And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

“Whoring has its uses. Indeed, I intend to test my expertise on Miss Jemima Steele tonight.” He nodded to the thin lady with rodent features standing near the terrace doors. One hard thrust and the chit would snap like a twig. “While I make a point never to seduce wallflowers, I shall use my talent to weaken her resolve.”

The widow’s eyes grew wide with alarm. “You intend to bed Miss Steele?” she whispered through gritted teeth. “That is your plan?”

Damian shrugged. “I intend to place her in such a compromising position she has no choice but to tell the truth. The lady is far too prim for her own good. And I’m too much of a devil to let the opportunity pass.”

“I doubt Satan himself would stoop so low.” She seemed more upset than angry.

“I have sworn to protect you, to put a lead ball between the brows of the blackguard who wants you dead.” Damian clasped her elbow to reinforce his point. “Whether you like it or not, you’re my responsibility until the debt is repaid.”

What did she expect? She was the one who used his love for his mother against him. He’d sworn an oath in Maria’s name, and he would not disrespect her memory.

Damian braced himself for an argument, but after a moment’s reflection, the widow inclined her head in acquiescence.

He stared at her, trying to understand why she had not fought against his control, until a discreet cough to their left drew his attention.

“Lady Steele,” the foppish gentleman began. “Forgive the intrusion.”

Before Damian could growl “bugger off” in his most vicious voice, the widow said, “Lord Rathbone, what a pleasant surprise.” She batted her lashes, her smile as fake as her warm tone.

Rathbone inclined his head to Damian and then bowed to the widow. “I wonder if I might claim the next dance?”

Did the fool not know he had won the bet?

Did he not know that he hadn’t a hope of taking this woman to his bed? The widow sought more than elegant clothes and a handsome countenance.

The lord’s curly brown hair accentuated the softness of his features. His high collar failed to hide his weak chin. He looked like the sort of fellow who would rather pander to a lady’s whims than seduce her into submission. No doubt he wore a nightcap and shirt to bed, made love to his mistress on a set day of the week, always at nine with the candles snuffed.

Damian made a mental note to seek the lord out at the card table and wipe the charming smile from his lips.

“Thank you, my lord,” the widow replied. “But it is such a crush tonight, and I have yet to pay homage to the host. Perhaps our paths might cross later in the evening. Or we might find an opportunity to converse over supper.”

Over Damian’s dead b

ody.

The woman who came with him stayed with him.

“Of course.” Rathbone accepted the excuse too easily. That said, Damian afforded the man a modicum of respect. He must be keen on the widow to stand before a notorious rogue knowing one wrong word might land him a dawn appointment. “I’m told the supper table boasts many extravagant delicacies.”

“Then I look forward to sampling its delights.”

That was enough. Damian gritted his teeth. Even though he knew it was all an act, he despised her obvious flirtation.

Without offering a word to the soppy lord, Damian cupped the widow’s elbow and steered her away. “If I’m supposed to be bedding you, I’ll not have you fawning over Lord Rathbone.”

She snorted though did not object to his high-handed approach. “If I am supposed to be bedding you, Mr Wycliff, I’ll not have you compromising Miss Steele.”

“Any attempt to rouse jealousy is for naught. I am immune.” He refused to admit that resentment made him want to throttle the lord. Besides, when it came to Miss Steele, he had his limits and planned to do nothing more than frighten the chit.

“It is not my intention to play games, sir. Lady Rathbone is one of the few matrons to show me an ounce of human kindness. Consequently, I find myself unable to be rude to her grandson.”

“Then you should put the fellow out of his misery. His excessive drooling must surely frustrate his valet.”

The widow’s genuine smile almost made Damian stumble. “Lord Rathbone means well, but his overzealous need to capture my attention leads me to wonder if he’s pledged money in the wager at White’s.”

“Distrusting others is something we have in common.” The first strains of a waltz drifted through the room. Damian never danced. If he did, he would whisk the widow around the floor, hold her scandalously close just to annoy Lord Rathbone. “Would you like me to make discreet inquiries?”

She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “I doubt you have a discreet bone in your body. Besides, Lady Rathbone is keen to see her grandson wed, and not to a notorious widow.”