Winter's Whispers (The Wicked Winters #10) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,31

“I think you are wrong about him. He has a good heart. He merely needs the right woman.”

And that was why she had made certain to tell him Lady Felicity was going to the false ruins this morning. She and Ash had made some memories there that she would always recall with tender fondness.

“You smell so damned good,” Ash told her, rubbing his cheek along her throat. “Do you remember when we had a snowball fight here last year?”

“How could I forget?” She kissed his ear, his cheek. Heavens, she loved this man.

“What do you say we indulge in another?” He worked his way back to her mouth, kissing her deeply. “And then afterward, we can warm ourselves inside.”

“Why, Lord Ashley, however do you propose we might warm ourselves?” She fluttered her lashes as she posed the teasing question.

“I have a notion or two.”

She pulled his lips back to hers. “Excellent,” she said against his mouth.

Chapter Eight

“Where have you been?” Auntie Agatha demanded the moment Felicity crossed the threshold of her guest chamber.

Felicity pressed a hand to her heart, which was still racing from the combined effects of Blade Winter’s kisses, her retreat from the false ruins, and the sheer surprise of her aunt’s presence. “I went for a walk.”

“Again?” Her aunt swept forward, leaning heavily upon her cane. “You seem to be taking an awfully large number of those for the winter, dear girl. Your cheeks are terribly flushed.”

“From the cold, I expect,” she said calmly, hoping her lips—which still tingled with the haunting memory of Blade’s mouth—were not swollen.

Auntie Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “Your hair is mussed, girl.”

“I walked into a low-hanging branch,” she invented hastily. “It took my hat and got caught in my hair.”

“Need I remind you of the reason you are in attendance here?” her aunt asked, thumping her cane on the floor for emphasis.

“I am well aware of why I am here and what I must do,” she said quietly, guilt striking her anew over her selfish behavior in the false ruins.

She had been so close to losing everything. She must never allow herself to be alone with Mr. Winter again. He was too tempting. Too handsome. Too opposite of the sort of man she must wed.

He was not noble, not wealthy, and he was a scoundrel.

A rakehell and a rogue.

An assassin, she reminded herself sternly, former or otherwise.

“What will you be wearing to the ball this evening?” Auntie Agatha queried next, tearing Felicity from her madly whirling thoughts.

The ball.

Felicity had forgotten all about it. “I have not chosen the gown yet.”

“Then I have arrived just in time. We shall choose it together,” her aunt decided. “I have a much better eye for fashion than you do, dearest. It is of the greatest import that we choose a gown that minimizes your hips and does not bare quite so much of your bosom.”

Lovely. The prospect of Auntie Agatha choosing her gown for the evening, whilst offering her sharp-tongued commentary, was not exactly thrilling. For a moment, she wondered if she could invent an excuse. But then she resigned herself to her fate.

It was her duty. “Thank you, Auntie Agatha. Your offer of aid is…most kind.”

Miss Wilhelmina, who had been sleeping in the bed Felicity had positioned for her by the window so she had a nice slice of sunlight to lie in, chose that moment to rise and stretch. Felicity knelt and distracted herself by scooping up her kitten.

“I have been thinking of which gentlemen you must set your cap for, dearest.”

Lovelier still.

She could not help but to think her notion of what a husband should be diverged from her aunt’s.

“Lord Chilton is a handsome gentleman,” Auntie Agatha said.

Lord Chilton was indeed handsome, but he had dark hair and dark eyes. Nothing at all like the golden good looks of Mr. Winter. Nor did he kiss her maddeningly, drive her to distraction, have an inking of a dagger on his hand…

Cease this at once, Felicity.

She forced a smile. “Lord Chilton is an excellent prospect.”

“There is also Lord Wilmore,” her aunt went on, “and the Earl of Dunlop is a widower now, looking for a wife to mother his seven daughters.”

Seven children?

Good heavens.

If recollection served, Dunlop also had a bald pate and a laugh like a braying donkey.

“He is exceptionally wealthy,” Auntie Agatha added.

Felicity tried to summon up some enthusiasm and failed.

There was only one man she wanted to dance with at the ball this evening. One man she longed for. One man who set her