Winter's Whispers (The Wicked Winters #10) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,4

exist—was frowning at him now as if Blade had just produced an East End rat from his pocket.

“I can assure you that I have ballocks, and can nonetheless enjoy the stuff,” Winter was saying.

“Married life making you soft,” Blade muttered, setting the cup down upon a nearby table. “Haven’t you whisky?”

“Of course I have whisky.”

Thank Christ. How the hell would he have lasted for a fortnight in the monkery without getting proper spoony drunk?

“I’ll have some of that instead, if you please, brother.” He cast an insincere smile in Devereaux Winter’s direction, knowing it would nettle.

Not caring.

“Before you have a drop, you will promise me you shall not cause so much as a crumb of a crumb’s worth of trouble,” Winter countered.

“Hmm.” Blade pretended to ponder those words. “What about a crumb of a crumb of a crumb?”

“No trouble,” Winter growled.

“Pardon me, but you do not look like the sort of gentleman who is adept at keeping himself from any sort of trouble at all,” said Earl of Something.

Adept. Fancy cove’s word. Blade thought he knew what it meant.

“I ain’t a gentleman,” he said unapologetically, plucking his favorite knife from within his coat and lightly stroking his thumb over the blade.

It was a gesture not intended to intimidate. Rather, Blade’s knives calmed him. It was an old habit, born from his days on the street before Devil and Dom found him. Best to walk about the rookeries with one’s hand on a weapon, especially for lads who had been built like a bean as he had once been. Those lads were easily overpowered. Fortunately, time and effort had strengthened him. He no longer required the knives unless he had a job to carry out. And even then, a pistol was a far preferable weapon.

Not that he expected to have need of any sorts of weapons at this tedious affair.

He was trapped here. Nowhere to escape to. Nothing but snow, aristocrats, family members he was only beginning to tolerate, and a virgin with a goddamn cat.

He suppressed a shudder.

“You shall be a gentleman for the duration of the house party,” Winter told him. “That was understood, along with all your invitations.”

“You invited us because your wife wanted it, and she keeps your ballocks in her reticule,” Blade taunted.

Everyone knew Devereaux Winter was hopelessly besotted with his wife. If Lady Emilia asked him to jump into the Thames in the heart of winter, the poor sot would take a dive. And likely drown, more fool he.

Winter’s nostrils flared. “You will speak respectfully. Lady Emilia is my wife, and she has the heart of an angel.”

“Would have to, if she is married to the likes of you,” Blade said.

But instead of being outraged, Winter grinned. “Cannot argue. I am damned fortunate she is my wife.”

May the Lord preserve him from ever becoming so stupid about a set of petticoats.

Inexplicably, Blade’s mind traveled to thoughts of the deliciously lovely Lady Felicity. Of her legs, her wriggling rump. Her bosom. Those lips. Her flashing hazel eyes.

He should have kissed her yesterday when he had the opportunity.

Bloody hell, what was he thinking? He most certainly should not have kissed her. Not because he gave a damn about Devereaux Winter’s edicts, but because he did care about remaining in good standing with Dom and Devil and the rest of his siblings. They had all been infuriated by the results of his ill-advised duel. Consigning himself to hell—er, Oxfordshire—was his way of making amends.

“I know the feeling all too well,” the Earl of Something said to Winter.

The taste of negus was sickeningly sweet on Blade’s tongue. The ridiculous way the two other men in the room cared for their wives was equally repulsive.

“I promise to behave,” he snapped. “Now where the devil is the whisky?”

At least Demon, Gavin, and Genevieve would be arriving soon. Dom and his wife had just had a babe, and Devil and Lady Evie were expecting their first child any day, which had precluded them from traveling to the countryside. Blade had been sent early, thanks to that damned duel.

“I am afraid a promise is not sufficient,” Winter said, cocking his head. “I think we need to be certain he shan’t cause any problems for the next fortnight, don’t you, Hertford?”

Ah, Hertford.

The Earl of Something was the bloody Earl of Hertford.

The earl nodded. “How do you suppose we can make certain he will be the perfect gentleman?”

Blade’s throat was getting itchy. His cravat was too damned tight. Tied by a servant Winter had sent