Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters Book 9)

by Scarlett Scott

  And yet it had for Addy. Evie could not suppress the sudden, most unbecoming surge of jealousy accompanying that thought. Suddenly, true love—Juliet’s love for Romeo and his for her—seemed far more important than any society match Evie could ever make.

  “Mr. Winter is fine,” he growled. “Or Mr. Nothing.”

  She regretted having called him the latter now. How cool she had been to him initially. Because she had been quite wrong about him, she thought. And intensely irritated at having to hide herself away, as if she were a shameful secret. Also fearful of what would happen. It was not every day a lady found herself suffering a gunshot wound in Mayfair.

  But that was neither here nor there at the moment, because Devil Winter was still near enough to touch, watching her in that way that said keep your distance.

  “You dislike your name,” she inferred from his response—the tensing of his jaw, the stiffness in his bearing, the curling of his lip.

  “I dislike the woman who saddled me with it,” he snapped.

  “Your mother.”

  “The woman who bore me.”

  They stared at each other, Evie assessing, Mr. Winter attempting to resurrect his walls.

  “What did she do to make you hate her?” she asked softly, though she was certain she ought not to prod.

  “Not enough time in the day for the list, milady.” He inclined his head.

  His reluctance to reveal more of himself to her sent a pang of disappointment through Evie. Was she wrong to feel as if they had bonded in the last few days they had spent together? That the kisses they had just shared meant something?

  For her, they had been revolutionary.

  “Tomorrow, then,” she suggested.

  His lips compressed. “No.”

  “Why Devil?” she asked him, changing her tactic. “It seems a rather extreme name.”

  “Sends the proper message, don’t it?”

  “Does it not,” she corrected him.

  “Ain’t having lessons now, am I, milady?” His voice was mocking, his eyes hard.

  She was scratching beneath his surface, and he did not appreciate her efforts. She wondered how much of himself Mr. Winter had ever shared with anyone.

  “I enjoy our lessons,” she confessed.

  “No more lessons, milady,” he said gruffly. “Bad idea, and I should have known it. No use teaching me to read. And you kiss just fine.”

  “Fine,” she repeated, dismayed.

  “I’ve kissed better.”

  His cutting words, issued in his deep growl, insinuated themselves inside her heart, where they lodged like a tiny, painful splinter. She could not decide if he was being deliberately cruel because he wanted to flee her presence, or if her kisses had indeed been dreadful. It was a distinct possibility her kisses had been uninspiring, though she hated to admit as much.

  Still, Evie was not about to allow him to see how much his callousness affected her. “I am certain you have, considering I have not had the practice one undoubtedly requires.”

  He raised a dark brow, the scar on his forehead lending him a menacing air. “And you imagine I have had the practice, milady?”

  He looked as if he had had the practice. He was a dangerously handsome man. She could not countenance the notion of any lady not wanting to kiss Devil Winter. Particularly now that she had known his lips upon hers.

  “Have you not, sir?” she asked, feeling bold.

  Feeling as if someone else had overtaken her. Someone who dared to ask a wicked man like Devil Winter for kissing lessons and challenged him at every turn. Who made certain her lady’s maid was otherwise occupied so she could be alone with him at every opportunity.

  Yes, she had done all those things since her forced confinement at Mr. Devereaux Winter’s townhome. An abundance of caution had left her with a dearth of it herself. She was catapulting herself into danger.

  “Hardly any of your concern how many ladies I have kissed, is it?” he asked, his gaze traveling over her in a familiar fashion.

  She felt that stare as if it were a caress.

  Once more, she was aflame. Because Lord Denton had a mistress, and she was alone with a man who did not.

  Or did he?

  She frowned. “Do you have a ladybird, Mr. Winter?”

  The word left her tongue with great difficulty. In part because the notion of him having such a woman awaiting him filled her with dread, and in part because propriety and rules had haunted her each day of her life with a dogged persistence. Her mother, her governess, even her older sister Han, and her twin Addy—every female she had ever known from her ailing grandmother down—had impressed the importance of maintaining an impeccable reputation.

  “How is that your business any more than how many women I’ve kissed, milady?” he asked, cool and confident.

  He had kissed her with such fire, and now he spoke to her with a distinct lack of passion. Was it because he was tempted as she was, or because her kisses had been a true disappointment? Oh, how she wished he did not fill her with such confusion.

  “I suppose it is not,” she agreed, feeling small. Terribly small. Tinier than an ant. “Once more, I must beg your forgiveness, Mr. Winter. I have kept you here long enough, forcing my whims upon you.”

  But instead of leaving as she had imagined he would, Devil Winter remained where he was, studying her with that sky-blue gaze that saw too much.

  “Not force,” he bit out, his words and his tone clipped.

  Almost angry.

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You did not force anything upon me,” he elaborated. “I…kissing you…’twas not a chore, milady.”

  Not a chore.

  She could not stifle the bubble of laughter rising within her, almost hysterical. Would his insults know no end?

  “Not a chore? Next you shall tell me kissing me is not as dreadful a task as emptying chamber pots.”

  He winced. “Christ.”

  “I do think you are right, sir. We ought not indulge in any more lessons of any sort,” she said on a rush, hoping to get out the words before humiliation swamped her. “I am sorry for imposing upon your time and…mouth. I shall not repeat the insult. Good day, Mr. Winter.”

  “My lady…”

  She did not want to hear another word more. Evie was feeling foolish and furious and sad, all at once. She had managed her first kiss, but to a man who apparently had found little enjoyment in it. And she was betrothed to another who was wooing a mistress but had never attempted to so much as kiss her lips.

  Evie held up a hand, silencing him, and then she dipped into a curtsy and fled.

  Chapter Seven

  Devil finished checking in with the men he had charged with watching the perimeter of the townhome. He made his way back to his chamber using the servants’ stairs, determined to get an early night’s worth of sleep. To get any sleep at all, as it happened. The last two nights had been plagued with thoughts of her.

  He gritted his teeth and tamped down the reminder to settle his mind upon the task at hand instead. He was not meant to lust after his charge. He was meant to protect her. And protecting her thus far had proven far easier than before, now that they had moved to Devereaux Winter’s spare home.

  The reports from his men had been excellent. Nothing had changed. No suspicious persons had been seen. All had been quiet. Another week and this nonsense would be over. His duty to Dom would be done. He would persuade his brother that everyone would be far better served with Devil returned to his post. If the Suttons had indeed been behind the shots which had been taken at Lady Evangeline, Devil would find out everything there was to know. He would discover who, why, and he would bloody well end them.

  And then, milady would be someone else’s problem.

  He ought to be relieved.

  Except, the sensation roiling in his gut at the moment was not relief at all. Because as much as he relished his days at The Devil’s Spawn, presiding over the staff and aiding Dom in ma
king certain all their family businesses ran smoothly, he had to admit, he had enjoyed spending time with Lady Evangeline.

  Which was why he had been spending as little time in her presence as possible since their lessons exchange had descended into pure Bedlam. The best sort of Bedlam. But altogether wrong Bedlam.

  Kissing her had been a mistake. He never should have done it. She was not for him. She was going to marry a nib. And he was nothing like a nib. He was as far as one reasonably diverged from a fancy bloody lord.

  But her mouth. Lord above, fucking fuck and all the saints and angels, her mouth. Having it beneath his for a few moments had been worth every bit of penance he would have to do. And anyway, he had committed enough sins for two men. What was the harm of one more? So long as he never repeated it…

  Dom would kick his arse if he found out Devil had been playing at kissing lessons with his wife’s sister. Hell, Devil wanted to kick his own arse for the stupidity he had been indulging. He certainly had a knack for lusting after petticoats who could never be his.

  On an irritated sigh, he opened his chamber door and slipped inside. Darkness greeted him. Unlike other evenings since he had reluctantly taken up residence at yet another Mayfair mansion, the manservant who kept a brace of candles burning for him had failed to do so.

  The moment Devil crossed the threshold, the hair on the back of his neck rose.

  His senses never failed him.

  This time, they were alerting him to the fact he was not alone.

  Someone else was in his chamber, waiting for him, hiding in the cloak of darkness. His hand went to the hilt of the knife he kept hidden in a pocket sewn into the lining of all his coats. There was also another tucked into his boot for the same purpose.

  Tense, ready for a fight, he moved slowly, treading deeper into the chamber, the plush Aubusson silencing his footfalls. A floorboard creaked, giving away the location of the unseen intruder.

  If Sutton had finally sent someone to murder Devil, he was far too late. And he had also chosen the wrong man for the task.

  “Mr. Winter?”

  The hell?

  Had he lost his mind, or was the trespasser in his chamber Lady Evangeline?

  He stopped, still gripping the hilt of his blade. “Milady?”

  The scent of succulent, sweet, ripe fruit hit him.

  It was her.

  He sheathed his knife and stalked toward the direction of her voice. “What are you doing here in my chamber, in the dark?”

  Damn her. Could she be any more trouble? If she was not occupying all his thoughts, then she was here, in his chamber. Where he could touch her. Or kiss her again. Both actions which he must avoid at all costs.

  “I wished to speak with you.”

  “You could have done it all bloody day,” he growled, furious with her for invading his chamber. Even more furious at what he could have done to her, had she failed to say his name…

  The mere notion made his stomach churn with violent upheaval. He found his way to the tinderbox and struck away at the flint. His irritation proved a boon for the task. In no time, he had the brace of candles lit, filling the modest chamber he had taken with warm, golden light.

  A dreadful mistake, as it turned out.

  Because milady was wearing a night rail.

  A thin, virginal white affair buttoned to her throat. But it clung to her curves as if it had been fashioned for the sole purpose of tormenting any man who gazed upon her whilst she wore it. It was the sort of gown a man could not help but to imagine tearing off her.

  Her eyes were wide, lower lip caught between her teeth. “I wanted to speak with you alone. That could not have been accomplished by any other means than awaiting you here.”

  He withdrew his knife, candlelight glinting off the sharp blade. “I could have stuck this between your ribs, milady. That’s what I was about to do, when you spoke.”

  Her gaze settled on the knife, her pallor undeniable. “I…did not think of such a possibility. Forgive me.”

  “You may have been born to ballrooms and silk, but in the rookeries, when a man is hiding in the darkness, there’s only one reason for it. He intends to kill you, and you’ve got to draw your blade first and sink it deep.”

  She frowned. “I did not want the servants to know I was in here awaiting you. I thought it would be easier to hide myself if one of them were to return if there was no light. I did not think…”

  “Aye,” he bit out, losing his patience. “You did not think, did you, milady? You never do, else you would not commit half the reckless actions you take.”

  The expression on her face only filled him with further fury. She looked stricken.

  Damned spoiled duke’s daughter. He threw his knife. It hurtled through the air, the blade landing in the wall on the opposite end of the room exactly where he had intended, the tip buried inside Devereaux Winter’s fine plaster. He would pay for the repair to the wallcoverings later. For now, he was too damned irritated to care.

  Her lips parted as her gaze went to the blade protruding from the wall and then back to Devil. “There is no need to be so rude, Mr. Winter. I was not hiding in your chamber with the intention of doing you harm. I only wished to talk.”

  Talking was the last thing he wanted to do with this vexing baggage.

  What he wanted to do was kiss her breathless. And then strip her bare and bury his face between her thighs. To lick her until she was writhing and desperate and spending all over his tongue. But he was not going to do any of those things, damn it. He was going to get her out of here instead. Latch the door behind her pretty back.

  “I do not want to talk with you, milady,” he growled at her. “And you do not belong in my chamber.”

  “How else was I to garner a moment of your time? You have been avoiding me for the past two days.”

  Had he been avoiding her? Hell, yes, he had. Because kissing her had been the height of stupidity. And he had thought of nothing other than doing it again ever since.

  “You have been in my presence plenty,” he gritted. “You could have said what you wanted at any time.”

  Despite his surliness, milady showed no signs of relenting. She remained where she was, stubborn as ever. “Not in the presence of Smithson.”

  He had made certain to never be alone with her since those disastrous lessons. Her lady’s maid had been playing the chaperone, keeping them both out of further trouble. Now she was here, where he had spent every night stroking his cock to thoughts of her.

  Shite, damn, fuck.

  All the curses in the world were not sufficient to adequately express the way he felt this moment.

  “Anything you have to say to me would be best spoken before your lady’s maid,” he rasped, hating the huskiness in his voice, giving him away.

  A river of lust was flowing through him. Threatening to carry him away.

  “I want to resume our lessons,” said the cursed woman.

  The lust river turned into an ocean. He was drowning.

  Devil closed his eyes and counted to ten. But when he opened them, she was still standing in his chamber, her brown-gold eyes fastened upon him, her face unutterably lovely.

  Wearing a night rail.

  And that was when he noticed her nipples were hard. Tempting, stiff buds calling to him from beneath that linen.

  He jerked his gaze back up to her eyes, where it was far safer to look. “No.”

  The persistent wench did not flinch. “Why not?”

  “Get out of my chamber.”

  If he was going to have to toss her over his shoulder to bodily remove her, he would. She could not bloody well remain standing here, with her nipples taunting him. He was not fashioned of stone, although he had no intention of bedding her.

  “Mr. Winter,” she began.

  “No,” he interrupted, not interested in hearing anything else she had to say.

  “Theo,” she tried again.

  She had not just called him Theo, damn her. No one call
ed him that.

  “Devil.” He was moving forward now, propelled by his ire and his increasingly waning ability to restrain himself.

  Her eyes widened, but she did not retreat. Instead, the impossible woman remained where she was, bare feet firmly planted on Devereaux Winter’s expensive Aubusson.

  Even her dainty feet were alluring, curse her. Devil had never noticed a woman’s feet, for God’s sake.

  She smiled. “I prefer Theo.”

  So did he when she said it in her sweet voice. Hell. That smile of hers did indecent things to him. He reached her, folded his considerable height in half, and settled his shoulder into the softness of her belly as he wrapped his arm around her legs. There. He straightened, and she was light as a bird, slung over him.

  “Mr. Winter!” she shrieked.

  Too loudly, by God.

  He swatted her rump. “Quiet or you’ll bring the house down upon us.”

  “That stung, you brute.”

  A brute, was he? Good. Mayhap if she thought ill of him, she would do a better job of keeping her distance.

  Devil turned on his heel and retraced his steps, saying nothing.

  “Put me down! I want to speak with you. Why are you carting me out of your chamber? Theo! Mr. Winter!”

  The more he ignored her, the louder her protests became. He swatted her bottom again. A bit harder this time. Damn, her arse was an excellent handful.

  “Devil!” she spat just as he reached the door.

  He stopped. “Curse you, lower your voice.”

  “Fine. Put me down and I will speak in a quieter tone.”

  “It is not my reputation I seek to protect, milady.”

  “Why are you so eager to have me removed from your chamber?” she demanded, sounding outraged.

  “If you looked in the shiner, you would know,” he told her grimly.