He might have said that he liked her exposed. He might have said that he would treasure her heart, not break it, but they were startled by the key rattling in the door across the hall. Having promised the mistress of every manoeuvre they would respect the other patrons’ privacy, Damian captured Scarlett’s hand and escorted her down the stairs and out to the safety of his carriage.
Deep in conversation with Alcock—while huddled together on the box seat—Cutler failed to notice their approach. Damian called his coachman’s name, and the man’s face flushed for neglecting his duty.
“It’s mighty cold tonight, sir.”
“Indeed.” Damian opened the carriage door and cast Scarlett a sinful grin. “The temperature has plummeted. A man might wonder how he shall ever keep warm.”
He wanted her again.
He always wanted her.
“Have you blankets as well as surgical implements beneath the seats?” Scarlett’s alluring smile and wanton eyes told him that, despite everything she had learnt tonight, she wanted him, too.
“I’m sure there are a few. In any event, with the blinds closed, things should soon heat up.” He turned and addressed Cutler. “We’ll take the long route home.”
“Along the Strand and St James’ Park?” Cutler clarified.
Damian nodded. “Twice around the park.”
Chapter Seventeen
Delighted at the prospect of dining with the Scarlet Widow, Lady Rathbone had insisted on sending her new carriage to collect Scarlett from her house in Bedford Street. Still feeling uneasy about her attending alone, Damian advised Alcock and Cutler to take his carriage and park close to the matron’s house in Portland Place. Should Scarlett wish to make a sudden exit, there would be someone waiting to ferry her home.
Having missed their meeting with Flannery the night before, due to their unexpected appointment at the bagnio, the Irishman agreed to meet them this evening. Damian would explain Scarlett’s absence while updating Flannery on the new developments.
While Flannery would no doubt miss the lady’s company, Damian experienced a similar sense of loss as he washed and dressed in his bedchamber. Everything he touched carried her potent scent. The energy in the air lacked vibrancy. One look at the mussed bedsheets and passion for her stirred in his loins once again.
He had felt similarly deprived the day they parted ways at the lodging-house. Despite being consumed with gratitude—or that’s how he’d chosen to label the emotion—he had walked away, and her memory had plagued his dreams. Now, having parted from her a few hours earlier, the clawing emptiness within mirrored the stark emptiness of the house.
Never had he welcomed the idea of being a husband and father. He was a damn rogue, unsuitable company for anyone aside from the dissolute. So why could he not shake the image of Scarlett swollen with his child? Why could he not shake the need to have her love him for more than the way he satisfied her in bed?
You bloody fool, Wycliff, he said to himself.
Let no one in—that was the rule.
Perhaps being hit with a lead ball had weakened more than his arm muscle.
Dressing quickly to banish these errant thoughts, he raced from the house and hailed a hackney to take him to The Silver Serpent.
He entered the premises by the front door, noted the concerned look on Flannery’s face when a steward escorted Damian down to the basement office.
When Scarlett failed to enter the room, Flannery dismissed his employee with a flick of the wrist before honing his sharp gaze on Damian. “By God, you’d better have a good reason for coming alone, so you had. Tell me nothing’s happened to Scarlett.”
Damian dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Had anything happened to her, I would be shackled in chains at Newgate having beaten every pompous lord to a pulp.”
“Then where is she?”
“Dining with Lady Rathbone. One of society’s matrons.”
“Dining?” Flannery frowned. No doubt he knew Scarlett well enough to know she would not cancel an appointment simply to gorge on peacock and loin of veal. “Does it have something to do with your meeting at the brothel last night?”
After swearing the Irishman to secrecy, Damian relayed the tale of their visit to the bagnio, omitting details of the steamy carriage ride home. “It is apparent that Lord Rathbone wishes for more than friendship. Scarlett thought it best to put an end to the man’s misery, and she detests their blatant efforts to pry.”
“And you let her go there alone?” The wrinkles on Flannery’s forehead rippled up to his bald pate. “I didn’t take you for a feckless fool, not at all.”
“The dissolute do not get to dine with the aristocracy.” The uneasiness in Damian’s stomach turned to trepidation. “And surely you know the woman is stubborn.”
Flannery dragged his hand down his face and sighed. “Stubborn and too proud by half.”