Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters Book 9)

by Scarlett Scott

  But she felt his eyes upon her back, burning into her, watching.

  Her finger drifted over a volume of Shakespeare just as an unsettling conclusion occurred to her. Two subjects had pierced Devil Winter’s armor. His intellect and his mother. He could count, but was it possible he could not read? She had no notion of what the education of a young man in the rookeries would be. Her sister’s husband could read, but that did not necessarily mean Devil could. They had not shared the same mother, after all.

  She plucked Romeo and Juliet from the shelf and turned back to him. “Do you mind if I read aloud?”

  For a lengthy pause, he said nothing. Merely held her stare. Just when she thought he would not answer, he tipped up his chin. “If you wish, milady.”

  She settled herself upon a divan, obliging him to fold his tall body into a nearby chair that was, as the chairs at her sister’s townhome, comically little for a man of his size.

  “That chair is far too small for you,” she pointed out.

  He growled.

  She sighed. “Come and sit here on the settee with me, if you please. You look like a giant sitting in a dollhouse chair.”

  A grumble emerged from him.

  She waited. “I will not begin reading until you move.”

  Why was she being so persistent? It was not as if she truly wanted him near.

  Was it?

  Of course not. She was merely trying to be polite. To make amends for her surliness earlier.

  They stared at each other. Finally, he sighed and rose, stalking across the Aubusson before settling himself upon the settee at her side. Though the settee was large, Devil Winter was larger still. He crowded her with his big body and his nearness, his scent wafting over her, curling around her. Taunting. His heat radiating.

  She swallowed, flipped open the book, and began reading to distract herself. “‘Two houses, both alike in dignity’…”

  Chapter Four

  The days had begun to pass, and blessedly without incident. No more gunshots. His men keeping watch on the perimeter reported nary a sign of anything suspicious. Nothing of greater concern than a stray cat trying to get mounted and a drunkard in the mews, attempting to take a piss. The cat and the man had been chased away with ease.

  For the third evening in a row, Devil awaited Lady Evie in the library. Their secret life at Devereaux Winter’s spare townhome in Grosvenor Square had settled into an almost eerie ease.

  As she had each night following dinner—he took his with the servants while she enjoyed her meal in the dining room as was proper—Lady Evie swept over the threshold. Her gown this evening was almost ethereal, her wild, golden hair scarcely confined. Curls had sprung forth to frame her lovely face.

  For the first time since their odd little evening routine had begun, she smiled at the sight of him. A welcoming, bright smile. The sort of smile a man could not help but to feel in his prick.

  Fuck. He was not meant to feel an inkling of attraction for Lady Evangeline Saltisford, aristocrat, sister-in-law to his brother. She had a betrothed. Lord Denton, he reminded himself, and not without an accompanying surge of bitterness.

  Where the hell was that emerging from?

  He tamped down all his emotions—unwanted as they were—for he was excellent at feeling nothing. At hiding everything. He was a wall when he chose to be. Impassive. Imperceptible. Rigid. He’d had to be so for years now.

  “More Romeo and Juliet?” she asked cheerfully, as if she were happy to see him there, waiting for her like a puppy longing for a pat on the head.

  Christ. How pathetic, Devil Winter lingering in the library for a lady to come and read some drivel to him. He wondered if she had guessed he could not read. If this was her attempt at a truce between them. Or perhaps pity, if she suspected the truth.

  At times, over the years, he had wished to change his inability to comprehend the written word. Nothing had done him a whit of good. His brother Dom read with ease. He had learned on his own. But Devil’s mind was different. The woman who had birthed him had called him a stupid little twat and boxed his ears regularly.

  Mayhap he was stupid. He got on well enough. He could count. He could tally ledgers. But words eluded him. He could make his mark. Theodore Winter was all he could manage. The letters seemed scrambled every time he made an attempt at making sense of words. And so he had made more sense of other things, finding his worth in his strength and his fearlessness and his cunning.

  Until now.

  When Lady Evie Saltisford read to him, he had realized for the first time what he had been missing. To be sure, her soft, husky voice enhanced the pleasure. But it was also the words coming alive, the characters, the scenes, that took his mind to a new place. A previously unoccupied place.

  He was enjoying listening to her read.

  Much to his shame.

  Devil Winter did not enjoy such nonsense. Or at least, he had not.

  “Mr. Winter?” she pressed. “Shall I read more tonight?”

  He ought to tell her no. She had been referring to him as Mr. Winter since they had begun this nightly ritual. Better than Mr. Nothing, he supposed. But sitting on the settee by her side was a form of torture.

  He cleared his throat. “If it pleases you, milady.”

  “It pleases me greatly.” A warm, sweet smile curved her lips. “Otherwise, I am dreadfully bored, trapped in this place.”

  She crossed the carpets. Devil tried not to watch the way she glided, with such elegant ease. Or the way the drapery of her gown clung to her hips. Or the creamy expanse of her bosom on display. His cock was standing at attention, and he was imagining what color her nipples would be.

  Hellfire and damnation.

  He forced himself to move, folding his too-large frame into a fancy chair that scarcely contained him. It was deuced uncomfortable and it killed his ardor whilst putting some necessary distance between himself and Lady Evie.

  She pulled the ribbon she had been using to mark her page from the volume and glanced up at him, a frown marring her forehead. It was the most displeased expression she had directed toward him since the day of their arrival.

  Interesting.

  “Why are you sitting over there, Mr. Winter?”

  Her query and curious stare were as unwanted as the unexpected attraction he felt to her. Devil could not offer the real answer, that he did not trust himself to remain in proximity to her without being tempted to touch her. That her scent had been driving him to distraction.

  That if he had to envision hell, it would likely be an eternity of being stuffed into a settee next to Lady Evie Saltisford, having a view straight down her bosom as she read Shakespeare to him, unable to touch her.

  But nay, he could say none of that. He held her gaze. “Because I want to.”

  Milady was not appeased. “You must sit nearer. I have no wish to yell as I read.”

  He was not terribly far away. Far enough he could not catch her scent on the air. Sweet, luscious fruit. He was never going to eat an apple again without thinking of her, damn the woman to perdition.

  Devil shrugged, saying nothing.

  But Lady Evie was stubborn. “If you want to hear what happens next, you will move nearer.”

  He cast a glance about the library, searching for her lady’s maid, who always seemed to have her nose in her embroidery and sat in a faraway corner. Once, he had sworn the woman had been snoring. This evening, she was nowhere to be found.

  “Where is Smithson?” he asked, his voice sharper than he had intended.

  Two golden brows arched. “She was not quite feeling the thing this evening, so I sent her to bed early.”

  An unexpected surprise, that. Milady cared about her servant’s welfare?

  Something shifted inside Devil’s chest. He longed to beat on it with his fist and force the unwanted change to reverse itself.

  Instead, he swallowed. “Kind of you. Best if I stay here.”

  Fuck. He had said too much. He gripped the arms of his c
hair and ground his teeth.

  But his curt explanation was not good enough for her. He read it well enough in her expression, the sudden way her chin tipped upward, her spine straightening.

  “Why?” she demanded. “Have I offended you in some manner, Mr. Winter?”

  Inwardly, he counted to ten and tried to distract himself. He could not respond with truth.

  You have not offended me at all, my lady. But if I sit next to you again tonight, breathing in your sweet scent and looking down your bloody dress, I am going to want to do something we will both regret.

  Nay. Couldn’t say that.

  Instead, he made a noncommittal noise deep in his throat. A sound of dismissal. A sound he hoped would tell her to read the damned play and leave him in his miniature chair. The contraption was pinching his arse. Had it been fashioned for children?

  “I am afraid I could not hear your response, sir,” she said smoothly, her tone lacking the sincerity of her apologetic words. “Likely because you are seated so far away.”

  The outrageous baggage.

  Someone ought to turn her over his knee.

  Not Devil. Though the notion of raising her gown and petticoats to expose her bottom was not an unfamiliar thought. He may have pondered it on previous occasions, sometimes in the darkest ink of the night, when he was alone in his bed, cock in hand.

  He swallowed. “Read to yourself if you prefer.”

  Her full lips thinned with displeasure.

  Could it be that she enjoyed reading to him as much as he delighted in the sound of her husky voice and clipped, aristocratic accent bringing him the unfolding story?

  “I thought we had called a truce, Mr. Winter.” Her voice was steeped in disappointment.

  Even more interesting. He tried to keep the heat threading through him at bay and failed. Damn, damn, damn.

  He found himself speaking again. “Were we ever at war, milady?”

  She pursed her lips now, emphasizing their plumpness. He had to stifle a groan, because that mouth. Bloody hell. It was made for sin. For wrapping around a man’s—

  “You told me you do not like me,” she pointed out coolly.

  “After you said you did not like me.”

  “You were glaring at me, and you are a large, intimidating man.”

  He shrugged, because he had a suspicion the gesture would annoy her, and said nothing.

  She liked that less. Milady rose with the majesty Devil imagined any queen would possess, snapping the volume closed. “Good evening then, Mr. Winter. I shall see you in the morning.”

  That was it? She was retreating without a fight? Devil shot to his feet as well, for even rats like him, to the rookery born, knew to stand in the presence of a lady when she stood. Mayhap except his sister Genevieve, but that was a different tale entirely. Gen would box the ears of any man who did not treat her as if she were a lad.

  Lady Evie whisked past him, holding his gaze as she went. Devil knew he ought to let her go. It was safer. Better. Why did he give a bean what happened to Romeo and Juliet?

  But as she moved, elegant and ethereal despite her dudgeon, he caught the scent of ripened apple. He reached out, watching as if a stranger were in control of his own body, as he caught her elbow. Her warmth scalded his palm. Nothing but smooth, creamy skin. The softest flesh he had ever touched. Her silken cap sleeves did not descend far enough to cover her arm, and the shawl she had worn earlier had been abandoned on the settee. No barriers. Just his skin on hers.

  She stopped and turned toward him.

  He had never wanted to feel a woman’s lips beneath his more. Not even Cora had inspired such a raw, real, insurmountable depth of feeling. But he would not kiss Lady Evie. She was not his sort. She was betrothed to a foppish lord. He was here to protect her.

  “Read,” he ground out.

  “Read,” Devil Winter ordered her.

  His hand was on her arm. His bare skin on hers. The touch was potent. Not at all forceful or strong as she would have expected from a man of his size. But gentle. Something strange and warm slid through her, landing in her belly. She froze.

  Mayhap baiting him, urging him to sit near her, had been a mistake.

  Because everything inside her changed.

  She had been aware of him before, but what she felt now went beyond that. What she felt now was…intoxicating. Thick and heavy. Hot and insistent.

  “You have changed your mind?” she asked, voice low.

  Giving her away, she feared.

  Instead of releasing her, he trailed his fingers down her forearm, his thumb caressing the sensitive flesh of her inner arm. He stopped when he reached her wrist, his long fingers encircling.

  His eyes were on her mouth. He was impossibly tall, towering over her. But if she rose on her toes, and if he ducked his head, their lips would meet. She could kiss Devil Winter. Longing surged through her. Before Evie could contemplate what she was doing, she swayed toward him, rising on her slipper-shod feet.

  For a heartbeat, she swore he was going to seal his mouth upon hers.

  But then he blinked and released her as if she had scalded him, dropping her wrist. He nodded toward the settee. “May as well see what happens to Juliet.”

  As if he could hardly be bothered to listen. Disappointment surged. Had she been imagining his interest? After all, they were both trapped here, at this townhome for a fortnight, the sacrifice of her sister and Dominic Winter’s overprotective natures.

  She winced.

  He was still watching her carefully, and he frowned down at her now. “Is your wound paining you?”

  Her wounded arm was the opposite of the one he had touched. But his concern performed the same strange feats his touch had, causing tingles to sweep over her. “My wound is healing nicely.”

  He had inquired about it each day. Her lady’s maid had been helping her to apply the salve he had provided.

  He nodded again, saying nothing, his bright-blue gaze still lingering on her.

  She flushed beneath the force of that stare, her cheeks going hot. Why did he suddenly have her so ill at ease? Her reaction to him was confusing. Shameful.

  You must think of Lord Denton, Evie.

  Yes, she had a betrothed. A golden-haired, elegant gentleman who would never growl at her or count her paces. Who treated her as if she were fashioned of the most delicate porcelain. Who had never tried to kiss her either.

  On that rather vexing realization, Evie spun away from Devil Winter, putting some much-needed distance between them. What in heaven’s name was she thinking, comparing a rough-hewn, illegitimate man born on the streets to Viscount Denton, the heir to an earl?

  She seated herself on the settee and flipped the volume of Shakespeare open to the place where she had finished reading the night before. She felt his presence nearing her before his tall, powerful form cast a shadow in her lap.

  Still, she would not look at him, for fear of what he would see reflected in her countenance. For fear of what she might so foolishly say or do next. Wordlessly, he settled at her side, careful to tuck his large frame as close to the opposite end of the settee as possible.

  She was regretting her prodding, her invitation for him to sit here. He had done what she wanted, and yet she was more adrift than ever. Because his scent was teasing her senses, and out of the corner of her eye she spied the impressive muscles of his thigh, delineated by the dark breeches he wore.

  With a deep breath, she plowed forward, reading more of the scene where they had left off. But keeping her mind on the play proved nigh impossible with Devil Winter seated at such proximity. His even breaths seemed to linger in the air like a wicked caress.

  There was a heaviness in the room. A strange sense of change she could not quite define. But if she could not understand it, she could, at least, ignore it. So she did, turning her attention to the next scene in the play, Juliet in Capulet’s orchard.

  She had not read long when Mr. Winter interrupted her.

  “Take him a
nd cut him out in little stars?” he repeated, his tone incredulous.

  Evie glanced up from the pages, her gaze settling upon him once more. “That is what Juliet said, yes.”

  “After he is dead,” Mr. Winter added, as if he required clarification.

  “Give me my Romeo,” she read again, “and, when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars—”

  “Worse than a body-snatcher, this bit of petticoats,” Devil grumbled, interrupting. “Dangerous, too.”

  She searched his face for any hint of laughter, but found none. “She is in love with Romeo, and quite desperately so. Only listen to the rest. And he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night. Is it not romantic?”

  Mr. Winter snorted, his disdain evident.

  “She is convinced all the world should love Romeo as she does.”

  A dark brow rose. “Plotting about his death and turning his body into stars?”

  “A figure of speech, Mr. Winter. Nothing more.” Evie paused, sighing. “I admire her devotion to Romeo. To have that kind of love must be an incredible gift.”

  “Until you’re turned into stars.” He sniffed.

  “I should like someone to think of me in such memorable terms. To believe if I were turned into stars that I could make all the world fall in love with night.” When she noticed the manner in which Mr. Winter watched her—the sharpness in his gaze, the stillness in his posture—she wished she could withdraw those words. Wished she could unsay them.

  “Your Lord Dullerton does not?” His query was low. Gruff.

  His stare was intense. Intimate.

  It took Evie a moment to realize he had referred to Lord Denton as Lord Dullerton.

  “His name is Lord Denton, Mr. Winter.”

  “Sounds the same to me.”

  She frowned at him. “I assure you, there is a marked difference.”

  But he was undeterred and unapologetic. “You didn’t answer the question, milady.”

  Her cheeks went hot, for she realized she had just admitted aloud the secret she had been carrying deep inside her heart. The one she had not dared to share with anyone else; not even her twin sister Addy: that Lord Denton did not love her and she did not love him. Their sister Hannah had suffered a loveless marriage that had left her in agony. Evie did not want the same for herself. And Addy’s marriage with Mr. Dominic Winter was…unusual. Scandalous to many. However, Addy and her Mr. Winter loved each other, madly and deeply.