ended the kiss as abruptly as she had begun it, tearing his lips from hers and staring down at her. His bright-blue eyes were brilliant and vivid. His breathing was as ragged as Felicity’s was. Good, then. He was not unaffected.
But why had he stopped kissing her?
“Blade,” she began, only to be silenced by the press of his forefinger to her lips.
“Hush.”
“Hush?” she mumbled against his finger.
“Someone is coming,” he said.
And that was all she needed to hear for her skin to go cold and her heart to plummet. She pushed away from him, mouth dry. Good God, this was how her hopes of securing Esme’s and Cassandra’s futures ended. Destroyed in the false ruins at a country house party by an East End scoundrel whose most recent accomplishment appeared to be wounding the Earl of Penhurst in a duel.
Because he had bedded the man’s wife.
“Remain here,” he ordered her, voice low. “I will meet whomever it is. Do not open the door, whatever you do.”
She nodded, startled he was thinking of propriety. Of her reputation. But then again, one could only suppose he had no wish to cause more trouble for his family. His duel with Penhurst was the reason he was in attendance at Mr. Devereaux Winter and Lady Emilia Winter’s Christmastide party. At least, that was what Lady Aylesford had relayed. The family thought he could do little damage rusticating in the country.
Her kiss-swollen lips and about-to-be-ruined reputation were proof to the contrary.
More fool, she.
Still, Felicity could do nothing but watch as he turned away from her and stalked across the chamber, quitting the room. Voices echoed in the hall beyond the closed door. Masculine, both of them.
She could only pray it was a servant, arriving to tend the fire. Their words did not carry to her; she was left with nothing save the tone of their voices. Nothing seemed amiss. She pressed a hand to her rapidly beating heart, willing it to calm as her eyes frantically cast about the chamber, looking for a place where she might hide herself lest Mr. Winter find himself unable to keep their unexpected guest from entering the chamber and discovering her within.
There was none. Indeed, there was nothing to be done. She had to remain here, hoping he would play the gentleman, that he would protect her honor. That she had not been so recklessly foolish that she could never recover from this tremendous lapse of reason.
Esme and Cassandra, she reminded herself. How dare she have been selfish? How dare she have given in to temptation?
If she escaped from this folly with her reputation intact, it would serve as a stern lesson to her. She was not infallible. She could not afford to spend further time with Blade Winter, alone or accompanied. The man was dangerous to her reputation and virtue both.
Because he was the most deliciously handsome man she had ever beheld. And because he was also the most fluent kisser. She could well understand Lady Penhurst’s defection. Though thoughts of the woman stung—the notion of any other female in Blade Winter’s arms did, in truth—Felicity could acknowledge that much.
In what was mayhap a futile action, she retrieved her discarded pelisse and stuffed her arms into the sleeves. Frantically, she began fastening the seemingly endless line of buttons. If she were fully clothed, mayhap she could blunt the scandal’s blow…
Oh, who was she fooling? There would be no blunting. The blow of scandal, however it came, was always felling for a lady. And for a lady such as herself, needing to make a match to save her sisters’ futures, it would be a societal death knell, pure and simple.
Felicity reached the top of her pelisse, only to realize she had misbuttoned. One mooring remained, but no buttons. The entire affair was off. A glance down her person confirmed she had begun with the second button instead of the first.
“Blast,” she muttered, as she began to unfasten them with as much haste as her trembling fingers could muster.
The door opened and her heart fell for the second time.
But only Blade Winter sauntered through. The portal closed behind him. He looked as if he had been kissing someone, she thought to herself. And then she realized he had.
Her.
What a cursed disaster. What had she been thinking?
“Who was it?” she whispered.
“The footman sent to tend the fire,” he said smoothly. “I have assured him I will stoke the flame for him. He is returning to the main house now, none the