Winter's Whispers (The Wicked Winters #10) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,3

have donned a fichu before she had gone traipsing after Miss Wilhelmina. But she had been too distressed to think of anything else when she had noticed the kitten missing.

“There you are,” Mr. Winter growled from beneath the bed. “I’ve got you now.”

More shifting—Felicity averted her gaze, which wanted to linger on his distressingly masculine form, then stole one last glance at the way his breeches clung lovingly to his backside—and he had emerged, holding Miss Wilhelmina aloft by the scruff of her neck.

Felicity took the poor darling from him at once, cuddling her precious ball of fur to her bosom. When in need of a fichu, the kitten would do. Soft, gray fur, purring like mad, warm and beloved, nestled against her. “That is no way to hold a kitten, Mr. Winter,” she chastised, aware of his eyes on her.

She was overheated.

Why was it so dreadfully hot in here?

Why could she not stop being fascinated by the fullness of his lips?

“That is how the mother cat moves them about,” said those lips. “Now do run along, Lady Francine. I do not like cats or trespassers.”

She frowned. How lowering. The mannerless rogue had already forgotten her name. “Lady Felicity, sir. And how can you dislike cats? Do you not have a soul?”

“I expect not.”

His response should have been a warning she ought not to linger, now that she had Miss Wilhelmina back where she belonged. But as the eldest of three sisters who had been motherless from the time Esme had been born, Felicity had been doing what she should for far too long.

This country house party was her last chance to experience the smallest modicum of freedom before she would have to wed.

“Surely there must be good in you somewhere, Mr. Winter,” she allowed. “You just rescued Miss Wilhelmina.”

“Selfish,” he clipped. “I want you and the feline gone.”

Despicably rude would have been more apt. His curt words stung.

“We shall not burden you a moment more, then.” With as much elegance as she could summon—as it turned out, not much when she was flustered and clutching a cat to her bosom—she rose to her feet.

He remained where he was, idly sprawled on the floor without showing a hint of deference to the fact that she was a lady. Just who was this Mr. Winter? A scoundrel and a rogue, it was certain. He rested his forearm on his knee as if he had not a care in the world, tilting his head, his strikingly blue-gray eyes perusing her once more.

Forcing herself to dip into a curtsy, she tipped up her chin. “Good day, Mr. Winter. Thank you for finding Miss Wilhelmina.”

He raised a brow. “Keep the creature where it belongs, Lady Francesca.”

Dreadful man. Was he getting her name wrong intentionally? She would not doubt it.

This time, she swept from the chamber without bothering to correct him.

Chapter Two

The last person Blade wanted to see was Devereaux Winter.

Then again, mayhap the luscious, cat-smuggling Lady Felicity was the last person Blade wanted to see. Small creatures, particularly innocent ones who looked up at him with trusting, hazel eyes, made him want to punch something. And that went for both the lady and the ridiculously named kitten. Their gazes were irritatingly similar.

“I trust you are not going to cause any trouble for either my family or my guests,” Winter was saying now in warning tones.

“Thought it was my family, too,” he could not resist pointing out, before taking a sip of his drink only to realize it was negus.

Blade spit the offensive stuff back into his cup. Where was some sturdy gin or smuggled Scots whisky when one needed it?

Winter looked distinctly unimpressed. “You do not care for negus?”

“No man with ballocks does,” Blade informed his half brother, not giving a damn that he was being rude.

He did not bloody well want to be here, and he did not bloody well like Devereaux Winter. His half sisters were tolerable. The red-haired one, Christabella, was a duchess with a propensity for saying ridiculous things. He liked her well enough. The rest… Well, Blade was still deciding what he thought of them.

Each sister was married to a lord, with the exception of the youngest, Bea, who was married to Winter’s business partner. Merrick Hart was a fine enough fellow; Blade reckoned all the lords had fire pokers up their arses. One of them, the Earl of Something—Blade couldn’t recall the name and the man hadn’t stepped foot inside their establishments, so he may as well not