dark hair.
“Evie. Sweet fuck.” He was breathless.
She smiled and stroked his back, holding him to her when he would have retreated. “Sweet fuck indeed.”
“Hell.” He raised his head, gazing down at her with a look of such undisguised adoration, she melted inside. “You ought not repeat me, love. I’ve a wicked tongue.”
Her smile grew. “I know you do, and I love it.”
He chuckled. “Minx.”
“Your minx,” she reminded him, her heart full.
“Mine,” he agreed, and then he kissed her again.
Epilogue
“For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo,” Devil finished, his throat feeling thick and his eyes strangely watery.
He was a hesitant reader, and he still stumbled over many words, but he had vastly improved with Evie’s patience and help. It had been her idea to finish Romeo and Juliet together, with Devil reading.
A decision he regretted now.
Well fuck me, that’s a bloody sad ending. He had seen it coming, of course, but he had been hopeful all would end differently. That Juliet and her Romeo might find a way to be together and happy after all, just as he had with Evie.
He glanced up from the volume he had been reading to find his wife watching him with a strange expression. He wanted to kiss her. She was wearing the night rail that was temptingly transparent, but it was stretched over her burgeoning belly, where their child grew. Soon, she would have to have another commissioned, and then she could tempt him with that one instead. He hardened just thinking about it—the forthcoming removal of this one, and what the next one might look like.
There. That was much more the thing.
Her nose crinkled. “Are you…weeping?”
Impossible. Devil Winter did not nap the bib. He never cried. He had not wept a single tear since he had been a lad. Even then, it had not taken him long to understand the fruitlessness of such an endeavor. The woman who had birthed him had cuffed him for his troubles. He was to be seen, not heard, and if he wasn’t picking pockets to pay for the bread on the table, he was worthless to her.
But his cheeks were wet. He realized it belatedly. No denying that. The play was terrifically sad. What was a man to do?
“It is tragic,” he admitted. “Senseless. The two of them should have been happy.”
“Oh, my love.” There was tremendous tenderness in her voice, in her gaze. “You have such a sweet heart.”
Maudlin sentiment.
He growled. “I have something else that is sweeter if you’d care for a taste.”
Her cheeks flushed the pretty pink he loved, but her smile was secretive and seductive all at once. “If you wish it…”
He groaned. His cock was painfully rigid at the moment.
“Not now, love. I was attempting to distract you.” He sniffed, trying to discreetly wipe his eyes with the back of his hand and failing. His big, meaty paws were anything but subtle. “To make you laugh. Didn’t want you to think I’ve gone soft because I got a wee bit teary-eyed over Montague and Capulet.”
“I could never think you are soft,” she said, her stare dipping to his breeches.
Damn, but his wife would never cease to amaze and please him.
“Mrs. Winter, I am shocked,” he teased warmly.
“Forgive me, Mr. Winter.” She batted her lashes and rose, strolling toward him. She took the book from his hands and then settled herself in his lap. “How can I regain your favor?”
He had a few ideas. More than a few, actually.
He kissed her swiftly on that delicious pout of hers, then withdrew. “I can think of any number of ways.”
“Mmm.” She pulled him back down for another lingering kiss, which she ended abruptly, tearing her lips from his. “Oh dear. I meant to tell you that I wrote Lady Emilia today with my regrets, telling her we shan’t be able to attend your brother’s Christmas country house party at Abingdon Hall.”
Perdition. This was not a change of subject that pleased him. It still felt deuced strange thinking of Devereaux Winter as his family.
“Half brother,” he reminded her, stroking a stray curl from her face.
“It was quite kind of your brother and Lady Emilia to invite us,” she continued, ignoring his correction. “Do you suppose they will be insulted we cannot attend?”
“I don’t care if he is. You’d have to be spoony to go to Oxfordshire for a house party in the midst of winter. Or at any time, really.” Devil still didn’t care for the monkery. Not