And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

n her logic became suddenly apparent. “You knew nothing of their association until Mr Flannery found you a year ago. How do you know they were close?”

Her bottom lip quivered, and the lines between her brows grew prominent. It took her a few seconds to replace her widow’s mask. “I have become quite adept at reading men, Mr Wycliff. I would know if Mr Flannery were insincere.”

“Some men are good at hiding their true feelings.”

“Like you?” she countered, for this lady was exceptional in defending an attack. “You are not as inscrutable as you would like to believe.”

He found the observation both amusing and terrifying.

A gnawing unease settled in his chest, but that did not prevent him from sporting a grin and saying, “It’s unwise to taunt the devil.”

“Even when the devil is a monster of your own creation?”

“Even then.”

Their gazes remained locked. No doubt his eyes were as dark as the unburnt coals in hell. Her heavenly blue eyes held an unexplainable power capable of cutting through his facade. Both refused to back down from this standoff. She had found a way to crawl under his skin, those cunning hands caressing away every objection, smoothing out the hard edges, jagged planes.

The need to shake free from her intense stare saw him shoot across the carriage to sit at her side, so close their thighs touched.

“If I am so easy to read, what am I thinking now, Widow?” he snapped, every word filled with contempt.

A smile crept into her eyes, and he’d be damned if he knew what she was thinking. “You look like you want to murder me, Mr Wycliff. Murder me and make love to me at the same time.”

Damnation!

He might change her name to the Scarlet Witch!

“Fighting and fornicating are the only things I know.” The need to drag her onto his lap and do the latter thrummed in his veins.

“That’s the devil talking. Attempting either will merely prove my point.”

Anger flared.

Without further contemplation, he rapped hard on the roof. The carriage rocked on its axis as the groom scampered down from the box seat, opened the door and lowered the steps.

“I’ll wait here until you’re safely inside,” he said, the words tinged with the arctic frost of a man who wanted not to care. “Vauxhall or a gambling hell?”

As soon as the lady’s feet touched the pavement, she whirled around and said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Where would you like to go tomorrow evening? Dancing at Vauxhall to spy on Joshua Steele, or would you rather play hazard at The Silver Serpent so I might observe Mr Flannery?”

“Dancing?” She raised her chin. “You strike me as a man who rarely takes to the floor. I imagine your hardened heart is immune to the power of a passion-filled melody.”

The widow was right on the first count, wrong on the second.

Music reminded him of what he had lost.

Powerful melodies always tugged at his heartstrings.

“I am sure you will have no shortage of partners,” he replied, and yet he had a sudden urge to call out any man who dared offer.

She smiled. “Vauxhall it is, then. Will you call for me at eight?”

“We’ll take supper, so I shall call at seven.”

“Very well. Good night, Mr Wycliff. I imagine it is relatively early for you. I’m sure Mrs Crandell will have some form of exotic entertainment planned.”

“Good night …” For a reason unbeknown, he stopped himself from adding the word widow. “Mrs Crandell is hosting a harem party tonight. There are to be bare-chested footmen in turbans and scantily clad dancers who shake their generous hips while jingling bells.”