She felt Mr Wycliff’s penetrating stare a few seconds before he spoke. “The marquis suffers from confusion and often acts as if I am heir to his fortune. It is his wish I marry, not mine. If Parklands was too grand a home for my mother, then it is too grand a home for me.”
Perhaps his father wished to make amends. Then again, the marquis had a devious streak. Every action served his own end.
“Then seeing us together at Vauxhall will no doubt annoy him.”
“The devil beneath his cool facade will be hopping mad. Apparently, marriage to a lady of his choosing, a lady bribed to take an illegitimate scoundrel as her husband, is the only thing that can save me from a life of damnation.”
A chuckle burst from Mr Cavanagh’s lips. “A preposterous notion.”
“Preposterous, indeed,” Scarlett agreed, for Damian Wycliff need be under no illusion when considering marriage. “Love is the only thing guaranteed to save your soul, sir.”
“L-love?” Mr Cavanagh could barely say the word for laughing.
Even Mr Trent found her comment humorous. “It seems you’re doomed to roam the fiery pits of hell, Wycliff.”
“Better to spend an eternity with debauched sinners than virtuous saints,” Mr Wycliff replied. “What do you say, Cavanagh?”
Something in his tone forced Scarlett to turn her head and look at him. It wasn’t amusement she saw flashing in his dark eyes. Sadness lingered beyond the veil of contempt. How did she know? Because she had seen the same sorrow in the looking glass too many times to count.
The need to ease his pain—and her own, too—saw her thread her arm through his and say, “Well, you will be in good company, for I imagine we are all heading there.”
The muscle in his cheek twitched. He looked at her as if she were a mysterious object unearthed with his bare hands. Heat flooded her body. Butterflies tickled her stomach. The other men sharing the confined space turned to each other and continued a hushed yet private conversation.
“You’re mistaken,” he whispered, edging far too close for comfort. “But I appreciate the sentiment. While we walk the same path, I fear we are heading in opposite directions.”
For some reason the thought proved painful. The sudden rush of emotion forced her to swallow. “You think I am destined for heaven, Mr Wycliff?”
A smile touched his lips, one of the few genuine expressions she had seen since reuniting. It only served to feed these odd cravings within.
“You’re not one of the wicked,” he said, his rich tone caressing her senses. “You’re one of life’s survivors. One day you may be rewarded with the peace you deserve.”
Others would be astounded to hear a hint of tenderness in his voice. Not her. Still, she drank it in like a woman parched, a woman who longed for love and affection. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”
“Remember it,” he said before slipping his mask back into place. “Such moments are rare for a rake.”
She might have argued that there was so much more to him than his licentious reputation. She might have silently chastised herself for caring more than she should. But the carriage jerked to a halt.
Mr Wycliff’s outstretched arm prevented her from flying forward in the seat. The coachman’s cries of complaint reached their ears. The sound of horns and bells rent the air.
Mr Trent lowered the window and peered out. “They call them the pleasure gardens and yet one has to suffer the pain of waiting in endless traffic just to gain entrance.”
“A pin in the eye would be preferable to sitting in a stationary coach for an hour squashed between three such large gentlemen,” Scarlett agreed.
“Then we’ll walk across the bridge.” Mr Wycliff shuffled to the edge of the seat. “Trent, as you have the window open, inform Cutler of our plans.”
Mr Trent did as requested, and they alighted from the vehicle onto New Vauxhall Road. Many people had a similar idea. Coach doors opened and slammed. A mild sense of panic thrummed in the air as people struggled to walk along the crowded pavement. A few broke into a jog. No one wanted to stand for too long in the queue.
Damian Wycliff captured Scarlett’s hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. Straightening to his full height, and with his usual intimidating bearing, he set the pace—a relaxed stroll over Vauxhall Bridge.
No one barged into his shoulder.
No one pushed them aside to hurry past.
“The air here is so clean it cleanses the lungs.” Mr Wycliff closed his eyes briefly as he inhaled through his nose, exhaled through his mouth.
“Fresh air cleanses the mind, too,” she said, though at the present moment she could think of nothing but the powerful man playing escort. “Judging by Mr Trent’s comment, we’ll need our wits tonight. The marquis seems set on making mischief.”
“The marquis always makes mischief.” His tone conveyed the depth of his disdain. He cast her a sidelong glance. “Do not let your stubborn streak overrule your logic tonight. Remain at my side regardless of what takes place.”