Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,14
beneath his more. Not even Cora had inspired such a raw, real, insurmountable depth of feeling. But he would not kiss Lady Evie. She was not his sort. She was betrothed to a foppish lord. He was here to protect her.
“Read,” he ground out.
“Read,” Devil Winter ordered her.
His hand was on her arm. His bare skin on hers. The touch was potent. Not at all forceful or strong as she would have expected from a man of his size. But gentle. Something strange and warm slid through her, landing in her belly. She froze.
Mayhap baiting him, urging him to sit near her, had been a mistake.
Because everything inside her changed.
She had been aware of him before, but what she felt now went beyond that. What she felt now was…intoxicating. Thick and heavy. Hot and insistent.
“You have changed your mind?” she asked, voice low.
Giving her away, she feared.
Instead of releasing her, he trailed his fingers down her forearm, his thumb caressing the sensitive flesh of her inner arm. He stopped when he reached her wrist, his long fingers encircling.
His eyes were on her mouth. He was impossibly tall, towering over her. But if she rose on her toes, and if he ducked his head, their lips would meet. She could kiss Devil Winter. Longing surged through her. Before Evie could contemplate what she was doing, she swayed toward him, rising on her slipper-shod feet.
For a heartbeat, she swore he was going to seal his mouth upon hers.
But then he blinked and released her as if she had scalded him, dropping her wrist. He nodded toward the settee. “May as well see what happens to Juliet.”
As if he could hardly be bothered to listen. Disappointment surged. Had she been imagining his interest? After all, they were both trapped here, at this townhome for a fortnight, the sacrifice of her sister and Dominic Winter’s overprotective natures.
She winced.
He was still watching her carefully, and he frowned down at her now. “Is your wound paining you?”
Her wounded arm was the opposite of the one he had touched. But his concern performed the same strange feats his touch had, causing tingles to sweep over her. “My wound is healing nicely.”
He had inquired about it each day. Her lady’s maid had been helping her to apply the salve he had provided.
He nodded again, saying nothing, his bright-blue gaze still lingering on her.
She flushed beneath the force of that stare, her cheeks going hot. Why did he suddenly have her so ill at ease? Her reaction to him was confusing. Shameful.
You must think of Lord Denton, Evie.
Yes, she had a betrothed. A golden-haired, elegant gentleman who would never growl at her or count her paces. Who treated her as if she were fashioned of the most delicate porcelain. Who had never tried to kiss her either.
On that rather vexing realization, Evie spun away from Devil Winter, putting some much-needed distance between them. What in heaven’s name was she thinking, comparing a rough-hewn, illegitimate man born on the streets to Viscount Denton, the heir to an earl?
She seated herself on the settee and flipped the volume of Shakespeare open to the place where she had finished reading the night before. She felt his presence nearing her before his tall, powerful form cast a shadow in her lap.
Still, she would not look at him, for fear of what he would see reflected in her countenance. For fear of what she might so foolishly say or do next. Wordlessly, he settled at her side, careful to tuck his large frame as close to the opposite end of the settee as possible.
She was regretting her prodding, her invitation for him to sit here. He had done what she wanted, and yet she was more adrift than ever. Because his scent was teasing her senses, and out of the corner of her eye she spied the impressive muscles of his thigh, delineated by the dark breeches he wore.
With a deep breath, she plowed forward, reading more of the scene where they had left off. But keeping her mind on the play proved nigh impossible with Devil Winter seated at such proximity. His even breaths seemed to linger in the air like a wicked caress.
There was a heaviness in the room. A strange sense of change she could not quite define. But if she could not understand it, she could, at least, ignore it. So she did, turning her attention to the next scene in the play, Juliet in Capulet’s orchard.
She had not read