He had made his opinion on the matter clear as well. Some of her irritation with him faded. He was not the source of her ire. Indeed, mayhap he was every bit as trapped as she was.
“You have more of a choice than I do,” she countered, as if he had spoken aloud.
Sky-blue eyes burned into hers, unwavering. “You do not know my brother.”
“Nonsense. Gentlemen possess all the power. A man can be anything he wishes, go anywhere as he pleases. A lady, meanwhile, is held to the strictest of standards.”
“Not in the rookeries.”
His world was different from hers. The reminder nettled more than it should. She was suddenly acutely aware of her own life as the daughter of a duke. She had been raised without thought of anyone who had less.
“What is it like there?” she ventured, curious in spite of herself.
He grunted.
Apparently, she had reached the limit of his goodwill. Either that, or Devil Winter did not like to speak of his past.
“I am going to read,” she announced. “You may as well. Take your pick. There is no end of books here.”
He said nothing, merely watched her.
On an irritated sigh, she turned away from him once more.
“Twenty.”
This time, she carried on, stalking to the wall of books opposite her. The man was maddening. Vexing. Infuriating. She was not sure if she ought to be amused at his return to twenty in his counting of her pacing or incensed. Evie settled for somewhere in between the two as she searched the endless spines before her, looking for a book to suitably distract and entertain. He had not joined her, of course.
But she felt his eyes upon her back, burning into her, watching.
Her finger drifted over a volume of Shakespeare just as an unsettling conclusion occurred to her. Two subjects had pierced Devil Winter’s armor. His intellect and his mother. He could count, but was it possible he could not read? She had no notion of what the education of a young man in the rookeries would be. Her sister’s husband could read, but that did not necessarily mean Devil could. They had not shared the same mother, after all.
She plucked Romeo and Juliet from the shelf and turned back to him. “Do you mind if I read aloud?”
For a lengthy pause, he said nothing. Merely held her stare. Just when she thought he would not answer, he tipped up his chin. “If you wish, milady.”
She settled herself upon a divan, obliging him to fold his tall body into a nearby chair that was, as the chairs at her sister’s townhome, comically little for a man of his size.
“That chair is far too small for you,” she pointed out.
He growled.
She sighed. “Come and sit here on the settee with me, if you please. You look like a giant sitting in a dollhouse chair.”
A grumble emerged from him.
She waited. “I will not begin reading until you move.”
Why was she being so persistent? It was not as if she truly wanted him near.
Was it?
Of course not. She was merely trying to be polite. To make amends for her surliness earlier.
They stared at each other. Finally, he sighed and rose, stalking across the Aubusson before settling himself upon the settee at her side. Though the settee was large, Devil Winter was larger still. He crowded her with his big body and his nearness, his scent wafting over her, curling around her. Taunting. His heat radiating.
She swallowed, flipped open the book, and began reading to distract herself. “‘Two houses, both alike in dignity’…”
Chapter Four
The days had begun to pass, and blessedly without incident. No more gunshots. His men keeping watch on the perimeter reported nary a sign of anything suspicious. Nothing of greater concern than a stray cat trying to get mounted and a drunkard in the mews, attempting to take a piss. The cat and the man had been chased away with ease.
For the third evening in a row, Devil awaited Lady Evie in the library. Their secret life at Devereaux Winter’s spare townhome in Grosvenor Square had settled into an almost eerie ease.
As she had each night following dinner—he took his with the servants while she enjoyed her meal in the dining room as was proper—Lady Evie swept over the threshold. Her gown this evening was almost ethereal, her wild, golden hair scarcely confined. Curls had sprung forth to frame her lovely face.
For the first time since their odd little evening routine had begun, she smiled at the sight of him.