Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters Book 9)

by Scarlett Scott

  But Evie was not a wilting flower. She tipped her chin up, met his glare with a bright smile she little felt.

  “Do not forget this is an even exchange, sir. You have promised to teach me your skill as well,” she reminded him.

  Not because she had any desire to wield a blade against a hunk of wood. But because she did not want him to hide himself away. Because she wanted him right here. With her.

  Evie would worry about the meaning of that later. Devil Winter intrigued her. He…

  Nay, Evie! Cease all such inappropriate thoughts at once.

  She must not travel any further down that ruinous path. Mr. Devil Winter was not for her. She was going to marry Lord Denton, who was the epitome of elegance and polite manners. He was handsome, sought after, a most eligible parti.

  Not as handsome as Mr. Winter.

  She banished the unwanted, wicked voice. Even if it was true, she had no right to be entertaining such thoughts. Devil Winter was not for her. He could never be for her. Her sister may have married beneath her, wedding Mr. Dominic Winter in a bid to ease their madcap brother’s gambling debts. But although their union had turned into a love match, Evie was firm in her path. Lord Denton was perfectly polite. He danced well, was the heir to a noble title, and her father approved of him.

  Pity she was not in love with him.

  However, love would grow. She was certain.

  Devil Winter was watching her intently now, fixing her with a stare that yet again seemed to see far too much.

  “You want to learn to whittle now?” he asked, as if the mere suggestion irritated him.

  His voice was curt, angry, with an extra edge. Quite probably, she ought to tell him she had changed her mind. That he could teach her to carve another day. But the plain truth was she did not want to watch him go. She did not want to be alone.

  Without him.

  “Yes,” she suggested brightly. “I do want to learn.”

  Something flashed in his eyes. Changed his expression. “I haven’t the patience to play your teacher today.”

  An unfamiliar urge rose within her, a tightening in her belly, a heat flaring where it should not. The longing was fierce and insistent, foolish and wild, brazen and reckless. But it would not be quelled, no matter how hard she attempted to ignore it.

  Mayhap it was that he was so handsome, so tall and strong and different from the gentlemen she knew. Or that he was there, within her reach. She felt connected to him in a way she could not explain. She felt safe with him, it was true. But she also felt…curious. Was it Romeo and Juliet that had her heart leaping and the rest of her feeling fluttery? Or was it Mr. Devil Winter?

  Evie met his gaze, holding it. “What if I do not wish to learn how to whittle today? What if there is another sort of lesson I want instead?”

  He stilled. The air hung heavy, rife with a poignant note. “What other lesson, milady?”

  There was a dangerous note in his voice. His jaw tensed. The blue of his eyes deepened. His stare dipped to her mouth. The hunger between them was palpable, stealing her breath.

  What was she saying? What was she doing?

  She needed to cease this madness at once. She was treading on dangerous ground. Dreadfully unstable, rotten floorboards that could give out at any moment, sending her hurtling to the floor below.

  She did not care. In the past few days, everything had changed. Every facet of her life had altered. The desire to feel this man’s lips on hers surpassed every other need or thought.

  She held his gaze. “Kissing.”

  Devil Winter said nothing. For a moment, she wondered if she had spoken that lone, forbidden word aloud, giving voice to the temptation.

  But then, at last, he spoke, his voice deep and strong. “Kissing.”

  Her heart was pounding so loudly she feared he could hear it where he stood.

  “Yes.” Her voice was a whisper of sound as it left her.

  “I cannot give you that sort of lesson, Lady Evangeline.”

  Stinging humiliation swept over her, chasing the heat, the awareness. She had made a grievous mistake. What had she been thinking to suggest he teach her how to kiss? She was engaged to Lord Denton.

  But she had never felt a modicum of what she felt in Mr. Winter’s presence for her betrothed. There was no comparison. How could she feel the way she did with a man who was not the man she was marrying? Indeed, with a man who was not a gentleman at all?

  She swallowed down a knot rising in her throat. “Of course, Mr. Winter. I…do not know what came over me. Forgive me.”

  How mortifying.

  This time, she was the one who was fleeing. She swept past him.

  But before she could make good on her retreat, he growled, “Wait.”

  She turned back to him, staving off a rush of tears pricking her eyes. “I have already apologized, Mr. Winter. What more do you—”

  The remainder of her words were silenced beneath his lips.

  Devil Winter was kissing her.

  Chapter Six

  Devil had committed many sins in his life.

  Kissing Lady Evangeline Saltisford was but one.

  But none had ever been this bloody satisfying.

  Her mouth was soft and ripe beneath his. For a moment, she did not move. She simply held herself still, her lips compressed. Her lack of response nettled. He tugged her closer, until their bodies were aligned. Her breasts crushed into his chest. The fullness which had been taunting him ever since their lessons had begun, unspeakably erotic. His cockstand, which had been raging throughout their interactions as well, rose to ruder prominence, pressing against her belly.

  Her hands fluttered to his shoulders. Her lips parted. A sweet, husky sigh emerged from her into their kiss, and he swallowed it down. Greedily took it as his. He planted one hand on her waist and lifted the other to cup her cheek. Silken. Her skin was sleek as velvet. Everything about her was fine, dainty, elegant.

  Fire raged through him. Need roared.

  But he forced himself to go slowly. He had believed gentleness was not in him. His hands were massive paws, and he had inherited his worthless sire’s broad shoulders and impressive height. He had never felt more like a hulking beast than he did as he held Lady Evangeline to him and kissed her. She felt delicate and rare. And he was undeserving. Nothing but a rat from the seediest rookery in East London.

  But still, he kissed her. Because he could not stop.

  And even had he wanted to cease this madness—which of course he did not—her arms crept around his neck, holding him where he was. Anchoring him to her. Belatedly, it occurred to him that he had not kissed a woman since Cora. There had been others after her—nameless, faceless means of slaking his lust and swallowing his pain. But he had never placed his lips on theirs.

  He sucked on Lady Evangeline’s plump lower lip, then kissed the upper bow before pressing his mouth to the corners of hers. Now that he had begun, the urge to kiss her everywhere—to kiss her ceaselessly and never cease—rose, mad and strong within him. Her scent enveloped him. Ripe apple and honey-sweet woman.

  He allowed himself further liberties, though he knew he ought not. His tongue slid past her parted lips to stroke against hers. Tentatively at first, and then with greater ardor when she responded in kind. The carnal wetness sent a new arrow of lust directly to his prick. The need to be inside her was so potent, he almost surrendered and picked her up in his arms to carry her to the nearest bedchamber.

  However, though he thought he had rid himself of his conscience long ago, the bastard insinuated itself in the next moment, reminding him he could not go on kissing Lady Evangeline Saltisford. Her lips had never been his to take. She was a lady, quality, the innocent sister of Dom’s wife, by God. He had to stop himself now.

  Summoning every bit of his inner strength, he tore his mouth from hers. But still, though he knew he should thrust her away from him, put as much distance between them as possible, the rest of him did not want to let her go any more than his mout
h had. His hand was still on the curve of her waist, the other cupping her cheek.

  Let her go, you daft prick.

  Her eyes were dazed and wide, dark. Her mouth the deep-red of crushed berries. She was the most beautiful sight he had ever beheld, and he wanted her with a ferocity that could have crushed his soul if he believed he still possessed one.

  “Your lesson,” he forced himself to say.

  Then stepped away. Releasing her. His hands balled into fists at his sides to keep from touching her again. He was not the sort of man a woman like Lady Evangeline Saltisford wanted. Not the sort she would ever accept. Whatever madness had propelled her into suggesting kissing lessons from him, she would regret it.

  She would regret him.

  Just as Cora had, and Cora had been no fancy lady, no duke’s daughter. Ladies did not want bastard Winters unless their hands were forced, as Lady Adele’s had been. She might have gone soft and given her heart to Dom after the fact, but Devil knew the truth for what it was.

  “I am afraid that was not good enough.”

  Her voice shook him from his thoughts, bringing with them a stinging sense of confusion. She did not think his kiss was good enough? Is that what the baggage was telling him? He could not believe his ears. Nor his eyes.

  “Not good enough,” he repeated, aware his voice resembled a growl more than anything.

  Lady Evangeline Saltisford brought out the worst of him, it seemed.

  Before him, she transformed, shoulders going back, defiance radiating from her along with that cool elegance she had. That duke’s daughter boldness.

  She held his gaze, keeping him trapped more effectively than a man thrice his size. “I require more instruction, Mr. Winter.”

  Milady had returned.

  He did not know which urge he ought to obey first—the one to kiss the chill from her mouth or the one to turn her over his knee.

  Neither. That was the correct answer to such a troublesome question. To such an impertinent female. To a lady who tested him and tempted him in equal measure. By God, if this nonsense kept up, he was going to have to seek out Dom. Someone else would have to play the guard for milady. Blade could do just as well as Devil. He was the one who had killed to earn his bread until finding Dom and Devil.

  “More instruction?” He glowered at her, summoning all the force of his fury, that rage he had kept carefully within himself all these years.

  But this slip of a girl scarcely took note. She certainly showed no sign of fear.

  “Surely you cannot deem what just transpired adequate.”

  There she went again with her duke’s daughter words.

  “Seemed fine when you moaned into my mouth, milady,” he told her cruelly. Cuttingly.

  Still, she showed no sign of retreating. “Why do you call me that?”

  “You’re a lady.”

  “You say it with such bitterness,” she said. “You run it together. Never Lady Evangeline. Nor Lady Evie. Always milady, as if you are delivering an insult instead of paying a courtesy.”

  Not wrong, the persistent bit of petticoats.

  Milady was a reminder to himself of who she was and what he was. If he had not been good enough for the likes of an East End girl like Cora, he sure as hell was not going to dally with the betrothed Lady Evangeline Saltisford. No good could come of it. A bad halfpenny is what this cursed nonsense was.

  “You want to learn how to kiss for your nib husband?” he prodded. “Lord Dullerton could not do the job, aye? Too busy kissing his ladybird?”

  He regretted the scorn in his words when she paled, recoiling as if she had received a blow. He had been trying to hurt her, to wound her where she would be vulnerable, and he had succeeded. The knowledge did nothing to pacify the bitterness roiling through him.

  “His…ladybird?” She frowned prettily.

  Despite her agitation, there was nothing he wanted to do more than kiss her until she couldn’t bloody utter a coherent sentence. He stood before a crossroads. He could do the honorable thing and pretend he did not know a single damned detail about Viscount Denton.

  But that was not the truth. Part of keeping themselves in Tip Street at The Devil’s Spawn—swimming in coin—was knowing the details about all their patrons. Every detail. All the duns, the vices, the games, the ladies who warmed their beds, the favored spirits, how many times they pissed in a day.

  Well, mayhap not that detail. But every other one there was to be had.

  The choice was there—the road that would cause Lady Evangeline less pain and allow her to continue on in her ignorance. Or the road that would tell her the truth, painful and dreadful though it was. Gazing into her eyes, he chose the only path he could. The truth.

  “The actress, Mrs. Hale,” he elaborated. “His mistress. Lord Dullerton too busy kissing her to see his own betrothed properly kissed?”

  He ought to have kept the last to himself, but he was feeling vindictive toward old Dullerton. And covetous. Nibs did not know what they had. That nib in particular. If Devil had a woman like Lady Evangeline to kiss, he would never know another’s lips.

  Fuck.

  Where had that come from?

  “Mrs. Hale, the most celebrated actress in London?”

  Celebrated for her prowess treading the boards and in the bedchamber both. Her beauty paled in comparison to lady Evangeline’s. There could be no comparison between the two women. Lady Evangeline was beautiful, fierce, fiery, and surprisingly giving and passionate. She was not at all what he had initially supposed her to be. Mrs. Hale was pretty enough in her way, but she was also a woman who had lived a hard life. Her coldness showed in her eyes, and it was the hard stare of a woman who knew what she had to do to keep flush in coin.

  “Aye,” he said. “That one.”

  She cleared her throat, looking torn and pale and so unlike herself he wanted to kick himself in his own arse for allowing such rot to fall from his tongue. “She is Lord Denton’s…ladybird?”

  “Last I heard.” Guilt lanced him. “Matters change, especially when a lord is expecting to take a wife.”

  The last was a blatant falsehood. Lords did not stop seeking cunny elsewhere when they wed. Rather, they grew bolder. The wife was for heirs. The mistress for pleasure. Nothing stopped them from taking what they wanted, however they could have it, unapologetically.

  Which was also why Devil and his siblings unapologetically reclaimed the largesse of the quality who frequented their establishments.

  “You are telling me Lord Denton has a mistress.”

  Lady Evangeline’s voice cut through his thoughts.

  He could lie to her. Or he could tell her the truth. He was not certain which of the two would land him in more trouble at the moment.

  “If common fame is to be believed, yes,” he responded.

  And he knew it was. But he kept that salient bit to himself.

  “Mrs. Hale.”

  “That is the one, aye.”

  Her nostrils flared, her full lips thinning and compressing in a betrayal of her emotions. For a moment, he wondered why the hell they were devoting so much attention to Lord bloody Dullerton. And then he recalled. She intended to marry the blighter.

  “Mr. Winter?” She moved toward him, bridging the distance once more, bringing with her that scent he could not seem to resist.

  What the hell was any man betrothed to Lady Evangeline Saltisford doing dallying with a woman like Mrs. Hale? One was a good-hearted innocent and the other was a cynical jade. He understood women like Mrs. Hale. They were women like the one who had given him life, who had to earn their living rather than having it provided for them. They were cunning and bold, using anyone they could to better themselves. Women who would sell their own sons to the demons of hell without a qualm if it meant something for them. One less mouth to feed.

  “What is your Christian name?”

  The gentle question shook him from his thoughts of the past. “Devil.”

  Lady Evangeline shook her he
ad. “Your true Christian name. I do not believe anyone would name their child Devil.”

  His name hovered on his tongue, and he did not know why. He answered to Devil. Devil was his name. It may not have been the name the woman who had birthed him had given him, but it was the name she had always called him. Later, he had embraced it for different reasons. He was no longer the weak lad she had birthed and abused.

  He gave Lady Evangeline a grim smile. “Wrong, milady.”

  “Your true name.”

  What was the harm?

  “Theodore.” The name, so foreign and unfamiliar, one he had not claimed in years, left his tongue. Hung in the air. Suspended.

  “Theodore,” she repeated.

  Heat flared in his chest. And lower. On her lips, he did not mind the hated name quite as much. But then, on her lips, everything was better. Sounded better. Tasted better.

  He was bloody well doomed. If she asked him for more kissing lessons, he could not deny her.

  Devil Winter’s name did not suit him, Evie thought. Far too fussy and proper. Devil Winter was a man who was wild and bold and strong.

  A man who had just told her she was promised to wed a gentleman who had a mistress. Mistresses were not suitable conversation for ladies to broach with their future husbands. She would have never done so. However, she would have liked to believe Denton would have been clear with his intentions for their marriage. Clear enough that she would have known he planned a traditional society union.

  Which was not at all what she wanted.

  And any guilt she may have felt at enjoying the kiss of another man was decidedly washed away by the reminder that her betrothed had never once set his lips upon hers. Meanwhile, he was kissing one of London’s most famed actresses. And doing only heavens knew what else with her as well. Supposing she could believe Mr. Winter’s word, that was. Certainly, he could be lying.

  But such prevarication on his behalf now hardly made any sense. What did he stand to gain? Nothing, as far as she could see. She had already kissed Mr. Winter and all but thrown herself at him in embarrassing fashion. Besides, men like Devil Winter did not marry women like herself. That her twin sister and Mr. Dominic Winter were happy now was almost an impossibility. Their disparate worlds colliding in harmony—the rookeries of the East End and Mayfair—never happened.