Wishes in Winter: A Wicked Winters World Book Read online

  Wishes in Winter

  The Wicked Winters Book Six

  By

  Scarlett Scott

  Lady Lydia Brownlow’s parents have given her an ultimatum. She must settle upon a husband or face a future life of drudgery as a companion. Dreading either fate, Lydia attends a Christmas country house party to settle upon a match. But much to her dismay, her brother’s rakish best friend is also in attendance. The Duke of Warwick is the one man she doesn’t dare trust, and the only one she can’t resist.

  Alistair, the Duke of Warwick, has two problems. The debt his father left behind is about to swallow him whole, and the woman he wants to marry has been avoiding him. In an effort to prove his sincerity and win her hand, he inveigles an invitation to the same house party where she will choose a husband.

  However, Lady Lydia isn’t about to succumb to his practiced seductions, and she leads him on a merry chase. When he wins her hand at last, deception tears them apart. Can Alistair prove his love and claim his duchess’s heart for good?

  Dear Reader,

  Wishes in Winter originally appeared in the limited edition collection A Lady’s Christmas Rake. The story is part of The Wicked Winters series world, but may be enjoyed in any order.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Author’s Note

  Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  London, Spring 1813

  The dark night was lit with a bevy of twinkling, ethereal stars, if one bothered to look. Lady Lydia Brownlow was the sort of female who did look. She had studied astronomy under the auspices of her late and most beloved grandpapa, and she recognized the delights of Cassiopeia and Andromeda better than most.

  She inhaled deeply of the fragrant earth and intricate gardens about to renew with the unfurling of the new season. Flowers would blossom. The earth would warm. Another round of parties and routs and musicales would unfold. One more season of enduring her mother’s pointed sniping about the arts of a lady and her father’s beleaguered attempts to get her to set her cap at an eligible gentleman.

  Endless and unwanted, all of it, save spring’s vibrant renaissance. But here, at last, in the calm of the Earl of Havenhurst’s gardens, she could steal a slice of solitude. Here was a space in which she could be herself, look upon the stars and think of the man who taught her how to gaze into the heavens and see a world beyond her sheltered sphere.

  Her heart gave a pang, the prick of tears making the glittering formation above go blurry. How she missed Grandpapa. Her nose began to run, and she sniffled. Oh, bother. She had already risked her mother’s wrath by escaping from the evening’s festivities. If she returned looking a fright…

  “Mother will have my head on a pike,” she muttered.

  “I do hope not,” drawled a low, familiar voice just over her shoulder.

  With a gasp, she spun about, hand over her fluttering heart as if mere pressure could somehow still its foolish pace. It would not, for that voice—with its deep, velvety rasp seemingly crafted by the Lord himself to make all females swoon—always had the same humiliating effect upon her.

  In the shadows of the garden, she could not discern his chiseled features, though the silvery bath of moonlight washed his face in just enough light to confirm her mortification was complete. Of all the people in the crush of Lord Havenhurst’s ballroom, why did it have to be the Duke of Warwick who came upon her when she was sniffling and talking to herself in the dark?

  She sniffed again, hoping she did not have any tears leaking from her eyes or, even worse, an unladylike ribbon of snot descending from her nose. “Warwick, what are you doing out here?”

  Lydia did not bother to hide her vexation, for if she disliked anything more than someone sneaking up behind her, it was surely her unfortunate reaction to the duke. Whenever she entered his rarified presence, her heart beat like the frantic wings of a bird and a heavy, tingling sensation stole through her. A reaction that was equal parts disconcerting and unwanted.

  “The same could be asked of you.” He took a step closer, canting his head as the tips of his gloved fingers found her chin and asserted enough gentle pressure to tilt her face to his. “The devil. Are you crying, Freckles?”

  Freckles.

  The old, childhood nickname ought not disturb her.

  Indeed, she ought to remind him that she was Lady Lydia, no longer the wayward girl, five years his junior, who snuck away from her grim governess to fish with him and her brother, much to their mutual irritation. As a girl, she had been hopelessly dazzled by him, dreaming of the day when she would be old enough and pretty enough for him to notice her. For him to look at her the way he did her gorgeous elder sister Mary and Mary’s equally graceful, charming friends.

  But as she had grown older and the naïveté of her youth dissipated, she had accepted that such a day would never arrive. Here she stood, a woman grown, resplendent in her white evening gown, roses in her hair, and for all that, still a bluestocking about to be left forever on the shelf.

  Still Freckles rather than Lady Lydia. Still a creature worthy of Warwick’s pity. And though her girlish fancy for him had matured into a hardened acceptance that he would never look upon her as a woman, her cheeks still flamed under his intense regard.

  This would not do. She squared her shoulders, recalling she had seen him dancing with Lady Felicity Drummond not half an hour before, a true diamond of the first water. A handsome couple they made, Lady Felicity’s golden curls a rich contrast to Warwick’s mahogany locks.

  “I am not crying, Warwick,” she snapped, taking a step in retreat so that she could inhale without breathing in the decadent masculine scent of his shaving soap, and so that he no longer held her chin captive. “I do not cry.”

  He ignored her obvious desire for space, stalking forward in what she knew to be gleaming Hessians, for she had admired them and his strong thighs and calves as she’d watched him dance earlier.

  “Is it a gentleman?” An edge underscored his tone. “Only give me a name, and I will meet him at dawn.”

  She frowned. He sounded oddly sincere, perhaps even angry at the imagined offender. “There is no gentleman, and I was not crying. Now, do go away before someone comes upon us. I should like to be alone, precisely as I was, before your unwanted interruption.”

  Being Warwick, he ignored her. “I am not one to put in my oar, Freckles, but your eyes were glistening in the moonlight, and you are out here alone, and I distinctly heard a sniffle.”

  She sighed. “Very well. If you must know, I was thinking of my grandfather.”

  “Then there is no need for me to assist some jackanapes with sticking his spoon in the wall tomorrow?” he asked gently.

  Was it her imagination, or had he drifted nearer? She could once more smell him, and while her inner fool applauded any and all proximity to the Duke of Warwick, her sense of reason most assuredly did not.

  “No, though you do have a way of phrasing things, Warwick. Are you as cow-handed with all the ladies, or is this a special treatment reserved for myself alone?”

  “I would not duel for any other lady’s honor save my mother’s.”

  His pronouncement filled her with shock and then a deep, suffus
ing warmth that she could not contain. It was as if the sun had suddenly appeared in the garden, burning away the night. But, no. This was Warwick before her, Corinthian, prime marriage mart prize, the most handsome man in London, and notorious Lothario. He did not mean what he said. Very likely, it was the sort of thing he said to every lady.

  She swallowed, tamping down the stupid, fugitive joy in her heart. “Do not attempt to cozen me, Warwick. I am immune to your wiles.”

  “I admired your grandfather greatly,” he said, startling her with the thread of tenderness in his voice. “He was a fine man, and he always praised your keen mind.”

  Lydia bit her lip to stifle the sudden sob that threatened to tear from her throat and further shame her. One year and two months had come and gone since Grandpapa’s passing, and yet his loss remained as fresh as yesterday. He alone had encouraged her pursuit of knowledge, but to hear he had openly sung her praises to others…why, it touched her deeply.

  She sniffled again. “He was a very fine man indeed.”

  Long, strong fingers claimed hers, and she felt the shock and the heat of it through her gloves. “You may cry, Freckles. I shan’t think any less of you, and I promise to defend you against any and all attempts by your mother to slay you and put your severed head on a pike.”

  A startled laugh escaped her, and she found herself squeezing his fingers. She could not seem to summon her resistance, not when he was being so kind and it felt as if the years and distance between them had fallen away. Once, when she’d trailed Warwick and her brother Rand, she had taken a tumble whilst chasing a butterfly, straight into the pond where they fished. She had been unable to swim, and Warwick dove in after her, plucked her from the watery depths with ease and carried her like a waterlogged babe to the shore.

  Why would she think of that long-ago day now, when she had not for many years?

  She must shake herself from this madness, turn and leave before she said or did something she would forever regret. Here, in the moonlight, they were Freckles and Warwick. Back in the glittering light of the ballroom, they would return to being strangers, she the bluestocking wallflower and he, the sought-after bachelor.

  “Thank you for your kind offer, Your Grace,” she said solemnly, extricating her fingers from his. “But my earlier worries aside, I do not truly think my mother will murder me unless I linger here in the gardens with a hardened rake such as yourself. I really must return before my absence is noted.”

  She turned to flee, but was stilled by her name on his lips. At long last.

  “Lady Lydia.”

  Lydia stopped, her back rigid, but did not dare face him. “Yes?”

  “You do not dance often. Why?” He sounded genuinely perplexed.

  She closed her eyes, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over her. Could he be that obtuse? “I am not asked. Gentlemen do not, I find as a general rule, enjoy dancing with ladies who are taller and smarter than they are.”

  “Ah.” He had drifted closer. She felt his presence behind her, awareness tingling down her spine. “You are fortunate then, that I am taller than you, and I do not take exception to a lady who is my intellectual equal or better. Save a dance for me.”

  A foreign thrill swept over her, pooling low in her belly, before self-preservation superseded and she did the only thing she could think of in that moment. She hurried away from him, away from his delicious voice, and far away from the garden of temptation.

  Chapter One

  December, 1813

  Alistair had not dragged himself to Abingdon Hall in Oxfordshire for the punch. The flavor was middling, not nearly as sickeningly sweet as orgeat. Nor had he come for the pine boughs and sprigs of mistletoe. He had not even come for the endless diversions. Or for Christmas.

  He scoured the ballroom in search of his quarry.

  He was more than aware that, as the Duke of Warwick, he was one of the most eligible catches of the beau monde. Thankfully, within the select ranks of Mr. Devereaux Winter and Lady Emilia Winter’s Christmas country house party, he felt less like a fox surrounded by a pack of slavering hounds than he ordinarily did. Even if it was no secret the reason for the fête was to secure noble matches for Mr. Winter’s five sisters.

  It was fortunate indeed, for he had grown tired of the female pursuit which had dogged him all his life. Caps had been thrown at him, ad nauseam, nearly since he’d been in leading strings. He was accustomed to feminine wiles, stares, the attempts of matchmaking mothers. In his youth, that admiration had swelled his pride. Now, at seven-and-twenty, it left him feeling hollow. Searching for something elusive.

  Searching for her.

  Or, to be specific, for his Freckles, dedicated bluestocking, sister to his very best friend, and the one woman who, of all the ladies of his acquaintance—which were nigh legion—was the only woman with whom he would face the hangman’s noose. Er, the only woman he would wed. And wed he must. With as much haste as he could politely manage. Time was no longer a commodity he could afford to squander.

  “Are you certain she is not hiding in her chamber reading a book, Aylesford?” he growled at the friend by his side, frustration getting the better of him.

  “Who, are you looking for, Warwick?” Rand, Viscount Aylesford, took a sip of his punch and grimaced. “Devil take it with the swill they serve at these country affairs. Where is blue ruin when one needs it? And why the hell did I allow myself to be forced into attendance here at such a tedious affair?”

  “Blue ruin is decidedly de trop on the marriage mart.” He ignored his friend’s question and flicked a glance over the glittering lords and ladies assembled, seeking sleek auburn curls. “I’m afraid you will have to suffer the punch or go dry, unless you can convince Mr. Winter to open his stores of liquor for you.”

  “The marriage mart.” Rand shuddered. “If my dragon grandmother has her way, I shall not be long upon it. Remind me why I am here when I have no interest in the parson’s mousetrap.”

  Rand was a notorious rakehell and ne’er-do-well. Alistair had not been far from his footsteps over the last few years. Together, they had lost themselves in drink and quim aplenty. But circumstances had altered for Alistair.

  Vastly.

  And he could no longer afford to live the life he once had.

  Literally.

  He kept his tone bored, attempting to cloak the unrest stealing through him lest his friend grow suspicious. “Because the dowager has decreed you must wed if you wish to inherit Tyre Abbey. Not to mention your mother and sister are in attendance.”

  There. That ought to be enough substance to distract Rand from the fact that Alistair, his best friend, wanted his sister with a desperation so strong he felt it in his teeth. For now.

  Of course, he would need to tell Rand the truth soon enough. Perhaps even tonight, if Freckles ever deigned to appear, for he meant to make his intentions known to her as expediently as possible. His friend would not object to the match, he thought.

  Just as long as Rand did not discover how perilously near to ruin he was.

  “How could I forget?” Rand asked. “Family duty is a bugbear. Thank Christ Hertford suggested the idea of a feigned betrothal. I ought to have thought of it myself.”

  “Have you convinced Miss Winter to agree to your plan?” he asked, still searching for his quarry.

  She had been avoiding him all Season long, since the night he’d found her in the gardens at Havenhurst’s ball, which had been the very same evening that he’d realized the answer to his predicament had been before him all along. But not only had she denied him his dance by pleading a headache to her mother and leaving the affair prematurely, she had also thwarted him at every turn thereafter.

  “Not yet.” Rand’s tone was confident.

  And why should it not be? He was a rake who always got what he wanted.

  Alistair had been too, once. Now, what he wanted—and needed—most remained elusive. Freckles and blunt, in precisely that order.

  When he had attempte
d to seek her out at the Bodley musicale, she had disappeared into the lady’s withdrawing room. He had dined with her family, and she had been absent, with some unconvincing excuse made on her behalf. Nearly every attempt he made to cross paths with her at society events had resulted in her skillful evasion.

  To make matters worse, he had learned from Rand that, under pressure from their parents, the Duke and Duchess of Revelstoke, Freckles was expected to make a match before she retired to the shelf forever. The duke was prepared to send her off to become companion to the Marchioness of Bond and her half dozen ill-mannered corgis.

  Alistair gritted his teeth at the thought of Freckles becoming the lackey of a well-documented curmudgeon like the Marchioness of Bond. Freckles was not meant to fade into the background.

  Why not her?

  It was the question that had struck him as he’d gazed upon her in the moonlight, noting how very lovely she was, with her tall, lissome form and auburn hair, her retroussé nose kissed with freckles and her stubborn chin. The tears and sadness in her eyes had made him long to take her into his arms, and that protective surge, the urgent need to comfort her, had taken him by surprise.

  How foolish of him to never have considered Freckles before, when now it seemed impossible to imagine any other lady fulfilling the role he would have her claim. He needed to marry, and if he must have anyone, he would have her. Freckles was loyal and intelligent, and though she never strayed from speaking her mind, he found he rather admired that trait. He could do no better in his future wife.

  Of course, there was also the matter of her impressive dowry, and that could not be overlooked, as it, too, was quite necessary.

  “You will persuade her of the wisdom of your strategy in no time, I am certain,” he forced himself to say, his mind traveling back to Freckles once more, as it invariably did.

  “Damned inconvenient, all these fortune hunters sniffing about,” Rand said dismissively.