Winter’s Whispers

by Scott, Scarlett

  She had thought he intended to make love to her tonight. And she wanted that. She wanted it more now than she had realized.

  “I found pleasure enough in making you spend, love,” he said. “You are going to be married, and I will not take your innocence. It would not be right.”

  Could this be? An honorable rogue?

  Why?

  Did he not know honor was the last thing she had sought in coming here to him tonight? She had taken a great risk to find her way here, to his chamber. And she wanted her reward. She wanted him.

  “I am not married yet,” she said, shivering as a cool draft of air swept over her, reminding her of her nudity. “As you said, no one will know I am ruined.”

  “I will know,” he admitted in a low rasp. “I want to be a gentleman for you, Felicity. You deserve no less.”

  Her heart gave a pang. “Blade, please.”

  “You do not know what you’re asking of me,” he said.

  She reached for his hands, feeling brazen and desperate all at once. “Touch me.”

  “Felicity.”

  “I am aching for you,” she whispered. “If I must spend the rest of my life in a marriage founded in duty, give me this, Blade. Give me this one night in your arms.”

  “Christ,” he bit out, his countenance turning harsh.

  He was a man at war with himself, his jaw a hard slash to rival his cheekbones. His eyes were dark and stormy, like the sea at sunset.

  She brought his palms to her breasts, rolling to her side so they were face-to-face, chest to chest. “Please.”

  “There will be no going back, love,” he warned, his voice sounding strained.

  “Nor do I want there to be.” She shifted, bringing their bodies closer. The heavy ridge of his manhood pressed against her belly.

  A new kind of heat blazed between her thighs.

  A new longing.

  “Tell me what to do,” she urged when he remained silent, his sole movement in the thumbs that rolled over her nipples in slow, tantalizing circles.

  “Damn it,” he cursed. “You do not know what you are asking.”

  “I know, Blade, and I want you. Just you.”

  Always you.

  Those two words came from seemingly nowhere, taking her by surprise. At the last moment, she suppressed them, kept from speaking them aloud. Whatever this was between them, it felt sacred and rare. And she wanted to revel in it, in him, while she could.

  Before it was taken from her.

  With a growl, he tore open the belt keeping his dressing gown in place. He shrugged the black fabric away and emerged, naked and godlike. He took her breath. But her eyes had only a moment to feast upon his broad chest—where initials had been inked upon his flesh, along with a cross—his taut abdomen, the golden trail of hair leading to his manhood.

  He was thick and long and ruddy, and the sight of him both terrified and thrilled her. She knew what he was meant to do with that magnificent part of himself. And how it would fit inside her was a mystery she would soon discover if the intensity in his gaze was any indication.

  “Touch me,” he said.

  She knew then he had made up his mind. He was going to make love to her. To take her innocence. Everything in her sent up a resounding wave of gladness, followed swiftly by renewed desire.

  He took her hand and placed it on him there, where he was surprisingly smooth and so warm. He guided her, showing her how to stroke from root to tip. How powerful she felt, touching this man, making him groan. A pearly bead on the end of his manhood enthralled her. She swirled her thumb over it, earning another moan and a thrust of his hips.

  With her left hand, she caressed his shoulder, then ran her touch down his well-muscled biceps where she discovered a faded scar. Then on to his chest, tracing over the ink there. All whilst she gripped him, pleasuring him in return.

  “Sweet hell, Felicity,” he said on a groan, and then he took her mouth.

  He kissed her tenderly at first, then with greater abandon. Her lips moved against his, opening for his questing tongue. Abruptly, he ended it, raining a series of kisses down her neck, to her breasts. He kissed and licked and sucked. She continued enjoying free reign over his beautiful body, touching him, stroking him.

  They rolled together, Felicity on her back, Blade settled between her thighs.

  He buried his face between her breasts, his lips skimming over her, igniting more fire as he went. And then he reached between them, working her bud with his fingers, sending more longing to her core.

  “Your cunny is drenched for me, love.”

  His pronouncement did not cause her any shame. Instead, she was pleased. She basked in the adoration in his voice, the almost drunken expression his countenance had acquired, pleasure threatening to overwhelm him.

  “Yes,” she said, hips moving, seeking, her hand grasping, stroking.

  She was desperate to have him inside her, and she did not care if he knew it.

  Abruptly, he took her wrist in a gentle grip and plucked her hand away from him. He lowered his forehead to hers, leveraging himself over her with one arm. “If you keep touching my cock like that, I will spend before I have even been inside you. That is how much I want you.”

  She kissed him, moving her hips, trying to get him closer to where she needed him most. “I want you inside me.”

  “Last chance to stop this madness,” he whispered into her mouth as he positioned the blunt head of his rod between her thighs.

  As he spoke the words, he ran himself over her folds, slicking himself with her wetness.

  “No stopping,” she said against his lips.

  He pressed against her core, where his finger had been. But his cock, as he had called it, was so much larger. Just when she thought she could not withstand another second of waiting, he thrust. He was inside her, stretching her, claiming her.

  Pain and pleasure mixed in a heady crescendo.

  Blade was atop her, his hard body between her thighs, pinning her to his bed. The intimacy of the moment was almost surreal. She had imagined the act more times than she could count since meeting this man. And yet, nothing had prepared her.

  He kissed her again, beginning to move. Slowly. Another shallow pump of his hips. More stretching, a slight burn. It was not uncomfortable as she had been warned it would be by others who whispered behind fans and repeated what their elder sisters, mothers, and aunts had told them.

  No, indeed. Everything about making love with him was wondrous. She was more aware of herself than she had ever been, of all the places where their bodies joined in delicious friction.

  He guided her legs around his waist and sank all the way to the hilt. The sensation was exquisite. She shook with it. Cried out with it. Having him deep within her felt so perfectly right, so achingly good.

  He broke the kiss, staring down at her, his countenance tense, troubled. “How are you, love?”

  She cradled his face in her hands. “The best I have ever been.”

  It was true. There was pain; that could not be denied. But there was also an exhilarating, foreign sense of fulfillment. His concern for her welfare was sweet, though not surprising. She had come to know there was far more to Blade Winter than he admitted and pretended over the duration of this house party.

  Here was a side that was just hers.

  For now, said the bitter voice within her. A warning.

  She cast it aside, brought his mouth back to hers.

  He kissed her hard, and then he withdrew, almost leaving her body entirely, only to sink back inside her. Pleasure engulfed her, chasing the pain. In and out he moved, again and again. With each pump of his hips, she thought she would come undone again. But it was not until he bit her lower lip and reached between them to toy with the swollen nub of her sex that the next release rolled over her.

  It was different with him inside her like this, even better than before. She was intensely aware of him, so large and thick and rigid, of her sheath tightening on him. Pleasure sla
mmed through her, like the crack of thunder in a summer’s storm. Sudden, intense, surprising.

  She spent, crying out into his kiss.

  He stiffened, moving faster, his every motion heightening her pleasure. On a guttural cry, he withdrew from her. With a low moan, he rocked into the bedclothes between her spread thighs, finding his own release.

  He collapsed atop her, his heart pounding to match hers, and Felicity stroked his back, holding him tight.

  Never wanting to let him go.

  Knowing she would have to all too soon.

  Chapter Eleven

  Blade had never lingered in bed with his lovers.

  Bedding them had always been about one purpose: getting the poison out of him. But in the aftermath of making love to Felicity, everything was different. He was different.

  Or mayhap he had been different with her all along, and he was only realizing it now. Hell. He did not know. All he was certain of was the deep and abiding tenderness rushing through him for her.

  Slowly, he returned to bone and sinew—making love to her had initially turned his mind and body into pudding. He rolled to his side, belatedly aware he was likely crushing her with his massive size, all his weight upon her.

  An unexpected rush of foreign emotion seized him, clogging his throat for a moment as he drank in the sight of her, naked and flushed beside him. She was so gloriously beautiful. Making love to her still seemed as if it were a dream, despite her presence in his bed.

  He never wanted her to leave.

  Never wanted the night to end.

  He swallowed, caught her hand in his, and raised it to his lips for a kiss. “Thank you.”

  Her mouth was swollen from his kisses. The flecks of gold in her hazel gaze were more prominent. She had never been lovelier.

  “No,” she returned softly. “Thank you.”

  “You are the most stunning woman I have ever seen,” he told her, and he meant those words. It was not idle flattery. Not his inner rakehell speaking.

  There was more he wanted to say, so much more, clambering up his throat. But he could not find the proper words to communicate them. He wanted to tell her how much he appreciated her, how much being her first meant to him.

  How much he wanted to be her only.

  Hell and damnation.

  The color in her cheeks heightened. “You make me feel as if I am.”

  “Because you are.”

  It was a travesty that she was not utterly confident. That she did not know how easily she could bring any man to his knees. Including Blade.

  A sad smile curved her lips. “I shall treasure this night always. But I should go.”

  A physical ache sprang from his chest. “Stay with me.”

  The thick fringe of her lashes swept over her cheeks, shielding her eyes from him. “I fear I have already lingered long enough. The damage to my reputation…”

  She was still in his bed, and she was already worrying about the marriage she would need to make with another man. Every part of him railed against the notion.

  He squeezed her fingers. “I promised you no one would be the wiser. I will get you back to your chamber without anyone knowing, I swear. Just stay here a bit longer.”

  Christ, he was pathetic.

  But he didn’t care.

  All he wanted was more Felicity.

  She looked as if she were about to argue, so he settled his lips on hers and kissed her. He took his time, showing her all the words he wanted to say, the sentiment, ripe and confusing, within him. He had never been a man given to emotion. Hell, any empathy he had possessed had been beaten out of him in his youth. He had fled from his mother’s endless string of lovers and saved himself by inflicting further violence upon others.

  But this woman—Felicity—the innate goodness and purity of her—humbled him. Made him want to be better. To be a man she deserved. And he was not ready to surrender her yet.

  He broke the kiss, pressed his mouth to her cheeks, her jaw, breathing her in. “Stay with me, love.”

  “Blade.” His name was a sigh in her dulcet tones.

  The urge to give her a piece of him rose, strong. Undeniable. He kissed her ear, her throat, the delicate curve of her shoulder. “Richard.”

  “Pardon?”

  He dragged his mouth across her collarbone, absorbing the silken warmth of her with his lips. “The name I was born with. It’s Richard Barlow, after my mother’s maiden name and my mother’s father. I became Blade Winter later.”

  “Richard,” she said softly, her hands on him, caressing.

  His heart thudded. This was a part of himself he had not shared with anyone. No one had spoken his true name since he had been a lad. “Aye. Richard.”

  He kissed his way back to her delicate jaw.

  Her fingers threaded through his hair. “How did you come to be Blade Winter?”

  Her soft query took him by surprise. He kissed her lips again, then raised his head to study her. At this proximity, he found tiny cinnamon and gray flecks in her eyes.

  He caressed her cheek. “Blade because I am a dab with daggers and knives. I could win a knife fight blindfolded, with one arm tied behind my back. Hell, I have, and won fifty beans for the trouble. I took on the name Winter after I discovered who my father was, one of my mother’s many patrons. And only on account of Blade Winter sounding better than Blade Barlow.”

  “Oh, Blade. Your mother was…”

  “A ladybird,” he finished for her. “And my father was a man I’ve never met. A heartless businessman who left a secret family of bastards scattered all over the East End. I’m not fit to touch a fine lady like you.”

  And yet he was touching her. Because he could not stop. He ran his knuckles over her cheek.

  Felicity pressed her lips to them. “There is no other man I would rather touch me.”

  He had to swallow against the crashing rush of need her words invoked. He could not find words again, so he sealed their mouths, kissing her slowly, savoring her. Savoring the moment, the connection. This was a new form of intimacy, unprecedented.

  When the kiss ended, he was breathless, his cock rigid and ready. But he knew he would not make love to her again. Likely, she was sore after her first time.

  “Blade,” she whispered, framing his face in her elegant, smooth hands.

  The hands of a lady.

  She looked up at him as if she were trying to memorize every facet of him. As if she were committing this moment to memory. And he knew the feeling, because he was bloody well doing the same.

  “Yes, love?” he rasped, his voice feeling rusty beneath the weight of so much newfound emotion.

  “Make love to me again.”

  Bloody hell.

  The fire was crackling low in the grate, and Felicity was cocooned in Blade’s bedclothes, her body deliciously sore and awakened in new places. She should have returned to her chamber hours ago. Indeed, she ought to be asleep, tucked safely into her bed at the opposite end of Abingdon Hall where no scandal could befall her.

  Instead, she was waiting for him to return from the kitchens.

  After they had made love a second time—the last more poignant and sweet than the first—she had lain there in his arms, reluctant to go. And her stomach had growled. Apparently, lovemaking had an effect upon not just her head and her heart, but her appetite as well.

  She had been mortified, but Blade had chuckled, pressed a kiss to her crown, and declared he would sneak to the kitchens to find them both some sustenance. He was so sweet. The charming part of his nature, she had expected. But he was treating her with a reverence that was steadily chipping away at the wall she had tried to erect around her heart.

  The door to the chamber opened, and there he was, bearing a tray and his handsome, roguish grin. The wall was nothing but rubble. Her heart gave a pang.

  She had fallen in love with him.

  With the most unsuitable man at the house party.

  “I managed to scavenge some biscuits and wine,
” he announced quietly.

  Dear heavens. How was she going to be able to leave him and forget about this night? He had left his mark upon her as surely as the ink drawings he wore on his skin. He had told her about his past. Touched her with an admiration that left her in awe. Made love to her in a way she knew no other man ever could.

  He had donned trousers and a shirt to descend belowstairs, but he rather looked like a golden pirate with his bare feet and his disheveled hair. The buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a swath of his chest and the initials he had inked upon his flesh.

  She summoned a smile. “Perfect.”

  He laid the tray on the bed and joined her, sitting opposite Felicity. “Whatever my lady desires, I shall provide.”

  His gallant air made her heart give another pang. Each second that passed took her closer to dawn and the inevitable moment when they would part and this would be nothing but a memory. “Thank you for braving the darkened halls and rummaging through the kitchens on my behalf.”

  “Anything for you, love.” He busied himself with pouring the wine.

  She reached for a biscuit to distract herself from the turbulent thoughts running through her mind. The first bite was buttery and delicious. It appeased her stomach but not her need to think of anything other than their inevitable parting of ways.

  “Are the biscuits that dreadful, then?” he asked, his tone turning teasing. “You are frowning at me as if I have given you a raw rasher of bacon.”

  She accepted the wine he offered to her, their fingers brushing. Heat slid up her arm and settled between her thighs with that lone, innocent touch. “It is not the biscuits that are causing me to frown.”

  Rather, it was the number of hours in the night, steadily dwindling.

  “Tell me something that makes you smile,” he suggested lightly.

  No one had ever made such a request of her. She thought for a moment. “Sunshine makes me smile. Flowers, good books, sketching, my sisters Esme and Cassandra, the sound of birds singing in the summer, the seaside, and Miss Wilhelmina.”

  Also, rakish charmers from the rookeries who kissed like an angel, had a reputation as wicked as the devil’s, learned to dance for her, and brought her biscuits and wine at half past three in the morning.