Sutton's Scoundrel (The Sinful Suttons 5)

“A lady of easy virtue,” he elaborated. “There are certain sorts of molls who venture through these doors, that being the most common.”

Color rose to her high cheekbones and her nostrils flared. “Do you make a habit of insulting your patrons?”

He grinned, enjoying himself. “You ain’t a patron.”

There was something about his unexpected guest that was compelling. It was not merely her beauty that drew Wolf, though that was plain enough. There was a lively intelligence sparkling in her emerald eyes, an undeniable bravado in her proud bearing that he couldn’t help but to admire.

“I could be,” she countered.

“We don’t allow morts at the tables, no matter how pretty they are. There’s a gaming establishment for ladies not far, the Lady Fortune. Seeing as how you’re capable of simple geography, you ought to be able to give the directions to your coachman.” Wolf could not deny himself the pleasure of throwing some of her lofty words back at her.

“A clever fellow, are you not?” Her tone was dry as she pinned him with a discerning stare that only served to make him harder.

Damn, but her ice set him ablaze. He had never, in all his days, experienced anything like it.

“If I were truly clever, I’d throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here so I can continue with my day,” he said coolly, attempting to suppress his reaction.

But it would not abate. And neither would the brazen widow who had infiltrated his office retreat as she ought.

Her expression turned pugnacious. “I dare you to try it, sir.”

Well, bleeding hell.

She had challenged him, and now he would have to show her that Wolf Sutton was a man of action. He had never carted a noblewoman out of The Sinner’s Palace whilst sporting a cockstand before, but there was a first for every occasion.

* * *

Dear heavens,he was moving toward her. The broad-shouldered, long-legged, hulking wall of man who had stolen her breath when she had first spied him was stalking in Portia’s direction, intent clear in every line of his well-muscled form. What was he going to do if he caught her?

And why did the notion of his hands on her send a distressing bolt of heat straight to her core?

“You dare me, do you?” His voice was a low growl that made her belly tighten as if it were a knot being drawn.

Yes, she had, had she not? Because she was a Bedlamite. Only someone in complete dearth of all her logic and sense would have traveled to the East End, brazened her way inside a gaming hell, and then taunted a brawny beast of a man to throw her over his shoulder.

But no hope for it now. She had done all those things. And she had come here for a reason.

Portia defied the instinct that told her to turn and flee while she could, remaining where she was as the man reached her. “Yes. I dare you, sirrah.”

He was a tall man, which was refreshing and, she could not deny, appealing. She was accustomed to towering over most of the men in her acquaintance. But this man, this East End rogue with wavy, dark hair and a proud chin and strong jaw and hazel eyes that had swept over her body like a caress, he was only a scant inch taller than she. Their gazes connected as he stood before her, bold and—she loathed to admit—distressingly handsome in a rugged, unpolished way. In a way that made her heart leap in her breast.

“If milady insists.”

There was that voice again, deep and pleasant. It was a voice she imagined would be well-suited to telling a lady wicked things. His baritone twined around her, laden with the promise of untold sins.

Oh, she was being fanciful now.

Big hands grasped her waist, seizing her in a grip that was surprisingly gentle for his brutish size and apparent strength. No man had ever touched her there, holding her thus, and that this stranger should be the first—and worse, that she liked it—ought to be cause for alarm.

His nearness was intoxicating.

She licked lips that had gone dry. “I did not give you leave to be so familiar with my person.”

A slow grin hitched up the corner of his lips, causing her to note how very finely formed they were. “’Course you did, madam. You dared me to throw you over my shoulder. I’m a busy man with much to do this evening. Trifling with petticoats ain’t one of them. Seems the most efficient action is to accept your offer.”

The way he said offer filled her with fire. A longing she had not experienced in years blossomed. All the yearning she had so ruthlessly suppressed chose that moment to return.

For this man.

This dangerous stranger.

She did not even know his name.