Wicked in Winter, page 5
“Imagine, for a moment, you are the lady in question,” Hart counseled, his tone contemplative.
“How am I to imagine I am a female, Hart?” he snapped. “Do not be daft.”
Hart shook his head. “That is not what I meant to suggest. Think of what she might like. What are her interests, her thoughts? Are you scowling at her and ordering her about, or are you taking the time to ask her questions about herself?”
Bloody hell. He supposed he had undertaken this venture much as he did everything: with the vigor of an invading army general.
“What sort of questions?” he grumbled.
Hart grinned. “For that, I am afraid you will need ask one of the Miss Winters. They would know best what a lady might like to speak about.”
“Excellent idea, Hart.” Indeed, why had he not thought of it himself?
He had five sisters. Surely one of them could aid him.
As if on cue, a knock on the study door revealed one of the sisters in question. Bea, the youngest and the sweetest of the Winter clan, appeared at the threshold. The only blonde in their ranks, she was as lovely as the rest of his sisters, but she was also the most reckless and daring of the lot.
Much to his dismay.
“How fortuitous, Bea,” he said anyway. “Do come in.”
He and Hart stood and bowed to her in deference whilst she dipped into a prim curtsy. Dev took note of the manner in which Hart watched Bea, and he knew a moment of unease before he dismissed it. Merrick Hart was far too loyal to pant after the sister of his employer. Dev was certain of it.
But as he watched, Hart’s gaze never strayed from Bea. Nor did Bea’s stray from Hart.
His eyes narrowed. “That will be all, Hart. Thank you. You may go.”
Emilia was running out of time and will.
Mr. Winter would arrive at any moment for his customary daily call. Mama had been pleading with her for three days straight.
Accept his suit, or we will all be ruined.
What will become of your father?
What will become of you?
What indeed, she wondered as she stared out the window overlooking the small, terraced garden. It was early autumn but the hedges were still verdant, the syringa and Sweet Williams in fading bloom. It was a view she had admired many times before. But now, she scarcely took note of the pink and lavender blossoms.
Mr. Winter had given her a stipulation, and he was to have his answer today. An answer she was not ready to give.
A subtle knock upon the door of the drawing room heralded his arrival.
“Yes, Grimes,” she called to the butler without bothering to turn away from the gardens.
“Mr. Devereaux Winter, my lady,” he announced.
“See him in, if you please,” she directed listlessly.
She felt, in that moment, oddly detached. As if she were inhabiting another’s skin. As if it were not her, dressed in a pale-pink gown, her hair artfully arranged, the garden before her bright and lovely even upon such a cloudy day.
As if she were not the woman who was about to become betrothed to Devereaux Winter.
“Mr. Winter,” Grimes announced formally.
Still, she did not turn. “Thank you, Grimes. That will be all.”
Her lady’s maid was somewhere behind her, applying herself to some needlework in the name of acting as Emilia’s chaperone. It hardly mattered now. Mama did not care if she ruined her reputation, and neither did Papa. All they did care about was their own salvation. Papa because he was confused. Mama because she was frightened.
She faulted them both, and yet she could not harbor a grudge. Her anger was gone today, replaced by apathy.
She felt Mr. Winter’s presence before she turned to face him at last. The same rush of awareness trilled through her, along with a heaviness and a fiercely burning warmth. So foreign, so unwanted.
He offered her an elegant bow, and not even she could find fault with it. She curtseyed formally. They stared at each other, the enormity of what was to come seeming to fill the silence. His dark gaze was intent upon hers, traveling over her face, lingering for a beat longer than necessary upon her mouth.
The bourgeoning heat within her spread to her cheeks. “Mr. Winter,” she greeted him.
“Lady Emilia,” he intoned, startling her with a smile.
A true smile, the sort he had bestowed upon his sisters with such ease. The sort that put his dimples on display and stole her breath.
“The flowers were quite beautiful,” she told him, finding her tongue once more. “Thank you.”
He had sent her lily of the valley, the tiny white flowers laden with a sweet perfume that matched the scent she wore. The gesture had been surprising. Almost unwelcome. She had wondered if he had noted her scent, or if the choice of flower had been inadvertent.
“You favor lily of the valley,” he said, a statement rather than a question.
The choice of flower had been intentional, then, and must have been quite dear. The dainty blooms were delicate and past flowering season.
“I do,” she agreed, flicking a glance toward her lady’s maid. “Redmayne, would you please fetch me my needlework? I fear I left it in my chamber this morning.”
Redmayne’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly at her request, but she said nothing, dutifully taking her leave from the chamber. When she was gone, the door left slightly ajar, Emilia turned her gaze back to Mr. Winter.
His smile had faded. So too, his dimples. The startling charm of his initial appearance had been replaced by his customary surliness. He had not approved of her obvious dismissal of her maid.
“That was most unwise, my lady,” he chastised. “Propriety—”
“Propriety can go to the devil,” she interrupted him. “I wished to speak to you without an audience.”
His lips quirked before settling back into a forbidding line. “The last time you desired an audience with me, you appeared in the midst of the night, like a wraith. I suppose I must be thankful you have not resorted to traipsing about in the darkness once more.”
A shiver went through her at the recollection of the night she had gone to him. The night he had demanded she kneel before him. She banished the reminder, sending with it all the unwanted feelings he had elicited within her.
“I thought you were a fair man then,” she said coolly. “A gentleman. I learned my lesson.”
His eyes continued to simmer into hers. “I never claimed to be a gentleman, my lady. I am myself, unapologetically.”
Why did the wretched man have to be so handsome? She had believed herself incapable of feeling anything for a man after James. But Devereaux Winter had proven her wrong. To her great shame, anger was not the sole emotion she felt for him. There was, beneath it all, an underlying attraction she could not seem to deny.
“You are a scoundrel,” she snapped, irritated with herself as much as with him.
How dare this unfeeling brute force her into matrimony? Yes, she must cling to her indignation. Else, what did she have left? Certainly not her pride, nor her freedom.
“Your scoundrel,” he said, flashing her a feral grin. The divots in his cheeks reappeared.
She ran her tongue over her lips. “Perhaps. I have decided I will wed you on one condition, Mr. Winter.”
“A condition,” he repeated. “You are bold, Lady Emilia, for a woman in your position.”
“And pray, sirrah, what position is that?” she dared to ask.
His lips twitched, as if he were struggling to keep his mirth at bay. “A woman with no option save one. Given the choice between penury and myself, I daresay, I know which one I would choose, were I in your slippers, my lady.”
He was right, blast him, but she refused to give him a victory with her admission.
“I require a chaste marriage,” she said instead, delivering her pronouncement suddenly, aware her lady’s maid would return soon. For obvious reasons, this was a dialogue she preferred to conduct with him alone.
“No,” he denied flatly.
“Mr. Winter,” she pressed. “My heart belongs to another, and I have no wish to share the marital bed with you.”
“Your heart has precious little to do with your body, sweet,” he told her, his voice low and deep and dark.
Delicious.
No, she chided herself. Dangerous. That was what Devereaux Winter was. He was a barbarian of a man. Her enemy. A man who thought he could buy her and her virtue. He could purchase her future, but he could not have both. It was to be one or the other.
“That is my stipulation,” she insisted.
She had not stopped loving James in his death. She would always, always remain true to him. That she must sully his memory at all by wedding Mr. Devereaux Winter was the greatest form of outrage. But she would do what she must to save her family.
Mr. Winter closed the distance between them in three angry strides. His legs were long, and when he was this near, he quite took her breath. He was so tall, his broad shoulders barely contained within his coat. And he was furious, there was no doubt about it. The slash of his jaw was tense, his lips set in a harsh line, his eyes dark.
When he was angry, he was somehow even more handsome. More compelling.
She could not look away.
“Lady Emilia,” he said.
She stared, fighting the mad urge to touch him. “Yes?”
“I am going to kiss you now.”
His words made a rush of molten heat slide through her, from head to toe. Her belly tightened. Her lips tingled. She looked at his mouth, knowing she ought to protest.
Instead, her hands settled upon his shoulders.
And he seemed to burn her straight through all the layers separating her skin from his.
To hell with charm.
Dev had tried it. He had sent flowers at Bea’s suggestion. He had smiled. And now the vexing woman dared to tell him she would wed him but she demanded a chaste marriage.
Not.
Bloody.
Happening.
He gave her time to protest. But she did not, because like it or not, she felt the passion between them as surely as he did. She could deceive herself all she liked. Her heart may belong to a dead man, but her body was very much alive.
And he intended to prove it to her.
His hands reached for her waist. She was supple through her layers, soft. Her body curved perfectly into his hands, and as he drew her nearer, her breasts surged against him. They were full and lush, crushing into his chest like offerings. Her own hands were on his shoulders, resting tentatively, her head tipped back.
Her petal-pink lips were parted, her lashes low. She made no effort to disengage. She said not a word. Which was just as well anyway, because the time for speaking was done. He would tell her everything she needed to know with his lips and tongue.
On a growl of repressed desire, he slanted his mouth over hers. Gently at first, nothing more than the joining of their lips. She inhaled, as if he had shocked her. Her mouth was hot and smooth and full, and when she exhaled slowly, her breath melded with his. He deepened the kiss, his grip upon her waist tightening.
And then he could not resist sweeping his tongue inside her mouth, tasting her. Tea laced with the sweetness of sugar. A hint of citrus. Everything delicious. She made a sound of surrender, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her tongue moved tentatively against his, but then with more assurance.
He hauled her even closer, until they were sealed, hip to lips. Her cool defiance had spurred his usual ardor, and now that he had her in his arms, her mouth responding to his, his cock was rigid and aching. He told himself she was an innocent. He told himself to show some restraint. To end the kiss before he caused a scandal.
But he could not.
Not yet.
One more kiss, he promised himself, and then another, and another. Until he was kissing down her throat, and it was every bit as silken beneath his lips as he had imagined it would be. He nibbled over the cord of her neck, finding her pulse pounding fast. And then he kissed his way to her ear, taking the lobe between his teeth and tugging.
She moaned.
There was no other way to describe the sound that emerged from her kiss-swollen lips. He grinned against her skin as he pressed another kiss to the hollow behind her ear. Dev could not resist licking her there. When she shivered and pressed herself against him more fully, he knew a swift rush of gratification.
Yes.
There was no doubt—she felt this. She wanted him too.
But his instincts reminded him they would be intruded upon all too soon. Footsteps sounded in the hallway in the moment before he whispered in her ear, “There will be no chaste marriage, Lady Emilia. I will have you in my bed, or I will not have you at all.”
Satisfied he had made his point, he released her and stepped back just in time for her lady’s maid’s return. The woman’s eyes flitted between Dev and Lady Emilia, assessing the situation. He knew how it must look.
But he did not give a damn. He had finally pierced Lady Emilia King’s armor.
And it was just a matter of time until she was his.
Her stricken gaze told him she realized it too.
Chapter Six
On the day she became Lady Emilia Winter, a torrent of rain lashed down from the sky, soaking all London. Emilia could not help but to feel it an ominous portent of what was to come. Summer was at an end, autumn upon them, and although Parliament’s session had ended, many had still remained in town to witness Lady Emilia King wed the infamous Devereaux Winter.
Her new husband had spared no expense. Her wedding gown had cost several thousand pounds and had been made by the most exclusive modiste in London. Fashioned of silver silk satin overlaid with an elegant net, it was enhanced with pearls and abalone and trimmed with rich embroidering. She had worn diamonds in her hair, hanging from her ears, and circling her throat. The flowers adorning the church suggested Mr. Winter had emptied the contents of every hothouse in town. Vibrant roses and lush lilies had abounded.
To herself alone, she would admit she had been enamored of the glorious gown. She had adored the sparkling extravagance of the diamonds Mr. Winter had gifted upon her. The flowers had inspired sheer awe with their beauty.
For a moment, she had even reveled in the pomp.
But then, she had recalled who she was marrying, and why, and her heart had gone cold again. But it was difficult indeed to feel cold now, hours later, for she was luxuriating in a warm, sweetly scented bath in the chamber that was to be hers.
Scratch that.
In her chamber.
How strange it seemed to have everything about her life forever altered, in the span of one day. She had a husband now. She was a wife. And instead of living next door, she was the mistress of Dudley House, which was a good deal more sumptuously appointed than the London home she had known for the past seven-and-twenty years.
She had not requested a bath. Mr. Winter had, but it was warm and soothing. After an endless day of smiling for everyone and tamping down her inner sorrow that her wedding day had come and gone years after it should have and with a far different man as her husband than James, she had to admit, the bath was a welcome distraction.
Her wedding night loomed before her.
Her belly tightened at the reminder, and to her shame, remembrance washed over her, hot and seductive as the water. His kiss. He had only kissed her the once, on the day she had agreed to become his wife, until today. Every other day, he had been a perfect gentleman. Refined. Polite. Removed. Nary a hint of the man who had claimed her lips as if he owned them, who had shaken her to her very core.
Except for when he looked at her. Whenever their gazes clashed, she saw nothing but promise in his. And she hoped he saw nothing but denial in hers. But she was afraid he saw something else, something she did not dare even think about.
A door clicked open, disturbing the tranquility of the moment. She knew without a doubt it was not just any door. It was the dressing room door. On the other side of her dressing room lay his chamber.
Mr. Devereaux Winter’s chamber.
He had come for her.
“What have you done with Redmayne?” she asked coolly without turning to face him.
She was uncomfortably aware of her nudity beneath the heated water. He would only need to walk a handful of paces before he would be afforded a full view of her naked body stretched out in the bath he had decreed she take.
But mayhap that had been his plan all along.
“No words of welcome, wife?” came his dark drawl, from somewhere over her right shoulder.
Wife.
When he said the word, she shivered, even though the water had been well-heated and remained quite warm, lapping against her flesh.
“You may call me my lady,” she informed him, determined not to allow herself to succumb to him.
“I will call you wife, as I see fit,” he said. “Or Emilia. You are Mrs. Winter now, and you must accept your fate.”
“I am Lady Emilia,” she corrected, “just as I have always been, and as I shall remain. You cannot inflict your lowborn status upon me, Mr. Winter. I will always be a lady.”
With that, she turned in the bath to face him at last.
A mistake.
He was dressed in nothing more than a banyan, as far as she could tell. And even in a state of dishabille, he was tremendous in size. Sculpted calves, massive feet, a wall of muscle, and he was tall, so very tall, towering over her. Glowering, really.
He remained near the door he had just passed through, watching her with a hooded gaze, his brown eyes consuming her in the same voracious fashion they always did. And as always, something within her ached.
Ruthlessly, she forced it to abate.
“Are you enjoying your bath, Mrs. Winter?” he asked.
He was goading her. Toying with her the way a cat played with a mouse until eventually deciding to consume its prey. “What are you doing here, Mr. Winter?” she demanded instead of answering his query. “I sent Redmayne to search for some soap, seeing as how none was provided.”
He held up an oblong disc, his lips curving into a smile that showed off his dimples. “Soap for my wife.”
