And a wedding breakfast to attend.
He thumped Devereaux Winter on the back once again with more force than necessary. “Lead on, brother. It is not every day that my sister is wed.”
“I am going to kill you,” his nemesis threatened.
Dom grinned. “I would love to see you try.”
Perverse bastard that he was, he meant every word.
Chapter 8
She should have run when she had the chance.
No, instead Adele had remained at Abingdon Hall, wanting to see her friend marry the Duke of Coventry. And now she had been caught, just like any mouse about to be devoured by a starving cat. But first the cat would toy with her, paw at her, make her misery its first course.
Yes, she thought as she paced the carpets of her chamber, attempting to assemble some manner of battle plan, Dominic Winter was a vicious cat. A lion, more like. And he was intent upon doing to her what he wished until there was nothing left.
She would not marry him.
Could not marry him.
He was a violent man. A man who had blithely threatened to have one of his henchmen take Max’s eye or cut off one of his toes. A criminal who had already made her barter her brother’s safety with her body two months ago.
But he was also the man who had kissed her so sweetly, who had visited intense pleasure, the likes of which she had never supposed existed, upon her body. He was the man for whom she had longed, in all the days since she had seen him last. The man she had dreaded. The man she wanted despite all sound logic and reason.
He was the man who had ruined her.
The father of her unborn babe.
She cradled her abdomen now, the small swell, barely there. The slightest hint she was no longer the innocent girl who had gone to The Devil’s Spawn in hopes of keeping her brother from suffering another beating. The smallest sign there was a new life within her. Dominic Winter must never discover she was carrying his child.
“No,” she said aloud, hugging her midsection as she paced, “he must never, ever know.”
“What must I never know, Duchess?”
She jumped on a shriek, whirling about to face the source of that low, most unwanted baritone. There, in the shadows of her chamber, stood Dominic Winter. Tall, dark, dangerous.
Handsome.
Too handsome.
How in heaven’s name had he gained entry to her private space? She had barred the door and windows. How had he known she was talking about him?
She pressed a hand to her wildly thumping heart, willing it to calm. “What are you doing in my chamber, Mr. Winter?”
“Are we back to the formalities?” He slowly sauntered toward her, as if he had all the time in the world with which to approach. “I confess, I miss hearing you call me Dom.”
“Remove yourself from this room at once,” she ordered him, blustering.
Because she was a defenseless woman half his size, and he was a towering wall of conscienceless muscle.
“No. Don’t reckon I shall.” He kept moving toward her, his long-legged strides eating up the distance separating them with ease.
“Why are you still at Abingdon Hall?” she demanded, for she had hoped Mr. Devereaux Winter would simply evict his alleged half brother from the grounds and send him back to London. That she could hide away until he was gone and she was safe to continue with her plans.
That would have been far too easy, however.
And she should have known better. Dominic Winter would never allow himself to be dismissed.
