“Christabella!” A chorus of scandalized chastisements rose up from all the females in the chamber.
Save Gen, that was. She was still glowering at the chamber and suspecting everyone of a secret plot.
“He may as well know,” the duchess argued. “Else we shall be here all day, and I am getting quite hungry.”
“You just had breakfast,” grumbled Lady Aylesford.
“Grace!” snapped Pru. “Next you shall resort to pulling hair.”
Lady Aylesford rolled her eyes. “I have not pulled anyone’s hair in years, and you know it, reluctant though you may be to allow me to forget the actions I made when a child.”
Hell and damnation. The family meeting he had called was descending into chaos.
He cleared his throat loudly and made his announcement. “I want to marry Lady Felicity Hughes, and I need your help.”
Felicity was miserable.
She lay on her side in bed beneath the counterpane, Miss Wilhelmina against her, sleeping sweetly, her little tail curled around her body. She had not been able to sleep since Blade had escorted her to her chamber door. They had gone undetected, thank heavens. Her reputation was intact, as he had promised.
Her heart, however, was not.
It had been dashed to bits as she laid in the darkness, only her kitten’s comforting warmth and needy purrs to keep her from swirling deeper into the waters of despair. When Auntie Agatha had arrived at her chamber after eight o’clock, inquiring as to breakfast, Felicity had declined, claiming to have her courses.
Auntie Agatha had not argued. Instead, she had seen a tray of kippers and eggs sent to Felicity, which had done nothing other than make Felicity’s stomach churn. She could not abide by kippers, though her aunt swore eating them for breakfast was restorative, particularly at a certain monthly time.
Felicity had not eaten a bite. She had sent the tray away, untouched.
She did not know how she was expected to carry on, smiling and flirting, dancing and being led beneath the mistletoe, playing snapdragon and taking sleigh rides, when all she wanted was more of what she had experienced last night.
Her heart knew she could not have Blade Winter. Heavens, he had not spoken one tender sentiment to her. Had not Auntie Agatha warned her about him? Rakehells seduced and charmed, and then they disappeared into the darkness when the pleasure was over, just as Blade had.
She told herself she ought not be heartbroken over him.
But her heart had ideas of its own, and it was refusing to concede.
She sighed, giving Miss Wilhelmina’s head a scratch. “It is not fair, is it, darling? Why did he have to be so sweet and charming?”
And why had he confessed his Christian name to her?
Unless he had been lying, and they were the same words he gave all his conquests.
No. The moment the question entered her mind, she banished it, for nothing she knew of Blade suggested he was a dishonest man.
A sudden knock at her door interrupted her miserable thoughts.
“Who is it?” she asked, hoping it was not Auntie Agatha bearing a tray of cockles and anchovy next.
“It is a great number of Winter ladies,” called the crisp, patrician accents of her hostess, Lady Emilia Winter.
“Speak for yourself,” another voice said. “I ain’t no lady.”
The latter was undeniably Miss Genevieve Winter.
Felicity sat up and hastily removed herself from the bed. Miss Wilhelmina rose and stretched, then yawned. She glanced down at her gown to find it hopelessly wrinkled from the time she had spent sulking beneath the bedclothes.
Drat.
She was going to have to see all the Winter ladies looking as if she had been hiding in her chamber after being ruined the night before. Which was exactly what had happened.
She cast a quick glance at herself in the cheval, smoothed her skirts and hair as best she could, and then opened the door. The faces of seven Winter ladies stared back at her.
Lady Emilia was at the forefront, smiling in that kind, genuine way of hers. “Lady Felicity, may we come in?”
“Of course.” What choice did she have?
More importantly, what did her unexpected guests want?
One by one, they entered, Genevieve last, clad in breeches and coat. Felicity closed the door at their backs, then turned to face them all. For a moment, she feared she had been discovered, that someone had seen her and Blade sneaking through the halls in the early hours of the morning.
Her heart thumped with dread.
“Likely you are wondering at the somewhat unprecedented presence of us all in your chamber, Lady Felicity,” Lady Emilia said.
Felicity blinked. “If you are here to convince me to play more games, I fear I am not feeling spirited enough.”
“Games are all excellent fun,” Lady Prudence agreed sagely. “However, that is not the reason we are here.”
“Not all games are excellent fun,” Genevieve grumbled. “Nothing compares to a knife-throwing competition.”
Felicity gave Blade’s half sister a weak smile, recalling all too well the results, albeit unintended, of the knife-throwing competition she had inadvertently stumbled upon. “Indeed.”
“Never mind knife throwing,” Lady Aylesford said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “We came to talk to you about your sisters.”
“Esme and Cassandra? What of them?”
“We understand your sisters are in need of some matchmaking expertise,” Mrs. Hart added.
“And no one is better at matchmaking than Emilia,” Lady Hertford said.
“We are all proof,” the Duchess of Coventry offered with a bright smile. “Well, except Bea. But she was always in love with Mr. Hart, and their marriage was quite inevitable. The rest of us found our husbands at last year’s country house party.”
“I am not alone responsible for the matches, of course,” Emilia told her. “My sisters-in-law are all lovely and kind, and they stole their husbands’ hearts with ease. However, I propose my sponsorship for both your sisters when they make their debuts. I would be more than happy to take them under my wing and see them happily settled.”
“It would be one less worry for you,” Genevieve pointed out. “Two, actually.”
“That is kind of you.” The offer was indeed generous. “However, I am afraid seeing my sisters wed is not the main problem facing me. My father has… His gambling debts are tremendous. I must make a good match myself to give Esme and Cassandra the seasons they deserve.”
“I would not just facilitate matchmaking for your sisters,” Emilia told her gently. “I would for you as well, if you will allow it.”
The thought of making a match with anyone made her ill. “Thank you, Lady Emilia, but I am afraid I haven’t the luxury of time. I must find a husband before Christmas and wed him as soon as possible.”
“There are many eligible gentlemen in attendance,” Lady Prudence said.
“Dozens,” Mrs. Hart agreed.
“Have you anyone in mind?” the Duchess of Coventry asked.
Blade’s face came to mind, and her foolish, weak heart would not cease its futile yearning for him. That was hopeless, and she knew it.
“Have you, Lady Felicity?” prodded Lady Aylesford.
For a moment, she imagined unburdening herself completely to the group of women assembled before her. But she did not dare entrust her secret. If anyone discovered she had been in Blade’s chamber last night, in his bed, she would be disastrously ruined. A lifetime as a companion or a governess awaited her.
“No,” she managed at last. “There is no one I have in mind.”
“That is excellent,” Lady Emilia pronounced.
Felicity frowned. “It is?”
“Yes.” Her hostess beamed back at her. “I have already arranged for the perfect gentleman to meet you beneath the mistletoe in the library in half an hour’s time.”
Her heart plummeted to the soles of her slippers. “I am afraid I cannot. M
y Auntie Agatha would disapprove wholeheartedly.”
“Leave her to us,” Lady Aylesford said.
“My reputation,” she tried next. “I do not dare jeopardize it in such reckless fashion.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Hart made a dismissive gesture, as if she were chasing a fly. “We will make certain your reputation remains intact.”
She swallowed down a knot of uncertainty. How could she persuade this determined group of seven ladies that she had no wish to meet a gentleman beneath the mistletoe when she was hopelessly in love with another man? Her heart needed time to grieve.
“I cannot,” she said weakly.
“Wrong answer,” Genevieve said, grinning. “You can, and you will.”
Chapter Thirteen
Blade paced the library for what must have been the hundredth time. He had been awaiting Felicity for a small eternity, practicing in his mind everything he would say. Planning all his methods of persuasion. Praying his eccentric family would not ruin his chances at convincing her to marry him.
He raked his fingers through his hair as he turned on his heel and commenced a new row of pacing. Hell, before this was through, he was going to have worn a hole through the damned Aubusson. Mayhap he would have no hair left on his head either, having pulled it all out.
Where the devil was she?
Why had she not arrived?
The mistletoe hung low from the rafters of the second level of the library mocked him, its white berries waiting to be plucked. Felicity was supposed to meet him there.
She had to meet him there.
The door to the library opened.
She stood on the threshold, her expression pained, until her gaze settled upon him. He was moving toward her before he even comprehended it, drawn to her as ever. She was his, damn it. He just had to make her see the rightness of them being together.
“Felicity.” He stopped before her, reminding himself he needed to act the gentleman.
He bowed.
“Blade?” Her brow was furrowed. “What are you doing here?”
Christ. That was not the reaction he had been hoping for.
He straightened. “Waiting for you.”
“You are the perfect gentleman?” she asked, lips parting.
He wanted to kiss her senseless. To toss her over his shoulder and carry her away from everyone and everything.
“I’m neither a gentleman nor perfect,” he answered, flashing her a grin, the one he knew showed his dimple. “But I am the man who loves you.”
Her hazel eyes went wide. “You…what?”
“I love you, Felicity.” It was deuced difficult to make his confession past the knot rising in his throat, but he managed the words.
Had to. No choice. This was not a game of vingt-et-un. This was the rest of his life. If he wanted to win the lady, there was no bluffing.
“You love me?”
She looked as if she were about to call for her smelling salts.
“I think I fell in love with you the moment I saw your arse.” His grin deepened.
“Blade,” she chastised, her cheeks turning that utterly charming shade of pink he adored.
Adored?
Hell, yes.
It was a word he never would have used before. But it was a word that went quite well with the way he felt about the woman before him. The woman who mothered a lost kitten and planned to sacrifice her future for the sisters she loved. The woman who was bold and brave, who looked past his faults and saw him as a man instead of a lowborn bastard from the rookeries.
The woman he wanted to make his wife.
“What?” he teased her with feigned innocence. “I was referring to the day you were poking about beneath my bed, trying to rescue your kitten. Not last night.”
Predictably—and deliciously—her color heightened. “You did not see my bottom last night.”
“Oh yes, love, I did. And I assure you, it was as beautiful as the rest of you.”
Also true. Moreover, he could not bloody wait to see it again.
“Do you truly love me?” she blurted next.
Ah, now they were back to the proper subject. “Yes. I truly love you.”
Belatedly, it occurred to him that she had not made any declaration of her own feelings. That it was entirely possible he was alone in the way he felt. That she did not love him back.
He told himself he would make the best of whatever situation he was presented with. If she did not love him now, perhaps she could grow to love him in time. He could love her enough for the both of them, he was certain.
“Oh, Blade.” She bit her lip, her hazel eyes glistening. “I love you too.”
Thank fuck for that. It would have been bloody awful if she hadn’t. No denying it.
Blade would have hauled her into his arms and kissed her until they were both breathless, but then he recalled they were not in their proper place just yet. He intended to get this business right.
He held his hand out for her. “Come with me.”
She settled her hand in his without hesitation, their fingers entwining. “Where are you taking me?”
“Not far,” he promised.
Only to the mistletoe. Not that he required an excuse to kiss her. But everything about this moment felt sacred. He did not want to ask her to marry him by the door.
She went with him. “Loving each other changes nothing. I still have to marry well for the sakes of my sisters, and you have no wish to wed. Do you?”
He stopped them beneath the mistletoe and took both her hands in his. “Marry me.”
“Marry you?”
Damnation, he had meant to say something flowery and sweet. Something about how he was not a gentleman, but he would do everything in his power to become the husband she deserved and no less. He had not even asked her. Rather, he had issued the words as a demand. If he could, he would have kicked his own arse. He had no excuse save the anxiousness swirling within him, along with the fear of her refusal.
His hands trembled. Quite embarrassing, that.
He took a deep breath and tried again. “What I meant to say was I ain’t a gentleman. No secret there. You won’t be marrying well if you marry me. But you will be marrying a man who loves you. A man who will do everything to try to make himself worthy of you. I may be from the East End and born on the wrong side of the blanket, but…”
She held a finger to his lips. “Stop. Stop talking. You want to marry me?”
He nodded, because her finger was still in place. He kissed the pad. “Yes.”
“And you love me?”
“Stupidly. I’m a spoony son of a—”
She pulled his head to hers and replaced her finger with her mouth. He had hardly finished his entire declaration, but there was only one thing to do when his woman kissed him, and that was kiss her back.
Thoroughly.
When it ended, they were both breathless. She cupped his face. “Do you truly want to marry me?”
“Trust me, love, marriage is not the sort of thing a man jests about,” he told her, trying for some levity before he humiliated himself by falling to his knees and begging her to accept his offer. “I want to make you my wife. I know I am not a lord, but I also ain’t a pauper. I have enough blunt to give your sisters dowries. Dom and Devil have moved to Mayfair, and I will find a house there too. Lady Emilia has offered to take your sisters under her wing and help with their seasons. I’ll help your father with his debts—”
Her finger returned, pressing to his lips.
“Hush,” she ordered him. “You do not have to do any of those things for me.”
“I know I do not have to,” he countered against her finger, his words slightly muffled. “I want to, Felicity.”
“My father will not approve, and neither will my Auntie Agatha,” she said, worrying her lower lip.
Exquisite torture, watching that.
“You have reached your majority. We do not need approval. And my family has promised they will do their utmost to a
id us however we require it.”
“I do not have a dowry to speak of either. What little I had, my father has lost.”
“I don’t need a dowry.” He kissed her finger once more. “All I want is you.”
“Is it true what you said to me before?” she asked softly, removing her finger so he could speak uninhibited. “That you keep your family interests safe by inflicting pain upon others?”
Here was his past, coming back to haunt him. Before he had found his way to Devil and Dom and the three of them had formed a united team—long before Gavin, Gen, and Demon had found their way into the bastard Winter familial fold, Blade had killed in exchange for money. He had been a youth, earning his keep on the streets.
It was a part of his past he could never change, regardless of how deep his regrets.
A part which had served him well in the East End Winter empire.
“I have been seeing to the protection of my family’s interests, however I must.” He paused, searching for the words. “I have committed a great many sins. I am not a good man, and I will not pretend I deserve you. I cannot change what I have done or who I am. But now, I want… I want to be something more.”
He had no plan as to what that something was. But he was beginning to think he might have a head for business. That he did not need to merely be the brawn.
“You are wrong, Blade,” she said, her gaze searching his. “You are a good man, and you do deserve me. We deserve each other.”
She was the one who was wrong, but by God, he was not going to argue the matter.
He caressed her cheek. “Does this mean you will be my wife?”
“Yes.” She smiled up at him, lovely and radiant and his, damn it. “As long as you promise to never again call me Lady Francine.”
He grinned, thinking of their first meeting. “I was only teasing you then, love.”
“And to cease referring to Miss Wilhelmina as Miss Whistlewhiskers,” she added.
Hell.
He kissed her nose. “I promise to remember the feline’s name. Have you any other rules I must know?”
“One more,” said his future wife.
Winter’s Whispers Page 14
