And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

Damian snorted. “Having had some experience with domination, I must decline.” He was not referring to his own need for control. “Three years spent on one’s knees is long enough.” He turned to Scarlett and whispered, “Though I might need to bow between your legs during the carriage ride home.”

Scarlett batted him on the arm as they left the room. “Do you approach every challenging situation with devilish joviality?”

“There is nothing challenging about pleasuring you.”

Scarlett breathed an exasperated sigh. “I am speaking of the situation with Joshua.”

“Of course.”

They mounted the stairs in silence. From the loud splashing emanating from the basement and the painful cries echoing from numerous bedchambers, Damian doubted the lords would hear the cavalry approaching.

There was but one door on the second floor to the left of the stairs. With deft fingers, Damian slipped the key into the lock and turned it carefully. He eased the door from the jamb and peered into the dark room. Heather had drawn the curtains on the near side of the poster bed. Candles flickered in the standing candelabrum, casting an amber glow over the dark wood and burgundy furnishings.

Scarlett clutched Damian’s arm upon hearing the whimpering from beyond the curtain. He took hold of her hand, and together they crept into the room and closed the door.

“You think I don’t know what goes on in that stupid head of yours?” The woman’s harsh voice sliced through the air, the words accompanied by a sudden and rather sharp slap. “You think I don’t know what you say about me?”

“I swear—” The man groaned painfully. “I swear, I have said nothing.”

“You’ve been whispering to your friends. Telling little tales.”

“No!”

Damian might have found the whole thing laughable, but Scarlett gripped his hand so hard her nails dug into his skin. He cast her a sidelong glance, noted the panic in her eyes even in the faint light.

“Liar!” the woman called as some unseen and undoubtedly violent action tore another whimper from Steele’s lips.

“Please, Damian,” Scarlett whispered, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “I cannot bear it. Please, make it stop.”

It occurred to him that the setting reminded her of a painful memory. That despite the contrived scene, it drew parallels with her own tortured past.

Damian cupped her head and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Wait here,” he mouthed when her troubled gaze met his. The harrowing sight tore at his heart.

She nodded, though it took a moment for her to release his hand.

Feeling the devil’s fury in his chest—the need to punish any man with the surname Steele—he strode around the bedpost, ready to pummel the lord for taking pleasure from these repulsive games.

The sight that met him stopped him in his tracks.

Joshua Steele was not spread naked on the bed with his wrists shackled and his jutting erection pointing skyward. Oh, he was naked, but he was on his knees, huddled into a ball while the scantily clad woman at his side gripped a riding crop.

All anger dissipated. Perhaps because Damian saw a vision of Scarlett cowering in the lowly position, not her depraved stepson.

“I suggest you sit up, Steele,” Damian said in a voice hard enough to make the devil pause. “Unless you want me to take that crop and teach you a lesson you will never forget.”

The lord shot up from his foetal position, exposing the angry pink welts on his chest. He squinted in the dim light. Recognition dawned. “W-Wycliff?”

As if she’d been awaiting her cue, Heather sidled from the bed, taking the crop with her. She held out her hand and Damian dropped the key into her sweaty palm, then she slipped from the room as quietly as they had entered.

Steele grabbed the coverlet and yanked it across his lap to cover his modesty. “What the hell are you doing here?” His cheeks flamed crimson. “Y-you’ve come to the wrong room. Since when were you a patron?”

“I’m not here to see Heather.” Wycliff ground his teeth. “We are here to speak to you about your sudden interest in Lord Rathbone. And to ask why your sister knows nothing about the son you fathered with your mistress in Ely Place.”

It hadn’t taken Trent long to discover the information.

The lord opened and closed his mouth, but no sounds tumbled out. It was as if an uncontrollable panic began in his toes and took a minute to reach his brain. His limbs started shaking. He rocked back and forth, his teeth chattering before a wealth of suppressed emotion burst from him like a geyser from the ground.

“Lord, please, no! You cannot tell Jemima.”