Winter's Whispers (The Wicked Winters #10) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,6

on her lips, and it felt like a caress. Or a kiss.

She was breathless. Mindless. An imbecile. My goodness, had she been caressing his chest? Felicity yanked her hands away, then gathered her wits and took a step in retreat.

A step in haste, it would appear. She had forgotten she had been carrying a stack of books when she had rounded the corner, and they had fallen to the floor during the course of her impact with Mr. Winter. Now, she tripped over one of them.

It was too late to compensate. She lost her balance and went down on her back in a rustle of silk.

Acute embarrassment washed over her. She had landed upon her rump with unforgiving force, and pain radiated out, cementing her humiliation. She was not ordinarily so graceless. Indeed, all she had to recommend herself was her face and her elegance, since there was no dowry to speak of. How was she going to land a husband at this cursed house party—as she must do, for time was running out—if she could not keep from making a cake of herself before this rogue?

She expected his laughter. More mockery.

But instead, he thrust a hand out.

She eyed it. There was a strange marking peeking from beneath his sleeve, atop his hand. On his skin… Why, it looked like a dagger, drawn on his flesh. She stared, fascinated. Heat slid through her with the torpor and sweetness of honey. His hand was large, callused. His fingers long. For a wild moment, she wondered what that hand would feel like upon her.

“Do you intend to sit on the floor all day?” he asked, the rough baritone of his voice startling her from her foolish reverie.

Of course, even in his offer of gentlemanly aid, he found a way to be surly.

She settled her hand in his, the contact sending a strange sense of awareness through her. A frisson, sweeping up her arm, then down her spine, before ultimately pooling between her thighs. He pulled her to her feet in one easy motion, so quickly she felt dizzied for a brief, disconcerting moment.

Or mayhap that was just the effect he had upon her.

“Thank you, Mr. Winter,” she found the wits to say.

He grinned, and the heat between her thighs flared once more. Good heavens, the rascal was truly beautiful in a wicked, tempting way she had never seen in another gentleman.

She had to get ahold of herself. Calm her rapidly beating heart. She had come here to find a husband, and one with funds enough to support her younger sisters in their debuts, to offer them a dowry so they could make proper matches. Not to flirt with unacceptable strangers.

“Going to give me my hand, or do you intend to keep it?” he queried wryly.

Her cheeks were on fire. She dropped his hand as if it were fashioned of flame too. It may as well have been. This man would burn her. Ruin her. She knew it then and there.

“Forgive me,” she mumbled, then busied herself with the business of collecting the books she had dropped in their impact.

Stupid Felicity. Two years on the marriage mart, and hailed a beauty, a fine marital prize. And yet, she had squandered every chance for a husband because she had so foolishly believed she had time. That Papa’s debts were not as monumental as they were. She had been waiting for love. Now she would have to settle for a comfortable income. And there was no surer way to lose this last, precious chance than to dally with uncouth rogues.

She had to think of Esme and Cassandra.

But Mr. Winter did not leave her to her misery. Instead, he sank to his haunches and helped her retrieve the books. Even his presence burned through her, along with his scent. He was so maddeningly attractive. It was not his face, but something indefinable about him. He possessed an air of mystery, charm, and mayhem that was unspeakably compelling.

For all the wrong reasons.

He handed the books to her, and she rose to her feet. “Thank you, sir.”

He stood with her, lingering. Not bowing and moving on. Just staring at her in that way he had. Assessing and yet…intimate. His stare was like a touch.

She ought to flee. To curtsy and go. They were in one of the massive halls of Abingdon House, alone, and anyone could come upon them. It would be quite disastrous, if innocent enough.

And yet, she stayed. Drawn to him. Icarus, flying too near the