Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,19

him, her expression stricken. Her heart was in her eyes. And what a heart it was. Unscarred, unscathed. Whole and untouched, ready to be broken. But not by Devil. Never by him. Her husband would shatter that heart for her, likely within the first month of marriage. Lord Dullerton would turn to his mistress, and milady would be left crying into her pillow.

Why should he give a damn? It was the way of the world, cruel and cutting, rife with bitter disappointment.

“What?” he demanded, feeling churlish. Feeling as if his skin were suddenly too small for his body, as if he had been dipped into flames.

“Do not go, Mr. Winter.”

Her sweet entreaty irritated him. Because it burrowed inside his chest. Reached him in a way no woman had. Not since Cora. The two women had nothing else in common. Cora had been dark-haired, bright-eyed, and impossibly sweet.

Until her sweetness had fled her.

And until she had fled him.

“No more lessons today,” he snapped.

He was beyond his limits. Feeling things he had no wish to feel. Thinking thoughts he had no right to think.

With that, he shrugged free of her touch and from her presence altogether. He stalked from the room, leaving her behind him, all too aware of her stare on his back as he went.

She had displeased him somehow.

Evie watched Devil Winter’s long-limbed stride taking him from the study, a feeling of helplessness overcoming her. She had intended to help him. To spend some time with Mr. Winter, understand him, get to know him. Instead, she had unwittingly chased him away.

And she hated it.

Loathed the way his handsome face had closed. Detested the hardness that had come into his sky-blue eyes, the tension in the bold slant of his jaw. Despised anything and anyone who made him feel inadequate, or as if he could never measure up to a peer of the realm.

She chased after him before she realized what she was about, catching his arm. Staying his retreat. He turned toward her, his expression thunderous. The man was not pleased. Through his jacket and shirt sleeve, his warmth burned into her. She removed her hand.

But Evie was not a wilting flower. She tipped her chin up, met his glare with a bright smile she little felt.

“Do not forget this is an even exchange, sir. You have promised to teach me your skill as well,” she reminded him.

Not because she had any desire to wield a blade against a hunk of wood. But because she did not want him to hide himself away. Because she wanted him right here. With her.

Evie would worry about the meaning of that later. Devil Winter intrigued her. He…

Nay, Evie! Cease all such inappropriate thoughts at once.

She must not travel any further down that ruinous path. Mr. Devil Winter was not for her. She was going to marry Lord Denton, who was the epitome of elegance and polite manners. He was handsome, sought after, a most eligible parti.

Not as handsome as Mr. Winter.

She banished the unwanted, wicked voice. Even if it was true, she had no right to be entertaining such thoughts. Devil Winter was not for her. He could never be for her. Her sister may have married beneath her, wedding Mr. Dominic Winter in a bid to ease their madcap brother’s gambling debts. But although their union had turned into a love match, Evie was firm in her path. Lord Denton was perfectly polite. He danced well, was the heir to a noble title, and her father approved of him.

Pity she was not in love with him.

However, love would grow. She was certain.

Devil Winter was watching her intently now, fixing her with a stare that yet again seemed to see far too much.

“You want to learn to whittle now?” he asked, as if the mere suggestion irritated him.

His voice was curt, angry, with an extra edge. Quite probably, she ought to tell him she had changed her mind. That he could teach her to carve another day. But the plain truth was she did not want to watch him go. She did not want to be alone.

Without him.

“Yes,” she suggested brightly. “I do want to learn.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Changed his expression. “I haven’t the patience to play your teacher today.”

An unfamiliar urge rose within her, a tightening in her belly, a heat flaring where it should not. The longing was fierce and insistent, foolish and wild, brazen and reckless. But it would not be quelled, no matter how hard she attempted