And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

Mr Wycliff glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his gaze. “A brothel?”

“No!” she said far too quickly. “Not a brothel but one might call it an establishment for the wealthy and dissolute. My father made me swear never to mention our connection.”

Something she said must have piqued his curiosity, pricked his conscience. He dropped his boot, shuffled back onto the bed and resumed his relaxed position. “And he paid for you to live away at a seminary?”

“At numerous seminaries. I rarely stayed in one place for longer than a year.”

The memory made the hollow space in her chest seem cavernous. Such instability made it impossible to forge friendships, to nurture relationships. She never belonged, was always the outsider.

“How often did you see your father?” His dark eyes shone with intrigue. Scarlett suspected the question stemmed from more than an interest in her childhood.

“Not often enough.” The intolerable ache in her heart throbbed.

Mr Wycliff rubbed his chin as he contemplated her answer. “Regardless of his reasons, I daresay you felt abandoned.”

Was he determined to twist the rusty blade further into her chest? Scarlett raised her chin. “Abandoned, and dreadfully lonely.”

Good Lord! She would rather bare her scarred breast than her tortured soul.

“I presume your father is dead, hence the reason you left the seminary and took to the stage.”

“Yes.” She should mention that he took his own life, that the coroner proclaimed felo de se—suicide—rather than cite an unstable mind as was common practice. Consequently, everything the man owned went to refill the Crown’s coffers.

“So what prompted you to marry Lord Steele?” His intense stare fixed her to the floor. Where she had previously heard a faint softness hidden beneath his words, now she heard a ruthless arrogance, a blatant disregard for women who married for money and status.

“It might have something to do with the fact a stranger followed me home every night for a week. That a cloaked fiend throttled me in the alley and only fled because Lord Steele intervened.”

Now she suspected that Steele’s arrival was not a coincidence. The devious blackguard was besotted, besotted with the notion of marrying another weak woman who would cower to him in grateful servitude.

Mr Wycliff’s mouth twisted with disdain and he arched a mocking brow. “How convenient. Did it not occur to you that it was all part of his depraved plan?”

At the time, rational thought had abandoned her, too. “Have your emotions ever plagued you to the point you long for a moment’s peace?”

“Indeed.” He inclined his head. “Though from the scars littering your back, peace is the last thing you found in your marriage.”

No, fighting for survival had pushed her to unimaginable limits. “Oh, but for the wisdom of hindsight.” It was her turn to sound cold and cynical.

“Did you kill your husband?”

“No.”

“But you thought about thrusting a blade into the bastard’s chest.”

“Every day.”

“Remind me how he met his end.”

“His heart gave out while wedged between his mistress’ thighs midthrust.”

The corner of Mr Wycliff’s mouth curled up in amusement. “A delightful way to go.”

She would rather swing from the gallows than suffer the weight of Steele’s paunch or the stench of his rancid breath. “That depends upon one’s partner.”

He crossed his hands behind his head and lounged back on the pillows. “Or upon one’s position. I’d prefer to be on my back, gazing up at my mistress’ bountiful breasts.”

Scarlett swallowed her surprise. She had heard he favoured no one special. “You have a mistress?” The question brought an uncomfortable lump to her throat.

“It was a figure of speech. Why would I want the responsibility of a mistress when I can bed any woman I choose?”