Winter's Whispers (The Wicked Winters #10) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,32

aflame.

And she had a feeling he would likely not even attend.

But then, mayhap it was better that way.

A bloody ball.

Blade had reconvened with Gen, Gavin, and Demon for a less-dangerous competition than knife throwing. This time, they were playing vingt-et-un in another of the seemingly endless salons the vast Abingdon House possessed.

Blade snorted at Gen, who held the deck of cards in her hand. “There is no way in hell I am attending a ball. Do not tell me you wish to go.”

Gen grinned. “And why not? When I open my ladies’ gaming den, I am going to have to talk to fine ladies. Lure them in so I can fleece their reticules. That sort of thing.”

“Another,” Blade ordered her, tapping his cards. “You can’t mean to attend a ball wearing breeches and a cravat and shirt.”

She dealt him a card, and he was above one-and-twenty. Cursing, he flipped over his hand. “Done in, damn it. You need a gown, Gen. There will be shocked whispers from all the quality Devereaux Winter has invited.”

Thus far, she had not attended any of the Christmastide diversions their hostess had planned for them because Gen was, well, Gen. Which meant she had an entirely different method of conducting herself. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, as she saw fit. She did not give a damn about polite society, manners, or the expectations of others.

“I have duds,” she announced, shocking him. “Pru was kind enough to loan me one of her gowns. We are similar in size, so I think it will do. I had to borrow crabshells from Grace, and they pinch my toes. Can’t wear boots with a gown though, can I?”

“Pru is it?” Gavin teased her. “Thought you didn’t like the other Winters.”

Gen actually flushed. “I need to pretend to be a lady if I want my hell to succeed. Mayhap the Winters ain’t all bad. They’ve been giving me some advice.”

“No more cards for me,” Gavin said.

“Another for me,” Demon announced. “I’m going to trounce you all.”

“Smug bastard,” Blade muttered.

And the hell of it was—Demon probably was going to win. He was the luckiest man Blade knew. He could fall into a pile of dung and emerge smelling of lilies.

Gen considered her hand. “Think I shall stay where I am.”

Cards were revealed.

Predictably, Demon crowed. “Vingt-et-un! Give me all your blunt.”

Gen and Gavin grumbled.

“That is enough for me.” Gen gathered all the cards into a tidy pile. “You were probably gaming us again, Demon.”

“Not this time,” he claimed. “Nary a card up my sleeve.”

That was the thing about Demon—when his luck ran thin, he created his own.

More grumbling ensued, along with some choice epithets from Gen.

But Blade’s interest was piqued. “You are truly intending to wear a gown?” he demanded of his sister.

“Aye. And you ought to accompany me,” she said, making a sweeping gesture toward Blade, Demon, and Gavin. “I need friendly faces.”

Damn. Blade did not dance. He did not attend balls. He detested the frivolity of the nobility. But part of him was wondering what it would be like to dance with Lady Felicity in his arms. To be the sort of gentleman who bowed and twirled her about ballrooms.

“I would sooner give away my entire collection of knives than attend a ball,” Blade drawled instead of giving voice to any of the tripe residing in his obviously rotten mind.

Gen’s brows rose. “Your knife collection? You love your knife collection.”

“Aye, I do. Hell, I would sooner scoop out my eyes with rusty spoons than attempt to dance.”

He did not know how.

Bastards growing up in the rookeries did not have the luxury of dancing instructors. Cotillions and minuets made him want to punch someone. He would find his half brother’s brandy stores and drink himself silly instead. Yes, that certainly seemed an excellent idea.

“Aye,” Demon agreed. “But there is a lovely widow in attendance I would not mind spending more time with.”

“You do favor widows, don’t you, you rascal?” Gen asked.

Demon shrugged. “Mayhap.”

Gavin grunted. “Suppose I have to keep you company then. If any of these nibs give you trouble, I’ll blacken their eyes.”

That left everyone looking at Blade.

“Lady Felicity will be in attendance,” Gen said softly, her blue gaze searching his. “Will you have her dancing with all the lords? Thought you would be like Arthur, lifting his leg to piss on every corner of the alley.”

Arthur was Gen’s hound. And a more ridiculous mutt did not exist in all London. Three-legged and fearsome looking, he was