And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

Her amused expression faded. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Like the rest of the demi-monde, I am sure you’re eager to indulge your wild fantasies.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, though his wildest and somewhat reluctant fantasy involved stripping the widow bare and using his tongue to trace every scar.

Damian watched her enter the house, spent a few minutes staring at the closed front door before instructing Cutler to take him home. After the many revelations this evening the only things he sought with any certainty amounted to a stiff drink and his own bed.

He untied his cravat and propped his feet on the seat opposite. The widow’s intoxicating scent swamped the air, an expensive perfume with the sensual notes of amber and vanilla. The aroma teased his senses, fed his lust. But it was the smell of cheap soap on clean skin he remembered. Craved. A potent bouquet that with every inhalation had the power to nourish his soul.

Removing his silver flask from his inside coat pocket, he swallowed the last mouthful of brandy while replaying the night’s events.

Not being as proficient as the widow at reading minds, he wondered what prompted her decision to choose Vauxhall. Might it be the opportunity to flaunt her infamy, to rouse a pang of jealousy in his chest? That thought dragged a chuckle from his lips. And yet he wished that was the reason. The only other motive drew him back to The Silver Serpent and his widow’s many secrets. Indeed, he suspected in choosing to visit Vauxhall, she meant to keep him away from the gaming hell. To keep him away from the notorious Dermot Flannery.

Chapter Eight

The news of Mr Wycliff’s arrival sent Scarlett’s stomach flipping. An odd flurry of emotions made her dizzy. It was not at all like the sinking, sickening sensation one experienced their first time on stage. It felt different from those rare times she had peered out of the seminary window to see her father climb the front steps. Then, her heart had swelled, swelled to prodigious proportions. Now, the thought of spending an evening with Damian Wycliff caused delicious tingles to race from her fingers to her toes.

But it wasn’t the young woman who tended to his wounds and bathed his brow who arrived to greet him. Good Lord, no! She was liable to smile at him in the tender way that left her heart open. Exposed.

No!

Dressed in a gown of midnight-blue with a neckline that skimmed the collarbone to hide her scar—and wearing her confidence like an extravagant accessory—the Scarlet Widow descended the stairs.

He was waiting.

Clothed in black and with the same inscrutable expression others found impossible to read, he watched her descend as Lucifer might study a newcomer at the gates of hell.

The long-case clock in the hall struck seven as her foot touched the bottom step.

As the last chime faded, Scarlett offered the gentleman her hand. “Mr Wycliff, regardless of the terrible things people say about you, you have impeccable timekeeping.”

Wearing a grin sourced from an exotic land—striking, unique and with more than a hint of mystery—he raised her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her glove. Dark, devilish eyes roamed over the ruby-encrusted comb in her hair, lingered on the exposed skin at the base of her neck.

“When a man lives life to excess, he doesn’t waste a minute.” Mr Wycliff released her hand and moistened his lips. “Might I say it’s somewhat surprising to see you in a colour other than black or red.”

“When a lady lives to cause scandal, she does her best to appear unpredictable.”

Their gazes locked. The air thrummed with an intense energy. The sudden rush of desire nearly knocked her off her feet. Heat swirled in her stomach. She cleared her throat, lest he notice the quickening of her breath.

The clip of the butler’s shoes on the tiled floor broke the spell. Hanson carried her red silk pelisse, but it was Mr Wycliff who took the garment, held it up for her to slip her arms inside and who smoothed the material over her shoulders with his large masculine hands.

“I’m afraid we have company,” he said, dismissing Hanson with a nod. “Cavanagh and Trent will join us this evening. While they will remain nearby, they know to grant us an element of privacy.”

The last word rolled so seductively off his tongue nerves banished her initial disappointment. How long could she maintain the facade? How long could she maint

ain a sense of indifference?

Long enough to protect her heart, she hoped.

“Are you speaking about the gentlemen who enjoy watching you fondle your conquests?” Veiled contempt worked wonders when attempting to hide one’s feelings. “If you have another engagement at Vauxhall you only need say. Lady Rathbone is sure to attend and will invite me to dine in her booth.”

Mr Wycliff arched a brow. “You’re dining with me, no one else.” The possessiveness in his tone should have roused her old fears, should have made her bolster her defences, and yet it only fed her excitement. “Tonight, you have my undivided attention. I’m the only gentleman permitted to stroll with you along Lovers Walk.”

“Of course,” she began, pressing her fingers more firmly into her gloves. “When a lady takes you as her lover, Mr Wycliff, she has no need to spend time in another man’s company.”

“Precisely.”

A sudden image of his hard, sweat-soaked body flashed into her mind. The tender ache between her thighs stole her concentration. It took every effort not to stare at him and sigh.

“I, too, need to alter our plans,” she said, grateful she did not appear as one of those women forced to agree with everything he said or did.