Wicked in Winter, page 4
All thoughts of Lady Merton were effectively banished when his unexpected guest turned to face him, removing her hat and the veil which had been obscuring her face.
Lady Emilia King stared back at him.
Their gazes clashed, and heat settled over him, a languorous lick down his spine. “My lady. What are you doing here?”
His shock at finding her awaiting him in his salon gave way to a sudden rush of anticipation. And lust. He would not deny it. He wanted this woman.
She licked her lips, looking apprehensive. “I wished an audience with you, Mr. Winter.”
He allowed his gaze to travel over her, assessing. She wore a simple gown, and she was buttoned to the neck. Her hair was dressed in an uncomplicated fashion as well. Nothing about her suggested she had taken care with her toilette prior to sneaking away to meet him. Nothing about her was sensual. She looked, in fact, innocent.
The urge to let down her hair, to unbutton her, to kiss her lush lips, to take that innocence and make it his own, struck. Need roared through him, along with a primal sense of acknowledgment. Lady Emilia King was his.
He stalked across the distance between them, not stopping until he was close enough to see her eyes were gray tonight by the glow of the flickering candles and the fire. Perhaps it was the hue of her gown. Perhaps it was a trick of the light.
Her scent struck him, and he had noted it before, but tonight it seemed somehow sharper, more dangerous. More delicious. Lily of the valley.
“You have already had an audience with me on two previous occasions, Lady Emilia,” he pointed out, his voice rough. He could not seem to stamp the desire from his tone. It was everywhere, cloying and unraveling and overwhelming.
She swallowed, making him take note once more of how elegant her throat was, how smooth her skin. “I wished for an audience that was more private in nature.”
Private.
That lone word on her tongue, in her sweet voice, made his cock twitch.
Hell. Part of him was tempted to haul her into his arms, slam his mouth on hers, and kiss her until they were both wild with it. Until she would never again be able to look upon him with such cool disgust, as if he were her inferior in every way.
But she was not looking at him as if he were beneath her this evening.
She was looking at him in a different manner entirely. Intrigued was how he would describe it.
The other part of him, the part which generally tried to keep his inner devils under a tight rein, reminded him he required Lady Emilia to remain untainted by scandal. He also needed to avoid doing something stupid like kissing her in his blue salon at eleven o’clock in the evening. Because kissing her would inevitably lead to guiding her to one of the accommodating divans, unbuttoning her bodice, lifting her hem, running a hand up her inner thigh all the way to…
Damn.
He could not do that.
Would not do that.
He eyed her top button longingly. Perhaps just one…
He bit back a curse. “Private audiences are ill-advised and foolish, Lady Emilia,” he reminded her as much as he reminded himself. “Allow me to escort you home before you do any further damage to your reputation.”
“No.” Her tone was firm, lacking the biting condescension with which she ordinarily addressed him.
Bold of her, first to steal away from her home—even if it was only next door—and await him here, uninvited, then to gainsay him.
“My lady,” he began, intent upon delivering the sort of sermon he would give to one of his own wayward sisters.
“Mr. Winter,” she interjected. “Allow me to argue no more damage to my reputation can occur than being forced to marry a scandalous merchant and sponsoring his garrulous sisters in their searches for husbands.”
Perhaps he had been wrong to think something had shifted between them during his visit yesterday with Pru, Eugie, Christabella, Grace, and Bea. He had caught her watching him several times, and he had sworn he had spied a glint of understanding in her blue-gray eyes before she had looked away.
“Whilst I am pleased you are no longer discounting my sisters as common hoydens, I am not a scandalous merchant,” he felt compelled to defend. “I am a businessman.”
“You are not my equal in the eyes of society,” she argued, her countenance remaining unreadable.
“What am I in your eyes, Lady Emilia?” he could not help but to query.
“A man who loves his sisters.” Her voice was soft. “I could see that yesterday during your call.”
Yes, he did love his sisters. More than he loved himself. They were not just his duty. They were his blood, and he would shed every last drop of his in exchange for their happiness and futures.
He inclined his head. “I do. But forgive me, my lady, if I cannot help but to feel certain, given our previous interactions, you also see me as the baseborn scoundrel who is forcing you into marriage.”
She looked away, compressing her lips, giving him her profile. But she did not make a move to retreat. “Are you not forcing me? You must know I have no wish to marry you.”
“If you do not want to marry me, you have a strange way of showing it.” He kept his voice hard, for he knew Lady Emilia King was a worthy opponent. “There is no more certain way of finding yourself married to me than being here this late in the evening, unchaperoned. If anyone discovers your indiscretion, you will be ruined.”
She turned back to him, defiance flashing in her eyes, her chin tipping upward. “No one will be the wiser. I took great care to hide myself from all your servants. My mother has yet to return home from a supper with her friends, and my father does not even know who I am half the time.”
Her voice broke as she made the last bitter revelation, and understanding hit him, along with something unfamiliar: compassion. It was an odd reaction, for he had learned all too well the art of mercilessness from his father. In his world, there was no room for emotions. There was profit and losses, numbers on a page. There was seizing whatever would benefit him, regardless of the means.
Rather like Lady Emilia.
Strange he should feel the tiny, undeniable prick of guilt now.
Small. No larger than a lady’s needle. But there, nonetheless.
He cleared his throat, rejecting the unexpected weakness she wrought in him. “If you are seeking sympathy, my lady, you will not find it here. I am not responsible for the duke’s ailing mind, and nor am I the man who accepted his wagers. I am merely the man who paid the highest price for them.”
“For me, you mean,” she said, and once again, those full lips of hers were compressed in disapproval. In anger.
And once again, he was tempted to kiss her. What was it about her cool haughtiness that made him want to debauch her? To mold her lips with his, to bury his tongue in her mouth, to make her beg?
“I did not buy you,” he denied thickly. “I bought power. The power to get what I want. And what I want is a titled wife with an impeccable reputation.”
“Are you so certain of that, my lord?” She paused, considering him, her gaze plumbing the depths of his. “It seems to me that what you truly want is guidance for your sisters. A helping hand to deliver them through treacherous waters. I can do that without becoming your wife.”
The emotions swirling inside him went cold. He laughed without mirth. “Lady Emilia, surely you cannot believe I will forgive a veritable fortune in properties and wealth for you to play the friend to my sisters. If so, you are more naïve than I believed.”
Her shoulders stiffened, and the color drained from her cheeks, but she still held her ground, standing firm. “What is worth the price of my father’s debts? My virtue? If that is what you are desirous of, I will give you that. I will give you anything you wish. But I will not be your wife.”
Rage seared him with sudden viciousness. She thought to offer him her virtue? What the hell did she think he was? What did she think she was, for that matter? The devil in him wanted to find out.
“What is worth the price?” he asked, repeating her question slowly.
Inside him, the anger continued to build. Anger at himself for leading her into such recklessness, anger at her for believing him nothing better than a depraved despoiler of innocents. He had never been more furious in his life except for the day his father had dared to whip Pru. But that had been a different sort of rage entirely. It had been a defensive rage, one of protective fists. This rage…it was dangerous, and he knew it.
But innocent, icy Lady Emilia King did not.
“Tell me,” she said. “Name your price, Mr. Winter, and it shall be yours. I will give you whatever you want.”
For the first time, he allowed himself to touch her. Just his fingertips upon her chin. Three of them. Without his gloves, he could feel her skin for the first time, smooth and bloody tempting, and warm, so warm. The opposite of her cold eyes and colder mien.
“Whatever I want.” He stroked her chin with the pad of his thumb, knowing it was rough, not a gentleman’s touch. Not giving a damn.
“Anything,” she whispered.
“I want you on your knees,” he said. “Do it. Now.”
Her lips parted in an invitation she did not realize. “Why?”
“Because I wish it,” he bit out. “On your knees, Lady Emilia, and do not question me again.”
Her even, white teeth bit into the fullness of her lower lip. He almost groaned. This was not meant to be seductive. He had no intention of making demands of her. But somehow, he was as hard as coal, his cock straining against the fall of his breeches, and he wanted nothing more than to nip that lip himself before soothing the sting with his tongue.
She lowered her head and sank to her knees before him.
Fuck.
He was undoing himself with the lesson he was attempting to teach her in humility. All he could think about was sinking his aching prick between her pink, pouty, aristocratic lips. He had never wanted another woman to take him into her mouth more. Had Lady Emilia possessed an ounce of feminine cunning, she would have recognized the sheer lust threatening to overcome him, and she would have pressed her advantage.
But Lady Emilia King was a lady and a virgin, and he was merely attempting to make a point. He could not forget that, and the reminder that she was only offering herself to him as a means of escaping their nuptials chilled his ardor considerably.
“Tell me you will be my wife,” he demanded.
She blinked up at him. “Did you hear nothing of what I have said, Mr. Winter?”
“I heard it,” he growled at her, “and I did not bloody well like it. I want you as my wife and nothing else. If you are willing to humble yourself before me, then you should also be capable of managing the ignominy of marrying me in exchange for saving your family from penury.”
Devil take the woman. Why did she have to torment him?
Emilia was on her knees before Mr. Winter, staring up the tall, muscled expanse of his impressive form. The carpet of the salon was thick beneath her knees, even through the fabric of her gown and chemise. And though the early autumn night was cool, she was hot. Her entire body felt as if it had been touched with flame. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was pounding. And all through her, the strangest sensation slid.
She felt as if she were a knot, being drawn taut. She was not meant to be enjoying this standoff with the unconscionable man towering over her. She was not meant to be tempted to touch him. And the ache between her legs in a forbidden place…it was altogether unexpected and unwanted.
Shocking.
Scandalous.
Shameful.
“I do not want to be your wife,” she forced herself to say. “My heart belongs to another.”
“A dead man,” he said.
The coldness in his voice—or mayhap the truth of his statement—made her flinch. “Love does not die, Mr. Winter. If you think it does, then you are a more pitiable man than I initially suspected.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and she knew it the moment Mr. Winter’s expression tightened and his eyes, already so dark, turned obsidian. His jaw was rigid, his lip curled in a sneer that should have made him look relentless as he had warned her he was.
Somehow, it only made him more handsome.
But, like so many other things she was not meant to be feeling and thinking, this observation was wrong. Dreadfully, horridly wrong.
“What did you think you were going to do for me, on your knees, Lady Emilia?” he taunted, his expression grim.
Her face flamed, for she did not know. She had expected him to ask something of her. Something base and carnal. She had precious little experience in such matters, for James had been a true gentleman.
“Whatever you wished me to do, as long as you would set me free,” she admitted on a rush.
But what she did not say was that part of her was curious. Part of her was drawn to this massive beast of a man. She did not know what was wrong with her. Ever since she had seen him doting upon his sisters the day before, hating him had become more difficult. When he had touched her, she had felt something. Something strange and raw, blossoming to life within her.
“What I wish is for you to be my wife, my lady,” he told her then in his deep, booming voice.
Never before had she been tempted to touch a gentleman’s legs. But Mr. Winter’s were on display before her, encased in his tight breeches, so strong and thick. She did not touch him. Could not.
How shocking.
How wrong.
What ailed her? Perhaps she was as mad as Papa. That was the only explanation for the confusing mix of emotions roiling through her in this moment.
“I will not marry you,” she forced herself to say. “Exact any other price, Mr. Winter, and it is yours.”
His large hands caught her arms in a gentle grasp, hauling her to her feet. “Do you not understand, my lady? There is no other price. You as my wife. That is all I will accept.”
She was standing now, his touch still branding her through the barriers of her chemise and gown. Their bodies were nearly flush. She tipped her head back. If she rose on her toes, and if he lowered his head, their lips would meet.
But she did not want to kiss him. Did she?
No.
Yes.
“Please reconsider, Mr. Winter,” she begged.
He leaned toward her, bringing with him all his heat, the anticipation of something…perhaps the kiss she should not want…
“There will be no reconsidering, Lady Emilia. You will become my wife, or I will call in your father’s debts,” he told her, his voice harsh. Stern.
The opposite of a kiss.
“And never again kneel before a man who has not earned the privilege,” he added. “Myself included.”
Chapter Five
Dev could not shake the memory of Lady Emilia King on her knees before him from his mind. Two days had passed since her unexpected evening visit to him, and he was seated in his study opposite Merrick Hart, reviewing plans for the rebuilding of his burnt warehouse.
Or at least, that was what he was meant to be doing.
Instead, he was being plagued by a hard prick and thoughts of his reluctant future bride. Devilishly distracting to attempt to review plans whilst sporting an erection. Concentration was proving futile.
“What do you think?” Hart asked, breaking Dev’s troubled musings.
What did he think? He thought he was going mad. Lady Emilia King had been leading him about London as if he were a randy stallion attempting to mount a prized broodmare. He had been courting her far longer than necessary, and she still refused to agree to wed him. Out of mounting frustration, he had finally given her an ultimatum. She had one more day before she would be forced to give him an answer.
And it had damn well better be the answer he wanted to hear.
Which was, of course, yes.
He sighed, rubbing his jaw. “I am afraid my mind is resting upon other matters today, Hart. What do you recommend?”
Hart raised a brow. “What do I recommend regarding the warehouse, or regarding the other matters troubling you?”
Dev ground his teeth. He had been in desperate need of an intelligent, trustworthy aide-de-camp when he had plucked Hart from one of his factories. Over the years, they had grown close, striking up an unlikely friendship. He trusted Hart implicitly.
“Both,” he said grimly. “I seem to require counseling today, my friend.”
Merrick pointed to one of the drawings laid out on his desk. “I would raze the remainder of the warehouse and begin anew, using this design. What is the other matter, if I may ask?”
“You may.” He sighed again. “Have you ever courted a lady, Hart?”
Hart’s expression became shuttered. “I cannot say that I have. Why, sir?”
“I am attempting to court a lady who is…reluctant.” He paused, almost grinning at how ill-suited the word reluctant was in describing Lady Emilia. “I am having difficulty knowing how to proceed. In business, I seize what I want. I either buy it, or I make something better. But I must admit I cannot decide how to persuade the lady in question she ought to accept my suit.”
“Use your charm,” Merrick directed.
Quite sensibly, too. Except for one small matter.
“I fear I have no charm, Hart.” He grimaced as he made the confession, for it was embarrassing.
His previous conquests had been ladies in search of illicit pleasure, experienced women who wanted a bed partner. Women who were attracted to the thrill of fucking a man who was beneath their class. The Wickedest Winter of them all.
“Perhaps you might try to acquire some,” Hart suggested then.
Dev scowled. “How the hell do you propose I do that? One cannot simply go and buy it.”
Moreover, the notion of him attempting to charm Lady Emilia was ludicrous. What was he to do, follow her about like a lovesick swain?
