There was a heaviness in the room. A strange sense of change she could not quite define. But if she could not understand it, she could, at least, ignore it. So she did, turning her attention to the next scene in the play, Juliet in Capulet’s orchard.
She had not read long when Mr. Winter interrupted her.
“Take him and cut him out in little stars?” he repeated, his tone incredulous.
Evie glanced up from the pages, her gaze settling upon him once more. “That is what Juliet said, yes.”
“After he is dead,” Mr. Winter added, as if he required clarification.
“Give me my Romeo,” she read again, “and, when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars—”
“Worse than a body-snatcher, this bit of petticoats,” Devil grumbled, interrupting. “Dangerous, too.”
She searched his face for any hint of laughter, but found none. “She is in love with Romeo, and quite desperately so. Only listen to the rest. And he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night. Is it not romantic?”
Mr. Winter snorted, his disdain evident.
“She is convinced all the world should love Romeo as she does.”
A dark brow rose. “Plotting about his death and turning his body into stars?”
“A figure of speech, Mr. Winter. Nothing more.” Evie paused, sighing. “I admire her devotion to Romeo. To have that kind of love must be an incredible gift.”
“Until you’re turned into stars.” He sniffed.
“I should like someone to think of me in such memorable terms. To believe if I were turned into stars that I could make all the world fall in love with night.” When she noticed the manner in which Mr. Winter watched her—the sharpness in his gaze, the stillness in his posture—she wished she could withdraw those words. Wished she could unsay them.
“Your Lord Dullerton does not?” His query was low. Gruff.
His stare was intense. Intimate.
It took Evie a moment to realize he had referred to Lord Denton as Lord Dullerton.
“His name is Lord Denton, Mr. Winter.”
“Sounds the same to me.”
She frowned at him. “I assure you, there is a marked difference.”
But he was undeterred and unapologetic. “You didn’t answer the question, milady.”
Her cheeks went hot, for she realized she had just admitted aloud the secret she had been carrying deep inside her heart. The one she had not dared to share with anyone else; not even her twin sister Addy: that Lord Denton did not love her and she did not love him. Their sister Hannah had suffered a loveless marriage that had left her in agony. Evie did not want the same for herself. And Addy’s marriage with Mr. Dominic Winter was…unusual. Scandalous to many. However, Addy and her Mr. Winter loved each other, madly and deeply.
Was it wrong to want that sort of love herself? To long for a love like Romeo and Juliet’s?
“Milady?” he prodded.
She did not want to answer him. Not only because she had just made a most unhappy realization about her future with Lord Denton. But also because revealing her true feelings to Mr. Winter felt far too intimate. Every bit as intimate as the unexpected sensation of his hand on her bare skin.
“Shall I read more?” she asked, instead of giving him the response he wanted.
“No.”
They stared at each other. His silence was deafening. His gaze shrewd. She could not shake the feeling he saw to the heart of her. Saw everything she did not want him to see. Everything she had not seen herself.
Until now.
Until this man.
He was dressed like a gentleman, but his cravat was an ornamented knot. His clothing was fine, of excellent construction. His particular branch of the Winters may have been born to the rookeries, but they had ultimately grown their wealth. She could almost look upon him now and imagine he was a lord.
Except no lord would be so large, his hands so roughened by manual labor. His stare so direct, his manner so lacking polished charm.
“Can you read, Mr. Winter?” she asked him suddenly, giving voice to the question which had been running through her thoughts ever since she had begun reading to him.
Ever since his reaction to her remark about his ability to count, in fact.
She had not intended to blurt it just now, but mayhap it was a manner of deflecting his attention away from herself and subjects she had no wish to discuss. His jaw hardened, his gaze sharpening. She regretted the rude query, but it was too late to recall it.
“No.”
A lone, clipped word was his sole response. Nary a hint of emotion. No trace of anything on his impassive face, either.
Instead, Evie was the one whose cheeks went hot with shame, for prodding this proud man into an admission he may not have wished to make. She struggled to find something—anything—she could say, to allay the damage she had done.
“Forgive me, Mr. Winter. I did not intend to—”
“No need to apologize. I ain’t a fancy lord. I can’t read. There’s no schooling for bastards raised in the East End to Covent Garden whores.”
There was no anger in his voice, and yet she still flinched. “I am sorry, Mr. Winter.”
“I ain’t.” His lip curled. “Read to me if you like, Lady Evangeline. Or don’t. Time is wasting.”
A hollowness blossomed in her heart, spreading. “I could teach you.”
He stared at her, once more solemn and silent.
“To read,” she elaborated, feeling foolish and yet needing to continue. To make amends. To erase the damage she had so rashly done. “I could teach you to read, Mr. Winter. Whilst we are both trapped here with little else to entertain us, it may prove an excellent diversion.”
“Is that what I am to you, milady?” he growled. “Entertainment? A diversion?”
“No.” She shook her head, needing him to understand for reasons she did not dare comprehend. “I want to teach you, if you wish to learn.”
“I don’t need the charity of a duke’s daughter.”
“It is not charity,” she bit out, frustrated with him, with herself. “I want to teach you, if you wish it. And in return, you may teach me a skill unfamiliar to me. Think of it as an even exchange between the two of us.”
The two of us.
How those words lingered. How the thought lingered. Her cheeks went hotter still, and yet she refused to avert her gaze. To look away. To surrender. She held his stare. Blue burned into her, bluer than the summer sky. He was astoundingly handsome, Mr. Devil Winter, and Evie had never been more aware of that fact than now.
“You want me to teach you a skill,” he said, doubt dripping from his baritone.
Did she? The prospect seemed ill-advised. Dreadfully so, as Mr. Winter teaching her anything would require a great deal more time spent together. So, too, her teaching him how to read.
And yet, the notion of spending more time with him did not perturb her in the least.
“Yes.” Her answer left her before she could think better of it. “I will teach you to read, and you teach me a skill of your choice.”
A wicked grin curved his lips.
Good heavens, when Devil Winter smiled, he was lethal. He stole her breath. She did not think she had ever seen a man as irresistibly, magnetically attractive.