And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

Scarlett’s heart lurched as a sense of uneasiness took hold. “You think something untoward might happen at the gardens?”

“From the nervous croak in your voice, you fear it, too.”

It had been ten days since the intruder near throttled her in her bed. A boy had delivered the arsenic-laced flour two weeks before that. Thank heavens her housekeeper had the foresight to raise a query over the unexpected package.

Would the villain make another attempt on her life?

Fear pushed to the fore.

Where better to commit murder than in the secluded corners of the pleasure gardens? The stewards might not find the body for days.

“Based on statistics,” she said, “we should be on our guard.”

Every step towards the entrance brought her fears closer. Waiting in line afforded her time to concoct stories, to imagine the host of horrific crimes possible in the dark corners of the gardens.

“You know what people say.” Mr Wycliff paid the attendant their four shillings and seven pence entrance fees.

“No, what do they say?” she said, prompting him to reply as they followed Mr Cavanagh and Mr Trent out onto the Grand Walk.

“Anything can happen at Vauxhall.”

Chapter Nine

It wasn’t the luscious greenery, the grand architecture or the array of marble statues that captured one’s attention as they entered Vauxhall, but the stunning illuminations. Thousands of lamps, in various shapes and vibrant colours, lined every avenue, decorated the pavilions and colonnades. People gazed in awe, their breath stolen by the spectacular sight.

And yet tonight, Damian was one of the rare few who found something else more captivating.

“No matter how many times I visit Vauxhall,” his widow began as she looked about her with wide eyes of wonder, “the majesty of the place holds me spellbound.”

Damian drank in the vision of loveliness, of moist lips parted on a gasp, of long lashes fluttering, of the soft swell of her heaving bosom. He saw her then—his Scarlett—the woman with an innocent smile and a pure heart. No matter how hard he tried to fight the feeling, he was the one who stood in awe … in lust … crippled with longing.

“Yes, it’s all rather enchanting.” His weary sigh masked his carnal craving.

She turned to him, her blue eyes still glistening with brilliance, and his knees almost buckled. “You do not have to be polite, Mr Wycliff, at least not with me. I would much rather you be yourself.”

He managed a thin smile. He was always himself. The one half he permitted the world to see.

“And I would rather you called me Damian or Wycliff. I find your formal use of mister somewhat grating.”

Three years ago he had said a similar thing, and she h

ad called him by the name many men revered. Were he at a gaming table at The Silver Serpent, he would stake his entire fortune on her making the same choice again.

She raised her chin. “I might pay you the courtesy if you agree to refer to me by something other than Widow.”

To do that would mean saying the name that haunted his dreams. Scarlett. The name his heart had whispered once as he stroked her hair and cradled her from the cold.

“Your point is noted, my lady,” he said, breaking into a bow.

She curtsied in response. “Then tell me, Wycliff, tell me honestly. What is your real opinion of Vauxhall?”

Damn. Had he placed the bet, he’d be as rich as Croesus.

Conscious that Cavanagh and Trent had wandered too far in front, Damian captured her hand and settled it in the crook of his arm. A mere five minutes had passed, and already, he had lost sight of his motive for attending the gardens.

“You want the truth?” He didn’t wait for the answer. “I find Vauxhall pretentious. While it feeds the appetites of many, it does little for me.”

Her pretty nose crinkled. “Sir, you are quite the conundrum.”