“Your…you are betrothed?”
One of his men passed silently through the hall behind them, the movement catching Jasper’s attention and reminding him of the need for privacy. He wanted to keep her to himself. Just for another few minutes, until he sent her on her way once more with a firm reminder to never again return.
He took her arm in a gentle grip and pulled her into his office, slamming the door behind them. “Not yet.”
“You need not have pulled me about so rudely,” she protested, glaring at him.
“And you need not ‘ave returned to The Sinner’s Palace,” he countered smoothly, willing his expression to remain impassive even as the decadent scent of her floral perfume hit him and unleashed a new tide of soul-searing need.
He was speaking like the rookeries scourge he was again.
And it was not intentional this time, as it had been with Mrs. Martin. Then, he had been testing the woman. Prodding her to see how she truly felt about the prospect of being eternally bound in matrimony to an East End scoundrel who had committed every crime that existed in his rise from the gutters.
No, this time, he had lost control because that was what the ebony-haired aristocrat before him made him do. Without fail.
“I needed to speak to you one more time.” There was a hesitation in her tone that was unusual for her.
Ordinarily, Lady Octavia spoke as he imagined a queen would, with great authority, certain of the fealty of all her lowly subjects. He moved closer to her, drawn out of sheer stupidity and an instinctive desire to feel her warmth. To see if he could gather that luscious scent of hers into his lungs and hold it there forever.
Stupid thoughts.
But as he drew closer, her attempt to flit away was halting, almost as if she had limped. He did not miss her wince.
The sight drew him up short.
“You have injured yourself,” he observed.
“It is nothing,” she denied with a haste that did not surprise him.
Of course she would wish him to believe her omnipotent.
“You are in pain,” he continued, reaching for her.
She sidled away, only to emit a small cry of dismay. “I am fine,” she nonetheless insisted.
Had she been limping when he had pulled her into his office? Jasper was ashamed to admit he had been too struck by her unexpected arrival to take note. What a despicable scoundrel he was.
“Nonsense, minx.” Without waiting for further protest, he bent and scooped her into his arms.
“Sutton!” Her eyes were wide, palms planted on his chest.
He stalked across the chamber in three strides and deposited her on the chair opposite of the one Mrs. Martin had so recently vacated. Somehow, the notion of Octavia sitting in the other woman’s seat felt inherently wrong.
Jasper dropped to his knees on the carpet, an ironic pose given what he had been thinking earlier. But she was not in his bed. Nor was she his. And neither could she ever be. Curse the pang that stole through him at the reminder.
“Why are you limping?” he asked, grateful his voice did not sound nearly as filled with lust as he felt.
Her ankles were hiding beneath a barrier of fabric. All he needed to do was lift the muddied, torn hem.
Muddied and torn?
He lifted her skirts before she could answer, finding a slash in her delicate stockings and the red of dried blood. The rage that thundered through him clogged his throat, rendering him incapable of speech before he bit out his next words. “Were you attacked?”
If anyone had dared to touch her, he would tear off the bastard’s arms and beat him to death with them.
“Of course not.” She shifted her skirts, hiding her calves from view. “Do get up, Sutton. I merely injured myself slightly when I fell from the last branch of the tree.”
Through the roaring in his ears, her words reached him slowly.