“Hungry,” Dom translated. “Looked like a wedding breakfast I interrupted. Just the thing. Don’t fret over me. I’ll be quiet as a thief filching the family silver.”
An apt description, that. The expression on both his half brother and Lady Adele’s faces told him so.
“You cannot remain here,” brother dearest said.
Predictably.
“Aye, I can.” He tapped his walking stick on the floor as a pointed reminder of what was hidden within. “And I will. You’ll not turn out your own blood when I have newly arrived. Besides, I am thinking you will want to celebrate my betrothal to Lady Adele.”
The arsehole’s scowl was instant and thunderous. “What the devil?”
“We are not betrothed,” Lady Adele protested simultaneously.
“A mere formality,” he said, giving her a wink. “We cannot keep the secret to ourselves forever, love. May as well share the good news.”
“Mr. Winter,” she snapped, her mouth a disapproving line.
He was pushing her. Prodding her. It was almost entertaining, toying with the woman as he was. She deserved everything he was giving her and more. So much more, damn her. The effrontery of the chit, a bloody duke’s daughter, deceiving the feared Dominic Winter. If the East End ever discovered the fool she had made of him, one of his enemies would topple him from his throne in a goddamn stroke of the clock.
“You are not engaged to Lady Adele,” brother dearest countered then, as if his decree would make it so.
“What?” He clucked his tongue the way his ma had done whenever he had done something naughty as a lad. “You do not think you are the only Winter who can marry himself a duke’s daughter, do you?”
Color tinged Devereaux Winter’s cheekbones. It was the shade of rage.
Floating hell, how good it felt to nettle this steaming pile of donkey shit.
“I have no proof you are a Winter,” Devereaux bit out curtly.
When Winter had first discovered the existence of Dom and his five siblings at the reading of their father’s will, he had been shocked. He had also been skeptical. And that, more than any other reason, had been why Dom had told brother dearest to shove the inheritance where the sun did not dare shine.
Up his lily-white arse.
Dom shrugged at him now, grinning. “Don’t need to prove anything to a nib.”
“You are not attending my sister’s wedding breakfast,” his half brother growled at him.
“And why not? She is my sister too.” As if Dom gave a bloody damn. They were not true family, nor would they ever be.
Which was fine by him. The bastard Winters did not need the fancy Winters. They never had. Their worlds were far too different.
“Until today, she did not know you existed, which is how it should have remained,” brother dearest snarled.
“I fear I must return to my chamber, sirs,” came the dulcet, smooth voice of Lady Adele. “I have a megrim.”
Dom’s gaze flew to her, but she was keeping her eyes trained in studious fashion upon the toes of her slippers as she dipped into a curtsy.
“We will speak later, love,” he told her, equal parts promise and threat.
They were far from through. She could fight him all she liked, but he always got what he wanted in the end. He would not be thwarted or defeated. He was going to take Lady Adele Saltisford as his wife.
And then, he was going to have the Suttons at his mercy.
His future wife said nothing, merely disappeared from the room.
Dom did not miss the stricken expression on her face, the look in her eyes which was akin to a man who knew his end was imminent. He was going to have to find his way to her room. And soon.
But first, he had a half brother to rankle.
