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  Wedded in Winter

  The Wicked Winters Book Two

  By

  Scarlett Scott

  Beatrix Winter has no wish to marry any of the lords her brother has in mind for her. There is only one man she has ever desired, but as her overbearing brother’s loyal right-hand man, Merrick Hart has never spared her a glance.

  When the entire Winter family departs to celebrate Christmas in the country, unintentionally leaving Beatrix behind, Merrick reluctantly agrees to escort her to her brother’s estate. But despite the winter’s unusual cold, their journey quickly becomes heated. Beatrix is the one temptation Merrick has always managed to resist, but a man can only endure so much time alone with the woman he has been secretly longing for before he takes what he wants…

  Dedication

  Dedicated to all the dreamers. You know who you are.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Wanton in Winter

  Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Dear Reader:

  Wedded in Winter was previously published in the limited edition collection Once Upon A Christmas Wedding. If you read this story in that collection, thank you! I hope you will be pleasantly surprised to find a bonus epilogue included in this version, never previously published. If you’re reading this story for the first time, thank you as well! Happy reading!

  XO,

  Scarlett

  Chapter One

  London, 1813

  Bea descended from her hired hack, weary to her bones and in desperate need of sleep and a bath. Or perhaps rather a bath first, and then sleep. She had been awake all night long, and her mind was as bleary as her vision. With great effort, she had remained reasonably lucid on her way home. She had her pistol in her reticule as always, but she was a Winter, and no one knew better than she just how cruel the world could be.

  Now, at last, with Dudley House before her, her bed within the reach of footsteps rather than a chilled hackney ride, she could relax. A blustery burst of early December air buffeted her cheeks and caught her dress like a sail as she made her way to the entrance. For the last two months, she had been escaping the notice of her stern older brother Dev, coming and going as she pleased by slipping out and then back in when the servants and her boisterous family members were otherwise occupied.

  This time, however, unease gripped her as she hastily fitted the key she had thieved from the housekeeper into the lock. She had never been gone all through the night before. She only hoped her brother had not noticed her absence at breakfast. Since he had married his wife, Lady Emilia, Dev had been blissfully distracted.

  The lock clicked, and, holding her breath, she slipped inside. Nary a butler, a maid, or a footman was anywhere to be seen, and the entire house was strangely silent. She paused for a moment in the marbled entryway as she listened for sounds.

  Still, nothing but the thudding of her heart.

  There was something distinctly ominous about the hush.

  It seemed odd indeed, for her four older sisters, while beloved, were—there was no other way to politely describe them—as noisy as a henhouse. Frowning, she made her way slowly through the entrance hall, determined to seek the staircase and race up it with all haste.

  But just as she passed the library, the door opened.

  Blast. She froze, her entire body tensing as she awaited the boom of Dev’s disapproving voice. Her mind rushed to provide suitable explanations for sneaking into her own home at nearly half past one in the afternoon, her gown covered in blood.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” called out a deep, masculine voice she recognized all too well. “Where do you think you are going?”

  Her heart beat faster, but she forced herself to maintain a calm expression she little felt. Slowly, she turned to face him, and though she had ample time to mentally prepare herself for her body’s reaction to him, it happened all the same. Heat washed over her, making her aware of needs and urges she would far prefer to ignore.

  Merrick Hart stood on the threshold of the library, resembling nothing so much as an angry god. He was tall and brooding, his shoulders nearly filling the doorway from frame to frame. His buff breeches encased his long, lean legs and muscular thighs. His waistcoat was as black as his coat, his snowy white cravat tied simply. His blond hair was too long, the tousled waves framing his face. His lips were wide and full, his jaw firm and pronounced, his blue eyes startling as they burned into hers.

  And as always, he made her breath hitch, her heart pound, and an answering ache pulse to life at her very center.

  “Miss Winter?” he asked, reproach in his voice.

  How she hated that he insisted upon referring to her so formally, as if they were strangers. “Merrick,” she greeted in return, knowing the use of his Christian name would nettle him.

  “How have you come to be here?” he demanded. “I was given to understand you left early this morning with Mr. Winter, Lady Emilia, and your sisters. And why the devil is your gown covered in blood?”

  He was moving closer to her, eating up the distance separating them with his long, lanky strides, and she was so entranced by the sight of him—even tired as she was—his words failed to penetrate her mind until he stood before her.

  Left early this morning…covered in blood…

  Double blast. How had she forgotten this was the day her family was leaving for Abingdon Hall in Oxfordshire? Dev and Emilia were hosting a Christmas house party with the intention of finding noble husbands for Bea and each of her siblings. It was sure to be a wretched affair, and the last sort of thing Bea wished to attend, but Dev had been adamant they must all remain together for Christmas, and that she and her sisters must find suitably noble husbands.

  “I fear I forgot about the trip,” she forced herself to say. Was it her lack of sleep, her imagination, or was Merrick’s gaze upon her lips?

  “You forgot,” he repeated, his jaw hardening.

  “Yes.” She smiled up at him, wishing he was not so tall. Not so handsome. Not so distant.

  The Wicked Winters marrying into nobility was Dev’s way of giving them all the legitimacy in society they had never had. The trouble was, Bea did not give a fig for society, and she couldn’t abide by nobles, aside from her sister-in-law. And when she had slipped away last night, Oxfordshire, house parties, and noble suitors had been the very last thing on her mind.

  Merrick made a sound reminiscent of a growl. “The blood, Miss Winter. Why are you covered in it?”

  She compressed her lips. “I owe you no explanations, Merrick.”

  “Mr. Hart,” he gritted.

  “Merrick,” she repeated, smiling sweetly.

  He could be as cold as he liked, but he would always be Merrick to her. Once, he had been something like an older brother. But somewhere around the time she had begun filling out her bodices and realizing he was handsome, he had taken to calling her Miss Winter and looking at her as if she were something disagreeable he had found upon his boot.

  “In the absence of your brother, it would seem I am responsible for you,” he bit out then, as if the very notion appalled him. “I will ask you again, Miss Winter, where have you been, and why is your gown coated in blood?” />
  For a wild, foolish moment, she thought about confessing the truth. But then, she decided she could not trust him. He would instantly run to Dev, and then her evening sojourns would be ruthlessly put to an end, and she simply could not bear for that to happen.

  “I heard a female cat in the mews,” she lied. “I aided her and her kittens.”

  “A foolish lie.” His stare raked over her, his expression stony. “One which does nothing to explain the blood.”

  “The mama cat had her babies upon my gown.” Gazing down at herself, she realized the damage to her dress had been worse than she had supposed. Little wonder the hack driver had looked at her askance.

  “Cease prevaricating, Miss Winter.”

  What concern was it of his? Irritation surged within her, compounded no doubt by her lack of sleep and the realization her entire family had left for Oxfordshire without ever noticing she was missing.

  “Cease making demands of me,” she countered. “I am not your responsibility. I am my own. And I am currently tired and in need of a bath.”

  “I will make demands of you if I wish,” Merrick snapped. “An innocent young lady cannot go traipsing about London, covered in blood.”

  She eyed him defiantly, pushed to the brink. She was tired, and she was angry, and she did not like the way Merrick Hart made her feel: filled with anguished longing. Desperate. Giddy. “Why should you suppose me an innocent?”

  His nostrils flared. “What are you suggesting, Miss Winter?”

  Was that jealousy she detected in his voice? No, she decided. It could not be. Merrick thought her a bother. He was always frowning at her, and he made great effort to avoid being near to her or speaking with her directly, no matter how much she yearned for his attention.

  Except for now.

  “I am suggesting you go back to pilfering books from my brother’s library or whatever it is you were concerning yourself with,” she told him with more bravado than she felt. “Good afternoon, Merrick.”

  Feeling rather pleased with herself for her parting volley, she turned on her heel and swept toward the stairs. Halfway to her destination, a sudden rush of warmth washed over her, and her stomach clenched against a sea of nausea. She stumbled under the force of it as dizziness struck next. Her vision blurred, the familiar curve of the staircase swirling before her until darkness descended, and she felt herself pitching into the abyss.

  Merrick rushed forward, catching a wilting Beatrix in his arms just before she toppled to the floor. She was small, and petite, her frame scarcely reaching his shoulders, but wrapped in her spencer and gown, she was deuced difficult to wrangle. Somehow, he managed to leverage her dead weight against his chest, holding her there while he examined her and verified she still breathed.

  He had no reason to suppose the blood besmirching her skirts was hers, but one could never be too sure. Growing up as he had in the factories, he was no stranger to accidents. Shock could make a body carry on in strange fashions, and it affected each man, woman, and child differently.

  “Beatrix,” he said firmly, doing his damnedest to remain calm.

  She made a sound, and a warm breath left her parted lips, stealing over his.

  She had merely swooned, he realized. And thank the Lord for that. He could only imagine the reaction of his employer if his youngest sister perished under Merrick’s watch. Never mind that the sister ought to have been safely tucked up in one of the family coaches, on her way to Oxfordshire with the rest of the Winters. Devereaux Winter was a fair man, but he was also fiercely protective of his family, and Merrick knew who he would blame should anything happen to Beatrix.

  With the staff dismissed for the day on account of Dev’s generous orders, Merrick was the only one about to attend her. Which meant he alone would be seeing to her needs this evening.

  “Bloody hell,” he grumbled to himself as he began ascending the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  The sooner he could deposit her in her chamber, the better. Her breasts were crushed against his chest in a most indecent fashion. Breasts he had spent the last two years doing his best to ignore. Breasts he was not meant to gaze upon, let alone feel pressed to his body. And damn him, but he had taken note of the fullness of her lips earlier when she had been goading him. Her defiance had made his cock twitch to life, and he had ruthlessly repressed any desire attempting to course through him.

  Just as he had every time he was in Beatrix Winter’s maddening presence.

  Because she was trouble. She was forbidden. Devereaux Winter had made it known to every man in his employ that if any of them glanced in the direction of his sisters inappropriately, he would thrash them to within an inch of their lives. Merrick did not care about thrashing, but he did care about his position, just as he also cared about the unlikely friendship he had struck with Dev years before.

  All of which was why he carried a blood-spattered and unconscious Beatrix Winter down the hall to the bedchamber he knew was hers. It was why he opened the door with one hand, burst inside, and stalked to her bed, depositing her limp person upon it with as much care as he would give the fine porcelain upon which the Winter family dined.

  She was more precious than porcelain, after all, even if she was a thoroughly spoiled, utterly vexing hoyden. She was the baby of the Winters, doted upon most of all, given everything she wished. And he had been longing for her since she’d grown into a woman, blast it.

  He stared at her supine form, wondering what the devil he was to do with her now. Fetch a physician? Her skirts were streaked with the dark burgundy of drying blood. He was alone in the house with her. Surely summoning a doctor would only bring the last sort of scrutiny Dev would wish upon his sister.

  There was no hope for it. Merrick would have to tend to her himself. Her spencer was secured snugly over her bosom. He wondered if it was inhibiting her breathing. Biting out a curse, he unhooked the buttons marching down the front of the velvet jacket. She moaned and stirred, her eyelids fluttering.

  “Miss Winter,” he said firmly.

  The twain ends of the spencer fell apart, and he realized her bosom was larger than he had recalled. Full and round, with just a hint of soft, pale skin emerging from her conservative décolletage. He swallowed against a sudden thickness in his throat.

  “Merrick,” she said sleepily, watching him through lowered lashes.

  Her eyes were the unassailable blue of a summer sky in the countryside, her hair golden and bright as the sun. And bloody hell, but she still had the smattering of spots over her dainty nose which had endeared her to him when she’d been a girl. Now that she was a woman, they did other things to him.

  Things he would not allow himself to think about. Not ever.

  “Miss Winter, how do you feel?” he asked, careful to keep his tone cool. Solicitous.

  After all, in the absence of her brother, she was the mistress of this house. He was an interloper, a trespasser, just as he had been all his life. A man who belonged nowhere and to no one.

  “I feel…odd,” she said at last. “What happened?”

  “You swooned,” he said.

  His irritation with her returned to him full force as he recalled her sudden appearance, alone and bloodied. He wondered how long she had been gone, where she had been, and with whom. And then he recalled her bold suggestion she was not an innocent. A possessive surge he had no right to feel hit him anew, and he banished it as ruthlessly as he had dismissed the stirrings of desire she inspired in him. He rose to his full height, scowling down at her. She was not the sort of problem he needed now, he reminded himself. Her selfish, wayward antics had left him mired with her.

  And she was an obligation he did not want. He had intended to look after Dev’s townhome as he had promised he would do. To read some of his books, drink some of his wine, and bask in the silence caused by the exodus of the wild Winter family and the domestics who served them both.

  “Are you sure you did not cudgel me?” she asked, wincing as she attempted to si
t up before falling back against her neatly tucked bedclothes once more.

  “If I cudgeled you, there would be no question of it,” he retorted. “Do I need to summon a doctor? Be honest, Miss Winter. We are currently the only two beneath this roof, and I should like to spare you undue scandal and scrutiny if I may, but I also need know you are well.”

  “The only two?” she asked. “Surely not. Where could everyone have possibly gone?”

  “Mr. Winter was kind enough to allow them several days to spend with their families in the absence of yours,” he explained, and even as he said the words, they left him just as astonished as they had when Dev had first suggested them.

  The Devereaux Winter he had known more than half his life would never have been so indulgent. But when Dev had married Lady Emilia King, everything had changed. He was softer, gentler…happier than Merrick had ever seen him. And whilst the transformation continued to astound him, he would be lying if he said he was not envious of the contentment Dev had found with Lady Emilia.

  “We are alone,” she repeated, staring at him, her lips parted, eyes wide.

  “Alone,” he repeated, and as he said that single word, something inside him reminded him just how dangerous a situation he was in. “I will ask you again, Miss Winter. Do I need to send for a physician? I cannot be certain, particularly when you arrived here looking like a murdered corpse freshly removed from the grave.”

  He flicked a glance back over the extensive blood upon her gown. Kittens in the mews, she had claimed. She wore enough blood for a dozen cats, the dauntless little liar.

  “No physician,” she said faintly. “I am perfectly well. Merely hungry and tired and dirty.”

  “What were you doing, and where have you been?” he asked, his shoulders already tense with the sudden responsibility of her thrust upon them.

  “I do not owe you any explanations,” she told him, her countenance stubborn. Defiant.