Sins and Scoundrels Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Thank you for seeing me, my lady.” His tone was formal and stilted.

  “Mrs. Kirkwood,” she was quick to correct. A habit it would seem.

  “Mrs. Kirkwood,” he acknowledged, the name sounding even more awkward than his greeting. As if he disliked the taste of it on his tongue.

  How odd to think he was the father of the man she loved and yet wished nothing to do with him. She would never understand how the duke could have so cruelly refused to help his own son. But then, his treatment of Duncan had made him the man he was—formidable, determined, and strong. The best man she knew. “I admit I am curious as to why you would seek me out, sir.”

  “As you can imagine, it concerns your husband.”

  Her lips compressed. Just what she had feared. If this man thought to hurt Duncan in any manner, he was deadly wrong. She would protect him at all costs. “Mr. Kirkwood is not at home.”

  “I did not expect him to be. Indeed, if he were, I would not imagine he would see me.” The duke paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. “I have written him, and he refuses to answer.”

  Either the man before her had no notion of how deeply he had hurt her husband or he was utterly lacking in empathy. “I am sure he feels there is nothing left to be said between the two of you.”

  “That is precisely what he feels,” came a deep voice she knew and loved so well.

  With a start, she turned to find Duncan striding over the threshold of the chamber. He delivered a perfunctory bow to the duke and then another to her before standing at her side. She wanted to throw her arms about him in a protective embrace but settled for silently demonstrating her support.

  Amberley struggled to regain his feet. “Kirkwood.”

  Duncan’s hand sought hers, their fingers tangling. Tension radiated from him, and she absorbed just how tightly he was wound through their joined hands. “Amberley. What reason have you to importune my wife and trespass at my home?”

  “You will not answer me, and there is a matter of great import I wish settled.”

  “You have your vowels back,” Duncan bit out. “As promised. What more could you want from me?”

  “Nothing.” The duke’s expression changed, softening somehow, making him seem more world weary and less frigid. “There is something I wish to give you.”

  Duncan stiffened at her side. “I do not want anything from you, Amberley.”

  “It belonged to your mother.” The duke reached inside his coat and extracted a ring, holding it out to Duncan. A large ruby winked from an elegant gold setting. “It was a gift from me to her, and when I ended our arrangement, she left it, too proud to take anything from me. I…I thought it fitting for you to have.”

  Duncan did not move to take the ring, so Frederica accepted it in his stead, knowing it was a piece of his mother he would wish to keep, regardless of who it had come from. He had nothing else left of her save his memories. Here, in this ring, he would have something she had worn on her finger.

  “Why now?” Duncan asked coldly.

  “Because it is long overdue, and I have regrets. More regrets than you can imagine.” Amberley seemed sincere. Almost regretful.

  But her husband was not convinced. “Do you require funds?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?” Duncan growled.

  She squeezed his fingers, aching for him. He still bore so much pain from his past, and now he was once again being forced to confront it. His grip on her tightened, as if he drew strength from her.

  “Because I will die soon, and I wish to make amends,” Amberley snapped. “My heart is ailing, my body betraying me, and I…I am responsible for Willingham. For what he became. I am also bequeathing everything that is not part of the entail to you and your heirs.”

  Frederica gasped.

  Duncan’s reaction was equally swift and strong. “I have built my own fortune, and I do not want or need anything from you, old man.”

  “You will have it whether you want it or not.” Amberley paused. “Regardless, you are my son.”

  There it was. The acknowledgment Duncan had been longing for.

  Years and a lifetime of heartache too late.

  Frederica ached for him.

  “There was a time when I would have given anything to hear you say those words, Amberley,” he said, “but that time is long gone.”

  Amberley inclined his head. “Fair enough, Mr. Kirkwood. But you shall be hearing from my solicitor, whether you like it or not.” He offered a stiff bow. “Good day, Mrs. Kirkwood. Son.”

  And then, he turned on his heel, and with achingly slow steps and the clack of his walking stick on the polished floor, he made his exit. When he had gone, Frederica drew Duncan into her embrace, still clutching his mother’s ring tightly in her hand. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling, his arms wrapping around her waist.

  “I dreamt of this day as a lad,” he whispered. “The day he would say I was his. The day he would call me son.”

  “Oh, my love,” she said softly, stroking his back, kissing his cheek. “I am sorry it took all this for you to have that day.”

  “I am not.” He pressed a kiss to her throat and then raised his head, gazing down at her with so much tenderness she trembled. “For if I had not experienced every day of my life that led me to you, I never would have found you. I would not now be holding you in my arms. I found my happiness in loving you, Frederica. I do not need the Duke of Amberley or the mantle of son or a moldering heap of stones for that. All I need is you.”

  “And all I need is you, my darling man.” She could not resist rising on her toes and kissing him.

  Epilogue

  Frederica sat in the yellow salon, a cheerful room she had transformed into her daytime writing office. It boasted another large, beautifully carved desk like the one in her chamber, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the charming little garden, and golden walls dotted with paintings she had chosen herself.

  Sunlight splashed everywhere, particularly in the afternoons, and she adored the brightness. After so many nights scrawling her work with nothing but a lone candle for accompaniment in the evening, so much light was most welcome, and being within the space never failed to fill her with a sense of gratitude.

  She dropped her quill back into its inkwell and surveyed her desk. Her latest manuscript was neatly stacked, complete with all its corrections and deletions. Her foul copy was often scarcely legible, and she knew it. But at least her next book was well underway, and not a moment too soon as the book she had retitled The Silent Duke was due to be printed any day now.

  Even so, as thrilled as she was that Duncan’s publishing company was about to make her novel come to life, there was another reason for the happiness bubbling up within her. Indeed, she could scarcely concentrate upon the scene she had been attempting to write.

  It was incredible. Frightening. Thrilling.

  It was everything, all at once, but she ought not to be surprised, because she had married Duncan Kirkwood, and each day with him was an adventure of the best sort.

  A knock sounded on her door, and she rose from her chair, needing to stretch. She had been writing away for at least three hours, and her knees were protesting, growing stiff. “You may enter,” she called out.

  Their hulking butler Pretty entered the chamber, bearing some parcels. Another of Duncan’s good deeds, the butler was still growing accustomed to his position, but he was nevertheless progressing nicely. “Good day, my lady. We have received another delivery from Her Grace.”

  Dear heavens. She certainly hoped her mother had not bought her more inkwells. Frederica strode to the servant, accepting the packages. “Thank you, Pretty. That will be all.”

  He bowed and left once more. Frederica opened the first package and found a sterling silver inkwell, along with a note from her mother. It was engraved with a rose motif and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Quite lovely, and dear, too, she was sure. Before she could inspect the other parcels, the door opened once more.


  And there stood her husband, so handsome he made her ache. She could not wait to tell him her news. “Duncan, you are home.”

  “Hazlitt is running the club for me today as I have more important matters to attend to. Namely, my wife, who is looking utterly fetching in this sunlight.”

  He moved to her and she to him, and they met in the middle of the chamber. They kissed with the frantic urgency of lovers who had been parted for a decade rather than a man and woman who had last kissed mere hours before. But that was the way of it with them, always had been and always would be. Frederica had been so caught up in his arrival she had neglected to relinquish her latest inkwell, and it pressed between their chests as their lips devoured each other’s.

  Duncan broke away first, caressing her cheek, his gaze trailing over her with so much heat she swore she would turn into a smoking heap of ruins at his feet. He looked down at the inkwell her mother had sent, already forgotten.

  “What have you there?” He dropped a kiss on her cheek.

  “Another inkwell from my mother, I am afraid,” she said. Much had changed for her since she had become Duncan’s wife, but some things would never alter, and her family was one of the latter. Her mother still spent most of her days engrossed in shopping, her father remained a disapproving jackanape who insisted she could have avoided a mésalliance with Duncan, and Benedict sided with Father, though he had warmed to Duncan in gradually increasing increments.

  “It is a miracle there are any inkwells left to be had in the city.” Duncan raised a golden brow. “She sent you five only yesterday.”

  Yes, she had, in addition to the three dozen or so she had already gifted upon Frederica. Tall inkwells, short ones, porcelain, glass, sterling silver… Mother had found, purchased, and given them all to Frederica. She rather fancied it was her mother’s way of apologizing for her lack of tender emotion toward her. But perhaps it was simply that Mother was running out of space for her acquisitions at Westlake House and needed a new location of storage. Frederica could not be sure.

  “This one is quite lovely, adorned with roses and mother-of-pearl,” she said blandly. “And you must admit, the inkwells are, if nothing else, a far more appropriate gift than the fans.”

  “Naturally,” he agreed, grinning down at her. “But who needs a hundred of the damned things all at once?”

  She smiled back and shook her head ruefully. “No one.”

  He framed her face then, gazing at her in that way of his, seemingly as if he could never tire of committing her face to memory. As if he could look a thousand times and it would still never be enough. “I have a gift of my own for you, my love.”

  “You do?” She could not resist drawing him to her for another kiss.

  She teased the seam of his lips, and with a growl, he opened for her, his tongue sliding against hers in a decadent caress. She could kiss this man forever and never grow weary of it. But she had news to share, and that news would not be contained. It rose within her, buoyant and miraculous, like an ascension balloon.

  She broke the kiss, gazing up at him with her heart in her eyes. “I have a gift for you as well.”

  “Do tell, Mrs. Kirkwood.” His gaze darkened with wicked intent. “I hope it involves you, naked, seated at your writing desk and me on my knees before you.”

  Heat shot straight to her core at his words. “I should like nothing better, but that is not the gift I had in mind.”

  “My gift to you first, because I am selfish and I cannot wait another moment for you to have it.” He reached into his coat and extracted a handsome leather-bound volume, holding it out to her. “An even exchange. Give me the bloody inkwell.”

  Her book, in print, at last.

  Awed, Frederica handed off the inkwell and accepted The Silent Duke, running her fingers over the cover, tracing the embossed gilt of her name. “Oh, Duncan. It’s beautiful! I love it so.”

  “It is the first copy, and I wanted you to have it.”

  “Thank you.” She hugged it to her. “Thank you, my love.”

  “The hard work was all yours.” He drew her to him for another kiss.

  When she was breathless, she tore her lips away once more, heart bursting with love and happiness. “Now for your gift.” She took his hand—the one that wasn’t holding the inkwell—and brought it to her stomach.

  His eyes widened, and he stilled, an expression of adorable befuddlement on his face. “Frederica?”

  “A babe,” she whispered, smiling as tears welled in her eyes.

  “Are you certain?” His tone was hushed, reverent.

  She nodded. “Do you like your gift, my love?”

  He caught her to him in a crushing embrace, burying his face in her hair. “It is the best gift I have ever received aside from you, angel.”

  *

  Sometime just before the sun began its daily sojourn into the sky, Duncan sat in his study and turned the final page of The Silent Duke. Tears burned his eyes as he stared at the cover of the leather-bound volume. F. Kirkwood, it read. She had chosen to use her own name rather than a pseudonym as most ladies in her position would have done.

  He was glad now, pride in her burning through him, for the novel he had just read was a masterpiece. It was all Frederica—imaginative, vibrant, bold, and determined. Her sentences flowed, her characters drew him in as he read, until he had desperately awaited the next paragraph, the next page, and he had read all night long, replacing his candles thrice until the story reached its completion.

  His heart pounding, he extinguished the lights and found his way to his wife, holding her book clutched in his fingers all the way. They had sold all the initial copies they had run, some one thousand of them, and he expected they would do another run within the month.

  He was happy for her.

  Grateful for her.

  Humbled to be privileged enough to call the gorgeous, talented creature that was Frederica Kirkwood his wife. Finding his way to her through the dark, he climbed stairs, stalked a hall, let himself into her chamber where he was greeted by the soft sounds of her breathing into the night. Shrugging out of his garments, he slipped beneath the bedclothes and alongside her.

  With a sweet sound, she reached for him, her hand landing upon his bare chest. He caught it in his and raised it to his lips for a worshipful kiss. “I finished your novel, Frederica.”

  She stirred awake, shifting closer to him. “Mmm. Duncan, I love you.”

  “And I love you, my darling wife.” His hands were upon her now, because he could not help himself, and she was naked as he had left her beneath the coverlets, so smooth, so silken, and warm. His goddess. The deliciously rounded arse he had so admired on the day he had first seen her nestled against his groin. “You told my mother’s story.”

  “Someone had to, my love,” she said softly, burrowing herself deeper into his arms.

  He smiled into the darkness, his hands moving to the gentle swell of her belly where the new life they had created together grew. Happiness settled into the marrow of his bones, deep and contented and exquisite.

  “Thank you, angel.” He kissed the top of her head. “Your novel is beautiful. I loved every moment of it. And I am heartily glad the duke loses his ability to speak.”

  Though his father had attempted to establish a truce, much time and healing would be required before Duncan could ever forgive him for his ill treatment of his mother.

  “It is not a fitting enough punishment.” Her hands covered his, warm and small and beloved. “But I could not have his manhood fall off, could I?”

  Duncan could not contain his laughter at her question, for it was so very Frederica, the essence of the sensual, intelligent, eccentric, bold woman who owned his heart. “Have I told you I love you recently?”

  “Two minutes ago or so, but you may say it again if you like.” She turned in his arms and pressed her mouth to his.

  Duncan had never stood a chance against the persistence of one midnight-haired lady who had taken
his world and his club by storm one day. Smiling against her lips, he kissed her back.

  She was, without a doubt, the best gamble he had ever made.

  “I love you,” he told her again, and then he rolled her onto her back and made love to her as the sun rose over London.

  Marquess of Mayhem

  Sins and Scoundrels

  Book Three

  Scarlett Scott

  Returning to London scarred and bitter after his capture by Napoleon’s forces, Morgan, Marquess of Searle, is hell-bent on vengeance against the man responsible for his imprisonment. He’ll do anything to get what he wants, even if it means destroying an innocent in the process. There’s just one problem. He’s never met anyone like the woman he intends to use for his revenge.

  Lady Leonora Forsythe has suffered enough awkward seasons. She longs to find a husband and make a family of her own. After the wickedly handsome Marquess of Searle ruins her, she has no intention of falling in love with the cold, distant stranger she’s forced to wed. But it doesn’t take long for her to realize there’s far more to the marquess than she ever supposed. Or to hope she may be the one to heal his inner torment.

  When Leonora is in Morgan’s arms, reprisal is the last thing on his mind. With time running out and the truth looming, he must choose between the need for retribution and the fierce wife who unexpectedly owns his heart.

  Chapter One

  London, 1812

  From the moment Morgan, Marquess of Searle, discovered the true identity of the Spanish guerrillero responsible for his capture by French troops, he had set three objectives.

  Objective one: sell out his commission and return to England before the Spaniard. Accomplished.

  Objective two: ruin the bastard’s sister so she would be forced to wed him. In medias res.