Winter’s Whispers

by Scott, Scarlett

  “I learned to dance this afternoon,” he admitted.

  He had attended the ball to see her, for this chance to meet her as an equal. To twirl about a ballroom with her.

  They pranced about each other some more, and Blade was reasonably certain he missed a step. Or three. But the smile she gave him made him feel as if he were the best damned dancer in England.

  When they linked hands once more, her countenance had turned thoughtful. Her teeth worried her lush lower lip. “Why this afternoon?”

  “Because I wanted to dance with you,” he admitted. And then nearly kicked himself in the arse.

  He sounded like a lovelorn swain.

  Which was mad, of course. He was not in love with Lady Felicity Hughes.

  Was he?

  She smiled, her fingers squeezing his. “You did this for me?”

  He was spared from having to respond when they resumed their frolic about each other once more. Damn it, he had learned to dance for her. He had come to this bloody ball for her. And she had gone off with Lord Bloody Chilton and allowed the arsehole to kiss her.

  He should be angry. He should not be dancing a minuet.

  And yet, he was. And dancing with Lady Felicity was… Hell, it felt natural. He did not even mind it. Indeed, part of him was enjoying it.

  He would have shuddered, or thrown his favorite dagger at the nearest available wall, but he was still doing his utmost to make certain he did not trip over his feet. And Lady Felicity’s hazel gaze was warm and unwavering upon him.

  At last, the dance came to a halt, and he bowed to her as elegantly as he could muster with the weight of so much upon his chest. By God, he could not be going the way of his brothers. Devil and Dom had fallen in love with their wives and were happily married, babes on the way.

  Blade had no intention of marrying.

  He never had.

  And yet…

  Nay. He would not contemplate anything else. Not now. Not in the warmth of the ballroom with Lady Felicity’s sweet scent rotting his mind. He was still bloody dizzied from all the twirling.

  “Shall I escort you to your aunt, my lady?” he asked, pleased with himself for the evenness of his tone.

  “Mayhap a turn about the ballroom first?” she suggested softly.

  The aunt in question was leaning upon her cane and glaring in their direction. Of course, he must be the marriage-minded dragon’s nightmare incarnate. He was a wicked sinner, and that he knew. The sort of man who did not belong within a stone’s throw of the woman at his side.

  “Whatever milady wishes,” he said easily.

  He was accustomed to being alone with her. To being his most naughty, bringing color to her cheeks. This—playing the gentleman—was new and strange.

  “Thank you,” she told him quietly as they made their promenade along the edge of the revelers, traveling in the opposite direction from her irate auntie.

  “Gratitude?” He raised a brow at her. “For what? Showing you what a good kiss feels like so you have the benefit of knowing Lord Chilton’s could never compare?”

  Damn. He had promised himself he would not refer to the kiss he suspected had occurred. And there went his promise.

  The hand on his arm stiffened. “How do you know Lord Chilton kissed me?”

  Goddamn it. Now he was going to have to kill Viscount Chilton. At a Christmastide country house party. Quite untidy and awkward, that.

  He summoned all the restraint he possessed. “You disappeared from the ballroom, and when you returned, your lips were the color of crushed berries.”

  That had been rather more poetic than he had intended. It was not as if he made a habit of studying her lips or the varying shades of color they possessed. Nor was it as if he spent any time at all thinking about her mouth…

  Who was he attempting to fool? Of course he studied her lips, and of course he thought about her mouth. Every hour of every bloody day.

  “I did not like it,” she surprised him by confessing. “He was not…”

  “Me,” Blade finished for her, hoping to hell it was the truth.

  The lone word she had been reluctant to utter.

  “You,” she whispered, so softly he almost missed it.

  “Come to me tonight.” The invitation left his lips swiftly. Old Blade at work, he was sure. The seducer, the rakehell. The man who took what he wanted and to the devil with anyone and anything else.

  He should rescind those words. Call them back. He should not mean them. Should not long for them. He told himself she was an innocent. A bloody virgin. A lady. Their worlds could not collide. He was never going to marry her. All he wanted to do was deflower her.

  But was that true? The emotion coursing through him now seemed stronger, brighter, bolder. Different than mere lust.

  “Mr. Winter,” she said, color blossoming in her cheeks. “You know I cannot do that.”

  “Why not?” he countered, being his daring self. And stupid. And reckless.

  And like there was nothing he wanted more than the woman at his side in his arms, in his bed. He had not learned his lesson, had he?

  “You know why not,” she returned quietly. “I cannot be ruined. I have a duty to my sisters.”

  “How shall you be ruined if no one else knows?” He glanced toward her, searching her face. “I am discreet. The business with…”

  He had been about to mention Penhurst and the duel as an aberration, but he could see the wisdom of refraining from reminding her of his troubles.

  “Lord and Lady Penhurst,” she prompted, raising a dark brow.

  Hell. She had remembered.

  “Aye.” He nodded, feeling deuced awkward.

  That was also unlike him. He had never spent so much time struggling over his words, trying to communicate. Every other set of petticoats he had wanted had been his, quite easily. But this woman—Lady Felicity—she was not like any of the others who had come before her. He knew that instinctively. Knew it in the same, breastbone-deep way he had known she was trouble that first day, when he had spotted her delectable rump sticking out from beneath his bed.

  “I daresay discretion does not lead to duels.”

  She was not wrong about that. But there had been no need to protect Lady Penhurst. He was not the first man who was not her husband to have warmed her bed, and he knew he was far from the last. Also, he had not cared about Lady Penhurst the way he cared about Lady Felicity.

  There it was—the raw, real, terrifying truth.

  “I would protect you,” he vowed. “I would never allow harm to come to you.”

  And he meant those words. Meant them with everything he had. And then more.

  “Yet you invite me to your chamber,” she countered quietly.

  He studied her as they completed their circumnavigation of the ballroom. Her cheeks were flushed. Her countenance pensive. She was a woman on the edge. He could sense it.

  “And yet you are tempted to accept the invitation,” he drawled. “I promise you would not be disappointed.”

  She glanced up at him, those hazel eyes of hers ringed with long, sooty lashes. She was so damned lovely, he ached just looking at her.

  “You are remarkably confident, Mr. Winter,” she said wryly.

  He flashed her his most charming grin. “I have reason to be. Accept my offer and you shall see for yourself. Or stay in your lonely bed tonight, clinging to your duty. The choice is yours, Lady Felicity.”

  The gauntlet thrown, he bowed and left her there, standing on the edge of the ballroom.

  Chapter Nine

  The hour was late.

  Felicity should be asleep.

  The ball had ended well after midnight, and she had danced and done everything she could to distract herself from the last man she ought to be thinking of and longing for. The most unsuitable man in attendance, as her aunt had reminded her sternly. Auntie Agatha had been most forbidding in her disapproval of the dance Felicity had shared with Mr. Winter.

  If her aunt knew th
e truth of that dance and the words Felicity had exchanged with him afterward, she would have been more horrified. Indeed, she would have likely packed Felicity into the first carriage she could find and forced her back to London with all the haste she could muster.

  She could hardly blame her aunt for the warnings she had issued. They were true. Blade Winter was a man who was dangerous to know. Felicity had told herself, again and again, that she must ignore the sinful invitation he had issued to her after their dance. And yet, she remained where she was, lying in the darkness of her lonely bed, as he had called it, wishing she were brave. Wishing she could seize the chance to know passion before duty claimed her.

  Yearning for more of Blade’s kisses, touches. For more of him, however she could get it.

  Here was her chance before she had to wed a proper gentleman. If only Lord Chilton had inspired a modicum of the feelings Mr. Winter did. But of course, he did not. Was that not the burden of life? Wanting what could never be?

  I promise you would not be disappointed, he had said.

  Felicity heaved a sigh and flipped to her belly. Mayhap if she would get comfortable, she could surrender to the abyss of sleep and by the time morning dawned, the fires of ardor raging within her would cool.

  But when she closed her eyes, his face was all she could see. And the longing inside her intensified to an ache.

  Inexplicably, she thought of the conversation she had engaged in earlier at the ball with Mrs. Merrick Hart, née Bea Winter. Mrs. Hart, one of Blade Winter’s half sisters, had been telling her about how she had been the one to chase after her husband, in quite unusual fashion. He had been determined to be honorable and to keep her at a distance because of the business relationship he shared with her brother Devereaux Winter.

  I faced a moment, Mrs. Hart had said, where I knew I would forever regret not pursuing my feelings for him.

  It had been a bold risk, and Felicity had told her so, marveling at the confidence Mrs. Hart possessed.

  Love is always a risk worth taking, Mrs. Hart had told her simply.

  Felicity was not in love with Blade Winter. She could hardly be after knowing him for such a short time, could she? On a frustrated sigh, she rolled to her back once more, glaring up at the ceiling.

  Still, sleep was relentless in its refusal to visit her. She was thinking about remorse. About being bold. About opportunities, lost and otherwise. Thinking about the way she felt whenever she was with a certain handsome, impossibly unsuitable gentleman.

  What if she did not go to him, and she spent the rest of her life regretting it?

  Did she dare?

  Felicity threw back the counterpane and slid from her bed.

  Yes, she did.

  She had to.

  Before she resigned herself to a life of duty, she could experience passion. Just this once.

  Mrs. Beatrix Hart, better known to all who loved her as simply Bea, patted her son George’s bottom, pacing the length of the chamber. Her feet ached from the ball. And from all the hours she had spent in London just before their arrival in Oxfordshire, aiding in the first birthing she had attended since George’s. She had returned to her calling of aiding her mentor, Dr. Nichols, when he had come upon a particularly difficult case. Thankfully, the babe had been delivered in good health and the mother had survived also.

  “You look exhausted, darling,” said her husband, Merrick Hart, as he moved toward her, still clad in his evening wear from the ball, just as she was. “Beautiful, but exhausted.”

  “It has been a long fortnight,” she admitted, “and our Master George was most displeased I attended a ball this evening. He was giving his nurse his opinion in quite vocal fashion when I went to the nursery.”

  “Strong-minded like his mama.” Merrick reached her and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then another to her lips. “I am so proud of you both.”

  Her heart surged at his words. Unlike her sisters, Bea had not married a lord. However, what he lacked in lineage, her husband more than made up for in goodness, love, intelligence, and hard work. He ran a number of businesses on his own, and in a year’s time, he had built them up mightily.

  She smiled at him. “I am proud of you too, my love.”

  He gave her another kiss, this one lingering, before gazing down at their son, giving his cheek a tender caress. “He is sleeping soundly now that he has had his time with his mama.”

  Bea dropped a kiss on George’s linen cap, love for him so strong, for a moment, she found it difficult to form words. “He needed me.”

  Merrick gave her a sweet grin. “Just as I needed you. As I still need you.”

  “I love you,” she told him, gratitude rushing over her. She had the life she had always wanted—the man she loved, all his support of her independence, and their babe in her arms. What more could she want?

  Nothing.

  “And I love you.” He dropped a kiss on George’s brow. “You were not matchmaking this evening at the ball, were you?”

  Bea bit her lip as she considered her answer. The truth was, she and her sisters, along with their sister-in-law Emilia, had decided to aid in matchmaking their illegitimate half siblings—Blade, Demon, Gavin, and Genevieve. Thus far, they had only succeeded with Blade and Lady Felicity Hughes. However, there remained great hope amongst them all for Genevieve and the ne’er-do-well Marquess of Sundenbury.

  “Bea?” Merrick prodded. “I saw you speaking with Lady Felicity, and do not doubt for a moment that the men of the family have not taken note of what our women are about.”

  “I was merely relaying the story of our own unusual courtship to Lady Felicity,” she said.

  “May I hold him before we take him back to the nursery?” Merrick asked, holding out his arms for their son. “It was an unusual courtship indeed. I do hope you did not mention the bathtub incident.”

  Their courtship had involved the rest of her family leaving for Oxfordshire without her. She had been alone with Merrick. Deliciously alone.

  She cleared her throat and handed the sweetly sleeping George to his doting papa. “Of course I would never mention something so improper. I was reminding Lady Felicity that sometimes a lady must seize what she wants, regardless of the repercussions. If she does not, she will spend the rest of her life wondering what would have happened if she had.”

  And Bea did not regret a moment of the manner in which she had laid siege to her husband’s defenses. She would do it the same again tomorrow, if need be. She could only hope the words she had offered to Lady Felicity this evening mattered to her.

  “Lady Felicity and Blade Winter,” Merrick said, as if he were considering the match himself.

  “They are perfect for each other,” Bea said. “We all agree. One but needs to see the manner in which they look at each other to know.”

  Merrick gave her a tender smile, the one that never failed to land directly in her heart. “And how is it they look at one another, my love?”

  “The way you look at me,” she said softly. “And the way I look at you. A man and woman in love, who fall more deeply by the day.”

  “Mmm.” He dipped his head and gave her another swift, chaste kiss. “I cannot speak for Lady Felicity and Blade, but I do know I love you more and more each day.”

  She smiled. “And I do not know about you, Mr. Hart, but I do believe it is time to return our little George to the nursery so we may get some…rest.”

  “If by rest, you are inferring something far more intriguing, I wholeheartedly concur.” He winked.

  And Bea fell a bit more in love with him in that moment.

  Blade paced the length of his chamber, clad in nothing more than a banyan, cursing himself for a fool. Lady Felicity was not going to accept his offer. And yet, he could not sleep. Because whilst the smallest chance remained and there were hours left in the night, he could not settle for slumber. Not until he knew for certain she had made her decision.

  He ought to have filched a brandy bottle to keep him company this even
ing. If he could not have her, at least he could have tamed the wild yearning for her that had seized him relentlessly in its grasp. Giving the bottle a black eye would have gone a long way toward quelling his restlessness.

  He was Blade bloody Winter, curse her. Since when did he find himself so enamored with any woman—and an innocent lady, at that—that he had to go chasing after her?

  Stupid sod.

  He had learned to dance for her.

  His hands fisted at his sides as he paced.

  Had twirled about and strutted like a goddamn peacock for her.

  He ground his molars.

  He had dared her to be bold and reckless, had invited her to his bed, and she had denied him.

  A knock sounded at his door. So low and quiet, he would not have heard it had he been standing at the opposite end of the chamber. Everything inside him tensed and froze. Three strides and he was at the portal, yanking it open.

  The hall outside was dark, but the lights shining from his brace of candles illuminated her beautiful face.

  She had come.

  Thank the Lord.

  Need thundered through him.

  Wordlessly, he stepped back, allowing her to gain entrance.

  Her hazel eyes clung to his as she crossed the threshold. He closed the door at her back. “Why are you here, Lady Felicity?”

  “You know why.”

  “Say it.”

  He needed to hear the words. Blade took a step toward her, drawn to her heat. To the desire he saw burning in her gaze.

  “I…”

  The rest of what she had been about to say trailed off as he reached her. Her full lips were parted. An invitation to sin he would gladly accept. Though she wore a dressing gown that was buttoned to her throat, he had never seen a more seductive sight than Lady Felicity Hughes, barefoot and in his chamber past midnight.

  “You,” he prompted, running his knuckles along the pale curve of her jaw.

  Soft skin. Silken and warm.

  “I want to experience passion,” she murmured. “I want…you.”

  He should not have asked. Because when she phrased it thus in her throaty voice, his cockstand was instant. And there was nothing he could do with it at the moment. Torture. That was what this was.