Winter’s Wallflower

by Scott, Scarlett

  Curse her.

  He was moving toward her before he realized what he was doing, his damned legs possessing a mind of their own. Dom stopped at the foot of the bed. Her boots were as fine as she was, fashioned of white cotton and kid, laced with satin, and highly impractical.

  He untied the knot on her right boot first, then the left. He slid them off to reveal small, dainty feet encased in stockings. Never in his life had the sight of a woman’s toes affected him. Hell, he had been hard pressed to notice they even possessed them.

  Until now.

  Her toes were cold. The realization bothered him. Dom set about warming them in his hands. She shifted on the bed, making a deep, throaty sound of satisfaction that went directly to his cock. Because all the sense he had once possessed had fled him utterly, he began rubbing her feet, using his thumbs on her arches. Just to hear more of her satisfied purrs, he told himself. Not because he wanted to tend to her.

  His gaze traveled the length of her. She lay on her side, her arms cradling her midriff. So trusting, so serene. Dipped in sunshine, she was. And foolish. Did she not know what manner of man she had married, to trust him implicitly enough that she fell asleep before he returned to their shared rooms and bed?

  It occurred to him then that neither of them had eaten. Surely she must be hungry. He flicked the opposite end of the counterpane over her, making certain it was tucked all around her, before he tried to wake her.

  “Duchess?” Gently, he brushed a dark tendril of hair that had fallen over her face from her cheek. “Time to wake, love.”

  Her eyes did not open. Instead, she nuzzled her cheek into his palm in the fashion of a satisfied cat. “Mmm.”

  Damn her. This woman excelled at torture. He wanted her so desperately, he could scarcely breathe, and she was sleeping like a babe.

  He gave her shoulder a light shake next. “Adele, wake up.”

  Her eyes flew open at last, and she jolted, as if he had just hauled her from somewhere pleasant.

  She blinked at him. “Dom?”

  Finally, he had his way. She had called him Dom. The victory was a hollow one, however. She remained half in the grip of slumber. He was still stroking her cheek. Disgusted with himself, he withdrew his touch.

  “Do you intend to sleep all evening, Duchess? I, for one, would like to have my supper.” His voice was curt, possessing the stinging lash of a whip, and he knew it.

  Her brow furrowed. “Forgive me. I did not intend to fall asleep. I have been so tired since I have…been traveling. I had no wish to displease you.”

  He frowned down at her, feeling like an arse. The pause in her words had not slipped past him. He was a man who studied the expressions, eyes, and words of everyone around him at all times. His life and his position depended upon it.

  “You have been so tired since you have been what, Duchess?” he probed, suspicious.

  If she meant to betray him, if she had been somehow colluding against him, he would show her no mercy. He needed her as his wife, but he was not afraid to do what he must.

  “Since I have been traveling, as I said,” she repeated, her gaze flitting from his as she sat up. “Long carriage rides do not agree with me, I am afraid. They make me dreadfully weary.”

  She was lying.

  Dom knew it.

  Why? And what was she seeking to hide from him? He would have to get to the heart of the matter later.

  “The fare here is not what you are accustomed to, but my lad and coachman tell me the meat pies are quite good.” He extended his hand to her. “If you wish it, I will have a tray of them sent up with some wine and ale.”

  Her small, elegant hand settled in his big, rough one. “That sounds lovely, Dom.”

  She had called him by his given name again. His fingers tightened on hers and he pulled her to her feet in one effortless gesture. There was much he needed to learn about this wife of his.

  But first, dinner.

  Dinner was an unusually intimate affair compared to the multiple courses served by dozens of liveried servants Adele was accustomed to. Wine, fresh bread and butter, and a meat pie on humble crockery, and yet there was something about the simplicity that pleased her. She was seated opposite her husband at a scarred table, the firelight and a lone brace of candles their sole illumination.

  Her stomach rumbled noisily at the scent on the air—meat and crust, buttery and rich. She pressed a hand to her midriff, all too aware of the gentle swell beneath her gown. Soon enough, she would have to see her stays altered, her gowns let out. Or perhaps commission a new wardrobe that would accommodate her changing form…

  Oh, who was she fooling? That is what she would have done as the wife of a lord. What did the wife of a London crime lord do?

  “You are hungry, Duchess. Eat.”

  Her husband’s baritone rumbled through the silence that had fallen between them, and she wished she did not like it quite as much as she did.

  She was hungry. However, she wanted to speak with him first, to find her footing on this slippery, unfamiliar ground she trod. “You make a habit of feeding me, it seems.”

  “You make a habit of needing to be fed.”

  His concern for her wellbeing took her by surprise. It was not what she would have expected from the hardened, merciless man she supposed him. But his actions this evening took her back to the man she had met almost three months ago at The Devil’s Spawn.

  He had been formidable, yes. Terrifying also. But then, he had been the man who had insisted they dine before following through with their bargain. He had kissed her with such tenderness. He had touched her as if she were fashioned of the finest Sèvres.

  And this evening, when she had fallen into an exhausted sleep, she had risen to find he had removed her boots and tucked the bedclothes around her. Adele’s lady’s maid had not made the journey to Oxfordshire from London, and she had been using first her sister’s lady’s maid for the duration of the house party, then sharing with her obliging hostess after Hannah and Evie had departed.

  Still, she hesitated to eat. She had before her a rare opportunity with Dominic Winter, and she meant to seize it.

  “I am wearing the straps today, indeed,” she said, remembering what he had said to Devereaux Winter and thinking to impress him with her use of cant.

  But her husband gave her a puzzled frown instead. “Wearing the straps, Duchess? Is that some sort of lady’s undergarment?”

  “Yes, wearing the straps,” she said agreeably. “That is what you said to Mr. Winter to indicate you were hungry, is it not?”

  A short burst of laughter fled him.

  Drat. Apparently, it was not. How had she mucked it up? She had been so certain…

  Adele’s cheeks went hot.

  “Near enough, Duchess. Wearing the bands is what you want.” He grinned. “I applaud the attempt. We’ll have you speaking flash in no time.”

  His words seemed somewhat ominous to her.

  “We?”

  He broke off a hunk of bread and slathered it with butter. “My brothers and sister. They all live in the hell with me, and so shall you.”

  He expected her to live in a gaming hell, just as she had feared. Perhaps he would change his mind when he realized there would be a child. One could only hope.

  “You do not consider the other Winters family?” she queried, curious.

  The enmity between Devereaux Winter and her husband had been plain to see, and yet the family had hosted him. He had come to Abingdon Hall. She knew from conversations with them following Dominic’s surprise arrival that the Winter sisters had not been aware of their shared parentage, but Mr. Winter had been.

  “No,” he clipped. “I do not.”

  “Why not?”

  His frown deepened. “I thought you were wearing the straps, Duchess.”

  “The bands,” she corrected, gamely. “And you did not answer my question, Mr. Winter.”

  “Back to Mr. Winter, am I? Must mean I’ve got you in a dudgeon.” He t
ook a bite of his bread, chewing slowly, deliberately.

  Was it her imagination, or did Dominic Winter make the uninteresting act of eating bread erotic?

  “If you answer my questions with other questions, I will call you Mr. Winter,” she said simply. “I am attempting to become better acquainted with my husband.”

  “That’s what the bed is for, love.” He winked.

  Heat flared in her cheeks once more. “I did not mean to suggest in that fashion, sir.”

  “Fuck me, you’re beautiful when you flush.”

  Such vulgar praise from any other gentleman in the world would have had no effect upon Adele save insult. She would have boxed his ears.

  But when Dominic Winter told her she was beautiful, it did strange things to her insides. She forgot to be offended. Indeed, she rather liked the sound of that naughty word on his lips, his facile tongue.

  “You still have yet to answer my question,” she managed.

  “Like a bloody dog with a bone, you are.” He sighed, then took a sip of his ale, his dark gaze never straying from her as he made her wait. “Fine, Duchess. You win. The bastard Winters are my family. Devereaux Winter can stuff his papa’s money and his society connections up his—”

  “Mr. Winter,” she interrupted, before he could say something else that was regrettable.

  “Nose,” he finished, his grin returning. “Here is the way of it, love. Devereaux Winter discovered the existence of us bastards when old Papa Winter cocked up his toes. I knew about Devil and Blade, but Demon, Gavin, and Genevieve were a surprise to me. The first thing I did after he gave me the news was to tell him to sod off and the second thing I did was to find all my siblings.”

  “You brought all the bastard Winters together.”

  He glowered at her. “Do not be thinking me a saint, Duchess. If any one of them had proved a liability to me, Devil, and Blade, we would have cut ties the way I did with Devereaux Winter.”

  Somehow, she did not believe him. Adele suspected his hatred of Devereaux Winter had everything to do with his pride. The little she had come to know of Dominic thus far suggested he would not have reacted kindly to Devereaux Winter’s offer of money. Particularly since Devereaux Winter was a legitimate heir and Dominic had been raised in the slums by a mother who had sold him for purposes she refused to contemplate.

  “I do not think you are as hardhearted as you would have me believe.” Carefully, she tucked into her meat pie.

  The first bite was an explosion of decadent, hearty flavors on her tongue. She had eaten meals prepared by some of the finest chefs in the realm, and yet the rich, buttery crust and well-seasoned meat and vegetables in her mouth could compete with ease.

  She could not quite stifle her moan of enjoyment, unladylike though it was. And who was there to judge her, anyway? She was sharing a table with an East End rogue who had just uttered some of the foulest language imaginable to her.

  Her husband muttered something that sounded like an epithet which was even viler and took a lengthy draught of ale. She watched in fascination as his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbed with each sip.

  He had removed his cravat at some point, and she approved of his decision. His throat was ridiculously handsome. She was certain she had never been so riveted by the sight of a man’s neck before.

  “If any man is within twenty paces of you when you eat a meat pie, I’ll gut him like a fish,” he proclaimed, setting his tankard on the table with so much force, the crockery rattled and jumped.

  Adele swallowed the heaven on her tongue at last. “What is the matter with the manner in which I eat meat pie?”

  “You are dipped in sunshine, aren’t you, Duchess?” He shook his head. “Suffice it to say watching you eat a meat pie will only make a man think of you putting something else between your pretty, pink lips.”

  Oh.

  She understood what he meant now. Strangely, the notion of putting his something else between her lips was not at all unwelcome. Indeed, she was curious. He had used his tongue upon her, and the effect had been quite wondrous.

  Good heavens, what was happening to her? She had been married to this man for the mere span of a day and already, he had thoroughly corrupted her.

  Her ears felt as if they had been doused in flame. “I shall endeavor to always eat alone, Mr. Winter.”

  “I hope you will eat with me. Often.”

  Was that an invitation?

  From Dominic Winter?

  “I thought you were angry with me for misleading you.” She took another bite of her dinner and barely suppressed a second moan.

  “For lying to me, Duchess. And yes, I still am. But that does not mean a man cannot enjoy his lady wife.” He raised a brow, the blatant sensuality burning in his gaze leaving no doubt as to his meaning.

  “Why did you marry me?” she could not help but to ask again. “You never did explain yourself. And before you repeat your nonsensical claim you wished to marry a duke’s daughter to compete with Deveraux Winter, be advised that I do not believe a word of it. There is another reason entirely.”

  It stood to reason there was something for him to gain, but Adele could not fathom what he hoped to have. There was her dowry, yes, but if her father did not approve of their union—which she knew without a doubt he would not—she would not get a penny. There was also the matter of Dominic Winter’s wealth. A man in need of funds did not turn down an inheritance for the sake of his pride.

  “I wanted to marry you because ever since you first started making trouble for me at The Devil’s Spawn, I have been able to think of little else,” he told her, his tone smooth.

  So smooth she did not believe him.

  “You mean to say you have been so thoroughly distracted by thoughts of me, Mr. Winter, that the only solution to your problem was forcing me into a marriage I did not want and using my brother as the leverage you required?” she repeated, allowing her disbelief to bleed through her tone.

  He shrugged. “Sounds about right.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And now which one of us is the liar?”

  He grinned. “I know which one of us I trust and which one of us I don’t.”

  Fair enough, but two could play at that game.

  “As do I. But I have never given you cause to doubt me, Mr. Winter.”

  “Have I given you cause to doubt me, Duchess? Tell me how.”

  They stared at each other, at a stalemate.

  “You have made me marry you,” she pointed out.

  “I did not hear you offer any arguments to the clergyman,” he countered.

  “Because you threatened my brother.”

  “I hate to be the bearer of ill tidings, Duchess, but I was never the one responsible for the beating old Sundenbury took.”

  This was news to her. She sat up straighter in her seat. “One of your men, then.”

  “Not my men either. Your brother has been playing too deep with the wrong East End scoundrels, love, and now they want what is owed them or his blood.”

  Speaking of scoundrels.

  Shock washed over her. “Do you mean to say you were not responsible for what happened to Max?”

  “Neither I nor my men.” He took another lengthy draught of his ale. “Bad business to go about beating the quality. Words gets round. I have other methods of persuasion at my disposal when collecting what is owed me.”

  He had deceived her. Misled her. And to what end? To make her his wife? Anger and outrage rose within her, battling for supremacy.

  She was beginning to realize the man she had married was more Machiavellian than she had initially supposed. “Such as cozening ladies into marrying you?”

  “Not all ladies, Duchess. Only one.”

  There was a spark in his gaze that settled deep within her, lighting an answering flame in spite of her every attempt to ignore it and tamp down the unwanted way he made her feel. “I suppose I must be grateful for small mercies.”

  “Excellent notion, love. Now eat your supper b
efore it goes cold.”

  She would have argued, but her stomach chose that moment to growl once more with the reminder that she was truly famished. Adele forked up another bite of meat pie and wondered how she was going to navigate the treacherous path ahead.

  A path that had nothing to do with ice- and snow-laden roads bound for London and everything to do with navigating her relationship with the dangerous man she had married.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dom could not sleep.

  Likely because his mind was still addled from the suspected poison brother dearest had slipped into his wassail, he had decided to play the gentleman.

  That was the only reason he had not immediately kissed his wife senseless following dinner, then stripped her out of her gown and stockings and made love to her all night long. Certainly, it had nothing to do with the budding sensation in his chest, which he refused to believe was tenderness.

  He had not turned his back to give her modesty while she slipped beneath the thick blankets because she had seemed so drowsy following their meal. Nor had he lowered the lights and banked the fire before climbing into the opposite side of the bed in his breeches and shirt because he was feeling guilty for manipulating her into wedding him.

  Because Dominic Winter was not merciful. Nor was he kind. Or considerate. And above all, he did not care for anyone outside the immediate circle of his sister and brothers. He could not afford to be anything other than the man he was, fashioned of cold, lead, and steel.

  One brunette duke’s daughter with the lushest lips he had ever kissed would not change him. This he vowed as he shifted in the bed, attempting to find a comfortable position and willing his rigid cock to wilt. She was a means to an end.

  Damn it, how was he going to get any rest tonight knowing she was sharing the same bed, within arm’s reach? Knowing the seductive warmth beneath the bedclothes belonged to her?

  On a sigh, he attempted to adjust himself. But that only made the need pulsing through him even more pronounced. And worse, because he wanted her to be the one touching him. He wanted to pin her to the bed and make love to her until the sun rose.