Wicked in Winter Page 2

  “Papa does not gamble,” she denied coolly.

  But her expression told a different tale.

  “Undoubtedly, you are not aware of every one of His Grace’s activities, Lady Emilia.” He paused, gauging her reaction, infinitesimal though it was. “But I am in possession of a great many vowels which suggest he does indeed gamble, and further, he does it quite badly. He lost everything.”

  Her lips compressed, her eyes darkening with indignation. “My father is ill, Mr. Winter. He is suffering from a malady which causes him to occasionally act in an uncharacteristic manner. If he was making wagers, it was for that reason only.”

  To his shock, he felt something—a tiny tendril of pity—unfurling within him at last. “The reason does not matter. The results do. Fortunately for His Grace, I am willing to forgive the notes according to terms which are agreeable to me. Therefore, your choice is a simple one. Become my wife and save yourself and your darling papa and mama from utter penury, or refuse me, and pay the price for your pride. I am prepared for either occasion, madam.”

  Although, in truth, he would not rest until the woman before him was his. Something inside him had decreed it must be thus. And Devereaux Winter always got what he wanted. Especially when he had to fight for it.

  “Why would you wish to marry me, Mr. Winter?” The look she gave him could have turned his soul to ice if he had possessed one.

  He was reasonably certain he did not.

  “I have something you want, and you have something I want, my lady. The exchange is clear and advantageous for all parties.”

  “Hardly advantageous to me,” she snapped. “I would be forced to endure a lowborn brute as my husband in exchange for the forgiveness of my father’s debts.”

  If she was attempting to irritate him, by God, she was succeeding. He longed to bring her tumbling down from her mountain of arrogance. To rattle her gilded cage and send her sprawling to the floor at his feet. “Just as I would be forced to endure an arrogant, joyless, coldhearted waif as my wife. But you see, madam, life is a series of compromises. To gain what we want, we must also accept that which we wholeheartedly do not wish for.”

  “If you harbor such disdain for me, why would you wish to wed me?” she asked.

  “For the good of my family, my lady,” he answered, truthfully and without a hint of malice. “I have already had contracts drawn up with your father’s blessing, and he has signed them. I will forgive the debts I am owed, and in return, you will marry me and take my five sisters under your wing, helping them to acquire noblemen as husbands.”

  “No,” she instantly denied, her expression growing pinched. “I cannot believe my father intends to…to sell me to you in such a fashion. Even on his worst day, he would not do such a thing.”

  Dev ground his molars. Why could the woman not simply accept her fate? “He has done what he must, and now it is your turn to do the same, Lady Emilia. I suggest you consider your options. I am a very wealthy man. I will provide you with a more than generous stipend. All I require is your assistance with my sisters.”

  He thought then of Pru, Eugie, Grace, Christabella, and Beatrix. He loved the five of them more than he would have ever imagined possible, and he would do anything—anything—for them.

  He owned half of London. Along with the fortunes allotted each of them, all told, the Winter family likely owned half of all England.

  But he had learned in excruciating fashion, not even boasting as much money and power as he possessed was enough to give him the one thing he needed most. Duty had been beaten into him by his bastard of a sire. Obligation was a Winter family privilege, second only to fear. But before all those came the incredibly elusive power of respectability.

  The Wicked Winters had existed on the fringes of polite society for far too long. Dev was going to change that. And he needed the pale, unsmiling creature before him to assist him.

  Strike that. She would assist him.

  “I will not be sullying myself by aiding common hoydens,” she snapped.

  No one insulted his sisters, by God. He stepped forward, towering over her small figure with his tall, broad form. He thought he saw a flare of fear in her eyes, but it was gone in an instant as she faced him with defiance and an upturned chin.

  “You will apologize,” he demanded.

  Her chin lifted an inch. “I will not express contrition for speaking the truth.”

  Devil take it, this interview was taking longer than he had imagined it would, and he was suddenly reminded he had a very important meeting to attend to. Instinctively, he pulled on the gold chain of his pocket watch, plucking it from his pocket. A quick consultation of the time confirmed he was going to be late.

  Devereaux Winter was never late.

  “I have another concern requiring my attention today, my lady,” he said then. “For now, I shall grant you a respite. I urge you to make your decision wisely. Ponder it well. I am ruthless, but only when I need to be. Do not make me need to be.”

  With that warning, he bowed and took his leave.

  Chapter Two

  Emilia frowned into the needlework in her lap. Thrice, she had stuck her thumb. Once, deep enough to harvest a rush of blood from the fleshy pad. She had narrowly avoided dribbling scarlet all over her partially formed bouquet of summer rosebuds.

  On a sigh, she realized she had made yet another error. Her neck ached, for she had spent the night turning over in her bed, plagued by thoughts of the barbarian who had so rudely insisted she was to become his wife. When she had finally fallen asleep at dawn, too exhausted to stay awake another tormented moment more, she had been curled at an odd angle in her bed, leaving the muscle of her neck tense and cramped.

  It had not improved this afternoon. More than likely it was because each time she thought of him, she tensed even more. Grumbling bitterly to herself, she removed the last dozen stitches she had made.

  He was so tall. So large. Loutish, really, demanding an audience with her, speaking to her as if he were her equal, insisting she would be his wife.

  She shuddered. The thought of becoming any man’s wife was akin to a dagger in her heart. Her heart would forever belong to James. That a vexatious cur such as Mr. Winter could even have the audacity to believe she would ever wed him was laughable.

  Rather, it would have been laughable, before Papa’s illness.

  Before Mama had told her, following Mr. Winter’s departure the day before, just how dire their circumstances had become. Just how helpless they all were.

  Mama’s words still struck her. Everything Mr. Winter had said was true.

  We are dependent upon Mr. Winter, Emilia. I am afraid you must wed him if we are to be saved.

  As if conjured by her miserable thoughts, her mother appeared before her in the same salon where Mr. Winter had yesterday proclaimed she was to become his chattel.

  Mama was wringing her hands, wearing a fretful expression. “Mr. Winter will be here soon, Emilia.”

  Her lip curled. “Tell him I am ailing.”

  “Emilia!” Mama’s voice sounded as if she were on the verge of weeping, with a scandalized edge of chastisement. “I most certainly will not fib to Mr. Winter.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “You lied to suitors in the past.”

  “Mr. Winter is different,” Mama insisted, her knuckles going white beneath the strain of her clasped fingers.

  “Mr. Winter is unsuitable,” she returned coldly. “But you require me to sell myself to him in exchange for what Papa lost.”

  “His Grace lost nearly everything we have,” Mama snapped, her voice uncharacteristically stern. “Mr. Winter has done us a kindness in offering us the means to save ourselves.”

  “By using me as the sacrifice.” Emilia stabbed her needle into the rose once more, not taking heed of her actions. This time, the needle jammed even more deeply into her flesh.

  She cried out.

  “Emilia!”

  In an uncharacteristic fit of rage, she flung the o
ffending hoop, needle and all, from her lap. She watched it sail across the chamber before landing in a heap upon the Aubusson.

  The worn Aubusson. Had she never noted it required replacing before now? Precisely how long had her father been draining his coffers? How long had he been ill? She leapt to her feet, determined to confront her mother. Not for the first time, questions clamored within her. Fears. Fury. Sadness.

  She had already lost James.

  And now she was losing her Papa too.

  But she was also losing herself. She had imagined she would live her life a spinster. Mama and Papa had both known how deeply she had loved James. How impossible it was for her to even as much as think of another gentleman after his death. She would go to her grave mourning him.

  “Emilia,” her mother scolded again, her voice vibrating with tension, cracking through the air. “You have no choice. I cannot be clearer to you. The duke is ill, and he has been acting in an uncharacteristic fashion—”

  “For how long?” she demanded, interrupting her mother.

  “I beg your pardon,” her mother said coldly, at last resembling the icy duchess who had presided over society for the last several decades as a stern arbiter of fashion and acceptability.

  “How long has Papa been ill?” she asked, stalking toward her mother, the anger which had been building within her since her unexpected interview with Mr. Winter the day before finally bursting into vibrant, furious life. “It has not been a recent development, has it? He has been confusing things for some time now. Our chef has been replaced with an inferior cook. The carpet is in need of replacing. The roof is in need of repairs which have not been made in two years. I have not even had a new wardrobe for the last three seasons.”

  “You had no wish to wed, and it was not a necessary expenditure,” Mama defended, but there was a telling tremor in her tone.

  “You made it seem as if the idea were mine,” Emilia recalled.

  Her mother paled. “Emilia…”

  Their butler Grimes appeared in the doorway, interrupting further conversation. “Mr. Winter, for Lady Emilia.”

  “Lady Emilia will be but a moment, Grimes,” Mama hastened to reassure him. “Thank you.”

  Emilia waited for the domestic to bow and take his leave before turning her accusing stare upon her mother once more. “Papa has been squandering his funds for some time now, has he not? Pray, at least be honest with me, Mama, for the first time.”

  Her mother’s eyes closed, her expression one of anguish. “I did not wish to burden you, Emilia. You suffered enough after losing your betrothed. I thought I could monitor His Grace’s ailments well enough. There was no need to involve you…”

  “I am involved now, Mama.” Though part of her ached at her mother’s pain, another part of her raged against becoming Mrs. Devereaux Winter, all to settle her father’s debts when her mother had known he had not been himself for some time. When her mother could have done something—anything—to stop him from squandering and wagering everything they possessed.

  The resentment inside her built like a white-hot tower, threatening to topple at any moment.

  “Please believe me, Emilia, this is not what I wished.” Mama reached out, gripping her arm, entreating.

  But she tore her arm from her mother’s grasp, the anguish inside her too out of control. “If this is not what you wish, then have Grimes tell Mr. Winter I am ill. End this madness before it begins.”

  Her mother’s face crumpled before her, tears welling in her eyes. “I cannot, Emilia. You must understand. Please.”

  In that moment, facing her mother, the realizations she should have made well before now sitting heavily upon her shoulders, Emilia understood she had no choice. She would become Mrs. Devereaux Winter. And she would spend the rest of her life in torment.

  Dev drove his phaeton with effortless ease, just as he had on so many occasions before. And like so many other times, there was a beautiful woman alongside him, it was the fashionable hour, and he was squiring her about with the intent of being seen.

  What was different about this ride was his passenger. Lady Emilia King had spoken scarcely three words to him since he had arrived at her father’s townhome. Her countenance could have chilled an icicle, and she was dressed in quite somber fashion. To look at her, one might suppose she was in mourning.

  Hell, she probably was in mourning.

  She did not appear any more amenable to his suit today than she had the day before. Once more, the agitated duchess had been hovering in the background, making certain her recalcitrant daughter observed her duty. At least they were alone now, beyond listening ears even if they were about to be paraded before half the watchful eyes of London.

  Which was all part of his plan. He needed to wed the fractious chit. And soon.

  To that end, he supposed he ought to make her speak.

  “I trust you have been giving my proposal careful thought, Lady Emilia,” he said at last, offering her another assessing sidelong glance as he drove.

  She continued to stare straight ahead, as if the very sight of him were loathsome to her. “Your threat, do you mean to say, Mr. Winter? Surely it can be categorized in no other fashion.”

  “I am being remarkably fair to you, my lady,” he bit out. “His Grace owes me a rather vast fortune, and I cannot help but to hope you are worth it.”

  At last, she looked at him. Her gloved hands were clenched tightly in her lap. She had the air of someone about to enter a battle. “Do you insult all the ladies you threaten, sirrah?”

  “Are you this frigid to all your suitors, my lady?” he returned.

  She was silent for several moments, and he wondered if she had resorted to her initial tactic of pretending as if he did not exist. His gaze cut to her, and she was looking ahead once more, her profile elegant. Her lips were full, he noted, when she was not flattening them into a thin line of disapproval. He wondered how they would feel beneath his. Cool and soft? Warm and supple? Would she respond?

  Nay, he decided with a wry grimace. Lady Emilia would more than likely bite.

  “I do not have suitors,” she said.

  “No suitors,” he repeated, as though the revelation were a surprise. “Why not?”

  In truth, he already knew the answer. Before Dev had decided to pursue his plan with Lady Emilia, he had made certain to have his men make inquiries into her. The finer details of the lives of the aristocracy had never been a concern of his, and after he had hit upon the answer to his quest for respectability, he had been forced to make it a concern.

  After all, though he required a wife of noble blood, he did not want one who would make him a cuckold. Nor did he wish to shackle himself to a woman with a tarnished reputation.

  “I have no need for suitors,” she said quietly. “I am content with my life as it is.”

  He maneuvered into Hyde Park along with a host of other carriages, noting she had not mentioned her former betrothed. By all accounts, her betrothal with Lord Edgeworth had been a love match. But Edgeworth had been thrown from his horse and killed before the nuptials had taken place.

  To Dev, who had been born to the vast Winter wealth but none of the respect granted aristocrats, loyalty was important, even if it was loyalty to a dead man.

  “What of Lord Edgeworth?” he asked, flicking her another glance to gauge her reaction.

  She flinched. “You are not fit to speak his name.”

  Although he admired her devotion, it also nettled him. The notion of taking on a wife who not only detested him but still held steadfastly on to her love for another man seemed less palatable now that she sat alongside him.

  “Have I wronged you, my lady?” he asked, trying a different approach.

  “You have insulted me with your insistence upon a mésalliance between us.” Her dulcet voice was still cold, steeped in rancor.

  He sighed, for they had reached the carriage promenade, and the crush here was even deeper. He wanted to court her, to give their marriage as muc
h legitimacy as possible, the better to ease his sisters’ glide into high society. If they were seen quarreling in the park, the scandalmongers would be secure in their convictions he had bought Lady Emilia as his wife.

  “Perhaps you might at least try to smile.” At his suggestion, he did the same, though it felt more as if he was baring his teeth like a feral wolf than attempting to woo her.

  Lady Emilia brought out the worst in him. He had spent every minute in her presence thus far alternately wanting to kiss her and wanting to turn her over his knee. Much to his shame, both thoughts left him with an aching cock and no hope of relief any time soon.

  She cast a furtive glance in his direction. “Why should I smile when I have been forced into going on a drive with the man who is also forcing his courtship upon me?”

  He suppressed a growl, his grip upon the reins tightening. “I am not forcing you into anything, Lady Emilia. The choice is yours. I am merely providing you with sufficient encouragement.”

  “Threats,” she said.

  “Encouragement,” he repeated through gritted teeth. “This could be far worse for you. Had the man who initially possessed your father’s vowels had his way, you would be in utter penury. Instead, I am willing to allow your life to continue unaffected. If anything, your life will be better. As my wife, nothing will be beyond your reach.”

  “Nothing save respectability,” came her acid response.

  Of course, he ought not to have expected any less than her unrelenting hatred. Had he truly believed Lady Emilia King would be grateful to him for the clemency he had granted her family?

  He sighed again, doing his damnedest to keep his false smile in place. And to make it more smile than snarl. “Respectability is my sole aim, Lady Emilia. Hence this drive and the necessity of my courting you.”

  She was staring ahead once more, returning to her initial method of feigning he was not there. “I have no wish to be courted. The less time I spend in your odious presence, the better, Mr. Winter.”