Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,9
do what I must.”
Dom nodded. “Thank you, brother.”
He bowed and fled the fancy drawing room—dripping in gilt and polished mahogany—as Lady Evangeline sent up a fresh round of protests.
Evie wanted to kick something.
Or shout.
Pound her fist into a wall? No, that would hurt.
She wanted to snatch up something dear and hurl it to the floor, watching as it shattered into myriad pieces. Irreparable.
Just as her reputation would be by the time this farce had come to an end. They may as well find the villain who had been attempting to murder her and have him shoot her now.
“Sixteen.”
The mocking voice of Devil Winter reached her then. A rough, growling rumble. Why had he spoken? She was doing her utmost to pretend he was not standing in the corner of this unfamiliar library, watching her pace.
The library was large.
The book selection was excellent.
Under ordinary circumstances, she would have been well-pleased. But this was decidedly not ordinary circumstances. This was, instead, Bedlamite, ridiculous, untenable, unacceptable circumstances. And she was furious.
Ignoring the massive oaf in the room, she spun on her slipper-clad heel and stalked back down the Aubusson.
“Seventeen.”
His voice was amused. The low, intimate tone of it trilled down her spine. Made her belly tighten and her skin feel flushed. Was that his scent on the air? Spice and bay and leather?
Curse the man.
Mayhap if she ignored him, he would go away. His presence in this chamber was not just unwanted but bewilderingly improper. Her lady’s maid, who was to act as chaperone, was upstairs, seeing to the unpacking of Evie’s trunks. The lumbering brute who watched her now was supposed to be elsewhere.
Not plaguing her with his handsome presence.
Handsome? For shame, Evie. What would Lord Denton say?
She shook that unsettling question from her mind. Lord Denton had been sent a letter, carefully written by Evie herself before she had been surreptitiously swept from her sister and brother-in-law’s townhome. Five carriages had set off at once lest any unseen foes had been watching and anticipating their movement. And Evie had been inside the only one which had also contained him.
“Eighteen.”
His mocking voice reached her once more.
She halted in her pacing and turned toward him, irritation surpassing all else. “Shall I applaud you, Mr. Nothing? You can count. I am astounded a man of your background is capable of such a rudimentary skill.”
If her tone was biting, and if her words were horrid, it could hardly be helped. She was feeling unsettled, terrified, and cruel, all at once.
Devil Winter remained stoic, his expression never shifting from sardonic amusement. His face was, as ever, a source of astonishment. He was the sort of gentleman one looked upon with an involuntary inhalation of breath at the power of his rugged, masculine beauty.
However, upon closer inspection, she detected a subtle change in his bearing. A stiffening of his posture. Her words had hit their mark, though he was doing his utmost to feign indifference. The realization gave Evie no joy. Instead, shame swamped her. He said nothing, simply watched her, impassive.
This new silence somehow mocked her more than his counting had. She was furious with him for capitulating and agreeing to this madcap scheme of Adele and Mr. Winter’s. Being trapped inside a strange house with no one for company save servants and Devil Winter was akin to torture.
How was she to bear a fortnight of this?
“Well?” she demanded, aware that she was being cutting and rude to him and yet somehow unable to stop herself. “Have you anything to say now, Mr. Nothing?”
She had been shot. She had been torn from the life to which she was accustomed. She had been forced to lie to her future husband. She had been hidden away. How could anyone expect her to be anything other than bitter and upset and ill-mannered? She was sure they could not, Devil Winter included.
“Devil.”
That was what the man had to say. The curt, nonsensical insistence she refer to him as his awful sobriquet. She most certainly would not.
Evie spun on her heel and commenced pacing.
“Nineteen.”
She turned back to him. “You are counting the number of times I have paced the floor?”
He stared at her with those insolent blue eyes that saw too much and made her tingle in places she had not previously known existed. He said nothing.
Somehow, his silence was a greater rebuke than his words.
“You refuse to answer me until I refer to you as you wish” she guessed next, irritated. “I do not want to play games with you,