Sins and Scoundrels Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Where did you find the mongrel?” he asked in spite of himself.

  She smiled as if he had pleased her, and he felt the effects of that sweet quirk of her lips in a place where he was supposed to feel nothing, his heart.

  “The Duchess of Whitley aided me,” she said softly. “Her Grace has recently acquired a pug for His Grace.”

  “You accomplished all this while I was gone today?”

  “Yes.” Her smile deepened, and for the first time, he spied a charming dimple in her right cheek. “For you.”

  For him.

  Her words took him aback. No one had done something for him in…he could not even recall how long it had been. Surely one of his nurses or his old governesses had shown him kindness, but that was a long time ago now, and if they had, he could not recall it. He knew without a doubt neither his mother nor his father ever had. They had been too preoccupied with venting their mutual hatred upon each other that there had been little room for anyone else in their lives. Especially not their sons, reminders of the bloodless sense of duty which had drawn them together in matrimony.

  “But it would seem you are displeased with Julius Caesar, and that was not my intention,” she continued. “I shall see him returned if you would prefer, my lord.”

  Brown, blinking eyes taunted him.

  “A ridiculous name for a dog,” he said instead of answering her, offering her his arm to escort her from the dining room.

  Her hand slid neatly into the crook of his elbow, as if that was where it had always been meant to sit. As if their bodies had each been fashioned for the other. “You may call him Caesar instead, if you prefer, my lord.”

  He made a noncommittal sound in his throat. It would seem the mutt was staying after all. “We shall see, madam.”

  Chapter Eight

  “There you are, my lady.” Hill finished brushing out Leonora’s curls. “Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?”

  “Thank you, Hill.” Leonora, seated before a looking glass in her dressing area, contemplated her reflection. She wore nothing beneath her dressing gown but a nightdress so fine it was transparent, and she felt as if she were entirely nude, her body acutely conscious Searle would soon make his evening visit. “That will be all.”

  Hill quietly slipped from the chamber, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

  Not much time had passed since her husband’s return that evening and his subsequent discovery of her little furred gift for him. She had been distraught when she had taken tea with Freddy for the second time in as many days, but fortunately, the Duchess of Whitley had been present.

  Though she had not revealed to the other ladies that Searle had suffered a nightmare, they had instantly noted her morose countenance. And, as lady friends were wont to do, they dug for the source. It did not take them long to realize precisely who was to blame. While she had related to them her husband’s cool nature and easily changeable moods, she had, just as she had promised him, kept the marquess’s nightmares to herself. However, the duchess, whose own husband had fought alongside Searle in Spain, relayed Whitley’s joy in the dog she had recently acquired for his companionship. Whitley took the adorable pug everywhere, according to the duchess.

  The seed of an idea had instantly been planted within Leonora, and it took root when the duchess casually mentioned there remained a lone male from the litter which the duchess had taken under her wing, but who could not be kept with his sister, who Whitley had grown such a fondness for.

  Leonora had instantly known what she must do. And when she had taken one look at the sweet brown eyes of Julius Caesar, she had known no heart, regardless of how hardened and withered it may be, could resist the innocent allure of a puppy. She had not quite anticipated the violence of his displeasure, but she was pleased with herself for remaining firm.

  She was slowly growing to understand how best to approach the man she now called husband. Extraordinarily slowly, perhaps, but she did consider it a victory, albeit a minor one, that her clash with him at dinner had ended not just with him choosing to keep little Caesar on his own, but with him escorting her from the dining room and spending an hour with her and the pup in the drawing room.

  The Duke and Duchess of Whitley had already taught Caesar a fair number of tricks. Searle’s delight at the pup offering up his paw upon command had not been feigned. Indeed, it had been so real, so sudden, the sting of tears had burned her eyes, and she had been forced to blink rapidly to dispel them, lest he see them fall.

  A subtle knock sounded at the door joining their chambers.

  So subtle, in fact, Leonora almost failed to hear it. Rather the opposite of the brusque manner in which he had stormed into her chamber the day before, as if he were an invading army, intent upon conquering. And conquer her, he had. Oh, how he had.

  Her cheeks warmed, her body tingling in pleasant remembrance and delighted anticipation. “Enter,” she called.

  The door opened to reveal him, the magnificently handsome, utterly vexing enigma who was somehow hers. He wore a dressing gown belted at the waist, firm calves and bare feet peeking from beneath the hem. She had never imagined a gentleman’s feet could interest her, nor his bare limbs. But when it came to the Marquess of Searle, everything interested her.

  Far more than was decent.

  “Good evening, my lord,” she greeted him hesitantly, an odd, unwanted shyness falling over her now that they were alone again, with precious few layers between them and space that decreased upon each confident stride of his long legs.

  “Good evening, Leonora,” he said in return, a slight smile curving his well-molded mouth.

  Her name in the decadent rumble of his deep baritone sent a frisson down her spine as he stopped before her. The delicious scent of his cologne hit her senses next. And then she drank in the beauty of the sharp, masculine angles of his face. He exuded a dark, dangerous elegance this evening, his aloof air once more firmly in place. She could not shake the impression he was half lord, half weapon. If he were a blade, he could slice her cleanly in two, and she would still somehow revel in her own destruction.

  Understanding hit her, not with the subtlety of a butterfly’s wings, gently beating in the air, but with the trampling rage of a stallion gone wild, intent upon galloping over everything in its path.

  She was a fool for this man.

  Leonora wet her suddenly dry lips with her tongue. Anticipation and nervousness warred within her. She wanted to say something. He was staring at her with an expression of anticipation. Indeed, it was her turn to offer something to their dialogue. And yet, her mind failed her. It was empty. Cavernous.

  Shaken.

  “I have something for you,” he said into the silence, taking her by surprise.

  His words startled her tongue into belatedly functioning. “I do not require a gift, Searle. The gift I gave you this evening was intended for your comfort alone, not with the hope you would reciprocate.”

  His smile deepened, fine lines appearing alongside his vibrant eyes that suggested while he no longer smiled readily now, he had done so enough in his past for his happiness to have left its mark upon his skin. “No one has given me a gift in as long as I can recall. It was remiss of me not to thank you for your consideration.”

  Leonora blinked, wondering if her ears had deceived her. If she was delusional. Had the Marquess of Searle developed a fever? She barely thwarted the urge to press her fingers to his brow and ascertain whether or not it was hot to the touch.

  He laughed before she could respond, the sound laden with bitterness. “You need not look so surprised by my gratitude, my dear. I behaved in an abominable, ungentlemanly fashion to you earlier, and I know it.”

  How very confusing he was. Though he had not offered an apology, she supposed this was Searle’s version of one. Very well, since they were dabbling in the art of honesty, she would meet him halfway.

  “You left me this morning.” On a rush, she said the words. Not in an accusatory tone, bu
t a mere stating of fact. “And you did not return until dinner. Your abrupt departure was more ungentlemanly than your reaction to Julius Caesar.”

  His lips thinned, his jaw clenching.

  She had displeased him with her honesty, but she did not regret it.

  “I had matters which required my attention.”

  “The same matters which required your attention on the day of our wedding?” she could not resist asking.

  For the first time, it occurred to her that he may have a mistress. That she may be sharing him with another woman without even knowing it. The notion made her stomach clench and her mouth go dry. Of course, she ought to have expected it before now. In their circle, it was not just customary but expected for a gentleman to have a wife and a mistress at once.

  The wife was forced to pretend the other woman did not exist. Mama had warned her. After all, her father had kept at least as many mistresses as wives. Her brother Alessandro’s Spanish mother had been Father’s mistress before becoming his third wife. Mama had been his fifth.

  “Come,” Searle demanded then, cutting through her concerns by gently clasping her elbow and guiding her to stand before the looking glass she had so recently abandoned.

  He stood behind her, exuding heat and his own potent magnetism at her back. She stared at their reflections wordlessly, taking him in first, tall, strong, and so handsome, she ached. Their gazes met. His hands settled upon her waist, anchoring her there, drawing her snugly back against his body.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, cursing the breathlessness in her voice. The hardness of his shaft was unmistakable, a ridge prodding the curve of her lower back. He had not answered her question, and her weakness for him nettled her.

  Was this his means of avoidance? His way of distracting her so she could forget the questions crowding her mind? And curse her, why was she allowing him to succeed?

  His gaze challenged hers in the glass. “What do you think I am doing, wife?”

  “Distracting me,” she answered without hesitation.

  A grin kicked up the corners of his mouth. “Is it working, darling?”

  Darling.

  Oh, how she hated the simmering, sinful burst of longing that lone word sent though her. If she had thought him a blade, she was wrong. This man was a cavalry sword, mowing down anything in his path without mercy.

  But how sweetly he mowed.

  And neither was she certain she wished for his mercy in this particular circumstance.

  “Of course it is working,” she answered honestly. Her own tone held a note of flirtation she had not even known she possessed. “You are a handsome devil, and you know it.”

  “Am I?” His head dipped, that divine mouth of his pressing a kiss to the whorl of her ear.

  “Yes,” she whispered, for his hands had roamed from her waist, sliding over the dressing gown until he cupped her breasts.

  His fingers tightened, grasping her with the same debilitating confidence he had visited upon her the previous night. He bit her ear gently, then kissed behind it, his tongue tracing over the shallow dip. “Tell me. How am I distracting you?”

  She shivered, her knees going weak. A twinge of pain rocked through her leg, but she ignored it. “You know.”

  “But what if I do not know?” he countered.

  He pinched her nipples through the silk of her wrapper and nightdress. Between her thighs, her flesh pulsed and throbbed with awareness, with possibility. Yes, indeed. No mercy was preferable.

  “Touching me,” she admitted at last. “Kissing me. Standing so near I can feel you pressed against me. I cannot think with your hands or your lips upon my body, and you know it.”

  “I do now, sweet Leonie.” He kissed down her throat, finding the curve where her shoulder and neck met. And there, he bit into her skin with more tender ferocity.

  This, too, would leave a mark. Another love bite to add to her collection. Traces of him she could wear upon her skin. This should not thrill her. Perhaps something was wrong with her to feel such a desperate need for him.

  To want him as much as she did.

  But she would not worry about any of that now. She was like a drunkard, but lost in desire rather than liquor, eager for her next taste of passion. Of whatever he would show her, whatever he would give her.

  “No one has ever called me Leonie,” she said as his thumbs and forefingers rolled her nipples. Dear heavens, how weak he made her. His tongue flitted against her racing pulse, his fingers working their magic.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, tugging at her nipples once more.

  She was not even certain what he referred to—his lovemaking, his diminutive for her name, the way he felt against her—but the answer was the same regardless. “Yes. Yes, of course I do.”

  “It seems somehow fitting, for you are now my lioness,” he said, murmuring against her bare skin, against the flat blade of her collarbone. “I do not have a mistress. Was that your question before I began…distracting you?”

  Relief swelled within her, along with a great, bursting tide of want, which she had been keeping at bay until now. She relaxed, her head falling back upon his shoulder, the admission escaping her. “Yes.”

  He nipped her overly sensitized flesh as he gave her nipples another delicious pinch. “Do you want your gift now, darling?”

  She wanted anything. Everything. Him, his touch, his mouth, his lips, his cock…good heavens, she was awash in sensation, lost. Helpless, her desire overcoming everything.

  She stared at their reflections in the glass, a fresh wave of heat overtaking her. The flesh between her thighs was already wet without him even needing to touch her there. “You need not give me a gift because I gave you Caesar. My intention was to please you, not to cozen you into gifting me something in return.”

  “This gift has nothing to do with the hound,” he said coolly, but she did not think she mistook the hint of fondness in his voice when he referred to Caesar. “Indeed, I am remiss in not offering it sooner, as it is something which should have been done on our wedding night, in accordance with familial tradition.”

  She thought she knew why he had not offered it on their wedding night—first, he had been absent, and then she had been reluctant to allow a wedding night at all to a new husband who had disappeared on the day of their nuptials. But she felt no guilt as she continued to meet his assessing gaze in the glass. Only curiosity. What sort of gift could it be? He had nothing in his hands save her body.

  He withdrew his touch, and she almost protested aloud at the loss of him. But she held her tongue, wishing to cling to whatever shred of dignity yet remaining her own, and watched his hands disappear from sight. The rustling of his dressing gown broke the silence that had fallen between them as she presumed, he delved into a pocket secreted in the robe.

  His countenance was grave when he extracted something glittering and shining with red and gold. A necklace, she realized, as he settled it upon her neck and fastened the clasp at her nape.

  But not just any necklace. This piece was heavy, cold where it settled upon her skin. Fashioned of thick golden flowers with ruby cabochons at their centers, its grand statement was a massive golden bloom bearing an equally large, faceted ruby nestled amongst its petals. She stared in awe at the magnificent piece, stunned by the extravagance of his gift.

  “It is the Searle rubies,” he said softly. “A fitting gift now that you are the Marchioness.”

  She swallowed, a tremor passing through her at not just the opulence of the gift but the meaning behind it. How incredible a gesture it seemed, coming from this austere man who kept himself so closely guarded. “I cannot possibly accept such an extravagance,” she said, raising a hand to gently stroke the intricately fashioned golden flowers and the immense ruby at the centerpiece in spite of herself.

  It was the most stunning necklace she had ever seen, and it seemed to fit upon her neck as if fashioned for that very purpose. Good heavens, she did not even particularly care for jewelr
y, but this piece was so lovely, she could not help but to admire it.

  “You can accept it, and you will,” Searle countered, his tone brooking no opposition. “These belonged to my mother before you, though my father had them reset into this necklace after her death. I confess I cannot fault him for his choice even if I do not like his reasons. She never did care to wear them anyhow. Do they please you?”

  Of course they pleased her. How could they not? But there was a story there, hovering in the air, going untold, and she wanted answers. Why had his father reset the necklace after his mother’s death? Had the former marquess been too morose, so swept up in his grief he had lashed out against a family heirloom?

  It seemed unlikely.

  Through his reflection in the glass, she noted the frown gathering at her husband’s brows and compressing his sensual lips. This necklace troubled him, she thought. Or perhaps not the necklace itself, but the details behind it.

  “It is lovely, my lord,” she said softly, realizing belatedly her fingers were still stroking the painstaking craftsmanship evident in the golden flowers.

  Now that he had told her they were the Searle family rubies, she knew they were traditionally kept by the marchioness. She could not deny the gift, and neither was it a true gift either, but in contrast, more of an expectation. A burden, perhaps. She wondered again at the story he had not offered to share, the reason why his father had seen the rubies placed in an entirely new setting following the death of his mother. Therein, perhaps, lay the true burden.

  “You do not like it,” he said flatly.

  “I love the necklace.” Her disavowal came instantly, without thought. But neither could her curiosity be squelched. “Why did your father have it reset?”

  “He despised my mother as one would a mortal enemy. She had chosen the setting for the stones herself, having them reworked into something more suited to her taste from the original piece, and he did not wish to be reminded of her in any fashion.”