The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“We should call on Mr Bradley tomorrow,” Wycliff advised. “Lest Mrs Crandall’s loose tongue run away with her and the gentleman gets wind of your interest in his brother.”

Lawrence shook his head. “If I’m to visit Mr Bradley, I’ll go alone.” If Bradley was the quiet, studious type, the last thing he’d want is three powerful men banging on his door. “I’ll not drag you away from your wife unnecessarily, and it’s not as though I am entering a viper pit.”

“If you think you can handle it, I won’t argue,” Wycliff replied, offering a wicked grin. “I had promised Scarlett we would picnic in the park tomorrow and you know I hate to disappoint.”

For a man who despised most people, the depth of Wycliff’s love and devotion for his wife was surprising. Then again, Wycliff’s mother had loved her son, and as with most illegitimate sons, the hatred in his heart had been a matter of self-preservation.

Lawrence’s experience differed. His mother regarded him as an annoying inconvenience. For her, love was like a new diamond brooch—something to flaunt until it lost its sparkle. Until something different caught her eye and then she relegated the old one to the back of a dusty drawer.

“If a woman loved me the way Scarlett loves you, everyone else could go to hell.”

Wycliff smiled. “I do feel like the luckiest of men.”

Indeed, the depth of his wife’s affection proved apparent when the carriage came to a halt on Bruton Street, and the lady rushed from the house to greet him.

“Did you miss me, my love?” Wycliff stepped down to the pavement and took Scarlett’s hands in his.

“Always,” she said, attempting to catch her breath.

Lawrence shuffled uncomfortably in the seat. His lonely heart ached to experience even an ounce of affection, but he hid it well. “I shall send word regarding my meeting with Bradley.” He inclined his head to the lady. “Good night, Mrs Wycliff.”

“Wait!” she cried. “Come inside, Trent. You have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” His heart thumped against his ribcage. Only one person knew to call for him at the house of Damian Wycliff.

“Yes. Miss Vale has come from Shepperton.”

Chapter Five

Perhaps the rolling in Verity’s stomach stemmed from her desire to gaze upon Mr Trent’s dark, brooding countenance again. Perhaps it had more to do with what the gentleman would say when he returned to find she had ventured through town so late at night, against his instruction to remain in Shepperton. Either way, the odd flurry of sensations saw her take another sip of sherry from the glass she cradled between her palms.

A mumbled conversation in the hall beyond the drawing room drew her attention to the door. A deep, formidable voice—one she instantly recognised as being Mr Trent’s—sent a shiver from her neck to her navel. Not that she feared the man. On the contrary, he had proved every bit the gentleman. Strong. Forthright. Considerate, while still inherently masculine.

The door burst open, and Verity suppressed a gasp.

The fluttering in her stomach flew to her chest when her gaze moved past Mrs Wycliff to settle on the man whose robust physique would be forever ingrained in her memory.

With feigned composure, Verity placed her glass on the side table and came to her feet. “Mr Trent, forgive me for arriving unannounced, but I simply had to come.”

Hypnotic green eyes devoured her from beneath black brows. A lady might lose her wits when met with such a sinful stare. And yet she sensed an element of hostility.

“Miss Vale, I shall not lie and say it is a pleasure to see you.”

Embarrassment brought a hard lump to her throat. “No, I don’t suppose you expected to lay eyes on me again.”

“I hoped common sense would prevail, and you would refrain from placing yourself in precarious situations.”

She’d come prepared for his disapproval, though had expected—no, hoped—to hear a hint of warmth in his tone. To make matters worse, Mrs Wycliff’s eyes sparked hot and vibrant when the only other gentleman to enter the room slid his hand around her waist and whispered in her ear.

Love and lust radiated from the couple, while Mr Trent’s severe stare had the power to flay Verity alive. How had she misread the signs? Why had she convinced herself this man might help her bring an end to her nightmares?

The gentleman with eyes almost as dark as his ebony hair, and who must surely be Mr Wycliff, cleared his throat. “Will you not introduce me, Trent??

?

Mr Trent shuffled uncomfortably. “Miss Vale, may I present my good friend Mr Damian Wycliff. I believe you have already met his wife.”

Verity curtsied. “Good evening, Mr Wycliff. Forgive the intrusion at such a late hour. Allow me to offer my felicitations on your recent marriage.”