And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

The Scarlet Widow did not expose her vulnerability.

The Scarlet Widow was cold and cunning and came to the point.

“You stand here today because I saved your life, Mr Wycliff.” Scarlett stared down her nose as she did to those in the ton who once mocked her naivety. “You owe me a debt, and I’m told the devil always pays his dues.”

The corners of Mr Wycliff’s mouth curled into a scornful smirk as he braced his hands on his hips. “Then show me your wound, and I shall stitch it. Show me the broken bones and black bruises.”

The need to drain every drop of arrogance from his magnificent body burned in her veins. “Very well. But I insist you lock the door.”

This was not how she had envisioned their reunion, but she had come prepared to show him the canvas that spoke of years of misery. For months she had stood, stripped bare as the artist did his work. Shame cut sharper than the pain. But despite every harsh stroke, Lord Steele failed to paint an obedient wife.

Lord Steele had painted the Scarlet Widow.

Chapter Three

Damian sauntered past the Scarlet Widow and turned the key in the lock. Mrs Crandell knew the importa

nce some guests placed on privacy, though he suspected he would not glean an ounce of pleasure from whatever he was about to witness. He paused, his fingers still gripping the cold metal, the same fingers his angel had once bandaged and tended with care. The same fingers that ached occasionally to remind him of the only perfect moment in his entire life.

He kept the heavy sigh from leaving his lips.

Disappointment left a sour taste in his mouth.

She was not his angel, not anymore.

She was tainted, spoiled by society’s sycophants.

He had lost count of the times he’d dreamed of seeing her again. He’d found her innocent smile beguiling. Purity had shone through the dirt and rags to cleanse his soul, too. That sparse little room was still his sanctuary. The only place he had ever felt an ounce of peace.

Ruined.

Replacing his mask of arrogance, he turned to face this monstrous creation who could never compete with her benevolent understudy.

“Show me,” he said with a level of disdain he refused to hide. Facades were for the weak. “Let me see your wounds so I might judge their severity. Perhaps they are merely surface scratches for I doubt you have ever bled out onto the piss-soaked cobbles of an alley.”

She did not turn to face him but hung her head as she untied the ribbons on her cloak. The garment fell to the floor—a red pool around her feet—leaving her standing in her widow’s weeds.

“Would you mind unfastening the buttons, Mr Wycliff?”

Damian snorted. “I’m no one’s maid, Widow.” He felt like ripping the blasted garment off her shoulders, tearing it to shreds.

He expected her to bite back, but she reached behind and fiddled with the tiny black buttons.

It took too long.

His patience wore thin.

Offering a frustrated groan, he stepped forward. “I do not have all night.” No, after this he would storm up to one of the bedchambers and plunge long and hard and deep into any willing wench.

The widow dropped her hands, her fingers brushing against his in the process.

Every muscle in his body sparked to life.

Damnation!

Anger surfaced. She was the only person in the world ever to affect him. He yanked at the button, ripping it from its thread and sending the damn thing skittering across the wooden floor.

“Pay it no heed,” she said calmly. “I have many others.”