How long did it take for a person to freeze to death?
Snow swirling about him, Rhys rubbed his glove-encased hands together in a bid to bring warmth into his chilled fingers.
He squinted, staring hard at The Copse where the lady had previously stood.
She’d flopped onto her back. His near frozen fingers awkward, he fished around for his timepiece, consulting it—nearly five minutes ago.
Though, if one wished to be more precise, the better question to be asked was how long would a lady stay hidden, before she allowed herself to freeze to death?
At first, curiosity had impelled the silent question from Rhys.
Then genuine awe.
And now concern.
Mayhap she’d already frozen.
If Lettice had been displeased before, she’d see him for pistols at dawn if he failed to return with her friend in tow—still alive. And though it wouldn’t matter to most bachelors who made it a point to avoid familial obligations, he rather liked his sister. Clever, loyal, and not afraid to go toe-to-toe with their mother, any such person was deserving of loyalty, regardless of blood connection.
Nonetheless, he quietly cursed whatever squabble between Lettie and her mad friend had sent him out into the damned cold.
With the latest carriage of guests to arrive now unloading, Rhys started across the grounds.
After all, he was a rogue, but he wasn’t a total bastard. Empty-headed miss or not, he wasn’t one to leave a lady outside in the dead of winter.
Though, in fairness, there was something a good deal more comfortable in gadding about during a winter’s storm than remaining to greet the parade of guests invited for the holiday season.
The wind yanked at his cloak and sent the black wool fabric snapping. Muttering under his breath, Rhys lifted his booted feet in a slow, deliberate pattern, turning up previously untouched snow.
The biting chill of the winter’s air ripped through his garments and huddled deeper into his cloak.
Think warm thoughts:
Brandy.
A roaring fire.
A hot, eager widow.
Nothing would prove warming in this damned cold.
Rhys paused at the edge of The Copse and glanced down at the path made by smaller, more delicate footsteps. He did a quick search; his gaze instantly finding the splash of red sprawled on the earth in a puddle of velvet fabric.
Not breaking stride, he trudged the remaining distance. He stopped at the woman’s side. Her skin pale but for the crimson splotches on her cheeks and the tip of her nose, the lady lay motionless, her eyelashes dusted with flakes of snow.
He balked.
“Good God, are you dead?”
The lady’s eyes flew open and collided with his. Surprise, shock, and brief fear mingled in their brown depths. Those irises held him momentarily spellbound; the soft color of mahogany and—a shriek tore from her lips, ricocheting across the countryside, breaking that momentary lapse in sanity.
He whipped his gaze toward the most recently disembarked guests, a pup and his lady who glanced about searchingly.
Cursing, he flung himself to the ground beside Alison. Or Alex. Or whatever in hell her name was.
“Wh-what in bl-blazes do you think y-you are doing?” she demanded. “I-I am—”
A magpie. She was a blasted magpie. “Bloody hell, will you be silent,” he hissed, layering himself to the snow-packed earth beside the loquacious woman. “The last thing I need this damned season is to be discovered in a compromising position with you.”
The fear receded from the lady’s eyes, to be replaced with a spirited glimmer of annoyance. “You are insufferably rude. You don’t w-wish to be in a c-compromising position with me?” she muttered, pushing herself up onto her elbows.
Another black curse escaped him. Rhys caught the lady by the forearm and brought her back down beside him. “In fairness, I don’t wish to be discovered with any proper miss,” he breathed. “Particularly one empty-headed enough to go for a jaunt in a bloody blizzard.”
She sputtered around a mouthful of snow. “I b-beg your pardon.”
“As you should,” he muttered. “Forcing me o-out t-to rescue y-you.” Now his damned teeth were set to chattering from the cold.
“R-rescue me?” He may as well have stated plans to set her afire for warmth. “Wh-why you bloody—?”
“Unless you care for the latest guests to arrive to come exploring, with servants in tow, I trust you’ll be quiet.”
And miracle of all miracles this frigid night, the tart-mouthed spitfire went silent.
Though his intrigue had been unexpectedly piqued by a miss who freely let a curse fall from her lips, the fact remained Rhys still didn’t care to risk discovery… this day or any day. He’d very nearly been trapped before. He certainly didn’t have a wish to suffer that fate again and certainly not with a young miss who didn’t have the common sense God gave an ant.
They remained shoulder-to-shoulder, gazes trained toward the drive, their position hidden by a blessedly useful snow bank.
The lady peeked her head up.
Rhys pressed a hand to the back of her head, gently forcing her back into place.
She shot him another glare. “Do you always freely handle a l-lady?” The lady brushed the back of her hand over her nose, shattering what would have been an otherwise scathing rebuff.
“Yes,” he said unapologetically. “And they are a good deal warmer, more agreeable, and sensible,” he added that last part under his breath.
Her mouth opened and closed. She opened and closed it again. “Well,” she finally managed on a huff.
Rhys inclined his head a fraction, stealing another glance.
The young couple remained beside their nauseating pink carriage. Would they not leave already?
The spitfire at his side matched his movements, and he turned a silencing glare on her.
But where she’d previously been spitting and snarling, without a consideration of the potential risk of discovery, now she’d gone absolutely still. Her rosebud lips were so tightly clenched that white lines formed at the corners.
So she’d, at last, discovered the very real threat of being found together.
Rolling onto his back, Rhys settled onto the snowy earth and waited for the pair to be on their way.
“It was a mistake to come here.”
It had been. As a rule, he’d made it a point to avoid any dealings with his mother.
An echo of his very thoughts, it took him a moment to realize the words belonged to another. The slip of a woman lowered herself into a like position beside him, and stared blankly up at the branches overhead. Gone was the spirited glimmer in her eyes, as a melancholy smile dipped her lips down at the corners.
“Indeed, it was,” he said, wholly unforgiving. He’d come to rescue her, but he wasn’t so chivalrous that he was above taking her to task for risking both of them to the cold and potential ruin. “What manner of woman runs off in a snowstorm?” It was a rhetorical question as much as one he truly wished an answer to.
“One who d-does n-not w-wish to be indoors,” she mumbled.
It was a frustratingly unrevealing answer from a peculiar bit of a miss. For truly… which lady gadded about in the snow? The manner of women he kept company with wouldn’t suffer through the discomfort of traipsing about in even a chill winter’s day, let alone a storm.
He’d been ordered by his sister to return with her friend, however, she’d still remained perfectly clam-lipped about the source of contention between them. “A fight with Lettice?”
At the answering silence, he glanced over.
The young woman blinked slowly.
“Was it a fight with my sister, Miss…Alison?” he finished lamely, plucking the nearest name from his mind. For Lettie didn’t have a malicious bone in her body or an unkind word on her lips. Which begged the question: just what conflict had broken out between them to send this one out into a storm.
The lady stared at him as though he’d sprouted a second head. “Miss Alison?”
He puzzled his brow. What in the blazes had her name been?
“Lady Alice Winterbourne,” she said slowly. “M-my name is Alice.”
Which had really been the least important part of questions he’d wished answers to. Except…he didn’t cling to the lady’s Christian form of address but rather, her surname.
“Winterbourne, you say?” He blanched. “Surely you’re not the sister of Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort?” Mayhap this magpie belonged to another family. Please—
She jutted her chin out. “I am.”
Oh, bloody hell. Rhys scrubbed a hand over his face. Of course. It was to be that manner of day. A fight had erupted between Rhys’ sister and the sister of his recent business partner. Montfort had already invested a sizeable sum in their steel venture. He decidedly couldn’t let the lady go about freezing on his family’s properties, now.
“Did you q-quarrel?” he asked bluntly.
“We did n-not.”
The previously loquacious lady went quiet. If she’d been any other woman of Polite Society, he’d have accused her of coy games. This spitfire, however, was a mystery.
She stole another glance over the drift.
He arched his neck in a bid to see what held the lady so enrapt.
At last, the guests made a slow climb up the eleven steps to the portico.
The doors were flung opened and that pair sailed through.
At last.
Of course, this would not be a day when anything should go as expected.
The gentleman, a boyish-looking chap with spectacles, glanced back in their direction.
Rhys and Lady Alice Winterbourne instantly dropped to the ground.
He’d had any number of close calls: stolen trysts inside a host’s empty parlor. An aging husband returning unexpectedly from the countryside, while Rhys had kept those discontented wives entertained.
Never before, though, in the frigid cold with the only blanket under him blasted snow. He turned his head to issue another warning.
But Lady Alice grabbed at Rhys’ hand. “I-Is he g-gone?” she mouthed.
Frowning, Rhys peered quickly over.
The young gentleman continued a sweep of the countryside, lingering on The Copse, before the tall beauty at his side said something.
With a nod, he followed in behind her with, to Rhys’ way of thinking, reluctant steps.
The door was shut, and they were gone… and Rhys and Lady Alice were safe.
Jumping up, Rhys bent down and scooped up the suddenly quiet spitfire, and set her on her feet. A startled squeak burst from her lips. “Come,” he urged, dragging her by the wrist through the snow. Who was to know how many guests his family had invited for the holidays… and more precariously, when they would be arriving.
“Wh-what in the blazes are y-you doing?” She dug her feet in so that Rhys was forced to either stop or drag her down.
And for a long, long sliver of a moment, he entertained the latter.
“Did you hear me?” she demanded.
“It would be a demmed wonder if the entire house party didn’t,” he muttered.
She sputtered. “Wh-what was that you said?” The lady dragged her heels all the more.
Rhys sighed. Why couldn’t he be the absolute blackguard his mother was constantly accusing him of being?
He released the tart-mouthed miss with such alacrity she went pitching forward.
Rhys shot his hands out to steady her but she tossed her arms wide and righted herself. That abrupt movement knocked loose her silly, floral bonnet, exposing a blindingly bright mass of blonde curls. A good deal of them tumbled over her brow and fell like a curtain over her eyes. His fingers twitched with the need to yank his gloves off and shove his fingers through those tresses to see if they were as silken soft as—
He recoiled. “Egads.” The chill must have reached his brain. There was no other way of explaining his waxing on poetic about his sister’s empty-headed friend’s hair.
She shoved those strands back, robbing him of the pleasure, or saving him from that temptation. Either way, it was the same. “Wh-What?”
“What?” he echoed, frantically searching his mind for the reason for his question.
The lady took a step closer and peered at him. “You said ‘egads’. And—”
And she brought him blessedly back to the annoyance at hand—her. “Do you always chatter like a damned magpie?” he muttered. Grabbing her ornate bonnet, he jammed it back into place, swiftly concealing those luxuriant strands. There. No more worries about mooning over her damned hair.
“Wh-what in the blazes are you doing?” she demanded for a second time, as he took the long, satin ribbons and set to work tying them. “First you come upon me unannounced, and then proceed to chastise me—”
“You need a n-new milliner,” he clipped out. “This bonnet is ghastly and these ribbons are entirely too long.”
Whatever certainly stinging diatribe had been on her lips died. The stubborn minx folded her arms at her chest. “I-I like this bonnet.”
Let the matter die. After all, it was both nonsensical and the height of foolishness, risking her ruin… for the purpose of continuing the debate on her bonnet.
“I am sure you do like it.”
She pursed her lips; that red, beginning-to-chap, lush flesh he’d failed to note… until now. His gaze lingered, traced, and memorized each contour of those perfect bows. Yes, he’d failed as a rogue to appreciate only now the lady’s tempting mouth. Lust bolted through him as he conjured all manner of wicked delights to enjoy with that tempting flesh.
“What in the blazes d-does that mean?” That tart, shrew-like tone would douse even the most unscrupulous rake’s ardor, bringing him back to the moment—and the nonsensical debate.
He gathered one of the even-when-tied, entirely too-long ribbons, and twined it about his finger, again and again and again until his entire gloved index finger was draped with the fabric. “What I mean, love, is th-that a woman stupid enough to brave a bloody storm would be wearing such a monstrosity.”
Her mouth fell agape. “Wh-why you’ve insulted me, twice,” she breathed. The heated anger in that whispered realization, together with the fury in her eyes, was hot enough it could bring the storm to a raging stop.
“Just once. The other slight pertained to… this bonnet,” he flicked the top of the article in question.
She shook her head back and forth in a slow, manner. “Who are you?”
Oh, blast, of course. Introductions and all that.
Rhys sketched a bow. “Lady Lettice’s brother and I-I’ve been tasked with b-bringing you back.” Before they both froze to death. He reached for her hand, but she again folded her arms.
The spitfire snorted. “I kn-know Lettie’s brother.” She scraped a gaze up and down over his frame. “And you, sir, are not him.”
It was a simple misunderstanding that could be explained away with but a handful of sentences and, yet—her clear condescension rankled.
“I assure you, I am. Though I would vastly prefer if my more respectable brother saw to the honors of seeing you back.”
The lady’s arms fell to her sides, and her eyebrows made a slow climb until they disappeared under those golden curls. “You are the other brother.”
The other brother.
It had been the proverbial story of his life.
The scapegrace.
The troublemaker.
The rogue.
The spare.
The other.
Not necessarily in that order, but that was generally the way of it in Polite Society.
“Yes, I am he. The ‘Other’ and…” The wind knocked about their cloaks, tangling her crimson velvet with his black wool. “I’ve been tasked with—”
“Bringing me back.” She was already shaking her head. “I am not a recalcitrant child being tended to by a nursemaid.”
Rhys closed his eyes briefly and prayed for patience… a marvel in and of itself as he’d never been the praying sort, and certainly not religious. But desperate times and all that. The lady he’d been tasked… sent to accompany, would try a saint on Sunday. Of course, this was the woman his sister would call friend.
With her spirit, his mother must certainly despise Lady Alice Winterbourne.
“Have I said something to amuse you?” she asked in tones more frigid than the winter chill that cut across the countryside.
He beat his gloved hands together, urging warmth back into his numb fingers. “My sister instructed me to bring you back and on any other day, I might gladly leave you to your own devices. But there is a bloody blizzard.” And there was the inconvenient truth that the lady was, in fact, the sister of his newest business partner. Hardly a good foot to get off on letting the fellow’s sister perish in the snow because of her stupidity and stubbornness. Growing annoyance pulled the words from him at a brisk clip. “It is snowing, dark, and cold. And even I would not be so callous as to leave you.” He held his arm out. “So take my damned arm and let me escort you, back. Now.”
Well.
In the whole of her life, no one had ordered her about.
Largely because she’d spent the better part of life invisible to all, from the father who’d no use for her the moment she’d entered the world to the brother who’d lived a shamefully rakish existence forgetting and uncaring about the sister out there.
It was a certainty that no one had ever spoken to her in that brusque, direct way… and if he weren’t so insolent, and his annoyance directed at her, she thought she might have rather appreciated him for his frankness.
Alice angled her head, examining Lettie’s brother through the swirl of snow. She sought to recall anything her friend had uttered about him.
… Rhys is the rogue of the family… he quite vexes Mother… and wisely stays away…
Beyond that, nothing much more had been said.
She inched her gaze up his six-foot, three-inch frame, heavy with muscle, before settling on the chiseled planes of his face, better suited for sculpture than real life. Her heart did a funny little leap.
A blond brow went winging up.
And at being caught staring, heat burned her cheeks. She gave thanks for the cover of darkness. Who knew it was possible to blush while having one’s boots and skirts soaked from the snow, and one’s entire body nearly frozen through?
And because it was far easier accompanying him than debating him after having been caught staring, Alice placed her fingertips atop his sleeve.
They fell into step. He adjusted his longer-legged stride to match her own.
The crunch of freshly fallen snow and the occasional ping of ice striking the earth filled the quiet as they made the long, slow trek back. Alice’s teeth chattered, and she hunched deep inside her cloak, attempting to steal any remaining warmth from the soaked garment.
To no avail.
Her fiery exchange with Lettie’s brother had concluded. A quiet silence was all that remained. Then reality intruded.
Henry and his bride’s impending arrival.
Her flight.
Just like that, she’d abandoned her pride and risked running about in a winter storm because of him. Nay, to escape him. But it was all the same.
All over again, she’d gone and humiliated herself.
Shame soured her mouth. Removing her hand from his sleeve, she hugged her arms to her waist.
“It was not a fight then?”
At that unexpected intrusion into her miserable musings, she glanced up. “A fight?” she repeated dumbly. It had been far worse than that. It had been a broken betrothal and a public shaming that she’d brought upon herself, and—
“With Lettie?”
With Lettie.
Not with Henry.
How singularly odd and wholly welcome… she’d found the sole person in the whole of England who’d shown no inclination or interest in speaking about… her scandal. Did he truly not know?
Feeling his questioning eyes on her, she gave her head a clearing shake. “I’d never fight with Lettie,” she said softly.
He snorted. “Then you have far greater patience than most.”
She frowned. Lettice had been the only friend she’d had… ever. She was the one person who’d been unafraid of the gossip that came in any dealings with Alice, and hadn’t been sorry-eyed whenever talk of Henry Pratt, “The Bastard”, as Lettie had named him, was mentioned.
“I’m not disparaging my sister,” he said, with an unerringly accurate read of her thoughts. He rubbed his gloved hands together frantically. He breathed against them, in what could only be a futile attempt at warmth. “She could put the greatest barrister in London to shame.”
The shock of those words ripped through her. Alice tripped and went down hard on her knees.
With a curse, Lettie’s brother stopped mid-stride and doubled back.
As he reached down to help her up, she searched the sharp planes of his face for a sign of deliberate cruelty. Brushing off his offer of assistance, she struggled to her feet.
“Are you all right?” he asked, glancing up and down her person.
She hadn’t been fine in more months than she could remember. But he was the first who asked after anything other than The Scandal. “F-fine,” she said quietly. “I am fine.”
It did not escape her notice when they resumed their journey that he continued at a slower, more measured pace.
“So it was not an argument with my sister,” he murmured, to himself. He cast her another look. “A row with dear Mama, then?”
That startled a laugh from her. How much more wonderful it was to laugh than to indulge the melancholy state she’d lived in for more months than she should.
He glanced questioningly at her.
Alice slapped a gloved hand over her mouth. “Forgive me.” She measured her words. Well, blast, how to offer anything that would not be construed as an insult. “I just would not…” She went close-lipped. But then, mayhap word of her insult would reach the dowager marchioness and she’d order Alice gone… and then face could be saved. For then, it wouldn’t count as fleeing.
Lettie’s brother lifted an eyebrow. “Would not have taken the dowager marchioness as the maternal sort?”
Her lips twitched. Given the lady in question had insisted on being addressed only as “my lady” and nothing more at their first meeting, there’d never been a hint of anything maternal about the greying matron.
He winked once. A mischievous twinkle glinted in his steel-grey eyes. “You would be correct.” He dropped his voice to a shamefully loud whisper. “There is nothing warm or maternal about her. It is why I, to her greatest annoyance, call her Mama.”
The tic at the corner of his right eye indicated she and this stranger… Lettie’s brother had moved into dangerously somber territory, where all teasing stopped, and secrets dwelled.
Lettie’s brother, whose name she still did not know. Alice peered into the distance. How far had she in fact traveled? The gentleman had been right in his earlier claims about her common sense.
He tapped a contemplative finger against his lip, bringing her gaze to that hard flesh slashed up in the hint of a smile. “Very well. You’ll not tell me who your squabble was with, my lady?”
“There was no squabble,” she persisted, hating the formality he’d erected through that proper form of address. Feeling his stare, she looked up. He lifted another pointed brow. “Alice,” she corrected instead, giving him that name she so despised. “You may call me Alice.”
The name was given to her not by a loving parent but by a servant after she’d entered the world. She was supposed to be a child meant to replace a beloved son her parents had previously lost.
“Alice,” he repeated, as though experimenting with the feel of her name, his velvet baritone wrapping those two syllables in a silken caress.
She trembled; a little shiver that had nothing to do with the winter’s chill that had left her numb with cold… and oddly more perilous for its effect. When he uttered her name, there was a beauty to it that she’d never before known. Not even from her betrothed, who’d been unable to divorce the “Lady” from her name when he’d spoken to her.
He is a rogue…
How matter-of-fact Lettie had been in describing her elder brother. And given that Alice had been the sister of a rake who’d only ever kept company with shameful and wicked scoundrels, she’d not paid much thought to Lettie’s rogue of a brother.
But hearing mention of it and walking beside that same man, who managed to make one’s hated name a soft caress, proved the dangerous power of those sorts.
“A-and d-do you have a name, as well? Or with her absence of maternal warmth, have you gone these many years without?”
A laugh escaped his lips, stirring little tuffs of white air. “My many years? Egads, Alice, you know how to wound a gent.”
She knew nothing where gents were concerned. Alice had only learned of late just how little she knew about their entire species. “Is that a no?” she asked with a droll grin.
“Rhys.”
His was warrior’s name that so very perfectly suited a man of his command and ease. “After Rhys ap Thomas?” she ventured.
“Henry of Tudor’s faithful supporter?” He doffed his hat and beat the snow-covered brim against his leg. “Alas, in addition to the dowager marchioness’ lack of maternal warmth, there is also a woeful lack of appreciation for history.” He waggled his brows. “Though, if she were, I trust it would be more likely Rhys ap Gruffydd, rebel, hanged for his plotting, that would have been a likelier muse.”
Her mouth parted. As scholarly as her former betrothed had been, not even he possessed even the remotest interest in history.
He shot her a sideways glance. “Come, I am Lettie’s rogue of a brother,” he drawled, his boots kicking up snow around them as they walked. “Are you of an opinion that rogues should be slow-witted?”
“N-no,” she said quickly, grateful for both the night cover and the brim of her bonnet for concealing her guilty flush. “Not at a-all.”
They reached the bottom steps of the marquess’ estate. Those stone stairs previously cleared by servants for the arriving guests were now dusted with a soft covering of snow. She hesitated. To enter together would expose them both to the very scandal he’d chided her over earlier.
Lord Rhys sketched a short bow. “I shall take the servant’s entrance around back.”
She chewed at her lower lip, and shot a glance down the expansive stretch of the marquess’ properties, warring with herself. Lettie’s brother had already journeyed out into the cold in the midst of a storm to assist her. Of course, she had not needed rescuing, as he’d so put it. But still, it was unpardonably selfish to be the reason he was still out trampling through the snow.
The wind howled mournfully about them.
Rhys dipped his head down, shrinking the space between them. Through the clean country air, made sharper by the winter, the sandalwood scent that clung to him filled her nostrils; that soft, warm woodsy smell oddly alluring. “Unless… you wish discovery, Alice?” he whispered, the dry amusement there shattering the pull, as much as the words themselves.
Whipping about, she sprinted up the eleven steps. Her fingers numb from the cold, she reached for the handle.
“I take that as a ‘no’,” he called, briefly staying her retreat.
She angled a glance over her shoulder. “A definitive ‘no’,” she whispered. After her disastrous taste of love with the faithless Henry Pratt, the last path she cared to venture down was the marital one.
As Alice let herself in, Rhys’ quiet laughter rumbled after her.
“Unless I wish to be discovered, indeed,” she muttered to herself.
With Lettie’s brother… a notorious rogue with a ready quip on his lips. It was preposterous. It was—
“There you are!”
Alice shrieked.
Lettie grabbed her arm and dragged her forward. “Going out in the midst of a storm and in the dark of night,” her friend whispered, with an outraged tone that would have impressed Mrs. Belden, their dragon of a headmistress. She glanced about, a frown deepening on her lips. “Where is my brother? I instructed him to return with you.”
And he’d readily complied… in the middle of the freezing cold, at night. When, two years ago, Alice’s own brother wouldn’t have been able to pick her out of a ballroom full of ladies. As such, she’d an appreciation for a devoted brother. At her friend’s probing look, Alice cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I do not know,” she settled for. Which was, in fact, the truth. After he’d gone ‘round back to the servants’ entrance, she’d no idea where he might be.
Lettie grunted. “Where have you been?” she demanded.
A servant rushed over to assist Alice from her sopping cloak.
Originally, she’d taken flight with the sole purpose of hiding to sulk in her own misery. In that copse, however, with Alice’s rogue of a brother, she’d gone from annoyed with Rhys’ high-handedness, to laughing at a devastating wink and his ability to laugh and tease. In short, the dangerous combination that made up all rogues and rakes.
“Well?” her friend prodded as they made their climb abovestairs. With every step taken, Alice’s boots left a sopping trail in her wake.
“I was walking.”
“Because of him,” Lettie lamented. She tossed her arms up in an exaggerated manner that only she could manage. “Pining for a man who was never, ever deserving of you.”
They reached the main landing and several servants rushed all around.
“Hush,” she whispered. “I was not… pining.”
For she hadn’t been. She’d merely wished to observe him and his perfect bride from a distance… and keep just that between them—a distance.
“Here we are,” her friend murmured, bringing them to a stop beside a doorway. Lettie’s expression brightened. “Given your window was broken, and there were no additional chambers in the guest suites, you’ve been given this chamber.” She swept the door open. “Between mine,” she motioned to the left of her. “And Rhys’.”
Rhys.
Her savior in the snow. A teasing rogue who’d also quite freely ordered her about—or attempted to, anyway.
As her friend tugged her inside, Alice swallowed a groan.
Splendid.