Rage was a festering, open sore.
But the gods who had placed Lady Adele at Devereaux Winter’s house party would soon cease their laughter. Because Dom had formed a plan. All he needed to secure its execution was one thing.
Her.
The angel who had haunted his dreams. The only woman he had ever slept beside, trusting as a babe. And what good had his stupid trust gotten him? Waking to an empty bed and the mystery of a woman who did not exist. Lady Adele had not slipped a blade between his ribs that day as many an enemy would love to do, but she may as well have.
And now?
Now, she was going to help him get everything that had been eluding his grasp. Herself included.
At long last, through the swirling flurries against an overcast sky, the carriage approached a sprawling old manor house. The thing was impossibly large. So, too, the space of the outdoors all around him. Dom had been marveling over the vast expanses of countryside between villages ever since his first foray from the comforting boundaries of London had first begun.
Where London was all brick and buildings, tenements and wharves and factories and leaden skies and fog, the country was…almost an innocent cousin. Dom was envious of the cousin, but he bloody well did not want to spend forever at the cousin’s side. He longed for the East End he had grown to love and hate, the streets and men he ruled, the dark alleyways where his name instilled fear into the hearts of so many.
In London, Dominic Winter was someone. An important, feared, impressive someone.
In the freezing, snow-bound landscape of the country, he was just another gent traveling to a house party. So innocuous was his presence that a youth had attempted to filch his coin at the last coaching inn where he had stayed. Dom had caught the bugger, forced him to return the coin, and brought him along for the remainder of the trip to Oxfordshire. There was always room for one more buzgloak—pickpocket—in London and in Dom’s employ. The little shite was riding on the box, shivering his arse off for his troubles, but he would find a fine life in Dom’s service if he played by the rules.
Playing by the rules was all that was expected of a man—or woman or child, for that matter—in the rookeries, no matter how twisted, tangled, broken, or bent. But since Lady Adele had come of age on the fine side of London, where the world had no ills worse than an upended teacup, she would not know that.
She would soon.
The carriage rolled to a stop.
Dom did not even wait for anyone to open the door. He snatched up his favorite walking stick and threw the lever himself, before leaping to the snow-covered gravel. Cold winds buffeted him, the chill of flurries clinging to his cheeks and lashes, as he took in the edifice before him, which could have easily dominated an entire city street.
“Are ye sure we’re at the right place, yournabs?” called the little thief from the box.
Dom growled. “I am sure. And if you do not want me to turn you upside down and empty your thieving pockets, you will shut your biscuit hole, lad.”
Satisfied his conveyance—coachman, and unexpected guest included—would see their way to the stables, Dom hastened up the wide stairs dominating the front of the home. He reached the door amidst a gust of blustery wind that threatened to take his hat.
A stern-looking butler greeted him.
“Have you come upon some trouble, sir?” asked the supercilious servant.
Dom’s nostrils flared and his grip on his walking stick—which just happened to possess a secret sword—tightened. “No trouble at all. I have come to call upon Mr. Winter.”
The butler’s gaze settled upon the inking on Dom’s hand. “Mr. Winter is otherwise occupied at the moment, sir.”
Well, bloody Christ. Dom had rather fancied he was bang up to the mark for this particular visit.
“I am a guest,” he pressed. “Mr. Winter is having a party. With guests. Aye? Stands to reason he would see me, on account of me traveling so far from home.”
And also on account of the blade he carried.
And his insuppressible need for Lady Adele Saltisford.
Anyone who stood in Dom’s way was going to be swallowing his teeth and nursing a flesh wound. He wanted the angel who had deceived and betrayed him and disappeared, and he meant to have her.
She was his, and unbeknownst to her, she was going to help him gain the upper hand over the Suttons.
The butler drew his shoulders back. “I am sorry, sir, but we are not expecting any further guests for the wedding breakfast this morning.”
“I am afraid you are wrong there.” He flashed the bastard a wicked grin, and then Dom pushed past him, stalking into an impressively cavernous entry hall. “Where is he? I would hate to go searching. It will be easier if you tell me where to find him.”
And her.
But Dom kept the identity of his true quarry to himself. His boots clicked on the floor, and the servant raced after him. More footsteps sounded. He did not need to look over his shoulder to confirm an impromptu army of servants had begun stalking him.
“I would not follow me if I were you,” he called confidently. “I can be a dangerous man, when provoked.”
Actually, he was dangerous when he was not provoked as well. Lethal, in fact. But no need to mention that to the gaggle of bumpkins following him now. The only trouble was, he had no notion of where he was going. This bloody mausoleum was massive. One could house an entire London street within it, for the love of all that was…
He spotted some servants bearing trays up ahead, and he followed his instinct. And his nose—he scented food. Which meant there was a dining hall somewhere in the vicinity, and presumably within, Mr. Devereaux Winter and all his aristocratic guests.
“Sir, please,” called the butler. “I command you to stop.”
Dom laughed. If only the hapless fool knew he was addressing one of the most powerful men in London. But never mind, for someone dared to grab his coat sleeve. Dom did not hesitate. He spun, determining the aggressor was a strapping young footman, and took aim, his fist connecting with the unfortunate fellow’s chin.
“Anyone else?” he demanded of the gathering crowd.
Slack jaws and silence met his query.
“I thought not.”
With confidence, he turned about and reached what he suspected was the dining hall. He threw the double doors open. Within, a table, flanked with lords and ladies—and his hated half brother—was laden with delicacies. But Dom did not give a goddamn about any of the foods or the guests. All he cared about was one deceptive brunette goddess. His gaze lit upon her.
There she was, more beautiful than he recalled. Dressed to perfection in a gown of cream, as if she were truly the angel he had once believed her. Fury reverberated through him, along with a fierce, possessive rush.
Mine, whispered a voice inside him. Fucking mine.
As if she could hear his thoughts, she gasped.
Behind him, all the flurry of footsteps which had been trailing his progress arrived. The butler apologized profusely to the gathering before turning his attention back to Dom.
“Sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave,” he said, raising a sanctimonious brow.
Pompous prick.
Dom raised his walking stick and withdrew the hollow end of it to reveal his hidden blade. “I’ve already silenced one of you with my fists. If I am forced to silence another, I’ll not be responsible for the bloodshed.”
One of the fancy coves at the table stood suddenly, and all the rest followed suit.
“What the devil are you doing here?” demanded a voice Dom just barely recognized from their one and only meeting some years prior.
Devereaux Winter had only discovered he possessed a bounty of illegitimate half siblings after their arsehole father’s death. Their father’s will had apparently given away his sordid secrets. Winter had done exactly what Dom would have expected of a fancy cove. He had come to The Devil’s Spawn to attempt to buy Dom and the rest of the illegitimate Winters.
Dom had told him to bugger off. The money was unwanted. So, too, the familial connection.
“Forgive me,” he told his half brother, scorn dripping from his voice. “It looks as if I have interrupted a wedding breakfast. My invitation must have been lost.”
Devereaux Winter looked as if he wanted to commit murder. He gripped the back of his chair, scowling. “You are not welcome on my lands.”
That was rich.
“Your lands?” Dom mocked, raising a brow. “Ah, yes, you bought it just as you buy everything and everyone.”
The enmity between them was old and incurable. Only one goal could have driven Dom here. His pride was too great to ever come calling upon Devereaux bloody Winter. Damn the man to Hades.
“Why the hell are you here?” his half brother demanded.
Ah, an easy answer. Dom’s gaze traveled to Lady Adele Saltisford once more, taking grim note that she had paled considerably. Indeed, she looked as if she had seen a ghost. Or as if she needed to cast up her accounts.
“I have come for what is mine,” he told Lady Adele before flicking his gaze back to his half brother. “At long last.”
“Nothing here is yours,” Devereaux warned him.
“I suppose blood means nothing to you,” Dom countered, unperturbed.
That was the thing about them—he and Devereaux Winter were drastically different.
“Go back to the rookeries where you belong,” his half brother snapped. “I will not allow you to hurt this family.”
“I have no intention of hurting anyone as long as I get what I have come here for.” Dom’s lip curled. “Fear not. The bastard Winters want no part of any of you. Attempt to become an aristocrat all you like. We earn our coin as we see fit and answer to no one, least of all Devereaux Winter.”
“We need to speak,” his half brother announced grimly. “In private.”
Fair enough. But Dom had no intention of leaving without doing what he had journeyed all this way for. Still, he could play the civilized gentleman when he chose.
To that end, he inclined his head and trailed in Devereaux Winter’s wake as he left the dining hall. He was keenly aware of Lady Adele’s eyes upon him, following his retreat.
She had not expected to find him here, on her own turf. But if she thought he was the sort of chap who was afraid to invade enemy territory, she knew nothing about the man she had cozened. Because Dominic Winter had no bloody fear, and that was why he had managed to seize the reins of London’s stews and wrap half the East End around his little finger.
And when he left Oxfordshire, she was going to be accompanying him.
By fair means or foul.
He was here.
Dominic Winter.
Adele had not been prepared for the sight of him in the wilds of Oxfordshire, so far from London. She had hoped he would not remember her. That he would not look for her.
Yet, he had. There had been no mistaking the expression on his wickedly handsome face, the cruel promise in his stare. He had come for her, he knew the truth, and he was furious.
Her stomach tightened into a knot, and she feared she would cast up her accounts all over the lovely wedding breakfast. What a horrid guest she was, inviting herself to remain at Abingdon Hall after the Christmastide house party had ended. Then bringing Dominic Winter down upon them in the midst of the celebration for the nuptials of the Duke and Duchess of Coventry…
“Who the devil is he?” asked Mr. Merrick Hart, brother-in-law to the Winter siblings, looking bewildered as he surveyed the rest of the assemblage.
“He is Dominic Winter,” Adele managed to say, “and I fear he has come here for me.”
All eyes turned to her. Drat. She had said too much.
“Dominic Winter?” asked the Duchess of Coventry—formerly Miss Christabella Winter.
Her Grace was the wildest of all the Winter sisters, with the flaming curls and outspoken nature to prove it. She had become an unlikely friend for Adele during the course of the house party she had attended with her older sister Hannah and twin sister Evangeline. Adele had managed to extract Her Grace’s aid in persuading Hannah to leave her behind for an extended visit without her sister’s watchful eye.
Adele perfectly understood the nature of her friend’s query. She wished she had an answer.
“Mr. Winter is an…acquaintance of my brother’s,” she elaborated. “A gaming hell owner. That is to say, I believe he is.”
Heavens, it was unseemly for her to admit her knowledge of such an inappropriate connection. What had she been thinking? It was the shock of his appearance, after two long months, of the way he had looked at her…
As if he could see inside her.
The equal fear of her secret. A secret she must keep at all costs. A secret she would do anything, anything to protect. Including lying to her sisters and her newfound friend, the Duchess of Coventry.
For what seemed an eternity, no one spoke. Adele went hot, then cold, a fine sheen of perspiration breaking out on her brow. Her stomach lurched. She could not be certain if the nausea churning was the same as that which had been ordinarily plaguing her or if it was a result of her current predicament.
Likely, a combination of both.
“Is he…could he be from a distant branch of our Winter family?” ventured Mrs. Merrick Hart.
“A disgraced portion,” added the Duchess of Coventry. “He said ‘bastard Winters,’ did he not?”
“Christabella,” chastised her elder sister, Lady Prudence Rawdon. “You ought to know better than to repeat such nonsense. Our reputations as Winters are bedeviled enough. No need to borrow trouble.”
It was true. The Wicked Winters, as they were mockingly known within society, possessed untold wealth thanks to their merchant father’s empire. What they had lacked was the requisite ties to high society until Mr. Devereaux Winter had married Lady Emilia King. Their entrée to the ton was new.
“How can I borrow trouble when it has already shown up, brandishing a sword hidden in a cane?” the duchess dared to ask.
Adele rolled her lips inward, fighting against a renewed wave of bile.
She had saved Max and ruined herself. And now, she had also brought ruin and mayhem down upon her new friend’s wedding day.
She hated herself.
“It looked wickedly sharp,” Miss Grace Winter said. “Do you think he has ever used it upon any of his enemies? I found myself looking for traces of blood…”
“Grace!” The chiding exclamation came from Miss Eugie Winter, who was engaged to wed the Earl of Hertford. “That is hardly proper discussion for Christabella’s wedding breakfast. Let us return to our celebrations. I am certain our brother will conclude his business with this Mr. Winter as soon as possible and return.”
More agony buffeted Adele.
The ominous arrival of Mr. Dominic Winter was all her fault.
Adele stood, sending her chair toppling to the floor. Once more, the eyes of the gathering were upon her. She wished the floor beneath her would open and swallow her, giving her the escape she so desperately needed.
But when you made a deal with the devil, he always demanded his due. Rather than allow the Duke and Duchess of Coventry’s special day to suffer any further interruption, she would face her devil.
“Felicitations, Your Graces,” she said. “I wish you both the best in your future together as husband and wife. If you will all excuse me, I find myself feeling quite ill, and I have no wish to burden the joyous gathering any more than I already have.”
She dipped into a curtsy and fled from the dining hall as quickly as her pride would allow. Her stomach was indeed roiling as she made her way down the hall in search of Mr. Dominic Winter and Mr. Devereaux Winter. The same surname—the significance of it haunted her now. She had known, of course, the Winter who had changed her life two months before shared the same surname as the Winter who was playing her host at Abingdon Hall. However, sharing a name did not necessarily suggest a connection.
As she hastened down the hall, attempting to find out where her host Mr. Winter may have taken her Mr. Winter, she could not help but to think about the similarities between the two men. Both were tall, dark-haired, handsome, and large of frame. Muscled and monstrous.
She discovered a closed door and barreled through it, startled when she found both Mr. Winters in heated debate with each other. They paused, their gazes narrowing upon her. That was when she realized she had thought of Mr. Dominic Winter as her Mr. Winter. And that was also when she realized she was doomed.
She saw keenly the differences between the two men now—Dominic Winter exuded an aura of absolute danger. His dark hair was too long for fashion. His body appeared perpetually coiled, as if to strike at any moment. Her host, on the other hand, possessed a calm demeanor of command. It was plain to see neither Mister Winter liked the other.
“Lady Adele, this is a private matter,” Mr. Devereaux Winter told her, breaking the silent exchange of stares.
“Forgive me for the interruption,” she said, her cheeks going hot as she realized she was being despicably rude. Presumptuous too, to believe Dominic Winter would come here specifically for her. “I…mistook this chamber for another.”
She turned to flee.
“Wait.”
The deep, commanding voice of Dominic Winter stopped her when she would have flown from the room. Adele paused, looking back to the two men. His gaze clashed with hers, stealing all the breath from her lungs.
“As this is a matter which concerns you, Lady Adele,” he elaborated smoothly, “you may as well stay.”
“What can this possibly have to do with Lady Adele?” Mr. Devereaux Winter growled. “She is under my protection here at Abingdon Hall. Leave her out of whatever grievances you claim to have against my family.”
“Your family?” Dominic Winter’s lip curled. “I thought it was our family, brother. Always so goddamn selfish, are you not?”
Winter’s Wallflower Page 6
