Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,7

of time passed. She was certain he was going to deny her.

And then, he made a sound low in his throat. More of a grunt than anything, and he held the bottle to her lips once more. She took another long draught and thought that perhaps Devil Winter was not quite as horrible as she initially supposed.

Chapter Three

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

Devil’s lone, low denial rang out at the same time Lady Evangeline’s did.

Evie.

Damn it, why did her tap-hackled command he call her by her diminutive return to haunt him now? Didn’t matter. All that did was his canceling the poorly conceived, half-arsed, utterly shite idea which had just been presented by Lady Adele and Dom. A half brother ought to have more loyalty, the bastard.

“I know it is unusual for a young lady to suddenly be forced to take time away from the social whirl in the midst of the Season,” Lady Adele began tentatively, addressing her twin. “However, the events of two days ago leave us with little choice. Surely you must see the necessity of keeping your whereabouts hidden until we can be assured of your safety.”

“I most certainly do not.” Milady was at her best once more, sweeping through the drawing room as if she were a queen attended by her mere vassals.

Trifling matters such as gunshot wounds did precious little to dampen her aristocratic airs. Devil suspected they were bred in her. She was a duke’s daughter, was she not? She had probably emerged from the womb looking down her nose at everyone who was not a lord or lady.

Whilst he had been born fighting for his existence. The woman who had birthed Devil—he refused to think of her as his mother—had not given a bloody bean about him. After he reached a suitable age, selling him had proven a better prospect than attempting to feed an extra mouth had. And Anne Smythe had done just that, may she rot.

“Lady Evangeline, you are in grave danger,” his half brother Dom was saying now. “You were fortunate your injuries were not worse. Until we know who is behind these attacks, I am afraid there is no other way of keeping you safe.”

There were other ways, damn it.

Devil was certain.

He scowled at Dom. “I don’t go to the monkery. London is where I stay.”

He had made this clear when he had first been approached with this Bedlamite’s plan of secreting Lady Evangeline to the countryside with Devil as her squire. He did not like the country. Bricks, rats, and streets that stunk of desperation suited him fine. He knew what to expect here. Knew how to fight and protect himself.

The East End was his territory. This Mayfair business was a lot of donkey dung, but he had been willing to suffer it temporarily out of loyalty to Dom. Not the country, however. Not traveling with milady.

Not in this fucking century.

“London is where you have stayed, but there is no reason you cannot remove yourself from it for a time,” Dom was telling him in his calm, persuasive, I-can-make-you-do-as-I-wish, older-brother tone. “I traveled to Oxfordshire, if you will recall, and I returned whole.”

“Married.” Devil’s lip curled of its own accord.

He liked his brother’s wife, it was true. However, there was no denying that his brother’s trip to the monkery had landed him leg-shackled. As planned, yes. But thoroughly besotted with his wife.

Terrible state. Horrible example to offer.

Devil wanted no part of marriage. He had fancied himself in love once. But Cora’s defection had robbed him of any capacity to feel. He was invulnerable now. Cold as ice, hard as a wall.

“He returned married to me,” Lady Adele reminded Devil gently. “I do not think it such a horrid fate. There is nothing wrong with marriage, Devil. But it is not as if you need fear such a circumstance befalling you. Evie is betrothed to Lord Denton.”

Ah, yes, he thought acidly. How could he have forgotten? Not that a fine lady such as Lady Evie would ever deign to consider an East End criminal such as himself a prospect. She would never have allowed him to touch her after her wounding, had she not been incapacitated and in her cups. He was not fit to kiss milady’s soiled hem.

If indeed milady’s hems were ever soiled. He rather doubted it.

“That is why I must not leave London,” Evie countered, her voice triumphant.

She was dressed in a pale-pink gown, the bandage on her upper arm cleverly disguised by her sleeve. One would never guess