“Would have to, if she is married to the likes of you,” Blade said.
But instead of being outraged, Winter grinned. “Cannot argue. I am damned fortunate she is my wife.”
May the Lord preserve him from ever becoming so stupid about a set of petticoats.
Inexplicably, Blade’s mind traveled to thoughts of the deliciously lovely Lady Felicity. Of her legs, her wriggling rump. Her bosom. Those lips. Her flashing hazel eyes.
He should have kissed her yesterday when he had the opportunity.
Bloody hell, what was he thinking? He most certainly should not have kissed her. Not because he gave a damn about Devereaux Winter’s edicts, but because he did care about remaining in good standing with Dom and Devil and the rest of his siblings. They had all been infuriated by the results of his ill-advised duel. Consigning himself to hell—er, Oxfordshire—was his way of making amends.
“I know the feeling all too well,” the Earl of Something said to Winter.
The taste of negus was sickeningly sweet on Blade’s tongue. The ridiculous way the two other men in the room cared for their wives was equally repulsive.
“I promise to behave,” he snapped. “Now where the devil is the whisky?”
At least Demon, Gavin, and Genevieve would be arriving soon. Dom and his wife had just had a babe, and Devil and Lady Evie were expecting their first child any day, which had precluded them from traveling to the countryside. Blade had been sent early, thanks to that damned duel.
“I am afraid a promise is not sufficient,” Winter said, cocking his head. “I think we need to be certain he shan’t cause any problems for the next fortnight, don’t you, Hertford?”
Ah,Hertford.
The Earl of Something was the bloody Earl of Hertford.
The earl nodded. “How do you suppose we can make certain he will be the perfect gentleman?”
Blade’s throat was getting itchy. His cravat was too damned tight. Tied by a servant Winter had sent to him that morning. Called himself a valet. Blade had never heard of the like.
“Excellent question,” Winter said to the earl, as if they were conducting a dialogue without Blade’s presence. “Mayhap we should take his knife.”
Fuck.Blade’s thumb stilled on the knife. This was his favorite blade. His lucky blade. It never left his side. He slipped it into his coat. “Not unless you fancy a broken wrist during your house party,milord.”
Winter’s jaw tightened, the only sign Blade’s insult had hit its mark. Deveraux Winter was not an aristocrat; he’d never be a lord. This sprawling estate and manor house had belonged to his wife’s father, the duke, before he had purchased it. But one could not buy a title.
“Something else,” Hertford suggested briskly, as if one of the most dangerous men in London had not just threatened the both of them.
He wasadeptat blending into the scenery. It was what Blade did, how he reached his targets. Namely, Winter enemies. And there it was, he had used a fancy cove’s word in his own thoughts.
Damn it.
“My word. That ought to be enough,” he gritted. “We are family, are we not?”
Including the earl. Which was quite bloody rich. The laugh of the century, at least.
“No dallying with the guests,” his half brother ordered.
Devereaux Winter could have passed for Dom’s twin. They were both tall, broad, fierce. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and commanding. Both the leaders of their respective Winter clans. And they had the same thoughts, the same rigid adherence to their wives and honor.
“Surely there may be some married ladies in attendance who require…distraction,” Blade tried.
“No,” Winter bellowed.
“You are fortunate you did not kill Penhurst in that foolish duel,” the earl added.
Hell.The Earl of Hertford was a prude. And Devereaux Winter a killjoy.
“I am an unrivaled marksman,” he said. “The idiot moved.”
