Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,13

stubborn. “If you want to hear what happens next, you will move nearer.”

He cast a glance about the library, searching for her lady’s maid, who always seemed to have her nose in her embroidery and sat in a faraway corner. Once, he had sworn the woman had been snoring. This evening, she was nowhere to be found.

“Where is Smithson?” he asked, his voice sharper than he had intended.

Two golden brows arched. “She was not quite feeling the thing this evening, so I sent her to bed early.”

An unexpected surprise, that. Milady cared about her servant’s welfare?

Something shifted inside Devil’s chest. He longed to beat on it with his fist and force the unwanted change to reverse itself.

Instead, he swallowed. “Kind of you. Best if I stay here.”

Fuck. He had said too much. He gripped the arms of his chair and ground his teeth.

But his curt explanation was not good enough for her. He read it well enough in her expression, the sudden way her chin tipped upward, her spine straightening.

“Why?” she demanded. “Have I offended you in some manner, Mr. Winter?”

Inwardly, he counted to ten and tried to distract himself. He could not respond with truth.

You have not offended me at all, my lady. But if I sit next to you again tonight, breathing in your sweet scent and looking down your bloody dress, I am going to want to do something we will both regret.

Nay. Couldn’t say that.

Instead, he made a noncommittal noise deep in his throat. A sound of dismissal. A sound he hoped would tell her to read the damned play and leave him in his miniature chair. The contraption was pinching his arse. Had it been fashioned for children?

“I am afraid I could not hear your response, sir,” she said smoothly, her tone lacking the sincerity of her apologetic words. “Likely because you are seated so far away.”

The outrageous baggage.

Someone ought to turn her over his knee.

Not Devil. Though the notion of raising her gown and petticoats to expose her bottom was not an unfamiliar thought. He may have pondered it on previous occasions, sometimes in the darkest ink of the night, when he was alone in his bed, cock in hand.

He swallowed. “Read to yourself if you prefer.”

Her full lips thinned with displeasure.

Could it be that she enjoyed reading to him as much as he delighted in the sound of her husky voice and clipped, aristocratic accent bringing him the unfolding story?

“I thought we had called a truce, Mr. Winter.” Her voice was steeped in disappointment.

Even more interesting. He tried to keep the heat threading through him at bay and failed. Damn, damn, damn.

He found himself speaking again. “Were we ever at war, milady?”

She pursed her lips now, emphasizing their plumpness. He had to stifle a groan, because that mouth. Bloody hell. It was made for sin. For wrapping around a man’s—

“You told me you do not like me,” she pointed out coolly.

“After you said you did not like me.”

“You were glaring at me, and you are a large, intimidating man.”

He shrugged, because he had a suspicion the gesture would annoy her, and said nothing.

She liked that less. Milady rose with the majesty Devil imagined any queen would possess, snapping the volume closed. “Good evening then, Mr. Winter. I shall see you in the morning.”

That was it? She was retreating without a fight? Devil shot to his feet as well, for even rats like him, to the rookery born, knew to stand in the presence of a lady when she stood. Mayhap except his sister Genevieve, but that was a different tale entirely. Gen would box the ears of any man who did not treat her as if she were a lad.

Lady Evie whisked past him, holding his gaze as she went. Devil knew he ought to let her go. It was safer. Better. Why did he give a bean what happened to Romeo and Juliet?

But as she moved, elegant and ethereal despite her dudgeon, he caught the scent of ripened apple. He reached out, watching as if a stranger were in control of his own body, as he caught her elbow. Her warmth scalded his palm. Nothing but smooth, creamy skin. The softest flesh he had ever touched. Her silken cap sleeves did not descend far enough to cover her arm, and the shawl she had worn earlier had been abandoned on the settee. No barriers. Just his skin on hers.

She stopped and turned toward him.

He had never wanted to feel a woman’s lips