Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters Book 9)

by Scarlett Scott

  “Shiner?”

  “Looking glass,” he bit out. She had him so distressed, he had failed to realize he was using cant.

  “You object to my night rail? I do suppose I ought to have worn a dressing gown atop for modesty’s sake, but I was in a hurry.”

  For modesty’s sake.

  Was the woman a Bedlamite or just incredibly innocent?

  “Quiet now,” he ordered her. “We are about to go into the hall.”

  “I shall shriek as loudly as I can if you do not put me down this instant.”

  The manipulative minx.

  Devil thought about giving her rump another swat before ultimately deciding to settle her on her feet once more. He glowered down at her, keeping his gaze trained upon hers. He was not going to look at her damned nipples poking through the fine fabric of her night rail, begging to be sucked…

  Fuck.

  He looked at them. How could he not?

  His cock went harder than a fire poker. He stalked past her to his bed and snatched the counterpane from it before wrapping it around her shoulders. “There. Now you may speak, milady.”

  For good measure, he took two steps in retreat. She was no longer within reach. Excellent.

  “I am not cold,” she pronounced, milady in full force.

  He ground his molars. “Say your piece before I toss you over my shoulder again.”

  “There is no need to be a bully, Theo.”

  Was she trying to make him tear out his hair? Did the woman take pleasure in his torment?

  “Devil,” he bit out, moving nearer in spite of himself.

  “You are certainly behaving the part.” She pursed her lips, and the urge to cover them with his rose, impossible to be denied. “However, I do prefer Theo. It is so much more civilized than—”

  The final thread of his restraint—frayed beyond repair—snapped. He pulled her near, cupped her face, and lowered his mouth to hers, effectively silencing her.

  He was kissing her.

  Again.

  Mayhap it was wrong. Certainly, it went well beyond the bounds of propriety. But then, so did appearing in a gentleman’s bedchamber in the darkness, wearing nothing more than a night rail. And she had done that. Because she could not bear the distance that had suddenly occurred between them.

  A distance which was no longer present now.

  Her hands went to his broad shoulders, the movement causing the counterpane to fall to the floor. His lips were firm, insistent, and hot. Moving over hers with an expert precision that made her melt.

  His tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing her to open for him. And open she did, on a sigh. There was no way to explain the change that came over her when this man kissed her. She had never imagined the act could be one of such intimacy, that his lips on hers could make her feel such an unprecedented range of sensation and emotion.

  Here was what she had been missing from her life, and she knew it now, instinctively. Knew it even as the notion terrified her.

  This man.

  Theodore Winter. Devil Winter. By any name, her reaction to him was the same. The effect he had upon her staggering. She never would have thought it possible.

  But she needed to be nearer to him now.

  She was not close enough.

  Rising on her toes, she entwined her arms around his neck. She pressed her breasts to the sturdy wall of his chest. Against her belly, a prominent ridge rose, thick and enticing, making a corresponding ache blossom to life between her thighs.

  Just as quickly as the kiss had begun, however, he ended it, tearing his lips from hers and thrusting her away from him with such haste she nearly tripped over the discarded counterpane. But his strong hands caught her arms, helping her to maintain her balance. Searing her skin.

  She looked down at the sight of his hands on her, and that was when she noticed the ink marking on his inner wrist, one she had previously not observed. Black and shaped like a blade, the mark looked as if it had been drawn upon his skin.

  “Steady,” he told her, sounding as breathless as she felt.

  She wondered for a moment if he was issuing the command to her or to himself. His blue stare was deep and intense, making her giddy. He released her once more in haste, as if she were fashioned of flame that would burn him.

  She reached for him, her fingers tracing over the inking on his flesh for just a moment before withdrawing. “What is this?”

  “A blade,” he said. “My sister Genevieve drew it. We all have them.”

  How intriguing. Evie had taken note that her sister’s husband also had a similar marking on the top of his hand. It would seem each of his siblings had one.

  “Your sister is talented,” she said, taking note of the attention to detail on the hilt of the dagger.

  “I cannot help but to think you did not seek me out to speak of my sister,” he drawled, the coolness in his voice making her suppose he was completely unaffected by the kisses they had just shared.

  The only sign otherwise was the hint of a flush on his sharp cheekbones.

  “You are correct,” she forced herself to say. “I came here to speak with you about our lessons.”

  “Our lessons are over.”

  She raised a brow, saying nothing.

  “That was not a lesson just now,” he bit out. “That was stupidity.”

  His dismissal stung, but she was determined. “I want to continue them.”

  “No.”

  He seemed to forever be telling her that word. “Why not?”

  “No good can come of their continuation.”

  “Do you not wish to learn to read?”

  “We cannot be alone together.”

  “We are alone together now,” she pointed out.

  “Not for long,” he growled. “You were just leaving.”

  But when he moved as if he intended to throw her over his shoulder once more, she danced away. “You cannot remove me, Mr. Winter. I want to speak with you, and speak with you I shall.”

  “Damn it, wrap the counterpane around you.”

  Why was he so insistent about the dratted blanket? She had not seen herself in the looking glass—the shiner, as he had called it—but she was reasonably certain she looked the same as she always did. Blonde hair, upturned nose, mouth too wide. Her night rail was quite modest.

  “No,” she said, deciding two could play at his game.

  His response was another growl.

  “Theo.” She tried the name again, rather liking the way it felt, the way it sounded. Yes, it suited him far better than Devil. “Do try to be reasonable. We have another week here, and I shall suffer from terrible ennui if you do not give me the lessons you promised you would.”

  His expression was all hard angles and planes. He looked furious.

  “Which lessons?” His voice, however, was silky and smooth.

  Something wicked unfurled inside her. “You know which lessons.”

  He remained implacable. “You teach me to read, and in return, I teach you how to whittle.”

  “I had in mind a different sort of lesson from you,” she admitted.

  Because it had occurred to her over the past two days that she was engaged to be married to a gentleman who had a mistress. A gentleman who had never once inspired in her a modicum of the feelings this man made her feel. If she could not have a love like Romeo and Juliet’s, then mayhap she could have a passion like theirs instead.

  Mayhap she could have Theo Winter, if only just for the next sennight.

  They could not have each other forever, much like in Shakespeare’s tragedy. However, they could have now.

  “Not going to happen, milady,” he said, dashing her hopes. “I ain’t a nib, and I don’t poach.”

  Drat him, why did he insist upon being so firm? He was not as impervious as he pretended, she swore. His kisses had suggested quite the opposite.

  “Why not?” she asked, summoning all her daring.

  “That’s like asking why the stars and th
e sun don’t shine at once,” he said, his tone gentling. “We are not the same sorts, milady. Not of the same world. And you will be marrying your Lord Dullerton soon enough.”

  Evie did not bother to correct his confusion of Lord Denton’s name this time. She was still quite furious with him for Mrs. Hale.

  “I suppose I shall have to find someone else willing to engage in lessons with me, then,” she said, trying a different tactic. “Mayhap one of the footmen will do. The tall one with the blond hair is rather handsome.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort.”

  She shrugged and then spun to leave.

  A hand caught her elbow, staying her retreat.

  She glanced back at him to find his jaw tense, his eyes blazing with blue fire. “How do you propose to stop me?”

  “Damn it, Evie.”

  At last, he had called her Evie as she had asked him to the day when she had been wounded and he had been tending to her injury. Her name in his deep baritone, even edged as it was with a combination of irritation and anger, made warmth pool low in her belly.

  “Yes?”

  He had the counterpane in hand once more, and he draped it over her shoulders without relinquishing his hold on her elbow. “Do not tempt the devil.”

  “You are not the devil, Theo,” she told him softly, hating the manner in which he seemed to view himself, as if he were a bad man or somehow inherently wicked.

  Her every interaction with him thus far suggested otherwise. He was so much more than she had initially supposed, and now that he had given her a small peek at the man beneath his gruff exterior, she only wanted to see and know more.

  “You do not know what I am thinking about now or you would change your mind.”

  His gruff words made more heat flare within her. Along with something else—longing, acute and intense.

  “Tell me.”

  He shook his head, maintaining his silence, releasing her elbow.

  Not fair. He could not issue such tempting hints and then refuse to share the rest.

  “Theo.”

  “Whittling,” he said. “That is the only lesson I will agree upon. Now return to your chamber and do not dare to set foot in mine again, milady.”

  Disappointment lanced her burgeoning hope. But then, if she could convince him to carry on with their lessons, that meant they would have additional time in each other’s company. Hopefully without the watchful eye of her lady’s maid. Yes, Evie could see she would have to create some distractions for Smithson. If they were alone, she was quite certain she could persuade him to kiss her again.

  “Very well,” she conceded. “I will return to my chamber, and I will agree to continue our lessons, as you wish.”

  “I do not wish,” he growled. “You are leaving me with no bloody choice.”

  She smiled at his irritation, unable to help herself. What was it about Theo Winter that made him more handsome when he was irritated? Mayhap it was the way his upper lip curled. Or the way his eyes darkened. Perhaps it was the tensing of his strong jaw.

  Oh yes, she would have him agreeing to more kissing lessons in no time.

  With that thought, she dipped into a makeshift curtsy, clutching his counterpane around her. It smelled like him, she thought, and she was keeping it. He could find another.

  “Good evening, Theo. Sleep well.”

  As she made her way into the hall, careful to make certain no servants were about, she swore she heard him grumble not a damned chance of that.

  Chapter Eight

  She was the devil in petticoats.

  He had never been more certain than after five more days of working together on their lessons. Her lady’s maid was once again otherwise occupied today, leaving them alone. He was certain the devious minx had orchestrated something to keep Smithton busy just so they would be unchaperoned.

  This time, she had copied some short sentences on paper. Her penmanship was neat and flowery, as he would have expected. The mark of a gentlewoman to whom every advantage had been given in life.

  And she was seated beside him, smelling of ripe fruit and temptation. He had never wanted another woman more.

  Not even Cora.

  The realization had hit him when she had first crossed the threshold, sunlight gleaming in her burnished curls and roses in her cheeks. It had required every bit of self-possession he had to keep from stripping her out of her night rail and making love to her the night she had gone to his chamber. To stop himself from keeping her with him all evening long, showing her all the reasons why he could not offer her further kissing lessons, damn it.

  Because once he started, he would not be capable of ceasing.

  Desiring her had become his driving force.

  He had spent half the long night every night since tossing and turning in his bedclothes, thinking of her, before finally surrendering and taking himself in hand. The releases had given him precious little relief, because he was still harder than an anvil by morning, and he still longed to take up where they had stopped when their lips had last met.

  He wanted them beneath his now, more than he wanted his next breath. Actually, he wanted her beneath him now…

  Dangerous thoughts indeed. Thoughts best avoided altogether.

  “Do try this one, if you please,” she told him, her voice soft and warm as her skin.

  He could listen to Lady Evie speak all day and night long. He could also go on touching her and worshiping her body for a bloody eternity.

  But neither of those thoughts were doing him one whit of good any more than the reckless ones which had preceded it had.

  His days of practice with Lady Evie had taught him there were certain words he struggled with, also certain sounds. She made an excellent teacher, however, and her gentle tutelage, coupled with his rudimentary past knowledge, had painstakingly turned into something promising. Just as well, for their time together was almost at an end. Difficult to believe the speed with which the last fortnight had passed.

  He would miss Lady Evie Saltisford. Would miss her luscious apple scent, her smiles, her gold-brown eyes, her generous curves, and…having her near. Christ. What was the matter with him?

  He forced his attention back to the words on the page she had written out for this lesson, struggling to make sense of the letters before him, strung into words and sentences. To follow the loops and swirls of the ink. To find meaning. Damnation, trying to read was not much different from trying to make sense of the way Lady Evie made him feel. Both seemed nigh impossible.

  But try he would.

  “The,” he read haltingly, his ears going hot with acute shame as he revealed the extent of his inability to her. “The… ball… stared to roll.”

  Made no damned sense. Not any more sense than the way he felt about her did. A lady. Finer than Cora had been. Out of his reach. Betrothed to a fancy nib who would never appreciate her the way she deserved.

  He sighed.

  “Excellent work, Theo,” she praised, beaming at him as if he had just conquered all the world for her and laid it at her feet as spoils. “But try this word again, if you please. Sound it out slowly to make certain you are seeing all the letters.”

  He tore his gaze from her beautiful face and pinned his attention back to the paper and the words she had written. “The… ball…st-ar-ted to roll.” This time, he understood the sentence. “The ball started to roll.”

  There. He had read a damned sentence, and it made sense this time, when he took care and sounded out the letters. Mayhap he was not as witless as the woman who had birthed him had always claimed. The only reason she had been able to read was because her father had been an apothecary and had taught her to help him with his ledgers. But when Devil labored over the words slowly, taking care to watch each letter and recall its sound, he could actually read a few words strung together.

  “Wonderful!” Lady Evie exclaimed, her approval making other places go hot. Not just his ears.

  His cheeks, for one. His heart for anothe
r. And as for the warmth sweeping to his ballocks, well, that could hardly be denied either. She was fetching and…sweet. Two words he had never supposed he would associate with milady at their first meeting.

  “Will you try another?” she asked, her tone coaxing.

  She was being patient and kind in a fashion no female before her ever had, showing him the sort of compassion he had only previously experienced from his siblings. He ached with the need to kiss her. To take her in his arms, the paper and the words she had written upon it be damned.

  He glanced down at the next line, because he did not just want her approval. He wanted to bask in it. He wanted to make her proud, to prove to both her and himself that he could read.

  Because he could. He suspected he had been capable of reading all along, but the mockery of the woman who had raised him still rang in his ears and landed in his chest like a vicious thorn.

  “I…have…a kiss f-f—” He stumbled over the word, struggling.

  “Note the sounds,” she encouraged.

  “I have a kiss f-for you,” he finished, a triumphant sense of accomplishment bursting open inside him, rather like a bud in full bloom.

  And then he realized what he had just read.

  The scandalous bit of baggage.

  “You have a kiss for me?” she asked.

  She was smiling. The expression on her face could only be described with one word: pride. She was proud of him. She, an elegant lady as fine as any he had ever met, was proud of him, Devil Winter. Bastard son of a Covent Garden whore. Born to the rookeries, sometime buzgloak—the pickpocket who had robbed the pockets of fancy coves to fill his belly.

  Another knot was rising in his throat, along with a foreign emotion, lifting him up. Pride. In himself.

  He swallowed against an unwanted rush of emotion. Something was pricking his bloody eyes, and he knew it was not tears because he did not cry. Not even when the man he and Dom had been sold to had attempted to hurt them. Not when he had acted first, defending them both with his quick thinking and his sharp blade.

  “Theo?” she asked, her voice hushed.

  As if she feared someone would overhear, when thanks to her, there was no chaperone to be found. No observation of propriety. Not that Devil gave a goddamn about such nonsense. Because he did not. Scandals and rules and polite society did not exist in the East End.