She jumped, the action making her breasts bounce delightfully.
Scoundrel that he was, he held the book higher and kept his stare riveted. Her hazel eyes were rimmed with dark gray, her lashes long. Damn, but she was beautiful. And her irritation only enhanced her loveliness.
If only he was not meant to stay out of trouble.
“The book is not mine, and I have been tasked with returning it to its true owner.” She leapt again, reaching for the book.
This time, she lost her balance. She fell forward, colliding with his chest. He caught her to him with his free arm, anchoring her lush body to his. Nothing but feminine curves and prickly outrage and heat emerging from her. Along with the scent of jasmine.
“Do you know what I think, Lady Felicity?” he asked, dipping his head so their faces were near, as if he were imparting a secret.
Or about to kiss her tempting lips.
Said lips parted. “Mr. Winter.”
But the bite was gone from her tone. Her stare dipped to his mouth.
“Yes, darling?” he teased.
Blade c
ould not help himself. Supposed to stay away from trouble or not, trouble was currently in his arms, and he had no intention of letting her go so easily.
“You are being insufferably forward. No gentleman would act in such a disreputable fashion.” She blinked, her gaze returning to his at last. “Nor have I given you leave to speak to me with such familiarity. I am not your darling.”
“I never claimed to be a gentleman, Lady Felicity.” His hand traveled of its own volition, smoothing around her waist as he eased his hold on her, finding the curve of her lower back, then tracing her spine higher. Everywhere he touched her, he felt the sizzle of awareness between them in a way he never had before.
Not with any other woman.
He truly needed to get back to London. What was it about bloody Oxfordshire that was rotting his mind?
“Your actions certainly support that.” Her tone was cool, her raised brow a reproach.
Was she speaking of the duel? Hell. Curse Grace and her wagging tongue to perdition.
“The countess suggested she had an understanding with her husband. The earl informed me otherwise. Honor had to be satisfied.” Blade shrugged as if he had not a care. “I was aiming to miss, but the fool moved. It was his fault.”
“You are scandalous, Mr. Winter. I should not know you.”
But although she said the words, her expression—and the way her body remained fitted to his—suggested she did not object nearly as much as she protested.
He lowered his head another fraction, all while keeping the book held aloft. “But you want to know me, Lady Felicity. Admit it.”
Her tongue darted out to sweep over the fullness of her lower lip. “I shall admit no such thing. To do so would be ruinous, and I am here to make a match. To find a husband.”
Well, proper fuck.
That was not what he wanted to hear, though he supposed it should not come as a surprise. Was not every eligible lady in London marriage-minded? And should not a lady with a father who was so inept at the green baize, younger sisters awaiting their uncertain futures, be all the more in search of a husband?
“Husbands are deadly boring,” he told her anyway.
Winter’s Whispers Page 4
