Wedded in Winter (The Wicked Winters Book 2) Page 5

  Merrick’s ardor cooled at the notion of losing everything he had built over the last decade. No woman was worth everything he had and all his future. Not even Beatrix Winter.

  He faced her, and in that moment, realization hit him square in the chest. He was wrong. The wickedest part of him knew she would be worth it. But the devil was going to have to wait for another day to claim his soul.

  “Thank you, Merrick,” she said then, with a honeyed smile.

  He almost believed she had read his mind, so addled were his wits by the mere act of being in her presence. But then he reminded himself she was thanking him for joining her as she had wished.

  “You are a Winter,” he said stiffly. “You always get what you want.”

  “No,” she said quietly, seating herself at a scarred table and gesturing for him to do the same. “I do not.”

  What could she possibly want that she did not have? He sat opposite her, a very rudimentary tea service between them, along with some bread slathered in jam. The Winter wealth was as extravagant as it was endless. Though his father Hugh Winter had been a miser and a heartless bastard, Dev possessed a softness beneath his gruff exterior. He catered to his sisters’ whims, sparing no expense in their lessons, their wardrobes, their homes.

  “How do you take your tea?” she asked him into the silence which had descended between them once more.

  “Sugar,” he replied.

  With an effortless grace to rival any duchess, and as if they occupied a fine drawing room rather than a ramshackle private room in a decrepit inn, she poured his tea first, and then hers. When he accepted the chipped saucer from her, their fingers brushed. Neither of them wore gloves, and the touch of skin to skin sent a fresh jolt of awareness through him.

  He severed the contact instantly.

  “Thank you,” he bit out, recalling his manners at last.

  Her full lips quirked into a smile that reached her eyes. “You are most welcome.”

  He had pleased her, and the realization, in turn, pleased him before he could think better of it. He dashed the warmth rising within him away. This was not a drawing room. He was not her suitor. He was escorting her to her brother, who had every intention of marrying her off to some insipid lordling. The notion ought not to irk him, but nevertheless, it did.

  He tamped down his unwanted emotions and sipped his tea, pleasantly surprised to find it passably good in spite of the dubious character of the establishment in which they found themselves. He had tasted worse.

  “Have some bread and jam, Merrick,” she invited him. “Mrs. Wilson told me she makes the jam herself.”

  Mrs. Wilson was the sharp-eyed widow who ran the Golden Lion. He recognized her sort: cunning, as world-weary as she was world-wise, and ever eager to double a penny. He could not fault her. Like so many others, she was merely attempting to earn her bread and stay afloat in a cruel, storm-tossed sea.

  “You did not tell her your name, did you?” he asked sharply.

  Her brow furrowed. “Of course I did.”

  Bloody hell. His stomach sank to his boots. The Winter name was renowned. Even in a dingy traveling inn three hours outside London, anyone named Winter would be recognized. And if word emerged that a Winter was traveling alone, without a companion, she would be ruined.

  And so would Merrick.

  “I told her my name is Mrs. Merrick Hart,” she added, grinning at him.

  He laughed, as much with relief as with genuine amusement. She was making a sally at his expense, the minx, and she had led him on a merry chase, making him believe she had been foolish enough to entrust Mrs. Wilson with her name.

  Her smile deepened, accenting her undeniable loveliness, making her eyes glisten and his pulse quicken. “I do like your laugh, Merrick. I do not believe I ever had occasion to hear it before. You ought to laugh more often.”

  Her words gave him pause, for there was little cause or time for levity in his life, and he had always understood that, but he had never resented it until this very moment. He had never been lighthearted. Work had always been his mantle against the world and his crown of thorns both. He had thrown himself into his life as Dev Winter’s right hand, and he prided himself on that.

  But what else did he have?

  Not an easy camaraderie with anyone. No time for a wife or a family of his own. He spent his time traveling between Dev’s extensive business interests, reviewing ledgers, interviewing workers, hearing concerns. He spent most nights in strange beds, waking at dawn and working ceaselessly until he returned to wherever he laid his head for the evening and fell promptly asleep.

  “Why should I laugh more often?” he asked, though he knew he ought not.

  “It is a pleasant sound. Deep and strong. It also makes you smile, which you do not do nearly enough either.” Her own smile deepened, as did the flush on her cheeks, before she took a sip of her own tea.

  His face felt hot. Good Lord, had she made him flush? He refused to believe it. He was not a callow youth speaking to a woman for the first time.

  He cleared his throat and settled his tea back upon the table with too much force, making it rattle in its saucer. “I smile as often as I need to, Miss Winter. This dialogue fast grows impertinent. Are you ready to return to the road? We have a vast distance yet to travel, and the daylight is only so long.”

  Though everything he had just said was true, he hated the change of expression that came over her face. Hated to know he was the cause of it. And for a fleeting moment, how he wished he could be the gentleman she imagined him to be, one who was her equal, who was worthy of her, a man of means who could woo her and charm her and love her as she so richly deserved.

  But he was none of those things, and nor would he ever be.

  “Forgive me my impertinence,” she said flippantly, in typical Beatrix Winter fashion. “I fear it is a Winter family trait. As such, you can hardly fault me for it, can you?”

  He had hurt her feelings once more. The knowledge was an unwanted surprise. He struck it from his mind, forcing himself to think instead of the mystery still enshrouding her scandalous absence from Dudley House.

  “I will not fault you for it if you tell me the reason for the blood on your gown,” he tried.

  She raised a brow, appearing otherwise immovable. “What happened to allowing my brother to correct my…what was it…ah, yes. My hoydenish ways?”

  Damn it all.

  “And so I shall.” He rose, not caring about manners in that moment. All he knew was that she had found her way beneath his skin, and he did not like it. And he needed to put some distance between them. “Finish your tea and jam, Miss Winter. I will wait outside to escort you to the carriage.”

  With that, he retreated from the chamber, closing the door with more force than necessary at his back for the second time in as many days.

  By the time the sun was setting and their carriage came to a stop at an inn dubiously named The Angry Bull, Bea was reminded of why she disliked traveling to the country. The day had been endless and following their initial stop at the first inn, Merrick had joined the coachman on the box rather than sharing the carriage with her. Without even a book to read, she was left staring morosely at the scenery passing slowly by, wishing she were not alone.

  The carriage door opened to reveal Merrick at last.

  His blue eyes burned into hers, his expression as cool as the burst of wintry air that invaded the carriage along with his presence. “I am afraid we have a problem.”

  Their travels had been relatively uneventful thus far, which was unusual in her experience. Boring, actually. She supposed she ought not to be surprised to discover their good fortune had at last run its course.

  “What is the problem?” she asked.

  Short of an invading army of soldiers over the horizon, she could not fathom any problem bad enough to keep her trapped in the carriage for another moment. Her bottom ached, her legs were stiff, and she needed to find a chamber pot.

  “The inn is near
ly full for the evening,” he said. “There is but one room available. There are some unsavory-looking characters within, and I cannot afford to allow anything to happen to you on my watch. I cannot trust your word you will not wander or get yourself into any further scrapes whilst you are out of my sight.”

  Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting?

  “And…” she prodded, needing to hear him say the words himself.

  “I am afraid we will need to share the room so I can see to your protection,” he growled, his jaw tensing. “I will sleep on the floor, naturally. I have also relayed to the innkeeper that we are husband and wife and taken the liberty of providing a false name, so there will be no harm to your reputation.”

  She tried to stifle the emotion his revelations sent rioting through her with limited success. After avoiding her for the entirety of the day, Merrick would be able to hide from her no more. She squelched the smile that wanted to rush to her lips with only the utmost application of control.

  But then, it occurred to her she would be alone. With Merrick. In a bedchamber.

  All.

  Night.

  Long.

  “You are shocked,” Merrick guessed, his tone grim. “I understand. Trust me, Miss Winter, when I assure you I am only looking after your safety. No lapse of propriety will occur. Your reputation will remain intact. No one need ever be the wiser, and for the night, no scurrilous villain can attempt to force his way into the chamber of an unaccompanied female while I’m bedding in the stables with the coachman.”

  Her body reminded her in that moment that she was in desperate need of privacy. And a chamber pot. Drat all the tea she had consumed at their last respite. She ought to have known better, but it had been rather a long time since Dev had removed them to the country, for he preferred London. This trip was to one of Lady Emilia’s familial estates, which Dev now owned, and it was meant to be the culmination of his efforts to see all the Winter females married off to lords.

  Beatrix included.

  But there was nothing Bea wanted less than to marry some foppish, spoiled lord who would not allow her to pursue her life’s dream. Being a cossetted lady had never appealed to her. Balls, dances, playing the pianoforte, doing a poor job of painting watercolors—none of the arts Dev had been determined she and her sisters pursue had interested Bea.

  A new idea occurred to her then. Daring and reckless as Merrick had so oft accused her of being. But mayhap the answer she had been seeking. If so, being ruined was the furthest worry from her mind. Indeed, it could give her everything she wanted.

  Namely, freedom. And, if she were truly lucky, even Merrick as well. But those thoughts were unwise and selfish. She would never hurt him just to suit her own purposes.

  “Perhaps you ought to tell me what my name is to be for the night,” she told him then, tamping down the confused emotions roiling through her in favor of the moment.

  He was a very observant and intelligent man, and she must not allow him to see the bent of her thoughts. She busied herself by drawing her coat about her, adjusting her hat, and retrieving her reticule.

  “We are Mr. and Mrs. Creighton,” he said. “From the time you descend from this carriage to the time you enter it in the morning, you will answer to Mrs. Creighton and to nothing else, do you understand? You will tell no one you are Beatrix Winter, that your brother is Deveraux Winter, and that you and I are not truly wed. Anything less will not just be folly, but sheer ruin for the both of us. You do not wish that, do you?”

  Of course she did not wish to cause trouble for Merrick. But she was not ready to concede so hastily. Not without getting something she wanted in return. Even if it was at the expense of her bodily needs.

  She could wait, damn it all, as long as waiting meant gaining a concession from the ice-cold Merrick Hart.

  “I will answer to Mrs. Creighton to everyone else for the evening,” she told him, smiling at last. “You may take the floor of the chamber as you like. All I ask is one favor in return.”

  His eyebrow lifted, his sensual mouth compressing. “What favor?”

  “Call me Bea.”

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. “No.”

  She resettled the fall of her skirts as if she had nothing more concerning to attend to. “Then I am afraid I cannot possibly indulge in your charade, Merrick.”

  He made a low sound, halfway between a growl and a grunt. “Then you shall be forced to endure another three-hour carriage ride or more until we reach the next inn.”

  How stubborn he was. She wanted to kiss him, to erase the obstinacy from his countenance, to bring his beautiful mouth back into full, sensual bloom. Instead, she lifted her gaze back to his. “Or, you can simply agree to call me Bea until the morning.”

  He rolled his lips inward, staring at her as she supposed he might also look upon an inferno that threatened to swallow him whole. “I cannot.”

  Had he not learned she was persistent? “Yes, you can. Purse your lips. Pretend you are referring to a common honeybee.”

  “There is nothing common about you, Beatrix Winter,” he said lowly.

  Everything inside her froze, before turning instantly to flame. She fell into his gaze. She felt at once as if she were seeing him for the first time, and yet also as if she had always seen him. As if this moment, the heated magic in the cold air between them, had always been fated.

  “Call me Bea, Merrick,” she urged.

  His eyelids fluttered closed for a heartbeat, almost as if he could not bear to continue to look at her. “Bea,” he said at last, opening his eyes and pinning her once more with the deepest blue she had ever seen.

  The sound of his deep, beautiful baritone speaking her name trilled down her spine, landing with molten heat between her thighs. How sweet it was, and even sweeter because she knew what his concession cost him. He fought so very hard to keep her at a distance, to maintain propriety no matter the price. But some things could not be denied.

  “Thank you,” she told him softly, offering him her hand. “Now if you do not mind, Mr. Creighton, I have grown dreadfully weary of this conveyance.”

  He took her hand and bowed as formally as any gentleman at a society ball. “Nothing would please me more, Bea.”

  She barely tamped down her sigh of contentment.

  For it would not do to let him see how much he affected her.

  Chapter Six

  Merrick could not allow her to see how much she affected him.

  He stared into the flames in the grate of the chamber he was sharing with Beatrix—strike that, Bea—Winter. For that was how she insisted he refer to her for the remainder of the evening and the following morning until he handed her back into the carriage and settled his arse in the frigid December air alongside Samuel, the coachman.

  Bea seemed somehow far too intimate, even after he had kissed her, had stroked her tongue with his, had slid his hand beneath her skirts, all the way to her—

  Nay, he thought, raking his fingers through his hair. He would not think of that either. Beatrix Winter was dangerous indeed. The less he thought of her, the better. Pity, then, that she was in the same chamber as he was at that very moment. And that the seductive whisper of fabric emerging from somewhere behind him belonged to her. Even more so that he would be forced to sleep on the worn floors beneath his boots.

  Not even a rug to blunt the unforgiving hardness of the scuffed wooden slats.

  Fortunately, he had blankets, even if they smelled of tobacco smoke and boiled cabbage. They would have to be soft enough. When he had requested additional counterpanes, the innkeeper had met him with an incredulous glare. But when Merrick had planted a fistful of notes between them, the keep’s mien had decidedly altered. An armload of spare blankets had been delivered to the dismal chamber.

  Jasmine fluttered to him then, overpowering the scents of the burning fire, the candles, and the inn itself. He wondered if it was a soap she used, or if it was a scent all its own. Whatever it was, the intoxicating
notes, combined with Beatrix Winter, was undeniably divine.

  His fists clenched impotently at his sides, and he repeated to himself a series of cautionary statements.

  You cannot have her.

  You cannot have her.

  She is not yours.

  She can never be yours.

  He knew all that to be true. And still, some foolishness inside him, some madness, longed for her. Wanted her. Wanted to kiss her again, to join her in the bed rather than settle himself into the dubious bedding he had laid out before the hearth. He had endured far worse in his lifetime, of course, and this evening served as a reminder, however unwanted, of just how good his life now was compared to how it had been.

  Of just how much he had to lose if he gave in to his feelings for Bea.

  Everything.

  Only everything.

  “You may turn around now,” came her voice, cutting through the bleakness of his thoughts.

  Without thinking, he spun to face her. Thankfully, her traveling gown had not required his assistance in either donning or removing, and he had thought he would be absolved of all temptation. But he had not prepared himself for the sight of her in a nightdress.

  It was a creamy white, high-necked, and though the hem reached her ankles, he had never in his life seen a more erotic sight. He had to gird himself against a rising tide of lust. Good Lord, was it his imagination, or was the fabric transparent enough he could see the pink buds of her nipples beneath it?

  He jerked his gaze upward, settling upon hers as he tried in vain to ignore the flowing waves of her golden hair unbound, trailing over her shoulders and down her back. She shivered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, dismayed at how thick his voice sounded. “I will stoke the fire.”

  “I am fine,” she said softly, watching him in that way she had, which seemed to cut straight to the core of him, seeing everything he did not want her to see. “Thank you.”

  He was still fully dressed, and he intended to remain that way for the night. Even so, the moment between them seemed somehow intimate. Almost as if they were man and wife as they pretended rather than two people who could not be more disparate.