Chapter One
Oxfordshire, 1814
There was a female under his bed.
Trouble, warned his instincts.
A female was what had landed Blade here, in the monkery, at a cursed country house party being held by his half brother Devereaux Winter.
Not this particular one, though. He would have recognized the ankles. Blade was a connoisseur of ankles. And knives. Not necessarily in that order.
This one’s ankles were fine-boned, nicely turned, covered in pale stockings. He noted those first. He noted her arse second. A plummy handful, that. Too bad it was draped in an unappealing gown of virginal white. Virgins weren’t his sort.
Innocence wasn’t his sort.
Blade preferred debauched. Sinful widows, wicked wives. A woman who wasn’t afraid to suck a cock.
Which was why the miss rooting about beneath his bed needed to go. At once.
He cleared his throat, hoping the strange bit of petticoats would realize she was no longer alone. But she did not emerge. Instead, she wriggled about, emphasizing the tempting qualities of her ankles and rump. Damn. Too bloody bad he was here to stay out of trouble. Those ankles presented a strong temptation to create an exception to his rule.
There was a muffled sound emerging from the bed now. He closed the door at his back and strode nearer, drawn by a combination of perplexity and attraction. By God, was the woman having a conversation? Under his bed?
“Miss Wilhelmina, do come,” the strange creature was saying in a sweet, cajoling voice that would have certainly worked wonders upon Blade. She had the voice of an angel, this one. “I shall give you liver, I promise.”
The devil?
Blade crouched down by the shapely bottom, curiosity triumphing over patience. “What the hell is under my bed?”
“Ahhhh!”
Her scream was muffled, but the jolt that went through her body was evident, as was the undeniable sound of her head connecting with the wooden slats on the underside of the bed.
She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like an epithet.
If he were a gentleman, he would cease ogling her arse, but he wasn’t, so he kept watching as she wiggled, slowly emerging. He had never been much concerned about a woman’s derriere, but there was something about this one that was mesmerizing. He imagined cupping it in his hands, shaping and molding it.
Not now, Blade, you bloody sot. It is not the time to get a cockstand when there is an innocent miss hiding beneath the bed along with a creature she has promised liver.
As she sidled her way from under the bed, he could not help also admiring the manner in which her gown and petticoats were bunching up as she went, revealing more and more of her curved, stocking-clad legs. She was deliciously shapely, but that was not something he ought to be noticing either.
The duel he had fought with the Earl of Penhurst had been enough for his half brother Dom to banish him from London and their gaming hell, The Devil’s Spawn. Petticoats were dangerous, and he did not need any more problems than those which currently bogged him down.
Still, it did not help when the creamy skin of her thighs, just above her stockings, was exposed. Nor did it do a whit of good when she finally emerged, a dark-haired beauty with wide, hazel eyes and the most inviting pair of pink lips he had ever seen. To say nothing of her bosom, spilling over the top of her modest gown. Apparently, her foray beneath his bed had also rendered her bodice askew. Her cheeks were prettily flushed. Everything about the woman who had slithered from beneath his bed was delectable.
This was going to be a problem. He could bloody well sense it.
“Sir!” She rubbed her head. “It was terribly rude of you, speaking without announcing your presence. I may have done myself great injury.”
Incredible.
The baggage was taking him to task. She was a lady, that much he could spy instantly. Her gown was fine, though not as bang up to the mark as Lady Penhurst’s fashion. Her voice was cool, clipped.
Aristocratic.
He passed his hand along his jaw, allowing his gaze to roam over her freely. “Reckon the rude one is the one who stuffed herself under my bed.”
Her flush deepened, creeping down her throat. “I am attempting to rescue Miss Wilhelmina.”
“Miss Wilhelmina,” he repeated.
Mayhap her wits were addled. He had yet to see a sign of anything under the bed save her.
“My kitten.” She struggled with her gown, belatedly covering her limbs.
A feline. He was appalled. Cats were detestable animals. The offer of liver finally made sense.
“Christ.” His lip curled. “Get it out of here.”
She frowned at him. “That is what I was trying to do when you interrupted me, sir.”
“Blade,” he corrected, sketching a mocking bow. “No sir. No mister.”
Her frown deepened, that hazel gaze of hers—not quite green, nor brown, yet almost gray—searched his. “I beg your pardon?”
“The name’s Blade Winter. Half brother to the host. Reluctant guest. Ardent hater of cats,” he listed off each fact idly, watching, fascinated by her in spite of himself. “Definitely not the sort of cove you ought to find yourself alone with, in a bedchamber.”
Her brows rose. The becoming pink flush had reached the tops of her breasts now. “Oh dear.”
Bloody hell. Mayhap a fortnight trapped in the wintry wilds of England was not going to be nearly as boring as he had supposed.
What a sophisticated, genteel miss thing to say, oh dear. As if they were in the drawing room and she had struck a discordant note on the pianoforte or whatever the hell it was that fancy nibs and ladies did together. Blade wouldn’t know. All he did with fancy ladies who dressed in silk and smelled of sweet perfume was bed them.
“Fetch the liver,” he told her, irritated that she remained, tempting, wide-eyed, and within reach.
Nettled that desire was sliding through him, even now, when he could plainly see she was the last sort of lady with whom he would ever dally.
“Liver?” She blinked.
“Eavesdropping is a talent of mine, especially when there’s a lady stuffed beneath my bed, having a chat with her cat while her arse hangs in the wind,” he said scathingly, just to see if her flush would deepen.
She gasped. “How dare you? My bottom was most certainly not hanging in the wind.”
He could not contain his grin at her prim refusal to say the word arse, which just made him want to remark upon it more. “No need to worry, sweetheart. It’s a plummy arse you’ve got.”
“Plummy!” Her color heightened. Her lips parted.
“Careful. Wouldn’t want to catch flies, eh?” He cocked his head, considering her, his gaze dipping to her bosom once more. And a fine bosom it was, indeed. That the front and upper half of her was every bit as good as the lower back was both a source of appreciation and irritation.
Appreciation because he was Blade Winter, and he excelled at two skills: fighting and fucking. Irritation because the latter of those two skills was one in which he could not currently afford to indulge.
Stupid bloody duel.
He was an expert marksman—came with the trade—and if that twat Penhurst hadn’t moved, his bullet would have grazed his left arm as planned, only enough to put a rip in the coat sleeve rather than enough to make him bleed. And potentially lose the limb.