Anything. Everything.
“Felicity.” He said her name as if it were a prayer. Chanted it as he kissed across her jaw. Hot little pecks that left her knees weak. All the way to her ear, where his breath made her shiver. “Sweet, innocent Lady Felicity. What are you doing to me?”
She would have returned the question, asked him what he was doing to her, but the connection between her mind and her tongue had been vanquished by the trajectory of his beautiful mouth. He was kissing behind her ear now, then down her throat, alternating between worshipful caresses with his lips, nips with his teeth, and wicked suction.
Her head fell back. A moan stole from her. She was tingling. Everywhere.
“Tell me to leave you, and I will go,” he murmured.
Impossible.
Him leaving was the last thing she wanted, no matter how wrong this was. How dangerous. Auntie Agatha would never discover them here, but someone else could. Other guests, a servant.
She clutched him to her. “Stay.”
“That was unwise of you, love. Last chance.”
“Do not stop,” she ordered him.
And then she claimed his mouth once more.
If she had to marry to save her sisters, before she did so, she was going to do this for herself. She was going to kiss Blade Winter senseless, and she was going to enjoy every moment of it. She would not surrender her innocence. Felicity did not dare to go that far. However, why not seize what was being offered with both hands?
And with her lips?
Their mouths moved together as if they had each been fashioned for this reckless moment, for this meeting of lips and tongues and teeth. They kissed as if this were the first and the last time. With desperation and awe and an overwhelming sense of urgency.
“Sweet Felicity,” he whispered.
She did not feel sweet. She felt…desperate. But anyway, it mattered not. For she could not manage a single response save a throaty sigh. He felt too good. Kissing Blade Winter was forbidden and wonderful. She never wanted to pull her lips from his. Indeed, she was reasonably convinced she could go without her next breath if it meant she could continue keeping their mouths fused.
He ended the kiss as abruptly as she had begun it, tearing his lips from hers and staring down at her. His bright-blue eyes were brilliant and vivid. His breathing was as ragged as Felicity’s was. Good, then. He was not unaffected.
But why had he stopped kissing her?
“Blade,” she began, only to be silenced by the press of his forefinger to her lips.
“Hush.”
“Hush?” she mumbled against his finger.
“Someone is coming,” he said.
And that was all she needed to hear for her skin to go cold and her heart to plummet. She pushed away from him, mouth dry. Good God, this was how her hopes of securing Esme’s and Cassandra’s futures ended. Destroyed in the false ruins at a country house party by an East End scoundrel whose most recent accomplishment appeared to be wounding the Earl of Penhurst in a duel.
Because he had bedded the man’s wife.
“Remain here,” he ordered her, voice low. “I will meet whomever it is. Do not open the door, whatever you do.”
She nodded, startled he was thinking of propriety. Of her reputation. But then again, one could only suppose he had no wish to cause more trouble for his family. His duel with Penhurst was the reason he was in attendance at Mr. Devereaux Winter and Lady Emilia Winter’s Christmastide party. At least, that was what Lady Aylesford had relayed. The family thought he could do little damage rusticating in the country.
Her kiss-swollen lips and about-to-be-ruined reputation were proof to the contrary.
More fool, she.
Still, Felicity could do nothing but watch as he turned away from her and stalked across the chamber, quitting the room. Voices echoed in the hall beyond the closed door. Masculine, both of them.
She could only pray it was a servant, arriving to tend the fire. Their words did not carry to her; she was left with nothing save the tone of their voices. Nothing seemed amiss. She pressed a hand to her rapidly beating heart, willing it to calm as her eyes frantically cast about the chamber, looking for a place where she might hide herself lest Mr. Winter find himself unable to keep their unexpected guest from entering the chamber and discovering her within.
There was none. Indeed, there was nothing to be done. She had to remain here, hoping he would play the gentleman, that he would protect her honor. That she had not been so recklessly foolish that she could never recover from this tremendous lapse of reason.
Esme and Cassandra, she reminded herself. How dare she have been selfish? How dare she have given in to temptation?
If she escaped from this folly with her reputation intact, it would serve as a stern lesson to her. She was not infallible. She could not afford to spend further time with Blade Winter, alone or accompanied. The man was dangerous to her reputation and virtue both.
Because he was the most deliciously handsome man she had ever beheld. And because he was also the most fluent kisser. She could well understand Lady Penhurst’s defection. Though thoughts of the woman stung—the notion of any other female in Blade Winter’s arms did, in truth—Felicity could acknowledge that much.
In what was mayhap a futile action, she retrieved her discarded pelisse and stuffed her arms into the sleeves. Frantically, she began fastening the seemingly endless line of buttons. If she were fully clothed, mayhap she could blunt the scandal’s blow…
Oh, who was she fooling? There would be no blunting. The blow of scandal, however it came, was always felling for a lady. And for a lady such as herself, needing to make a match to save her sisters’ futures, it would be a societal death knell, pure and simple.
Felicity reached the top of her pelisse, only to realize she had misbuttoned. One mooring remained, but no buttons. The entire affair was off. A glance down her person confirmed she had begun with the second button instead of the first.
“Blast,” she muttered, as she began to unfasten them with as much haste as her trembling fingers could muster.
The door opened and her heart fell for the second time.
But only Blade Winter sauntered through. The portal closed behind him. He looked as if he had been kissing someone, she thought to herself. And then she realized he had.
Her.
What a cursed disaster. What had she been thinking?
“Who was it?” she whispered.
“The footman sent to tend the fire,” he said smoothly. “I have assured him I will stoke the flame for him. He is returning to the main house now, none the wiser that I am not alone.”
Relief fell upon her with so much force, she nearly swooned.
Here was a reprieve, she hoped.
“My lady?” he asked, reaching her, seizing her arms in a grip that was gentle but firm. “You are pale. You are not going to swoon on me, are you?”
She inhaled slowly. “No.”
But she swayed. Listed to the left, then the right. Everything swirled. Even his handsome face and his well-kissed mouth. It had only been a servant, she reminded herself. Not anyone who might cause them trouble. Thank the sweet heavens above. It had not been anyone who might have stormed past Mr. Winter, entered the chamber, and saw her there with her misbuttoned pelisse and kiss-swollen lips.
He steadied her, proving the anchor to her storm-tossed ship. “Calm, Lady Felicity. No one shall ever be the wiser that you were here alone with me. The servant is on his way back to the main house.”
It could have been worse.
So much worse.
And she had been selfish to conduct herself thus, with him.
So desperately, foolishly, stupidly selfish.
She had not been thinking of her sisters when she had been in Blade Winter’s arms. She had only been thinking of herself.
“I must go,” she managed to say. “This… I cannot…We cannot… What happened between us was a mistake, Mr. Winter. One I cannot afford to
make again. I have far too many people depending upon me to allow myself to make such an egregious error, regardless of how much I may enjoy it in the moment.”
Because she had enjoyed it, hadn’t she? Oh dear heavens, how she had.
“What happened between us was not a mistake,” he denied softly, releasing her to trail a finger down her cheek. “You kissed me. That was not a mistake.”
“Yes,” she hissed at him, finally managing to get her pelisse buttoned in the proper order at last. “It was. One which cannot—must not—be repeated.”
“Cannot why?” he asked.
“Because it is wrong.”
“So you have said.” He eyed her calmly. “But you have not spoken a word of why.”
“I have already told you.” She glared at him, hating herself for wanting him so much. Hating him for being so deuced handsome. The inking of the blade atop his hand mocked her. So, too, his visage. Perfectly masculine. Perfect, in every sense.
Little wonder all the ladies wanted him.
Little wonder Lady Penhurst would forsake her husband.
Curse Lady Penhurst. Felicity wished she had never heard the woman’s name. Wished those sweet, hot, knowing lips that had so recently devoured hers had never known another’s beneath them.
“Tell me again, then, if you please,” he commanded, that brilliant gaze of his traveling over her face, reaching deep inside her to a place she dearly longed to keep from him.
He was getting beneath her skin, this man. He was finding his way to the deepest part of her heart. A heart he had no business invading, a heart she had no intention of inviting him into.
“I must make a match to save my sisters,” she said, desperation defeating her pride. “My father has tremendous debts, the sort which cannot be ameliorated with ease or time. I have younger sisters, Esme and Cassandra. They have no dowries to speak of, and yet they must wed. I want them to find husbands who care for them. Husbands who will be gentle and kind and considerate. Husbands who appreciate their intellects, who love them.”
He raised a golden brow, studying her closely. “And still, I do not hear a reason why you must make a match.”
“My sisters are depending upon me,” she snapped. “Have you not been listening? My father spent every guinea he possessed and then he spent more. Without a grand match from me, Esme and Cassandra have no hope.”
“And yet, if you make a match to save your sisters, you are the one without hope. Is that not so, my lady?”
His shrewd query cut too close. Because it was true. It was true, and she hated the position in which she now found herself. “This is the necessary way of things. I must marry well to secure their dowries.”
She expected Blade Winter to bow and allow her to pass, to let her run from him and the temptation he presented. To make the best choice—nay, the only choice—reason allowed. She had a reputation to preserve. All she needed to do was secure herself a husband. It should have been easy enough.
But she had not bargained for the presence of Mr. Blade Winter, or the way he would make her feel.
Aflame.
She banished the thought.
“Why do not they marry well themselves?” he suggested. “Your sisters. Why should you be the sacrifice so they may live happy lives?”
Felicity stared at him, at a loss.
“No quick answer for that one, have you?”
“It is my duty,” she snapped, readying herself to sweep past him.
“Ah.” He nodded, drawing out the lone syllable in excruciating—and nettling—fashion. “Duty.”
She bristled. “And what is wrong with duty, Mr. Winter? I should not imagine you can find shame in it.”
“Nay. But I can find shame in a beautiful, passionate lady such as yourself throwing herself on the sword for the sake of her sisters. Let them make matches as they will. Why suffer to make their lives better if it only makes yours worse?”
He thought she was beautiful?
She did her utmost to strike the warmth flooding her away. To tamp it down. To ignore it. But Blade Winter was a force. A force she could neither deny nor resist. And to her dismay, he was making sense.
When he questioned her, she had to wonder herself why all the responsibility fell upon her shoulders.
“I am the eldest of my siblings,” she countered.
Yes, there was that. As the oldest daughter, there were expectations in place for her, regardless of her father’s mounting gambling debts.
“And?” Mr. Winter asked, shrugging his shoulders. “Dom is the eldest of my siblings, but I never asked him to marry his wife, Lady Adele. Indeed, I argued against it. Thought it would make him miserable. As it happens, I was wrong. I can admit my faults. However, I do not think I am wrong about this. You deserve to find your own happiness. To the devil with anyone else.”
If only she could feel the same.
But she could not. She did not have the luxury.
“I love Esme and Cassandra. I want what is best for them, and if I must sacrifice my future for them to gain theirs, then I shall.”
“And who will thank you for it?” he asked grimly.
Who indeed?
Still, it did not matter. Every moment she lingered was one of heightened danger.
She shook her head. “I do not require thanks. The interruption was most fortuitous, and I dare not remain here alone with you a minute longer.”
Stricken, she turned away from him and fled.
Blade Winter did not follow, and as she plunged back into the wintry chill, she told herself it was for the best.
“You and your sisters are up to something.”
Pru cast a glance in the direction of her handsome husband as they walked through the maze in the gardens of Abingdon Hall. Lord Ashley Rawdon cut a debonair figure, and though they had been married for nearly a year, she still looked at him—her beautiful, golden god—and could not believe he was hers.
“Why would you say such a thing?” she asked, trying not to smile.
“You do not think gentlemen notice when their wives are plotting?” he teased, his voice lighthearted.
“Hmm.” She clutched his arm, enjoying the brightness of the sun, reflecting off the snow, the crisp cold of the day. “Mary and Jane are walking now. Can you believe it?”
Their twin daughters had begun their young lives in a foundling hospital, but Pru and Ash had taken them in shortly after they married. The girls were thriving, and Ash was a wonderful father.
“They are determined and brave, much like their mama,” Ash told her tenderly.
“Imagine what it shall be like when Edmond is walking too,” she said, smiling.
“All three of them.” Ash laughed, the sound low and deep, sending a trill down her spine. “I cannot wait to see it. But do cease your attempts to distract me from my course. You are plotting something, are you not?”
“Plotting is a strong word,” she hedged. “I prefer matchmaking.”
“Between Blade and Lady Felicity?”
“What if we are?”
Ash turned to her and caught her around the waist, pulling her against his lean frame. “You are utter lunatics, every last one of you.”
“I am insulted on behalf of my sisters.” She twined her arms around his neck, tipping her head back for his kiss.
“How can I soothe your indignation, my love?” He kissed her cheek, then one corner of her lips.
“I have a few ideas,” she said, breathless already.
He chuckled again. “I have no doubt you do, sweet.”
“You do not think Blade and Lady Felicity would make an excellent match?” she asked as he kissed her throat.
“He is a hardened fellow. Does not seem the sort to marry for love.” Ash sucked gently on her tender flesh.
“Mmm,” she said. “I think you are wrong about him. He has a good heart. He merely needs the right woman.”
And that was why she had made certain to tell him Lady Felicity was going to the false
ruins this morning. She and Ash had made some memories there that she would always recall with tender fondness.
“You smell so damned good,” Ash told her, rubbing his cheek along her throat. “Do you remember when we had a snowball fight here last year?”
“How could I forget?” She kissed his ear, his cheek. Heavens, she loved this man.
“What do you say we indulge in another?” He worked his way back to her mouth, kissing her deeply. “And then afterward, we can warm ourselves inside.”
“Why, Lord Ashley, however do you propose we might warm ourselves?” She fluttered her lashes as she posed the teasing question.
“I have a notion or two.”
She pulled his lips back to hers. “Excellent,” she said against his mouth.
Chapter Eight
“Where have you been?” Auntie Agatha demanded the moment Felicity crossed the threshold of her guest chamber.
Felicity pressed a hand to her heart, which was still racing from the combined effects of Blade Winter’s kisses, her retreat from the false ruins, and the sheer surprise of her aunt’s presence. “I went for a walk.”
“Again?” Her aunt swept forward, leaning heavily upon her cane. “You seem to be taking an awfully large number of those for the winter, dear girl. Your cheeks are terribly flushed.”
“From the cold, I expect,” she said calmly, hoping her lips—which still tingled with the haunting memory of Blade’s mouth—were not swollen.
Auntie Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “Your hair is mussed, girl.”
“I walked into a low-hanging branch,” she invented hastily. “It took my hat and got caught in my hair.”
“Need I remind you of the reason you are in attendance here?” her aunt asked, thumping her cane on the floor for emphasis.
“I am well aware of why I am here and what I must do,” she said quietly, guilt striking her anew over her selfish behavior in the false ruins.
She had been so close to losing everything. She must never allow herself to be alone with Mr. Winter again. He was too tempting. Too handsome. Too opposite of the sort of man she must wed.
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