Wicked in Winter Read online

  Wicked in Winter

  The Wicked Winters Book One

  By

  Scarlett Scott

  Devereaux Winter is one of the wealthiest men in England, but he hails from London’s most notorious family. The Wicked Winters are as reviled as they are renowned. He is desperate to find a wife of good breeding so he can begin the Herculean task of seeing his siblings settled. Fortunately for him, the duke next door’s wits are addled. Even more fortunate? The duke’s only daughter is a beautiful spinster.

  Lady Emilia King has sworn off love and vowed to remain unwed. When the brutish Mr. Winter wins her ailing father’s unentailed assets in a game of chance, she is aghast. Upon hearing his requirement for forgiving her father’s debt, she is outraged. She has no intention of marrying the villain and sponsoring his wild sisters in their seasons.

  But Dev always gets what he wants, and Lady Emilia is about to discover what he wants more than anything is her. Far more astonishing, she just may want him too…

  Wicked in Winter is the first in a new steamy Regency series about the Wicked Winter family!

  Wicked in Winter (Book One)

  Wedded in Winter (Available in the special limited collection Once Upon A Christmas Wedding!)

  Wanton in Winter (Book Three)

  Willful in Winter (Book Four)

  Wagered in Winter (Book Five)

  Wild in Winter (Book Six)

  Dedication

  For my mother. Again. Just don’t read it, Mom.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Wedded in Winter

  Excerpt from Shameless Duke

  Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  London, 1813

  Lady Emilia King handed off her gloves and hat as she returned home from paying calls, scarcely suppressing a sigh. Her acquaintances were leaving her behind, and though she did not regret the decision to remain unwed, inwardly, she could admit to a small sliver of envy. Most of her friends were marrying or married, and some of them had already become mothers twice and thrice over.

  As she crossed the familiar marble of the entryway, met by the forbidding oil relics owned by a succession of Dukes of Abingdon before Papa, she knew the familiar comfort of returning home.

  Mama appeared suddenly before her then, her countenance troubled.

  “He is here, Emilia,” she warned in a tortured whisper.

  Emilia’s comfort was promptly dashed. In its place was a sickening swirl of dread and loathing. She knew the identity of their unwanted visitor without asking.

  “What is he doing here again?” she asked. “This is the third time in as many days.”

  “He wishes to see you.” Mama spoke sotto voce, but there was an unmistakable tremor in her voice. “He refuses to leave until he has had an audience, and Abingdon says you must, Emilia.”

  Emilia’s heart ached at her mother’s revelation, not just because she had no wish to meet the scoundrel who had appeared, once more, demanding to usurp her time. But also because the old Papa would not have required her to lower herself by remaining in the presence of such an unsuitable cur. Papa, before his illness, had been a bastion of propriety and elegance. He had been a proud man, descended from a noble line of dukes, always above reproach.

  “I will not meet him,” she denied quietly. “I fear I have a megrim, and I must seek my chamber at once.”

  Her trusted lady’s maid, Redmayne, followed discreetly behind them as she sailed past her distraught mother. She knew Redmayne would never speak a word of this below stairs, but neither did she care for an audience.

  “Emilia,” Mama called after her, a stern note of censure entering her voice. “I am afraid we haven’t a choice.”

  Emilia stopped. A chill settled over her, and it had nothing to do with the dampness of the autumn air and everything to do with Mama’s choice of words. She turned back to her mother, attempting to calm herself.

  “We haven’t a choice?” she asked.

  “None of us,” Mama repeated, her tone mournful. “I…would you excuse us please, Redmayne?”

  Her mother’s sudden dismissal of her lady’s maid only served to heighten the chill. “Mama?”

  Redmayne curtseyed and quietly took her leave.

  Mama stepped forward, clasping her hands. “Forgive me, Emilia. I have failed you.”

  “Mama?” A wild sense of panic descended. Instinctively, she tightened her grip upon her mother. “What are you saying? You are frightening me.”

  “Abingdon has lost nearly everything,” Mama revealed. “He has been wagering, quite heavily, it would seem. I had not realized the full extent of it until today.”

  “Papa has been gambling?” she asked, shock making her tongue go dry. “How can it be? He has never indulged in vice.”

  A tear tracked down Mama’s cheek before she released Emilia’s hands and dashed it away. “He has since his…illness.”

  Dear God.

  She struggled to comprehend. One moment, she had been returning from something as commonplace as her daily calls, and the next, she was being bombarded. “I do not understand, Mama. What has Papa’s infirmity and his sudden desire to gamble have to do with that dreadful man?”

  She refused to speak his name. Thinking of him was painful enough. He was too broad, too coarse, too common.

  Too handsome, reminded a voice inside herself.

  One she banished with haste.

  “Lady Emilia,” said a smooth, deep voice behind her.

  His voice.

  She spun about, her last impression of Mama’s horrified face instantly replaced by the hulking beast before her. He was tall, harsh, and brawny. He was not thin and elegant, not artfully dressed, not pleasant in mannerisms or gallant in gesture as gentlemen ought to be. As James had been. But James had been a lord, the son of an earl, a viscount in his own right.

  This man was the furthest one could get from noble.

  He was immense, his chest as sturdy as a wall, his thighs like the trunks of two trees. His raven hair fell in unruly waves, brushing his shoulders. He wore a plain black coat, buff trousers, and a matching waistcoat. His cravat was tied in a simple knot. Everything about him bespoke his background.

  He was someone she ought not to know, her inferior in every way.

  “Mr. Winter,” she bit out coldly, as if his very name were an epithet.

  And it may as well have been, for the man had been tormenting her ever since he had claimed the home next door to her father’s townhome three years prior. He was surly. Ill-mannered. Grasping.

  And beautiful.

  Nay. Not beautiful. He was scandalous. Mr. Devereaux Winter was the darling of every scandal sheet in London. Polite society scorned him, as they should. If common fame was to be believed, Mr. Winter delighted in hosting ribald parties, parading a bevvy of the most beautiful lightskirts in London about town, dueling, and brawling. He was rough, uncouth, and rich as Croesus.

  “My lady,” he said formally, sketching a passable bow.

  “Why have you come?” she asked, unimpressed by his attempt.

  “To collect my debt.” His expression was devoid of emotion. br />
  Behind her, Mama began sobbing quietly.

  Emilia’s breath caught. “I beg your pardon?”

  Surely this owner of factories and tenements, this lowborn rascal, could not be implying what she thought he was. Mama’s earlier words mingled with his terse statement to send a swirl of worry and fear churning through her.

  “I did not misspeak.” He remained aloof, unsmiling. “Perhaps you would deign to have an audience with me now, my lady.”

  “No,” she denied without hesitation. “I will not.”

  “You misunderstand me, Lady Emilia.” His voice was cold. “I was not making a request, but rather a command.”

  She bristled, throwing back her shoulders and tipping up her chin. Defiance snapped through her. “I am not yours to command, Mr. Winter.”

  For the first time, a small smile played about the corners of his lips. “How wrong you are, my lady. I am afraid I own you, this house, and everything within it.”

  Mama gasped behind her. “Mr. Winter, please, I beg you, do not make a scene.”

  Something inside Emilia froze. It was not hope, for that had been dashed long ago with James’s death. Whatever the nameless emotion was, it withered and died in that moment, like a rose left on the bush after winter’s first frost. Wilted. Crumpled.

  Gone.

  She wanted to turn back to her mother, to demand an explanation, but along with the cold leaching into the very marrow of her bones now came an understanding. A life-altering event had occurred, and the man before her was the source of that indefinable incident.

  Mr. Winter held out his hand to her. “Lady Emilia, come with me, and I shall explain everything.”

  Her instinct told her he was a dangerous man. That placing her hand in his, and following him anywhere, would be a mistake. James’s pale, golden looks, gorgeous manners, and courtly nature could not be further from this brute.

  She remained stalwart, refusing to accept his gesture. “I do not wish to hear your explanation, Mr. Winter. If you will excuse me, I fear I am suffering from a dreadful megrim, and it has brought me home from my social calls earlier than anticipated. I cannot bear to stand here tarrying a moment more.”

  In your insufferable presence, she may have added, but she did not.

  Instead, she met his gaze, resolute, daring him to call her a liar.

  “You are lying, Lady Emilia,” he pronounced without hesitation.

  The devil.

  She could not restrain her gasp at his audacity. “How dare you cast aspersions upon my character, Mr. Winter, when you have inveigled your way into my home, unexpected, unannounced, and dare to make demands upon my time? Demands you have no right to claim, I may add.”

  Mama moved forward, appearing at Emilia’s side. She clutched at Emilia’s elbow, her grasp desperate, akin to a woman clinging to the shore lest she be swept away in the raging swell of a flooded river.

  “Emilia,” she chided softly. “Please.”

  It was her mother’s request, the pleading in her tone, the desperation she could not help but to sense, that forced her, at long last, to relent. Whatever dreadful thing had happened, there was a possibility Emilia’s continued resistance would only serve to make it worse, and she had no desire to cause further upset for Mama and Papa. They had already endured so much on account of Papa’s infirmity.

  A knot of apprehension coiled within her as she looked to her mother. “You would have me meet with this man?” she asked.

  Mama cast her eyes downward. “You must.”

  “Alone?” she persisted, knowing without hearing Mama’s reply what the answer was. Knowing also what that answer meant for her.

  “Yes,” Mama whispered, still refusing to meet her gaze.

  Dear God.

  There was only one conclusion to be reached by such a grim revelation. Somehow, some way, they had been ruined by the dastardly Mr. Winter. And so, in turn, would she be.

  “Lady Emilia,” the villain persisted then, his voice a gruff, low growl that was at once smooth yet hard. One part blade, one part velvet. “Come with me now.”

  She shrugged free of her mother’s grasp, moving forward with the dour determination of a woman facing the gallows for a crime she had not committed. “Very well, Mr. Winter. It would seem you have won.”

  And with each step that carried her closer to a private audience and the odious Mr. Devereaux Winter, the last flickering flame of happiness within her sputtered out and died like a candle worn down to nothing.

  “Am I to be your mistress?”

  The cold question flung toward him by Lady Emilia took Dev by surprise. They had scarcely entered the small salon her mother had indicated they ought to occupy for the unprecedented occasion, the door just clicking shut at their backs, when she turned on him. And he had to admit, Lady Emilia King in a fury was a sight to behold.

  Though her light-blue eyes flashed with anger, and though she gazed upon him as he imagined she might a lowly spider which had dared to scrabble across her floor, her stubborn, defiant fury intrigued him. Here was another surprise. He had not expected to want her as much as he did now, in this moment, desire for her clamoring through him.

  He had always favored women who were golden-haired, buxom, and wide-hipped, lusty women who knew what they wanted. Lady Emilia had regal brunette locks, the pious air of a spinster, and the body of a waif. Her face was classically beautiful, as if she had been brought to life from one of the paintings he had paid a king’s ransom to hang in his home next door. But the rest of her ought not to have inspired even a drop of lust in his veins.

  Was it her disdain for him? Was it her bravado? Was it the thought of claiming and taming her, of making a duke’s daughter his wife?

  “Mr. Winter,” she prodded, her voice every bit as cutting.

  Somehow, the anger darkening her otherwise mellifluous tone only made his cock twitch. But now was not the time, and nor was it the place. Later, when he had what he wanted, he could indulge in seducing her. How delicious a challenge it would be to turn her ice into flame. He would not stop, he decided, until he had her, naked and begging in his bed.

  “No,” he told her curtly now. “You are not to be my mistress. Were I seeking a replacement to fulfill the role, you may be assured I would not settle upon a frigid, spoiled duke’s daughter who possesses the figure of a chimney sweep and not the slightest inkling of true passion.”

  He did not miss the pallor of her already pale complexion. Nor did he miss the way she stiffened, her nostrils flaring, her sensual mouth tightening into a harsh, unforgiving line.

  He had insulted her, insinuating she was not worthy of sharing his bed, that he already had a mistress, that she lacked femininity. In truth, he had parted ways with his last paramour some six months ago when he had settled upon the path which had eluded his father before him. The path of respectability.

  The path he would use Lady Emilia King to travel. Whilst he was fucking the haughty disapproval out of her, of course.

  “How dare you?” Lady Emilia demanded now, tiny grooves of fury bracketing her lush lips.

  He wondered, for a brief, foolish moment, if she were somehow privy to his thoughts.

  “If I did not dare, my lady, I would be dead,” he told her after dismissing the ludicrous notion, warming to his cause.

  “Better men than you are in the grave, Mr. Winter,” she bit out. “A pity it was not you instead of them.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, my lady,” he offered mockingly.

  Christ, but she was an angry one. When he had settled upon his plan, he had chosen Lady Emilia as his future wife because of her impeccable reputation and familial ties. Her father was a duke, her uncle was an earl, and the King line was more noble than any aristocrat’s. Even better, her father was ill, stricken with the sort of infirmity most families wished to keep secret.

  The very sort of infirmity which would always make itself known, and often in a fashion most unwanted. The sort of infirmity which was eas
ily exploited by the devils among men who sought to manipulate those weaker than them for their own selfish gain.

  To the relief of his mortal soul, Dev had not been the man responsible for exploiting the Duke of Abingdon’s mental frailty. But he did happen to be acquainted with the gentleman—a loose term, surely—who had. And buying up the vowels of the Duke of Abingdon had been easy.

  Costly, but frightfully easy. When one possessed as much wealth as Dev, and as much determination, cost was a small matter indeed.

  “I dare say you have not disappointed me at all, Mr. Winter,” she said then, her tone still cool. Accusatory. “You are behaving precisely in the fashion I would expect of a lowborn rogue.”

  Her insult found its mark, burrowing deep.

  He stepped closer to her, drawn as much by her beauty as by the need to rattle her. “A lowborn rogue I may be, madam. But I am the lowborn rogue you will be calling husband soon.”

  She inhaled swiftly, as if he had struck her. “There would never come a day when I would so lower myself, Mr. Winter. If that is the reason for this absurd call of yours, I am sorry you have wasted your time.”

  He almost felt sympathy for her. But she was so arrogant, so cold, so much the epitome of every nobleman and woman who had looked down their noses at him and his family all his life, he knew instead a deep surge of satisfaction.

  “I am afraid you haven’t a choice, my lady,” he told her.

  Her nostrils flared. “There is always a choice, sirrah.”

  Dev cocked his head, studying Lady Emilia. Though she was slight, to her credit, she faced him with a bravado he would have believed her incapable of possessing. His opponents in business and in life ordinarily retreated within five minutes of any dialogue, recognizing futility when they saw it. But not her.

  “Let me tell you what your choices are, my lady,” he said then, “since you would insist upon having them. The Duke of Abingdon has recently lost a significant fortune at a gaming establishment owned by a friend of mine. I currently hold the notes to everything he possesses beyond the entail. All his wealth, every estate, including this home. Every bloody candlestick.”