Page 32 of Winter's Waltz
She bit her lip, deciding to ignore him for the remainder of the trip.
An impossibility, that. The Marquess of Sundenbury was a bold, masculine presence at her side. Tempting, too. Depending upon the shifting of the frigid air, she caught more of his scent.
“Am I not right, Miss Winter?” he pressed when she maintained her silence.
“I ain’t some witless bird at one of your fine balls, Marquess,” she snapped. “Cease calling me Miss Winter.”
“Believe me, I would never confuse you with any of the ladies in my acquaintance.”
She found herself distressingly jealous of those ladies. She was sure they were legion. Ladies who simpered and preened and flounced about in proper gowns. Ladies who cared about rules and proper speech and smiling and dipping into curtseys and dancing the waltz. Ladies who were nothing like Gen.
She had never wanted to be that sort of female before; she was happy to be exactly who she was. Women born to the rookeries rarely had the opportunities she had. Her brothers had not pressured her to marry but treated her as an equal. She’d never had to earn her living on her back.
“Miss Winter.”
She refused to look at him.
“Gen,” he persisted.
She glanced toward him reluctantly. Then she wished she had not done so at all, for his handsome face made an answering pang spark to life within her. “What is it?”
“That was a compliment,” he said, smiling and revealing the faintest hint of those dimples she could not seem to resist.
A compliment. She did not receive those terribly often, mostly because Gavin had threatened the teeth of every man in their acquaintance, following what had happened with Gregory. She had not realized how much she had been longing for them. She felt rather like Arthur must have done when she rescued him from the streets, desperately seeking praise, kindness.
Warmth.
She cleared her throat. “Didn’t exactly sound like one, Sundenbury.”
His smile deepened, and she had to look away from the beauty of it.
“It was, Gen. Believe me. It was.”
More of that fatal warmth, blossoming in her belly. More longing. That ache between her thighs would never quite flee.
But Gen kept her attention trained upon the road as they approached the Sutton’s hell. She would need to be sharp as any blade for what was to come next.
“Save your compliments,” she bit out. “We’ve arrived at enemy territory.”
* * *
Jasper Sutton was a tall,dark-haired beast of a man seated behind a massive desk with lion heads carved on the legs. Max had met the gaming hell owner on previous occasions. The man walked through the tables of his club like a medieval king presiding over his subjects. And Max had been one such subject, to his shame.
He had spent more time than he cared to recall or admit within this hell’s walls, and he had lost more blunt than he had been able to recoup. Sutton had sent men after him who’d had no qualms about delivering a sound trouncing to him. Max counted himself a decent fighter, but when he was outnumbered and attacked from behind, well…
His beating had been thorough.
It felt strange standing within this ruthless man’s lair with Genevieve Winter at his side. Mayhap it was truly foolish of him to believe he could defend her. The men guarding Sutton’s doors looked as if they were the sort who would happily murder a duke’s heir as well as a common thief.
“Gen Winter,” Sutton said, rising to his feet from behind his desk, his gaze far too bold for Max’s liking as they raked over her form.
“Jasper Sutton,” she returned, her dislike for the man apparent in both her tone and her countenance.
“And Lord Sundenbury.” Sutton’s lips took on a sneer. “Have you come to lose all your blunt at my tables?”
“Clever sally,” Max drawled, as if he were unaffected by the jab. “I have come to accompany Miss Winter, lest you act less than the gentleman.”
Jasper Sutton’s grin was feral. “We all know I ain’t a gentleman, don’t we? Was born a scourge, and I fully intend to be one when I cock up my toes.”
