The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“Cavanagh has a fascination with the Romans. He considered coming as a gladiator but feared wearing a short tunic.” Lawrence bent his head and whispered, “Mrs Crandall’s tentacles tend to wander, are keen to explore.”

Miss Vale’s eyes widened. Lips as red and as soft as the silk roses on her mask formed a pout. “From what I know of your character, I find it surprising that you attend these events at all. You possess more integrity than all those here combined.”

The compliment hit his shield with the sudden force of a battleaxe.

Part of him wanted to exhale the breath he’d been holding since someone first used the term bastard as a weapon. To celebrate the fact that, at last, someone had seen beyond the circumstances of his birth. Part of him wanted to tell her that he belonged with these degenerates, that they were the only family he’d ever known.

“My moral character is not always sound.” She should know the truth. Know that he would devour those luscious lips if given the chance. “You would do well to remember I am a man who can satisfy his cravings without compunction. Therefore, the need to play protector to you is not without its struggles.”

She swallowed deeply, but that probably had more to do with the fact they had entered the drawing room where guests took gaiety to another level. In the muted light, one had to squint to discern those waltzing about the sparsely furnished room from those writhing and gyrating to a different tune.

Like Dante’s Second Circle of Hell, the atmosphere vibrated with the salacious hum of the wicked. Energy, as tense as the building coil in one’s core before climax, thrummed in air. These sinners saw the world through carnal eyes. Pleasure-seekers. People who compensated for their inadequate bloodline by excelling between the bedsheets. People who lived to pursue their decadent obsessions.

Panic surfaced.

He would have to make it clear that Miss Vale was his bed partner this evening. She would need to place her dainty hands upon him in a lover’s lustful caress. Touch him in a way that was a prelude to something far more sinful.

He drew her to the corner of the room while debating how to broach the delicate subject. The need to find the right words abandoned him the moment the lady gripped his arm and moved closer.

“One cannot help but be affected by the amorous sights, Mr Trent. No wonder Mrs Crandall holds the keys to the private rooms.”

As always, her voice carried the clinical tone of one making an observation, yet there was no mistaking the faint frisson of excitement. The thought she took a voyeuristic thrill from such a shameless scene sent a bolt of lust straight to his loins.

“People look for their partners early in the evening.” Changed them halfway through the night once they’d had their wicked way. “We must make it clear we’re a couple. I must make it clear that you are mine.” Heat flooded his chest. Were she his, she would have no need to scour this iniquitous den looking for a masked rogue.

Her lips parted though he sensed her anxiety. “And how might we do that,” she whispered, “without resorting to the obvious?”

“You must place your palm on my chest, trail your fingers up over my shoulders, play with the hair at my nape.” The muscles in his abdomen clenched. Such signals told a man a woman wanted more than conversation. “I shall cup your cheek and stare into your eyes when we speak. I shall place a protective hand on your hip and rock you in a slow, sensual rhythm.”

He would mimic what he might do if he had her in bed. It would not be a quick, rampant coupling. Hell, no. He would savour every damn second.

“I see.” She swallowed deeply. “I thank you for your guidance, sir, for one would hate to appear innocent.”

“You need to call me Lawrence.” Every ounce of restraint in his body fought against the informality. “A man’s lover does not call him sir.” Not unless they liked playing master and servant games. And he must encourage this woman’s independence not seek to control and dominate.

“Lawrence.” Testing the sound, she breathed his name on a sweet sigh. “You are the first man to insist I use his given name.”

The first but not the last. One day she might marry, and her husband would afford her the same pleasure. The thought proved sobering until the woman turned to face him and decided to practise petting.

Miss Vale touched his upper arm and stroked in the detached way one did to a pestering dog. “Forgive me. I am terribly inexperienced at this game.”

“All novices must start somewhere,” the devil in him returned, eager to tutor her in every aspect of carnal relations. “You must touch me in a way that excites. Slowly. With sensual grace. Imagine

the touch of your fingers igniting a blazing trail that will heat my blood.”

When her hand came to rest on his chest, Lawrence held himself rigid—mustered all his defences. Her blue gaze fixed on his black waistcoat with some fascination. Then, with feather-light fingers, she drew circles around the small brass buttons.

“Is that better, Mr Trent?”

“Lawrence,” he corrected but struggled to swallow down his desire when her fingers stopped on the bottom button, mere inches from the waistband of his breeches.

Telling himself he needed to check her mask was still in place, he cupped her cheek, stroked his thumb along the line of her jaw.

They stared at each other for a long, drawn-out second.

The magnetic pull of her mouth left him desperate for the tiniest taste. Just once. Though once would never be enough.

Lawrence bent his head, was certain Miss Vale came up on her tiptoes, but then a nudge in his left arm broke the spell.