Hatred—dark and menacing—flashed in his eyes. “And some of us would rather die than submit to those who get a thrill from manipulating the weak. What was it that finally tempted you? Gold? Diamonds? The finest Parisian silk?”
There was an air of vulgarity about his tone that made her want to sink into a steaming bathtub and scrub her skin red raw. No one could despise her decision more than she did.
“I married Steele because—” The answer would not help her cause, but after three years of betrayal and deceit, she needed to feel clean again. “I married him because someone tried to kill me and I needed his protection.”
Panic flashed in Mr Wycliff’s eyes.
Two blinks, and it was gone.
The devil reappeared.
“Did I not thrust my card into your hand?” His mouth twisted into a sneer as if the words tasted foul on his lips. “Did I not tell you to call on me should you ever need assistance?”
“You did.”
“And you went to Steele instead?” Disgust dripped from every word.
“Yes.” The pain of regret threatened to destroy her calm composure.
It was a matter of self-preservation. One more act of kindness and she would have fallen under Mr Wycliff’s spell. After all those cold, lonely days in the seminary, those bitterly cold nights spent alone in the lodging-house, she would have welcomed a soft touch and a warm embrace. He might have made her his mistress—a temporary arrangement which would have tarnished the dream.
Mr Wycliff jumped to his feet. “Then what the bloody hell are you doing here now?”
Surrounded by her Viking army, Scarlett was impervious to a man’s rage.
She glanced over her shoulder to the men watching their exchange, hanging on every word. “Might we have some privacy?”
Mr Wycliff considered the men hovering behind and shook his head. “You can speak openly in front of my friends.”
“Of course,” she replied with a smirk. The man thought nothing of fornicating in front of these men. “Then I am here to call in a debt.”
“A debt?”
“The debt. You swore an oath. You are a man of your word, are you not?”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. He looked at his friends. “Leave us. Remain on the other side of the door and thrash anyone who attempts to enter.”
“Even Mrs Crandell?” the golden-haired fellow said.
“Yes, even Mrs Crandell. The woman is desperate to warm your bed. I am sure you’ll find a way to keep her out.”
Both men inclined their heads. They placed their cues in the mahogany rack on the wall. One rolled a red billiard ball, sinking it into the pocket before they both left the room.
A thick, oppressive silence descended.
Damian Wycliff observed her for some time before stepping closer, so close heat radiated from his body, warming her as it had done on that cold night three years ago. He was so broad, so tall, so commanding. Most women would feel helpless and fragile in his presence.
But she knew how to deal with domineering men.
And yet she couldn’t help but feel nervous of this one.
“I come to hold you to your promise, sir.” Her insides churned. Her limbs felt too heavy to lift. Not because she was frightened, but because it took all her strength not to place her palm on his chest, not to beg him to hold her and never let go.
Mr Wycliff clicked his tongue as a mark of disrespect. “As a woman of some notoriety, I imagine you’re used to the crude mouths of men. So tell me this. Why would I help you when you have pissed all over my pride? My promise meant nothing to you before.”
“You know why I did not come to you.” Because she would have wanted more than food and firewood, and her heart had been too weak then. She would have died inside every time he left her alone, alone and naked in his bed.
“Do I?” He dragged his hand through his mop of raven-black hair. “Feel free to enlighten me.”