“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 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 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.