Fuck. He had said too much. He gripped the arms of his chair and ground his teeth.
But his curt explanation was not good enough for her. He read it well enough in her expression, the sudden way her chin tipped upward, her spine straightening.
“Why?” she demanded. “Have I offended you in some manner, Mr. Winter?”
Inwardly, he counted to ten and tried to distract himself. He could not respond with truth.
You have not offended me at all, my lady. But if I sit next to you again tonight, breathing in your sweet scent and looking down your bloody dress, I am going to want to do something we will both regret.
Nay. Couldn’t say that.
Instead, he made a noncommittal noise deep in his throat. A sound of dismissal. A sound he hoped would tell her to read the damned play and leave him in his miniature chair. The contraption was pinching his arse. Had it been fashioned for children?
“I am afraid I could not hear your response, sir,” she said smoothly, her tone lacking the sincerity of her apologetic words. “Likely because you are seated so far away.”
The outrageous baggage.
Someone ought to turn her over his knee.
Not Devil. Though the notion of raising her gown and petticoats to expose her bottom was not an unfamiliar thought. He may have pondered it on previous occasions, sometimes in the darkest ink of the night, when he was alone in his bed, cock in hand.
He swallowed. “Read to yourself if you prefer.”
Her full lips thinned with displeasure.
Could it be that she enjoyed reading to him as much as he delighted in the sound of her husky voice and clipped, aristocratic accent bringing him the unfolding story?
“I thought we had called a truce, Mr. Winter.” Her voice was steeped in disappointment.
Even more interesting. He tried to keep the heat threading through him at bay and failed. Damn, damn, damn.
He found himself speaking again. “Were we ever at war, milady?”
She pursed her lips now, emphasizing their plumpness. He had to stifle a groan, because that mouth. Bloody hell. It was made for sin. For wrapping around a man’s—
“You told me you do not like me,” she pointed out coolly.
“After you said you did not like me.”
“You were glaring at me, and you are a large, intimidating man.”
He shrugged, because he had a suspicion the gesture would annoy her, and said nothing.
She liked that less. Milady rose with the majesty Devil imagined any queen would possess, snapping the volume closed. “Good evening then, Mr. Winter. I shall see you in the morning.”
That was it? She was retreating without a fight? Devil shot to his feet as well, for even rats like him, to the rookery born, knew to stand in the presence of a lady when she stood. Mayhap except his sister Genevieve, but that was a different tale entirely. Gen would box the ears of any man who did not treat her as if she were a lad.
Lady Evie whisked past him, holding his gaze as she went. Devil knew he ought to let her go. It was safer. Better. Why did he give a bean what happened to Romeo and Juliet?
But as she moved, elegant and ethereal despite her dudgeon, he caught the scent of ripened apple. He reached out, watching as if a stranger were in control of his own body, as he caught her elbow. Her warmth scalded his palm. Nothing but smooth, creamy skin. The softest flesh he had ever touched. Her silken cap sleeves did not descend far enough to cover her arm, and the shawl she had worn earlier had been abandoned on the settee. No barriers. Just his skin on hers.
She stopped and turned toward him.
He had never wanted to feel a woman’s lips beneath his more. Not even Cora had inspired such a raw, real, insurmountable depth of feeling. But he would not kiss Lady Evie. She was not his sort. She was betrothed to a foppish lord. He was here to protect her.
“Read,” he ground out.
“Read,” Devil Winter ordered her.
His hand was on her arm. His bare skin on hers. The touch was potent. Not at all forceful or strong as she would have expected from a man of his size. But gentle. Something strange and warm slid through her, landing in her belly. She froze.
Mayhap baiting him, urging him to sit near her, had been a mistake.
Because everything inside her changed.
She had been aware of him before, but what she felt now went beyond that. What she felt now was…intoxicating. Thick and heavy. Hot and insistent.
“You have changed your mind?” she asked, voice low.
Giving her away, she feared.
Instead of releasing her, he trailed his fingers down her forearm, his thumb caressing the sensitive flesh of her inner arm. He stopped when he reached her wrist, his long fingers encircling.
His eyes were on her mouth. He was impossibly tall, towering over her. But if she rose on her toes, and if he ducked his head, their lips would meet. She could kiss Devil Winter. Longing surged through her. Before Evie could contemplate what she was doing, she swayed toward him, rising on her slipper-shod feet.
For a heartbeat, she swore he was going to seal his mouth upon hers.
But then he blinked and released her as if she had scalded him, dropping her wrist. He nodded toward the settee. “May as well see what happens to Juliet.”
As if he could hardly be bothered to listen. Disappointment surged. Had she been imagining his interest? After all, they were both trapped here, at this townhome for a fortnight, the sacrifice of her sister and Dominic Winter’s overprotective natures.
She winced.
He was still watching her carefully, and he frowned down at her now. “Is your wound paining you?”
Her wounded arm was the opposite of the one he had touched. But his concern performed the same strange feats his touch had, causing tingles to sweep over her. “My wound is healing nicely.”
He had inquired about it each day. Her lady’s maid had been helping her to apply the salve he had provided.
He nodded again, saying nothing, his bright-blue gaze still lingering on her.
She flushed beneath the force of that stare, her cheeks going hot. Why did he suddenly have her so ill at ease? Her reaction to him was confusing. Shameful.
You must think of Lord Denton, Evie.
Yes, she had a betrothed. A golden-haired, elegant gentleman who would never growl at her or count her paces. Who treated her as if she were fashioned of the most delicate porcelain. Who had never tried to kiss her either.
On that rather vexing realization, Evie spun away from Devil Winter, putting some much-needed distance between them. What in heaven’s name was she thinking, comparing a rough-hewn, illegitimate man born on the streets to Viscount Denton, the heir to an earl?
She seated herself on the settee and flipped the volume of Shakespeare open to the place where she had finished reading the night before. She felt his presence nearing her before his tall, powerful form cast a shadow in her lap.
Still, she would not look at him, for fear of what he would see reflected in her countenance. For fear of what she might so foolishly say or do next. Wordlessly, he settled at her side, careful to tuck his large frame as close to the opposite end of the settee as possible.
She was regretting her prodding, her invitation for him to sit here. He had done what she wanted, and yet she was more adrift than ever. Because his scent was teasing her senses, and out of the corner of her eye she spied the impressive muscles of his thigh, delineated by the dark breeches he wore.
With a deep breath, she plowed forward, reading more of the scene where they had left off. But keeping her mind on the play proved nigh impossible with Devil Winter seated at such proximity. His even breaths seemed to linger in the air like a wicked caress.