by Clee, Adele
“When you married Steele, the matron believed it was only a matter of time before you met your end, and so she called off her dog. Apparently, some older members of the ton were aware of Steele’s predilection for violence. There were whispers concerning the death of his first wife.”
How the previous Lady Steele had survived her marriage for fifteen years was anyone’s guess. “Lady Rathbone rarely spoke to me during my marriage, yet extended the hand of friendship the moment I donned my widow’s weeds.”
“Lord Rathbone is happy to recognise you publicly as his kin. Equally, he understands if you would rather refrain from associating yourself with the family.”
She didn’t want to be a Rathbone.
She wanted to be Scarlett Jewell—Ruby as her mother often called her.
Scarlett forced a weak chuckle. “Then Lord Rathbone has given up all thoughts of marrying the Scarlet Widow?”
“I imagine his offer stands, though he wouldn’t dare say so to me.” He stared deeply into her eyes. “We have yet to determine the nature of our growing relationship.”
The need to reveal everything in her heart burned brightly. But after a life filled with deception and betrayal, she had one final test. Besides, Wycliff needed to have an honest conversation with his father before his heart was free to commit. And his love and commitment were the only things she wanted now.
“Slip out of your coat and lie with me for a while.”
Wycliff moistened his lips. “I thought we agreed that would not be a good idea.”
“I didn’t say strip naked. But I would like for you to hold me as you did that night in the lodging-house.” She wanted nothing more than to make love to him, but the man was as stubborn as a mule, and she had to say something to get him to join her in bed.
After some reflection, he stood and removed his coat.
As he draped the garment on the chair, she said, “Perhaps you ought not crease your breeches. You know the marquis hates those in shabby attire.”
Wycliff glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes alight with mischief. “He’s rather particular about rumpled shirts and cravats, too.”
“Indeed, you wouldn’t want him to throw you out. Not when you’re eager to ask the questions you’ve held back for so long.”
He turned to face her and set about undressing. “No, I wouldn’t want that. And I’m sure Dr Redman would support my reasoning.”
“Dr Redman is a logical man.”
Scarlett watched him in silence as he stripped down to nothing but his breeches. She imagined those hard, rippling muscles soaked in sweat, those pert buttocks clenched as he thrust long and deep. The pulsing between her legs replaced the pulsing in her temple.
Judging by the length of his arousal springing free as he slipped out of his breeches, he was just as excited to join her in bed. He prowled towards her with a sleek, predatory grace.
Scarlett drew her chemise over her head and dropped it on the floor before peeling back the sheets in welcome invitation.
His body was warm, his skin carrying the earthy masculine smell that made her want to lick every inch. They settled onto their sides, huddled together in the tender way that spoke to her soul.
“While I recall being hard for you that night, I do not recall being quite so solid.” He brushed her hair off her forehead, brushed his erection against her abdomen.
“And while I recall placing my hands on your chest, I do not recall draping my thigh so brazenly over your hip.”
He clutched her thigh, opening her legs wide as he breached her entrance and pushed deep inside.
“Damian!”
“Had we indulged our desires that night, I imagine it would have been a slow, sensual coupling.”
“Nothing vigorous. You were recovering from an injury.” Scarlett welcomed him into her body with a pleasurable sigh. “But it would have felt as divine as it does now.”
He kept his gaze fixed on hers as they made love, his dark eyes flashing hot with each delicious slide. Every profoundly tender moment pleasured her heart and soul as well as her body. She could remain like this for a lifetime, a lifetime to soothe his pain, to bear his children, to create the happy home they were both denied.
As a sweet moan fell from her lips, she imagined him reading her letter, opening the gift which should convince him how much she cared. And as her body thrummed with rapturous ecstasy, one thought filled her head.
I love you, and I pray you love me, too.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Forgive a man for being mildly curious,” the marquis said with his usual aplomb, “but having refused every invitation to spend time in my company, I find you in my study for the third time this week.”
“It is not entirely out of choice.”
Having kept Damian waiting for twenty minutes, the marquis sauntered into the room and dropped into the sofa opposite. Damian need not have bothered appearing presentable. Today, the marquis greeted him wearing a burgundy silk robe thrown over an open shirt and beige breeches. He reeked of wine and perfume. Clearly, Damian was not the only one who had enjoyed making love to a woman this afternoon.
But there was a difference.
Damian loved Scarlett—with his heart and soul. The feeling had crept up on him like a thief in the night. There had been no warning, no sign to arouse his suspicions. With surprising clarity, he knew he could not live without her. The question was—after surviving one disastrous marriage—would she risk her heart for a reckless rogue?
“As it appears we’re able to converse without resorting to veiled swipes and verbal blows,” Damian said, “I wanted to tell you I plan to marry.”
Hell, the words were as much of a surprise to Damian as they were to the marquis. But he recognised the truth in them. Indeed, his heart swelled at the prospect.
The marquis narrowed his gaze. “I don’t suppose you speak of Lord Bromley’s daughter? No, of course not, you do not love her.”
“No, I am in love with Lady Steele.”
The marquis snorted. “And you think she will have you?”
“I can only hope.”
“If you align yourself with the widow, you understand there is no hope of saving your reputation.”
“I rather like my scandalous reputation and enjoy the power that comes with not giving a damn.” No one told him who he could marry.
A faint smile touched the marquis’ lips. “It must be quite liberating.”
“What? Not giving a fig for other people’s opinions?”
“That and having faith in requited love.”
Damian glanced at the ceiling. “I expect the same cannot be said for the woman currently warming your bed.”
“Why would I chase love when the pain of a broken heart lasts a lifetime?”
Damian understood his father’s logic. If he lost Scarlett, his heart would wither and die. Bitterness would beat in his chest. And he knew that feeling all too well.
“I find it hard to believe you have experienced loss,” Damian said. The man acted as if he were impervious to all emotions. “Particularly when your selfish actions have caused others immeasurable pain.”
An uncharacteristic sigh escaped the marquis. “Your mother—”
“I am not speaking about Maria. Do you know what this is?” He opened his arms wide and gestured to his impeccable clothing and devilish facade. “It’s a wall. A wall to keep the marauders at bay. Protection from the vile comments, the vicious blows. Illegitimacy is frowned upon regardless of rank, but try living at boarding school with a host of privileged little lords. Try feeling like nothing you do is ever good enough.”
The marquis swallowed deeply. “And yet you have found the one thing that eludes the best of us. You have found someone to love, someone to love you in return.”
What the hell did the marquis know about love?
Thoughts of his mother filled Damian’s head. Life had not been perfect. She had entertained a few men during his childhood but never married. “Maria would have loved
you if only you had given her a chance.”
A long, drawn-out silence filled the room.
“Have you nothing to say?” Damian prompted. Had the marquis ever cared for Maria? Had he ever held his son in his arms, ever felt the urge to fight against society’s dictates?
“Your mother loved singing more than she loved me.” The marquis stood abruptly, moved to the drinks tray and sloshed brandy into a glass. Without turning around, he downed the contents, panted a few times as the liquor burnt his throat. “We wanted different things. Despite our truce, we were too selfish to save you.” He stared at the wall as if lost in another time, another place. “I could have snatched you from her arms, and she would have been powerless to prevent it. I could have raised you here. But I loved her, so I let her keep you like a trinket of our lost affection.”
Frustration flowed like hot lava through Damian’s veins. He wanted to call his father a liar, but the marquis never lied about anything. He wanted to challenge the story, but his father dealt only in painful truths. Not once had Damian questioned his mother’s affection for the lord. Not once had she spoken his name with disdain, only love and respect.
And so his situation was like Scarlett’s. The people who might confirm the truth had departed this world, and so all they could do was realise that the past had no place in the present.
“Why did you not tell me this before?” Damian knew the answer yet still asked the question.
The marquis turned to face him. For the first time, Damian saw water glistening in his eyes. Unshed tears of regret, perhaps. “I am not a man who carries his bleeding heart in his hands and begs others to take pity. I loved and lost. And I hope never to love again.”
Then the marquis was doomed to live an empty existence.
“Wish me luck.” Damian came to his feet. The heavy burden of his parents’ failed relationship dissipated, leaving him feeling lighter. Free. “I am about to ask the woman I love to marry me. Pray she does not reject my proposal.” Else he would rain the devil’s wrath on everyone he met. “Pray that in years to come, I am not bedding every woman breathing in the hope of purging my pain.”
“We all wear masks when it suits us.” The marquis inclined his head. “You will find me here should you wish to peruse my story books again.”
* * *
During the journey back to Bruton Street, Damian’s mind was plagued with doubt. Surprisingly, his concern did not stem from his own feelings on marriage—he wanted Scarlett more than he’d wanted anything his whole damn life.
But did she want a rogue with a tarnished reputation?
Or was he destined to a similar fate as his father?
Once home, his anxious heart thumped in his chest as he mounted the stairs. He paused at the bedchamber door, recited a romantic declaration in his head and tapped lightly before entering.
Scarlett was not asleep in bed.
She was not in bed, not in the room.
He went to investigate the room next door, found it empty, her valise missing.
Returning to his chamber, he rang the servants’ bell but then noticed the letter and leather pouch on the night table.
Dread’s icy hand settled on his shoulder, leaving him frozen. Immobile. Nausea roiled in his stomach as he anticipated the worst. His heart pumped a painful beat in his throat. Hours earlier, he had thrust deep into her body, been so close to declaring his love. Was she thinking about writing her letter when she kissed him so passionately? Was she planning the best way to say goodbye?
But then another thought struck him—one far more terrifying.
He yanked the pull again.
A maid entered. One glance at the empty bed brought some confusion.
“Has Lady Steele taken ill, taken a turn for the worse?” Panic squeezed its fingers around his throat. Many people died days after receiving a blow to the head.
Through trembling lips, the maid said, “No, sir, she was tucked in bed the last time I checked.”
Relief flooded his chest.
“Then do you happen to know if she has left the house?” Of course she had left the house. Why else would she scribble a note?
“I’ll speak to Welton, sir, see if her ladyship mentioned an outing.”
“No matter.” Welton would have conveyed the message when he greeted Damian in the hallway. Equally, he would have broken the bad news to his master should the lady have perished during his brief absence. “You may go about your duties.”
The maid curtsied and left.
Damian stared at the letter. Hell’s teeth! He’d fought duels at dawn, survived a stab wound to the leg, a shot to the arm. So why was he scared of words scrawled on a slip of paper?
Marching over to the night table, he snatched the unsealed note, peeled back the folds and scanned the lines. One word—love—drew his gaze further down the page.
Uncertainty and insecurity have plagued me my whole life. I have learnt to hide behind a mask, a facade. Deep down I’m a coward, far from perfect. But I know one thing with absolute clarity—I’m in love with you, Wycliff, madly in love, and there is nothing to be done about it.
The next few words were smudged, as if her tears had dropped onto the paper.
I pray you feel the same. I pray you will come rescue me, that we will not waste another three years in abject misery. In the meantime, please accept this token as a symbol of my abiding affection. Know that I have never stopped thinking about the day I might return it to you.
Damian placed the note on the bed and picked up the leather pouch. It felt heavier than expected. Loosening the drawstring, he delved inside. The moment his fingers settled on the cold metal, he knew what it was.
His heart skipped a beat.
A rush of euphoria flooded his chest as he withdrew his mother’s gold necklace and cross. “Maria,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the symbol representing the only other woman he had ever loved. “You sent me an angel that night.”
He stood for a moment and let the light of love touch his soul. Then he untied his cravat and fastened the chain around his neck.
Capturing the letter from the bed, he pressed his lips to the words. “Scarlett. You gave me your trust, and I shall never give you cause to doubt me.” After a brief pause, he continued with this newfound habit of talking to himself. “Then why in the devil’s name are you still standing here, Wycliff?”
Within minutes he’d summoned Cutler to bring the carriage.
“Did Lady Steele instruct you to convey her home?” Damian said as his footman raced behind ready to open the carriage door.
Cutler shook his head. “No, sir.”
Then she must have walked. Why in damnation would she walk whilst recovering from a head injury?
“Where is Alcock?” he barked.
His coachman’s cheeks flushed. “In the mews, sir. Shall I send for her?”
“No!” He would not have Alcock fretting over her mistress. “Take me to Bedford Street. As quick as safety allows.”
Cutler was as skilled at driving as he was sewing. He navigated the overturned cart on New Bond Street with ease, flew through the streets as if carried by the hands of the gods.
Once in Bedford Street, Damian burst into the hall, though the butler seemed surprised when he asked if the mistress was at home.
“No, sir. We were under the impression her ladyship wouldn’t be home for another few days.”
“I see.” A prickle of frustration ran the breadth of his shoulders. “Thank you—?”
“Hanson, sir.”
“Thank you, Hanson. Should your mistress return, please inform her that I came to call and ask that she send word to Bruton Street.”
Perhaps she had questions about her parents and had gone to visit Flannery. And so, The Silver Serpent was his next destination.
Perturbed by the thought of Scarlett’s mysterious disappearance, Flannery’s face turned deathly pale. “But you said the matron was to blame for what happened, so you did. Now you tell me Scarl
ett is missing.”
“The matron was to blame. Rest assured, she is dead.” Damian’s patience was wearing thin. “Scarlett is not missing. She left me a note.”
“Well, what did the note say?”
Damian was not in the habit of discussing intimate details of his private life. Still, he would have Flannery know his intentions were honourable, and this man was the closest thing Scarlett had to family.
“Scarlett loves me. I intend to ask for her hand in marriage—”
“Ah, then that saves me asking O’Donnell and the men to twist your arm.” Flannery grinned. “And you’ve tried the house on Bedford Street, you say?”
Damian nodded. All this racing about roused memories of those months after she had disappeared from the lodging-house. Why did he feel like he was losing her all over again?
“Do you know of any other houses she owns in town?”
“Can’t say that I do.” Flannery frowned. “But if the lass loves you, what business has she running away?”
“She has not run away.” Damian thrust his hand through his hair and sighed. “She wishes me to rescue her.” To rescue her from the lies and deceit, to create a life together filled with honesty and truth. Most people presumed he ruined women, not saved them. “To do what I struggled to do three years ago.”
He had not exactly struggled. Had she opened the door to the lodging-house when he delivered the food parcels, things might have been vastly different. He had lost count of the times he’d sat in his carriage in Drury Lane, staring at the—
“Bloody hell! I think I know where she is.”
Without saying another word, Damian hurried from The Silver Serpent and had Cutler ferry him to Covent Garden. He alighted on Drury Lane, spent a few seconds staring at the small window of the lodging-house.
After crossing the crowded street, dodging carts and carriages and wild dogs, he entered the alley. Memories came flooding back. The vicious attack. Him slumped against the cold stone wall, his angel standing over him dressed in white and clutching her scarlet shawl.