He was not noble, not wealthy, and he was a scoundrel.
A rakehell and a rogue.
An assassin, she reminded herself sternly, former or otherwise.
“What will you be wearing to the ball this evening?” Auntie Agatha queried next, tearing Felicity from her madly whirling thoughts.
The ball.
Felicity had forgotten all about it. “I have not chosen the gown yet.”
“Then I have arrived just in time. We shall choose it together,” her aunt decided. “I have a much better eye for fashion than you do, dearest. It is of the greatest import that we choose a gown that minimizes your hips and does not bare quite so much of your bosom.”
Lovely. The prospect of Auntie Agatha choosing her gown for the evening, whilst offering her sharp-tongued commentary, was not exactly thrilling. For a moment, she wondered if she could invent an excuse. But then she resigned herself to her fate.
It was her duty. “Thank you, Auntie Agatha. Your offer of aid is…most kind.”
Miss Wilhelmina, who had been sleeping in the bed Felicity had positioned for her by the window so she had a nice slice of sunlight to lie in, chose that moment to rise and stretch. Felicity knelt and distracted herself by scooping up her kitten.
“I have been thinking of which gentlemen you must set your cap for, dearest.”
Lovelier still.
She could not help but to think her notion of what a husband should be diverged from her aunt’s.
“Lord Chilton is a handsome gentleman,” Auntie Agatha said.
Lord Chilton was indeed handsome, but he had dark hair and dark eyes. Nothing at all like the golden good looks of Mr. Winter. Nor did he kiss her maddeningly, drive her to distraction, have an inking of a dagger on his hand…
Cease this at once, Felicity.
She forced a smile. “Lord Chilton is an excellent prospect.”
“There is also Lord Wilmore,” her aunt went on, “and the Earl of Dunlop is a widower now, looking for a wife to mother his seven daughters.”
Seven children?
Good heavens.
If recollection served, Dunlop also had a bald pate and a laugh like a braying donkey.
“He is exceptionally wealthy,” Auntie Agatha added.
Felicity tried to summon up some enthusiasm and failed.
There was only one man she wanted to dance with at the ball this evening. One man she longed for. One man who set her aflame.
And she had a feeling he would likely not even attend.
But then, mayhap it was better that way.
A bloody ball.
Blade had reconvened with Gen, Gavin, and Demon for a less-dangerous competition than knife throwing. This time, they were playing vingt-et-un in another of the seemingly endless salons the vast Abingdon House possessed.
Blade snorted at Gen, who held the deck of cards in her hand. “There is no way in hell I am attending a ball. Do not tell me you wish to go.”
Gen grinned. “And why not? When I open my ladies’ gaming den, I am going to have to talk to fine ladies. Lure them in so I can fleece their reticules. That sort of thing.”
“Another,” Blade ordered her, tapping his cards. “You can’t mean to attend a ball wearing breeches and a cravat and shirt.”
She dealt him a card, and he was above one-and-twenty. Cursing, he flipped over his hand. “Done in, damn it. You need a gown, Gen. There will be shocked whispers from all the quality Devereaux Winter has invited.”
Thus far, she had not attended any of the Christmastide diversions their hostess had planned for them because Gen was, well, Gen. Which meant she had an entirely different method of conducting herself. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, as she saw fit. She did not give a damn about polite society, manners, or the expectations of others.
“I have duds,” she announced, shocking him. “Pru was kind enough to loan me one of her gowns. We are similar in size, so I think it will do. I had to borrow crabshells from Grace, and they pinch my toes. Can’t wear boots with a gown though, can I?”
“Pru is it?” Gavin teased her. “Thought you didn’t like the other Winters.”
Gen actually flushed. “I need to pretend to be a lady if I want my hell to succeed. Mayhap the Winters ain’t all bad. They’ve been giving me some advice.”
“No more cards for me,” Gavin said.
“Another for me,” Demon announced. “I’m going to trounce you all.”
“Smug bastard,” Blade muttered.
And the hell of it was—Demon probably was going to win. He was the luckiest man Blade knew. He could fall into a pile of dung and emerge smelling of lilies.
Gen considered her hand. “Think I shall stay where I am.”
Cards were revealed.
Predictably, Demon crowed. “Vingt-et-un! Give me all your blunt.”
Gen and Gavin grumbled.
“That is enough for me.” Gen gathered all the cards into a tidy pile. “You were probably gaming us again, Demon.”
“Not this time,” he claimed. “Nary a card up my sleeve.”
That was the thing about Demon—when his luck ran thin, he created his own.
More grumbling ensued, along with some choice epithets from Gen.
But Blade’s interest was piqued. “You are truly intending to wear a gown?” he demanded of his sister.
“Aye. And you ought to accompany me,” she said, making a sweeping gesture toward Blade, Demon, and Gavin. “I need friendly faces.”
Damn. Blade did not dance. He did not attend balls. He detested the frivolity of the nobility. But part of him was wondering what it would be like to dance with Lady Felicity in his arms. To be the sort of gentleman who bowed and twirled her about ballrooms.
“I would sooner give away my entire collection of knives than attend a ball,” Blade drawled instead of giving voice to any of the tripe residing in his obviously rotten mind.
Gen’s brows rose. “Your knife collection? You love your knife collection.”
“Aye, I do. Hell, I would sooner scoop out my eyes with rusty spoons than attempt to dance.”
He did not know how.
Bastards growing up in the rookeries did not have the luxury of dancing instructors. Cotillions and minuets made him want to punch someone. He would find his half brother’s brandy stores and drink himself silly instead. Yes, that certainly seemed an excellent idea.
“Aye,” Demon agreed. “But there is a lovely widow in attendance I would not mind spending more time with.”
“You do favor widows, don’t you, you rascal?” Gen asked.
Demon shrugged. “Mayhap.”
Gavin grunted. “Suppose I have to keep you company then. If any of these nibs give you trouble, I’ll blacken their eyes.”
That left everyone looking at Blade.
“Lady Felicity will be in attendance,” Gen said softly, her blue gaze searching his. “Will you have her dancing with all the lords? Thought you would be like Arthur, lifting his leg to piss on every corner of the alley.”
Arthur was Gen’s hound. And a more ridiculous mutt did not exist in all London. Three-legged and fearsome looking, he was in truth a big, silly mongrel who loved Gen to distraction and would protect her with his life.
“He cannot go and piss on a lady’s gown, can he?” Gavin asked, chortling.
Blade tugged at his cravat, which felt as if it were strangling his throat. Could the damned thing be tied any tighter? “I have no claims upon her.”
“None.” Gen rolled her eyes, her expression blatantly suggesting she did not believe him.
“Just think of her in the arms of all the nibs tonight,” Demon added.
Fucking hell.
“I’ll go to the goddamn ball,” he spat, quite disgusted with himself.
More disgusted with his stupid twat of a mind, which was envisioning Lady Felicity in a ball gown that put her delicious bosom on display, dancing with another man. His jealousy was instant and undisputable.
He had one afternoon to learn how to bloody dance.
He was here.
Blade Winter was at the ball. Devastatingly handsome in his evening finery, his cravat knotted with more of a flourish this evening. Golden haired, beautiful. Tall, commanding, dangerous.
Wicked.
He was the one gentleman in attendance with whom she should most keep her distance. Which meant, of course, that he was the only gentleman she could not stop watching. Their gazes had met across the dance floor half a dozen times. And on each occasion, she had felt the connection like a physical jolt.
There was something between them. Something bigger than the both of them.
Something, she admonished herself sternly as she finished dancing with her latest partner—Lord Chilton—and curtseyed to him. Auntie Agatha, for all her faults, was right about the viscount. He was indeed handsome. He was also the heir to his father’s earldom. He had been proper and gentlemanly throughout their dance.
But his warm, brown eyes did not make her giddy. His nearness did not cause her heart to flutter. She did not look at his lips and imagine what they would feel like upon hers.
He was, however, pleasant. Polite. He would be the perfect husband, she was certain.
“Thank you for the dance, Lady Felicity,” he told her. “Mayhap we should go in search of refreshments. I do think some negus would be just the thing.”
“That would be lovely,” she agreed, unable to keep herself from glancing toward where Blade had been standing.
He was gone. No longer there, no longer watching. Just as well, she told herself, even as a steadfast ache began in her heart. Blade Winter was not for her. Nor was she for him. She had to sacrifice herself for the sakes of her sisters. She had a duty, and it was not to long for a most unsuitable man.
But then she thought of how easily and tenderly he had handled Miss Wilhelmina. She thought of the way he held her and touched her, with such reverence. The way he had urged her to think of herself when no one else ever had.
Before she knew what had happened, she was standing in a room with Lord Chilton. Quite alone. She had been so deep in her thoughts, mind filled with nothing but Blade Winter, that she had been moving without conscious effort. Allowing Chilton to escort her where he would.
They came to a halt. “Lady Felicity, I admire you greatly.”
She stared up into his undeniably handsome face, and she wondered if he was saying what he thought he should say or if he truly meant those words. How could he admire her? Aside from dancing together at this house party, they had exchanged precious few words over the years in London. Why, he hardly knew her.
Do not question it, Felicity. You need a husband. Now.
She blinked up at him. “I admire you as well, my lord.”
“We are beneath the mistletoe,” he pointed out.
She had not known. She glanced up to find a sprig hanging over them, its white berries prominent. She knew why the mistletoe had been placed where it was. Kisses.
But whilst the prospect of kisses from one man in particular filled her with exquisite expectation, the notion of kissing Lord Chilton left her…
Well, chilled.
She was certain that was a pun he would not appreciate. But it was neither here nor there, for in the next moment, he had pulled her near, dipped his head.
“May I kiss you?” he asked.
She wanted to tell him no, but she knew she must not. Mayhap kissing Lord Chilton would prove to her that the way Blade Winter made her feel was nothing special. That the wild emotions swirling through her in the aftermath of every kiss she had shared with Blade were no different than the way any man who was adept at kissing would make her feel.
“I…”
The remainder of her response died beneath Chilton’s lips. His kiss was…firm. Warm. Dry. Facile, yet uninspiring. She kissed him back, moving her lips against his in the same fashion she had responded to Blade’s mouth. She waited for the frissons of desire to lick up and down her spine. Waited for longing to pool low in her belly. For heat and throbbing to blossom between her thighs as it had whenever she had kissed Blade.
Instead, she felt…
A curious, disappointed nothing. Not one single thing. No emotion, no sensations save a mouth pressed to hers.
Not a hitch in her breath, not a quickening in her heartbeat. She felt strangely unenthused. Almost as if she were removed from her body, watching someone else allow Viscount Chilton to kiss her.
But these were her lips. It was her body.
The kiss ended. Lord Chilton raised his head, looking down at her with a tender smile that only spurred a twinge of guilt deep within her.
“Lady Felicity, I am an ardent admirer of yours.”
She stared up at him, wondering if Blade Winter would ever say ardent or admirer. Undoubtedly, he would not. Instead, he would kiss her breathless and take her to the edge. To the point where she would do anything, forget her duty, her sisters, her future.
Chilton was waiting for her to speak, she realized belatedly. “Thank you, my lord. I am flattered.”
And disappointed.
So disappointed.
Because Chilton’s kiss had proven to her, beyond a doubt, that there was something special about Blade Winter. Something different.
Something that made her heart pound.
Her knees go weak.
That made her want to swoon.
Lord Chilton extended his arm to her once more. “We have been gone for too long, my lady. I dare not risk anything more than one kiss beneath the mistletoe. I daresay it was enough.”
Viscount Chilton was right about that. Their stolen kiss had been enough.
Enough to prove to her there was only one man she wanted to kiss. And it was not Lord Chilton.
Oh dear heavens. What was she to do now?
Everything within Blade cried out the need for his fist to connect with Lord Chilton’s face. He had failed to note the moment the dark-haired lord had led Lady Felicity from the ballroom. But he spied the instant they returned. Chilton looked pleased with himself.
The bastard had been alone with her.
Blade’s feet were moving, carrying him across the polished parquet. He was a bullet shot from a gun, hurtling toward his intended target. Mindless. Determined to do damage.
He neared the couple, and Lady Felicity’s eyes widened as she took him in. Likely, his face suggested he was about to tear off one of Chilton’s arms and beat him with it. He wanted to do that. But something stopped him.
An instinct he had not realized he possessed.
It told him he could not settle this matter as he would in the rookery.
And it told him how desperately he wanted this woman. More than he wanted his next breath. Because he was about to be…
Civilized.
He bowed rather than brawling. “Lady Felicity. Lord Chilton.”
Though the viscount’s gaze narrowed upon Blade, he had no choice but to play the gentleman and bow in response. “Mr. Winter.”
Lady Felicity dipped into a perfect curtsy. Her lips had that dark-berry stain that told him she had just been kissed. Fucking hell. Instead of the outrage he had expected to feel, the queer sensation overwhelming him was disappointment.
Hurt.
Pain.
What the devil?
“I believe the next dance is mine,” he said, as if he had not a care.
As if he were a nib. As if he always invited ladies to dance. As if he had bloody danced before. As if he did not want to hang Chilton with his own cravat.
As if he did not also wish to inform Lord Chilton that not only was the next dance with Lady Felicity his, but the woman herself was as well. Which he longed to say, although it was not true. She could never be his. They were too different, their worlds disparate. She needed a husband to fulfill her obligation to her family and sisters. He did not want to marry.
Chilton said something Blade’s overburdened mind refused to hear. All that mattere
d was the lord went away. And he was leading Lady Felicity to the dance floor and Christ help him, but the song was a minuet. He was going to have to prance. And try not to trip either himself or Lady Felicity.
“You know quite well this dance is not yours,” she murmured as they took up their positions.
“It is now,” he informed her, leaning too near to her ear for propriety’s sake and not near enough for his own.
Jasmine, fragrant and lilting, wafted to him.
The dance began in truth, and they faced each other in the fashion of prizefighters squaring off. He felt ridiculous. This was surely the most spoony notion he had ever entertained. They moved, their gazes holding. Strangely, his feet knew what to do. The cursory lessons he had taken returned to him.
What was he doing? Why was he dancing with her? Why were her hazel eyes burning into his? Their hands linked, and they spun nearer each other as the song played on.
“You surprise me,” she said softly so their fellow dancers could not overhear.
He surprised himself, but he was not about to admit it.
“Oh?” They spun.
Her warmth and nearness were doing the damnedest things to his ability to think, concentrate, speak. At least his feet continued to move and do as they were meant—uncivilized clod that he was.
“I did not suppose a ball would appeal to a man like you.”
“A man like me?” He frowned.
The steps of the dance separated them once more. He had to wait an entire eternity for their hands to link and for her to hover near enough for private speech again.
“You have claimed to be common,” she elaborated. “Baseborn, I believe you said, a scoundrel, a rogue, a rookery thief. An assassin. A bastard. Yet you dance as beautifully as any gentleman.”
She was insinuating he was not a gentleman. And she was right. It was a fact he had once prided himself upon. But now?
Now…
He was beginning to wonder if he wanted to continue being the man he had always seen himself as. Or if he wanted to be the man who deserved her. The man who could effortlessly dance with her, whisk her away from a ball. A man who bowed and spoke prettily and plied his charm and allowed a valet to knot his cravat into something ridiculously architectural.
Winter’s Whispers Page 9
