His response should have been a warning she ought not to linger, now that she had Miss Wilhelmina back where she belonged. But as the eldest of three sisters who had been motherless from the time Esme had been born, Felicity had been doing what she should for far too long.
This country house party was her last chance to experience the smallest modicum of freedom before she would have to wed.
“Surely there must be good in you somewhere, Mr. Winter,” she allowed. “You just rescued Miss Wilhelmina.”
“Selfish,” he clipped. “I want you and the feline gone.”
Despicably rude would have been more apt. His curt words stung.
“We shall not burden you a moment more, then.” With as much elegance as she could summon—as it turned out, not much when she was flustered and clutching a cat to her bosom—she rose to her feet.
He remained where he was, idly sprawled on the floor without showing a hint of deference to the fact that she was a lady. Just who was this Mr. Winter? A scoundrel and a rogue, it was certain. He rested his forearm on his knee as if he had not a care in the world, tilting his head, his strikingly blue-gray eyes perusing her once more.
Forcing herself to dip into a curtsy, she tipped up her chin. “Good day, Mr. Winter. Thank you for finding Miss Wilhelmina.”
He raised a brow. “Keep the creature where it belongs, Lady Francesca.”
Dreadful man. Was he getting her name wrong intentionally? She would not doubt it.
This time, she swept from the chamber without bothering to correct him.
Chapter Two
The last person Blade wanted to see was Devereaux Winter.
Then again, mayhap the luscious, cat-smuggling Lady Felicity was the last person Blade wanted to see. Small creatures, particularly innocent ones who looked up at him with trusting, hazel eyes, made him want to punch something. And that went for both the lady and the ridiculously named kitten. Their gazes were irritatingly similar.
“I trust you are not going to cause any trouble for either my family or my guests,” Winter was saying now in warning tones.
“Thought it was my family, too,” he could not resist pointing out, before taking a sip of his drink only to realize it was negus.
Blade spit the offensive stuff back into his cup. Where was some sturdy gin or smuggled Scots whisky when one needed it?
Winter looked distinctly unimpressed. “You do not care for negus?”
“No man with ballocks does,” Blade informed his half brother, not giving a damn that he was being rude.
He did not bloody well want to be here, and he did not bloody well like Devereaux Winter. His half sisters were tolerable. The red-haired one, Christabella, was a duchess with a propensity for saying ridiculous things. He liked her well enough. The rest… Well, Blade was still deciding what he thought of them.
Each sister was married to a lord, with the exception of the youngest, Bea, who was married to Winter’s business partner. Merrick Hart was a fine enough fellow; Blade reckoned all the lords had fire pokers up their arses. One of them, the Earl of Something—Blade couldn’t recall the name and the man hadn’t stepped foot inside their establishments, so he may as well not 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.