The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“Lord have mercy,” Woods muttered as he shuffled left and right but did not really know what to do. The fellow looked terrified. He pressed his hands together in prayer and delivered a muttered plea to the ceiling. “She’ll punish me for weeks.”

“The window,” Verity whispered. “Raise the sash and slip outside.”

Woods needed no further inducement. He raced to the window and parted the curtains, then waited for his mistress to bang on the door again before lifting the sash and climbing out onto the street.

“You next, Miss Vale.” Mr Trent guided her towards the window.

“Why don’t we open the door, say we sought a little privacy? It’s better than sneaking about like a thief in the night.”

“I shall not ask again,” Mrs Crandall shouted. “Open this door. Woods! Woods! Where the devil has the man gone? Woods? Are you in there?”

“I’d rather not have Woods incur Mrs Crandall’s wrath,” Verity added. “The poor man is already suffering from frayed nerves.”

Mr Trent arched a brow. “If I open that door, she will expect to find us in a clinch.”

Excitement fluttered in her chest. “You only need to hold me, Mr Trent.”

“And what is my role?” Mr Cavanagh snorted. “Ogling degenerate?”

“Bored bystander. Pour a glass of brandy and lounge in the chair.” Mr Trent closed the sash, and then shouted, “Just a moment.” When he glanced at Verity, his gaze carried the same heated look she had seen numerous times since their meeting in the graveyard. “How do you want to play this, Miss Vale?”

“One of us has to open the door, so there’s no hope of Mrs Crandall finding us together.” Disappointment flooded her chest. Being held in such a strong embrace would soothe any lady’s woes. “Unless Mr Cavanagh will oblige.”

Mr Trent’s bewitching eyes held her rooted to the spot. “Get the door, Cavanagh.”

“Who am I, the errand boy?” Mr Cavanagh marched over to the door while Mr Trent slipped his arm around Verity’s waist and pulled her to his chest. He raised a hand to her cheek, stroked back and forth in a gentle caress. “This should suffice, though a man might be tempted to do more than hold you close.”

“But your conscience prevents you.”

“Indeed.”

“Then perhaps you should replace your mask. At a masquerade, people are free to take liberties.” Did she not sound like a wicked wanton? But the warmth of his body and the scent of his cologne—cedarwood and musk and something utterly divine—played havoc with her senses.

Mr Trent lowered his head, his hot breath at her ear casting the chaos in the room into insignificance. “When I kiss you, Miss Vale, I shall have no need to hide behind a mask.”

Chapter Eleven

It took effort to drag his gaze away from Miss Vale and answer Mrs Crandall’s complaint. “You never mentioned this room was out of bounds tonight.”

Mrs Crandall pursed her lips and scowled. “Do not say you wish to participate in the game, Trent, and then slink from the drawing room once I turn my back.”

Lord, he’d grown weary of pandering to this woman’s whims. “I did not slink from the room, but merely grew tired of waiting.”

Despite being one of society’s misfits, he did not belong in this iniquitous den. Had he been born on the right side of the blanket, he would have been heir to a viscountcy. Devoted his life to the good of the community. Married a lady like Miss Vale. Sired strong sons with the same philosophy. Instead, he had found a home amongst the degenerates who accepted him, even though he knew there were flaws in his logic.

“Tired?” Mrs Crandall seemed confused. “Tired?” She snorted. “If you cannot find amusement here, then it must be you who is lacking.”

“Perhaps I am too old for wild orgies and drunken debauchery.” Indeed, he had always suffered from bouts of apathy in that regard.

Mrs Crandall frowned and shook her head. She turned to Cavanagh. “How on earth do you keep company with one so morbid?” With a look as fiery as her red hair, her gaze flicked to Miss Vale. “And you, Mrs Beckford? Tell me. He must be a frightful bore in bed.”

Any hope of her gaining Miss Vale’s support proved fruitless. Lawrence knew the lady would defend him.

“On the contrary.” Miss Vale met his gaze, feigned the coy smile of a woman who had experienced the dizzying heights of pleasure. “Why else would I have sought a means to have him all to myself?”

“Hardly to yourself.” The madam did a chassé towards Cavanagh and gripped his arm. “I know you’re the very best of friends, but if you mean to share, four is a much more satisfying number.”

Hellfire!