Little wonder all the ladies wanted him.
Little wonder Lady Penhurst would forsake her husband.
Curse Lady Penhurst. Felicity wished she had never heard the woman’s name. Wished those sweet, hot, knowing lips that had so recently devoured hers had never known another’s beneath them.
“Tell me again, then, if you please,” he commanded, that brilliant gaze of his traveling over her face, reaching deep inside her to a place she dearly longed to keep from him.
He was getting beneath her skin, this man. He was finding his way to the deepest part of her heart. A heart he had no business invading, a heart she had no intention of inviting him into.
“I must make a match to save my sisters,” she said, desperation defeating her pride. “My father has tremendous debts, the sort which cannot be ameliorated with ease or time. I have younger sisters, Esme and Cassandra. They have no dowries to speak of, and yet they must wed. I want them to find husbands who care for them. Husbands who will be gentle and kind and considerate. Husbands who appreciate their intellects, who love them.”
He raised a golden brow, studying her closely. “And still, I do not hear a reason why you must make a match.”
“My sisters are depending upon me,” she snapped. “Have you not been listening? My father spent every guinea he possessed and then he spent more. Without a grand match from me, Esme and Cassandra have no hope.”
“And yet, if you make a match to save your sisters, you are the one without hope. Is that not so, my lady?”
His shrewd query cut too close. Because it was true. It was true, and she hated the position in which she now found herself. “This is the necessary way of things. I must marry well to secure their dowries.”
She expected Blade Winter to bow and allow her to pass, to let her run from him and the temptation he presented. To make the best choice—nay, theonlychoice—reason allowed. She had a reputation to preserve. All she needed to do was secure herself a husband. It should have been easy enough.
But she had not bargained for the presence of Mr. Blade Winter, or the way he would make her feel.
Aflame.
She banished the thought.
“Why do not they marry well themselves?” he suggested. “Your sisters. Why should you be the sacrifice so they may live happy lives?”
Felicity stared at him, at a loss.
“No quick answer for that one, have you?”
“It is my duty,” she snapped, readying herself to sweep past him.
“Ah.” He nodded, drawing out the lone syllable in excruciating—and nettling—fashion. “Duty.”
She bristled. “And what is wrong with duty, Mr. Winter? I should not imagine you can find shame in it.”
“Nay. But I can find shame in a beautiful, passionate lady such as yourself throwing herself on the sword for the sake of her sisters. Let them make matches as they will. Why suffer to make their lives better if it only makes yours worse?”
He thought she was beautiful?
She did her utmost to strike the warmth flooding her away. To tamp it down. To ignore it. But Blade Winter was a force. A force she could neither deny nor resist. And to her dismay, he was making sense.
When he questioned her, she had to wonder herself why all the responsibility fell upon her shoulders.
“I am the eldest of my siblings,” she countered.
Yes, there was that. As the oldest daughter, there were expectations in place for her, regardless of her father’s mounting gambling debts.
“And?” Mr. Winter asked, shrugging his shoulders. “Dom is the eldest of my siblings, but I never asked him to marry his wife, Lady Adele. Indeed, I argued against it. Thought it would make him miserable. As it happens, I was wrong. I can admit my faults. However, I do not think I am wrong about this. You deserve to find your own happiness. To the devil with anyone else.”
If only she could feel the same.
But she could not. She did not have the luxury.
“I love Esme and Cassandra. I want what is best for them, and if I must sacrifice my future for them to gain theirs, then I shall.”
