And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

Loneliness swept up on her like an icy breeze from the north. The coldness made her shiver. Frost coated the barren emptiness within. She was back at the window in the seminary, her inner turmoil a reflection of the wintery scene outside.

Lady Rathbone’s comment about staying for another hour and Jemima’s complaining echoed in the distance. Both failed to pull Scarlett back into the room.

But then Damian Wycliff appeared in her field of vision. His firm hand at her elbow forced her to blink. “We should leave,” he whispered. The heat from his palm flooded her body, thawing the ice in her blood. “Before I punch my father and give Miss Steele the most cutting set-down of her life.”

Scarlett met his gaze. Damian Wycliff had a fake face, too. But his mask looked like hers—sharp lines and bold colours. The eyes appeared hard and shallow, for neither wanted anyone to see the soft depths beyond.

“So, you’re not staying to hear Señora Garcia’s aria?” the marquis taunted. “Spanish opera singers rarely venture this far north.”

Mr Wycliff gritted his teeth. “Perhaps that’s because we English lack the heart for their music. Or perhaps it’s because their hosts suffer from boredom and are quick to move to the next mode of entertainment.”

The marquis’ mocking laugh rent the air. “An amusing thought though wholly inaccurate.”

Scarlett noted the hard line of Damian Wycliff’s jaw. What was he thinking? Was his heart racing? Was he sitting at the window—just like her—knowing no one would come, feeling just as lost and lonely inside?

“We will leave you to ponder the thought, my lord.” Scarlett touched Mr Wycliff lightly on the shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. “We have somewhere more important to be.”

The marquis’ impenetrable gaze bore into her. Perhaps he might join the ranks of those wanting her dead, hire thugs from the rookeries who would do anything to earn a few shillings.

Bestowing those in the room with his usual arrogant grin, Mr Wycliff offered Scarlett his arm. She slipped her hand into the crook, and they made a move towards the door. Scarlett took a moment to stop and invite Lady Rathbone to tea.

Perhaps fearing what her wicked stepmother might do, Jemima had moved to stand next to Joshua. The siblings were opposites in every regard. Fury filled Jemima’s eyes, while fear marred Joshua’s vapid countenance.

“Joshua Steele is a damn coward,” Mr Wycliff said as he retrieved Scarlett’s silk wrapper from his father’s purpose-built cloakroom. “I doubt he has the courage to mention the word murder let alone hire someone to do the job.”

“Looks can be deceptive.” She permitted Mr Wycliff to drape the garment around her shoulders. She tried not to sigh when his fingers brushed against the high collar of her gown. “His fear stems from a personal matter and has nothing to do with a weakness of character.”

Mr Wycliff seemed puzzled. “And yet he looked at you as if you might flex your jaw, inflate your lungs and breathe hell’s fire.”

“He fears I will reveal his secret.”

“His secret?”

Realising that Damian Wycliff was the only person in the world she might remotely trust, the time for honesty was nigh.

“That I might inform his sister of his attempt to step into his father’s role.”

Recognition dawned. Mr Wycliff took a step forward, an action that left the tips of their toes touching. He grasped her elbow again, and in a rather irate tone said, “Are you trying to tell me your stepson attempted to bed you?”

“He was in his cups,” she whispered, wishing she could not recall the amateur fumbling with any clarity. “After a night spent drinking with friends, he became obsessed with bedding the Scarlet Widow.”

“A widow who happens to be his stepmother. Where the hell are the man’s morals?”

“Morals? Says the man who made a foolish girl believe he had an interest in her.” One wiggle of his tail feathers and poor Jemima had slipped off her haughty perch with ease.

“You hired me to save you, not play the pious priest waiting for a confession.”

“I did not hire you,” she snapped as he led her down the steps of the grand house. “The only reason you’re here at all is because I took pity on you in the alley.”

“I don’t need your pity, Widow.” When they reached the street, he threw a barefoot boy a shilling and pointed to the carriage parked on the opposite side of Hanover Square.

Scarlett sighed. “Still, you took it, and the debt makes you mine—at least for the time being.” A small part of him had been hers since he handed her the gold cross.

The corners of his mouth formed a sensual smirk that sent her stomach flipping. “You want me, Widow, admit it. Every minute spent in my enthralling company makes you want me all the more.”

Oh, Damian Wycliff spouted drivel. She wanted the invalid with a swollen eye and a bandaged leg—the man who knew how to express his gratitude—not the ingrate wearing the devil mask.

The boy came charging back and pointed to the carriage making its way towards them. Mr Wycliff removed a few more shiny coins from his pocket, thrust them into the boy’s dirty hand and ruffled the urchin’s unkempt hair.