to him that morning. Called himself a valet. Blade had never heard of the like.
“Excellent question,” Winter said to the earl, as if they were conducting a dialogue without Blade’s presence. “Mayhap we should take his knife.”
Fuck. Blade’s thumb stilled on the knife. This was his favorite blade. His lucky blade. It never left his side. He slipped it into his coat. “Not unless you fancy a broken wrist during your house party, milord.”
Winter’s jaw tightened, the only sign Blade’s insult had hit its mark. Deveraux Winter was not an aristocrat; he’d never be a lord. This sprawling estate and manor house had belonged to his wife’s father, the duke, before he had purchased it. But one could not buy a title.
“Something else,” Hertford suggested briskly, as if one of the most dangerous men in London had not just threatened the both of them.
He was adept at blending into the scenery. It was what Blade did, how he reached his targets. Namely, Winter enemies. And there it was, he had used a fancy cove’s word in his own thoughts.
Damn it.
“My word. That ought to be enough,” he gritted. “We are family, are we not?”
Including the earl. Which was quite bloody rich. The laugh of the century, at least.
“No dallying with the guests,” his half brother ordered.
Devereaux Winter could have passed for Dom’s twin. They were both tall, broad, fierce. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and commanding. Both the leaders of their respective Winter clans. And they had the same thoughts, the same rigid adherence to their wives and honor.
“Surely there may be some married ladies in attendance who require…distraction,” Blade tried.
“No,” Winter bellowed.
“You are fortunate you did not kill Penhurst in that foolish duel,” the earl added.
Hell. The Earl of Hertford was a prude. And Devereaux Winter a killjoy.
“I am an unrivaled marksman,” he said. “The idiot moved.”
“Nevertheless, you can agree you have caused enough difficulties for our family,” Winter said.
“Now it is our family,” Blade grumbled, plainly seeing the difference. “What do you want from me? Shall I carve a promise into my flesh? I came here to calm the waters, not to bedevil them. All I want is whisky and a comfortable place to avoid everyone for the next thirteen days.”
Hertford and Winter exchanged a look.
Blade read it. Disbelief.
Fair enough; his reputation was black.
“I promise,” he bit out. “You have my word. If I cause any trouble for you, I will give you all my weapons and my head on a pike. Trust me, I have had more than my fair share of trouble and quim both these last few weeks. All I seek is forgiveness.”
Once more, Lady Felicity’s face rose in his mind. Haunting, tempting, taunting.
He thrust all thoughts of her away and held his half brother’s gaze.
Devereaux Winter studied him for a long time. At last, he nodded. “I trust you, Blade. Do not disappoint me.”
Well, hell. Mayhap wealthy nibs like his half brother did not understand that sooner or later, everyone in one’s life was a source of disappointment. But never mind that. He would learn the lesson in his own time, and hopefully Blade would not be the one to do the teaching.
All he had to do was keep to himself.
That ought to be easy.
Felicity rounded a corner in the hall and ran into something tall, hard, warm, and smelling of leather and…citrus and musk.
Mr. Blade Winter.
She would recognize that maddening scent anywhere.
Her palms instinctively flattened against the muscled wall of his chest. She ought to retract them, but there was something about the dratted man that lured her just as it had the day before. His heat seared her.
She pressed herself nearer. For one reckless moment only. Her breasts collided with him, their hips connecting. The air fled her lungs.
Hands gripped her waist, steadying her. His impossibly blue gaze settled on hers.
“Lady Frances,” came that deep, wondrous baritone.
Mocking.
Had he truly forgotten her name once more, or was he merely toying with her? She stared up into his handsome, unreadable countenance, and could not determine which it was.
“Lady Felicity,” she corrected, mustering all the chill she possessed.
But inside, oh, inside, she was aflame.
From a touch, from a collision, from a man she otherwise found arrogant and ill-mannered. An insolent lout. It made no sense. What drew her to him? And why was she not retreating, stepping away, removing her palms from his chest? Why was she instead coasting them over the broad plane, absorbing his warmth and strength?
“Lady Felicity,” he repeated, his tone intimate. His gaze settled