Page 4 of Winter's Waltz
She considered him an enemy, then? Intriguing. He could use that in his favor. Most of the ladies in his acquaintance were thoroughly charmed by his looks, his wit, and most especially by his future as the next Duke of Linross.
This one was different.
Not merely because of her…interestingform of dress. Downright distracting, that. Little wonder it was not polite for ladies to gad about in anything other than gowns. The delineation of her legs was maddening. Even with a bleeding, smarting nose.
Of which she was the source, he reminded himself, gritting his teeth.
“Miss Winter shall do fine,” he countered. If she thought to make him dance to her bidding, she was wrong.
Never mind that he had nary a ha’penny to his name at the moment. Or that he was rather at this woman’s mercy thanks to the intervention of his sisters. Fortunately, he loved Evie and Addy, else he would have never agreed to this abomination. Then again, begging their heartless father’s mercy seemed a rather cold and unwanted option at the moment. Max’s former mistress would not harbor him without the coin and gifts he had once lavished upon her—all gone thanks to his latest bout of terrible luck.
The turn of fortune’s wheel had never benefitted him, it was true. Never had there been greater evidence of that sad fact than now. And fitting, in a bitter sense, that he found himself in a nascent gaming hell christened Lady Fortune.
Lady Fortune was a bloody witch. So, he was becoming increasingly convinced, was this establishment’s owner.
“Gen,” she countered, “or I’ll have you tossed out on your arse.”
There had been a rather large and imposing fellow haunting the front hall—all muscle, menacing as a goddamn lion. Had an inking of a skull on his neck. Max did not think he would like to trespass on the wrong side of that man’s magnanimity. Still, if he expected to gain anything from this farce, he needed the stubborn female before him to understand he would not kowtow to her or any of her lackeys.
He quirked a brow—not an easy feat considering his nose still hurt like a bastard. “You haven’t the strength to toss me out on my arse, pet.”
Those beautiful blue eyes of hers snapped with fire.
Her pretty pink lips thinned. “I warned you about calling me pet. Try me again, Blunderberry. I won’t give a toss about sending Peter in to collect your sorry bones.”
Peter. That was the beast’s name? Hardly seemed fitting.
He wondered just how close Miss Gen Winter was to this Peter with the skull-bedecked neck. And then he wondered why he gave a damn.
Stupid.
He had not suffered the degradation of showing his face at this deuced establishment so he could lust over its most unusual proprietress.
Speaking of which…
Max pinned Miss Gen Winter beneath his most ducal glare. Admittedly, the effect was likely hindered by the necessity of holding the besmirched handkerchief to his bleeding—and possibly broken—nose. “If you do me more harm, or have any of your lackeys injure me, you will not have your lessons in becoming a lady, will you? Indeed, if you intend to insult and abuse me, consider yourself no longer in possession of my aid, Miss Winter.”
There. He sounded confident. Like a man who could afford to be rude to the lady he was being forced to instruct in etiquette for the next damned month.
Ha!Quellelark.
“Hate to say it, Blunderberry, but you aren’t about to slip me the Dublin packet. You owe my family.”
How lovely. Miss Gen Winter was aware of his reduced circumstances in every way. He had been hoping the damned Winters—particularly Mr. Dominic Winter, his sister Addy’s husband and general East End Croesus—would have granted him some dignity and neglected to inform their sister of the debts which had been settled on his behalf.
Apparently not.
“Nevertheless,” he bit out, taking away the damned handkerchief at last, “if you are not amenable to the task, I shall be more than happy to find another means of satisfying my debts.”
She had the audacity to laugh at him. “Just as you have satisfied all your other debts, Blunderberry? I think not. This is the only way we’ll be getting what is owed, and I intend to collect.”
Blast.
He scowled at her and then grimaced, because scowling bloody well hurt, curse the woman. “Consider this our first lesson, Miss Winter. Ladies do not strike gentlemen.”
“Eh.” She raised a brow and crossed her arms over her waistcoat, drawing his attention to the slight swells of her breasts hidden beneath. “You don’t look much like a gentleman, Blunderberry.”
This chit was going to be the death of him before the month was over. Max was predicting it now.
