by Clee, Adele
Damian arched a brow in admiration, impressed by the vehemence in her voice. “Have no fear. My mother taught me to show my host the utmost respect.”
And he would never bed a woman who wasn’t tugging at his breeches, eager for the first hard thrust.
Scarlett narrowed her gaze. “Judging by your ebony hair and olive skin, I assume your mother was of Mediterranean descent.”
“My mother was Spanish. She died some time ago.” He didn’t want to dwell on sad memories and so patted the faded blanket covering the bed. “As you said, it’s late, and talking has taken what little energy I possess.”
She nodded and edged closer to the bed though she did not remove her dress. “You need rest. The fever has broken, and I imagine you’ll be fit to leave in a few days. Of course, you’re free to leave whenever you choose. When the time is right, might I deliver a message for you?”
For some reason, he felt an odd form of peace whilst in her care. As soon as Damian’s friends learnt of the attack in the alley, they would be just as eager as he to find the culprit. To exact revenge.
“How long have I been here?”
“Three days.”
Three days!
Good Lord! Undoubtedly, his friends were pacing the streets wondering what the hell had happened to him. “Then I’ll need you to pay a boy to deliver a note in the morning, to a house on Jermyn Street.”
“I shall take it myself.” She pulled back the blanket and slipped into bed.
“I’d rather you paid a boy.” After everything she’d done for him, he’d not have her wasting time traipsing the streets. “I shall reimburse you for any expense incurred.”
“We will need to sleep on our sides,” she said, changing the subject. “Do you think you might manage it?”
“I can try.” He had slept in many awkward places.
After a few minutes spent shuffling, they settled into a comfortable position. Scarlett pulled the blankets around their shoulders. Their bodies were so close her sweet breath breezed over his neck.
“Wrap your arms around me if you’re cold.” It was unlike him to be so thoughtful. It was unlike him to share a bed with a woman while both fully clothed.
“I’ll be fine. Good night, sir.”
“Damian. You may call me Damian or Wycliff, if you prefer.”
She swallowed audibly. “Good night, Wycliff.”
“Good night, Scarlett.”
They lay in silence, for how long he had no notion. When her limbs relaxed and her breathing slowed, he knew she had fallen asleep. He watched her for a while—enraptured by her innocent charm—and drifted off soon after. Numerous times in the night he woke to find a dainty hand pressed to his chest. If she was searching for his heart, she was out of luck. The organ lay buried beneath a mountain of bitterness and hatred. Still, that did not prevent him from wrapping his arm around her and drawing her close. A man would do anything to keep warm.
The morning brought an end to his time in the peaceful haven.
When he finally opened his eyes, Scarlett was up and dressed in a faded blue pelisse. No doubt wanting freedom from her obligation, she reminded him of the note he wished to send, waited patiently for him to scribble the missive and insisted on running the errand.
A man of fragile sensibilities might have taken offence at her sudden eagerness to get rid of him.
An hour after Scarlett delivered the note to Jermyn Street, Benedict Cavanagh arrived in his racing curricle to transport Damian home.
“God damn, Wycliff, you look like the devil.” Cavanagh glanced around the hovel that had been Damian’s sanctuary for the last few days. “Trent is already making enquiries. We’ll find the men who did this, mark my words.”
Damian nodded. Knowing Lawrence Trent, he would already have Lord Cockram in a stranglehold whilst dangling him over London Bridge.
“Wait for me outside.” He would not have Cavanagh witness a moment of weakness. “I would like to bid a final farewell to the woman who saved my life.”
“Of course.” From the rakish grin on Cavanagh’s face, his idea of saying farewell meant something far more licentious. “I’m sure you’re desperate to convey your gratitude.”
Left alone with Scarlett, Damian struggled to find the right words to express his appreciation.
“Well, as much as it’s been a dreadful inconvenience,” Scarlett began, for she had no difficulty speaking from the heart, “I shall miss having someone to talk to.”
For a man who professed to have no heart, he wondered why it pained him to leave her in this godforsaken place. Had he not been party to her thoughts on men who abuse their positions, he might have offered to find her better accommodation, perhaps make her his mistress. She was certainly pretty enough. But he preferred his women with a distinct lack of morals, which made this one strictly out of bounds.
“I shall have firewood delivered, and food to replace what I’ve eaten these last few days.”
Perhaps pride forced her to say, “Replace what you have consumed, nothing more.”
He stared at her for a moment, an uneasiness filling his chest. A loaf of bread and a sack of wood in no way covered the debt he owed to this angel.
“Should you ever need anything,” he said, retrieving a card from his coat pocket and thrusting it into her hand, “you must seek me out. I swear an oath to offer my assistance.”
Scarlett glanced at the script on the card. “Thank you, Mr Wycliff.”
The pang in his chest sank like a dead weight to his stomach, urging him to do more. “You took me in when most people would not.” He stroked her cheek, the soft caress conveying the depth of a foreign emotion he had no desire to dissect and analyse.
Scarlett placed her hand on top of his, and her eyes remained closed for a time. “Your plea to your mother touched my heart. It is the reason I risked bringing you into my home.”
Before logic intervened, he untied his cravat and removed the gold chain from around his neck. Maria Alvarez would have placed the cross in Scarlett’s palm and kissed her forehead.
Lost in a rare moment of vulnerability, that’s exactly what he did. “Take this as a token of my pledge. It belonged to my mother. Sell it. Use the money to buy something you need.”
“No!” Scarlett shook her head, her conscience refusing to accept such a precious gift as he knew she would. “I cannot take—”
“I insist.” The uncomfortable sensation plaguing his body subsided.
She looked up at him as if he were a respectable gentleman, a deep appreciation swimming in her eyes.
It was the most perfect moment of his life.
As he said goodbye and left Scarlett alone in the cold, shabby room, he questioned why he’d given her the necklace. Numerous answers entered his head as he climbed into Cavanagh’s curricle. Some too ridiculous to contemplate. He settled on the one suitable for a heartless rogue—Damian Wycliff always pays his dues.
Chapter Two
London
Three years later
Nerves pushed to the fore as Lady Scarlett Steele climbed down from her carriage and studied the facade of the three-storey townhouse on Theobolds Road. Raucous laughter tumbled out onto the street. Music, singing and feminine shrieks told every passerby that this was the place for frivolous entertainment, a place to indulge one’s wild fantasies, one’s carnal whims. It was a place of excessiveness, too, for the golden glow of candlelight blazed from every window.
The demi-monde took pleasure in being indiscreet.
They made no secret of their sexual promiscuity. But for all their blatant disregard for propriety, they were loyal to their own kind. Unlike the pompous cowards in the ballrooms who plotted and schemed, there wasn’t a person in this house who would dare cross the notorious Damian Wycliff.
“I’ll turn the carriage around and wait across the street, milady,” Alcock said. “You only need blow the whistle, and I’ll barge the door and knock every one of them prancing pheasants on their arse.”
The coachwoman, built stronger and sturdier than any man of Scarlett’s acquaintance, doffed her hat. “Aye, and it will shock ’em even more when they discover I punch harder than any of them whelps at Jackson’s.”
“You’ll have no need to fight tonight. These people thrive on pleasure, not pain.” Still, knowing her servant would brawl in the street to protect her proved comforting. “I shall be twenty minutes, no more.” Unless, of course, her quarry was engaged in lewd activities or lay sprawled on a bed, hugging an empty bottle of brandy.
Keeping the hood of her red cloak raised, Scarlett approached the front door. A succession of rhythmical raps on the wooden panel—a code given to a select few—resulted in her coming face-to-face with a young and incredibly handsome majordomo. Trying not to gape, she handed him the calling card given to her by the owner of the house, the scandalous Mrs Crandell, along with the ten-pound fee required from all newcomers and novices.
The majordomo’s emerald gaze journeyed over her partially hidden face, perused the entire length of her body. Upon noting the black dress beneath the vibrant cloak, the servant said, “Ah, the Scarlet Widow. My mistress wondered when you would come.” He stepped back, and with a dandified wave gestured for her to enter. “Enjoy your evening, my lady. You’re certain to find something here to suit your tastes.”
Stepping into the house of the debauched was akin to stepping into a den of wild dogs. Danger lurked in the shadows. Soon, the hungry would be out roaming the plains, ready to chase their prey into a quiet corner, to nip, lick and bite.
But she was the infamous Scarlet Widow.
A lady who had inherited the surname Steele and the same metal rod for a backbone. A lady who wore black to insult her husband when he was alive and breathing, who wore red in celebration as he lay solid and stiff beneath the soil. One sharp glance from her and the pups would scamper back to the safety of their pack.
With a straight back and an arrogant gaze, Scarlett sauntered along the dimly lit passage, past the bucks and rakes who tore their mouths from their scantily clad companions to leer at the new bit of skirt.
Wicked whispers reached her ears.
Every man with immorality flowing through his veins wanted to be the first to bed the Scarlet Widow. A group wager had been made by the members of White’s. An amount large enough to keep every downtrodden actress in firewood for more than a few cold winters.
In the crowded drawing room hedonists were dancing, telling bawdy tales, downing wine straight from the bottle. One frolicking couple lay sprawled on the chaise, so overcome with lust that they writhed and bucked for their audience. Smoke, thick and heavy, lingered in the air like Satan’s sinister mist. Hell’s fire blazed in the hearth. The pungent smell of tobacco and some other woody essence clawed at her throat. Devilish laughter rang loud amid the singing and sighs of pleasure. Honing her gaze, she searched this party of sinners, looking for her elusive quarry.
She did not find Damian Wycliff there, nor was he amongst the drunken sots playing hazard in the study. Lord Merrington grinned at her with his wine-stained lips and invited her to roll the dice. Only when she noticed the lord’s bare legs did she realise the stakes were clothes, not money.
Making a quick exit she moved to the billiard room, relieved to find naught but coloured balls rolling around on the green table. Two gentlemen were playing, one she recognised as the golden-haired Adonis from Jermyn Street who had ferried the injured Mr Wycliff home.
Both men studied her, leering at her figure as she stepped closer to the table.
“I’m looking for your friend,” she whispered to the gentleman who had once looked upon her measly lodgings with a sneer of disdain. “The one who once brawled in a dank alley off Drury Lane.”
He did not reply but glanced behind him to where Mr Wycliff lay stretched on a red velvet sofa, minus his coat and cravat and with his shirt hanging open at the throat to reveal a dusting of dark hair. The buxom lady straddling his thighs moaned and rubbed against him in such a provocative way one could not mistake her intention.
An image of Mr Wycliff lying wounded on Scarlett’s bed burst into her mind. She had run her hands over those thick, solid muscles, felt the power beneath her quivering fingers. Lord Steele’s legs were pale and puny spindles that struggled to support his ever-increasing paunch. Never had she met a man who possessed the same raw, rugged masculinity as the one currently tugging down the bodice of his eager lover’s dress.
The dark-haired man playing billiards cleared his throat. When Mr Wycliff failed to tear his gaze away from the lady’s breasts, the gentleman said, “Wycliff. You have a visitor.”
With his mouth but two inches from the woman’s protruding pink nipple, Mr Wycliff glanced in Scarlett’s direction. Dark, hooded eyes observed her with such intensity a shiver shot from her neck to her navel. His mouth curled into an arrogant grin and he moistened his lips as if he had just picked out his next dessert should his current one prove unsatisfying.
Lord, he was as sinfully handsome as she remembered.
With her eyes screwed tight, she had thought about his wicked mouth and cocksure grin many times while performing her wifely duties. It was never Lord Steele’s hands fondling her breasts. It was never her husband’s body squashing her into the mattress.
“You’re not an easy man to find, Mr Wycliff,” she said softly, teasing him from the depths of her hood. Judging by the empty wine bottles discarded about the floor, his memory might not be so sharp. “Do you remember me?”
“Should I?” The words rang with conceit.
“We met a few years ago.”
“A man cannot remember every woman he’s kissed.”
“Oh, we did not kiss. Well, not that I can recall.”
Damian Wycliff’s mocking chuckle rent the air. He sat up, forcing the woman on his lap to shuffle backwards and drag her bodice up to cover her exposed breasts.
“Trust me, had you experienced the rampant sweeps of my tongue, the moment would be seared into your memory.”
“Perhaps you proved to be a disappointment.”
“A disappointment?” Mr Wycliff glanced briefly at his friends, who seemed to find the comment just as amusing. “Then I highly doubt we’ve ever met at all.”
This was not the man who swooned while she stitched his leg.
This was not the man who cradled her to his chest to banish the cold.
This brash beast lived up to his rakish reputation.
Scarlett skirted around the two men using their upright cues as leaning posts as they watched the exchange. She came to stand in front of the man she had spent a month trying to locate. “It is difficult to have amorous thoughts for a man when he is bleeding to death on one’s bed.”
He drew his brows together in a look of curious enquiry. “And yet I never fail to rise to the occasion.”
Scarlett couldn’t help but smile. “And I would not swoon after the third jab of a needle.”
Recognition sparked in his eyes. Maintaining his calm, unruffled composure, Mr Wycliff swung his legs to the floor and rose to his feet. “Lower your hood.” The command carried a dangerous undertone that would make the most hardened criminal obey.
Excitement fluttered to life in Scarlett’s chest.
He would remember his promise.
He would remember the precious gift.
“As you wish.” Scarlett lowered the hood of her cloak to reveal her face.
Mr Wycliff sucked in a sharp breath.
A tense silence filled the room.
Long seconds passed as he stared into her eyes, studied every facial feature as if comparing it to a fading memory. His hard, stone-like expression relaxed as his gaze moved to the long braid draped over her shoulder.
Marta, her maid, had complained about the s
tyle, insisting it made her look young and naive and lacked the sophisticated elegance people expected from the Scarlet Widow. But she had to dig down deep if she hoped to unearth this man’s conscience.
“You’re alive?” Damian Wycliff’s dark eyes grew as warm as his tone. A softness settled around his features, the same softness she had witnessed the day he’d thrust the gold cross into her palm, the day he’d stroked her cheek and made the promise that had brought her to this iniquitous den tonight. He exhaled a relieved sigh and shook his head numerous times. “When you moved, your landlord said you’d left no forwarding address.”
No forwarding address?
He spoke as if she had been a lady of quality, not a downtrodden actress desperate to secure her next meal. They had parted knowing their paths would never cross. And yet many times he had returned and knocked on her door, always left food parcels—bread and cheese and wine—when she failed to answer.
To answer would have been a disastrous mistake.
Damian Wycliff possessed a natural charisma, a boyish charm, a powerful body, hard and expertly sculpted. A needy woman would easily grow to love him. But a rumbling stomach and cold bones were easier to live with than a shattered heart.
“I left that life behind.” While she had secretly fled to Gretna Green with Lord Steele, her heart had remained in the wretched lodging-house where he had caressed her with his dark eyes during one perfect moment of bliss. “Though I must thank you. Your generous gifts made those last months bearable.”
Every week for two months after she had sewn his wound and tended to his fever, a sack of firewood arrived at her door. The chandler called to deliver candles, always beeswax never tallow.
Mr Wycliff inclined his head. “It was the least I could do under the circumstances.”
Ah, there he was. The gentleman she had imagined taking into her body to turn the nightmare of the marriage bed into a dream.