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.
“What if the skill I choose is not proper, milady?” he asked.
Heat flared in her belly, between her thighs, telling her she would not mind.
However, she fixed him with her most disapproving stare. “Mr. Winter.”
