And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

“Is that what you truly want? Is that what your heart desires?”

He snorted to hide the uneasiness he always felt when discussing one’s emotions. “I could ask the same of you. You seem content to play the Scarlet Widow.”

Her fingers slipped from his arm. She stopped abruptly and swung around to face him. “You think this is the life I want?” Moonlight and the glow from the festoon of lanterns illuminated the pain swimming in her blue eyes. “I want a house with countryside views that stretch for miles. I want a family who picnics in the park, children to love, a husband to adore. But they are the dreams of the foolish and naive, and so I shall settle for the one thing within my grasp.”

Damian was too busy forming pictures in his mind to respond. It wasn’t that he could envisage the house with remarkable clarity, the children laughing and chasing their dogs, but that he saw himself in the beautiful painting, too.

Foolish was too tame a word to describe the dream.

Ludicrous seemed more apt.

So why had the ice around his heart cracked?

“That is why I came to you,” she continued, oblivious to these odd sensations plaguing his mind and body. “You can give me the one thing I want.”

Were he a better man, he would give her everything her heart desired. “You should know I will never father a child out of wedlock.” He was meticulous about such things, bordering on obsessive.

“Not a child,” she said, and somewhere in a place deep in his chest, he felt a pang of disappointment. “You can bring me peace, Wycliff. Peace from the endless nightmares. Peace from this sordid world full of hatred and greed.”

He understood the value of a calm mind. During his many sojourns abroad he often pretended he was a different man—one without bitterness writhing like snakes in his belly.

She touched his arm. “Do you know what scares me the most?”

“That the villain will succeed in his attempt to end your life?”

“No, that during the game, I will lose sight of what’s important.”

Again, the comment made him mentally stumble.

What was more important than vengeance?

“By now you must know that revenge is the basis of my every thought and deed,” he said. “The only thing I consider important.”

Her other hand came to rest on his upper arm. A vibrant energy flowed between them, brighter than the myriad of lights shining at Vauxhall. “It seems you do many things to annoy your father—drink and duel, bed witless women. Wha

t do you do for yourself, to nourish your spirit?”

He arched a brow. “Is that a trick question?”

“What is your heart’s desire?”

“I don’t have a heart. I traded it with the devil for this impressive body and striking good looks.”

But if he did, he would go back to that hovel in Covent Garden and tell the actress her kindness had touched him in a way he’d not thought possible. He would offer friendship, save his angel from the beast hiding in the wings waiting to strike.

“Yes, you do,” she said, placing her palm over his beating organ. “Many times while I nursed you, I checked your heart was still thumping in your chest.”

“Who’s to say I didn’t make the deal after you breathed life back into my bones.”

“Your argument is weak. You were as handsome then as you are now.”

He held her gaze for longer than a heartbeat. “And more often than not, I find you just as endearing.” His tone carried the affection he harboured for the woman who saved him. “But if you’re asking me what I dream about, let me show you.”

Before logical thought persuaded him otherwise, he tugged on the front of her pelisse and pulled her closer. With deft fingers, he’d unfastened the first button from the loop before she had time to object.

“Wycliff?” She swallowed deeply, more than once. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Responding to your earlier question. My heart desires that I press my lips to your scar.”