And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

Consumed with jealousy, had Lord Rathbone fired the shot at Vauxhall?

But why would a peer want to marry a notorious widow whose bloodline was lacking? A widow whose purse was not robust enough to support an aristocratic family for generations?

It made no sense.

Damian retrieved the lord’s clothes from the chair and threw them onto the bed. “Might I suggest you seek other ways of dealing with your cowardice? This odd form of flagellation will only feed your obsession.”

The lord dragged his hand down his face. “Is it too much to hope you will keep this matter private?”

“Your son needs a father, not a foolish fop.” In all the ways it mattered to society, it was too late for the boy. Still, knowing a parent cared eased the burden of illegitimacy. “Do your duty by the boy, and I’ll not breathe a word about what I’ve witnessed.”

“Those terrible marks on your skin remind me of my own weaknesses.” Scarlett’s voice carried the pain of her experiences. “But I had little choice other than to stand there and take my punishment.”

Had she never fled? Had she never thought to pack up her jewels and sail across the ocean? Start a new life? Having spent so long in educational institutions, was it the idea of having a home that she loved?

“If I discover you’ve revisited this place,” Scarlett continued, “I shall make sure the world knows of your predilection for pain.”

“And Jemima?” Panic flashed in the lord’s eyes.

Scarlett hesitated. She pursed her lips before answering. “I shall say nothing to Jemima, but you will discover if she had anything to do with the attacks on my person. You will meet Mr Wycliff and offer proof that she played no part.”

“Proof?” Steele’s mouth fell open. “How am I to obtain proof?”

“I have no notion,” she replied with the arrogance of the Scarlet Widow. “That is your problem to solve. It will give you something to occupy your mind while you

battle these perverse cravings.”

Without another word, she whirled around and strode towards the door.

Damian snatched the shirt off the bed and threw it at the lord. “I suggest you dress quickly before temptation strikes. When equipped with the required information, you may send word to Benedict Cavanagh in Jermyn Street.” Damian would be damned before revealing the whereabouts of his current abode.

Scarlett was waiting at the top of the stairs when Damian left the bedchamber. She looked pensive, and for the first time in his life he feared what a woman might say.

“I think it’s time I dined with Lady Rathbone.” She did not look pleased at the prospect. “Something is clearly amiss. While the matron likes to gossip, I cannot fathom her need to pry into my past.”

“Can you not?” Did this lady not know how attractive she was to men? “Rathbone wants you. Since that night at my father’s ball it seemed evident to me.”

“Then why sneak about? Why not come to me directly and convey his intentions?”

Damian shrugged. “Like most lords of the ton, perhaps his grandmother insists on choosing his bride. Perhaps his grandmother’s need to spend time in your company is a way of discovering your worth.”

Scarlett sighed. “I have an open invitation to dine at Portland Place and so shall send word to her tomorrow.”

He didn’t like the thought of her going alone. “Then I shall accompany you.” The words left his mouth before logic intervened. Aristocratic women invited illegitimate sons to their beds but never their dining tables.

“You know she won’t entertain you.” Her irritation was aimed at the matron and not his foolish remark. “Indeed, I’m of a mind to tell her we are betrothed, to tell her that some ladies care nothing for titles.”

Damian tried to muster a response, but his mind had raced from betrothal to wedding. He’d spent three years wishing he’d bedded her, but it was the fact he wanted her in other ways that proved disconcerting.

“If not titles and handsome lords, what do some ladies care for?” he said, desperate to know how he might satisfy all of her wants and desires. “What do ladies seek?”

A rogue with hatred in his heart?

A man who wore a mask?

An illegitimate son who, miraculously, had found the capacity to care about someone other than himself?

Mischief danced in her eyes. “To tell you would leave my heart dangerously exposed. There are only so many times one can deal with rejection.”