Sutton's Spinster: A Wicked Winters Spin-off Series (The Sinful Suttons Book 1)
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Sutton’s Spinster
The Sinful Suttons Book 1
Scarlett Scott
Sutton’s Spinster
The Sinful Suttons Book 1
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2021 by Scarlett Scott
Published by Happily Ever After Books, LLC
Edited by Grace Bradley
Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by law.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
For more information, contact author Scarlett Scott.
www.scarlettscottauthor.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!
About the Author
For Melanie Moreland, an incredibly talented, wonderfully supportive author I’m fortunate enough to know and call friend.
Chapter 1
London, 1816
Not bloody again.
Jasper Sutton’s booted foot had connected with something soft as he seated himself at the desk in his office at The Sinner’s Palace. The gaming hell he and his siblings owned together was teeming with drunken lords. The hour was despicably late by anyone’s standards, even for a voluptuary such as himself. He wanted gin and he wanted quim, and not necessarily in that order.
What he did not want was one of his twin daughters hiding beneath his desk when she was supposed to be abed.
“Elizabeth,” he guessed, for she was undeniably the naughtiest of the two children who had been unexpectedly delivered to his hell a fortnight ago.
Abandoned was a better fucking word for what their mother—whomever she was—had done. That was the trouble with possessing an insatiable appetite for rutting. Sooner or later, the rutting produced brats.
And sometimes, the mothers of the brats decided they did not want the burden of extra mouths to feed. And also sometimes, the mothers abandoned their daughters on the steps of a gaming hell at dawn and left them there for any despicable bastard to abuse, without a thought or a care. Until, thank the Lord, his men had arrived and taken the girls within before something had befallen them.
Jasper had always tried to take care to avoid siring a bastard. But he could admit the resemblance the children bore to him was apparent. Black hair, hazel Sutton eyes, the dent in his chin. There had been nights when he had been too deep in his cups to know where he’d spent his seed.
And now, he had daughters to look after. Twin devilish imps who were six years old and filled with mischief.
Still, no child emerged or responded. He tapped the girlish lump beneath his desk with the tip of his boot. “Anne?”
The rustle of fabric met his ears, followed by two sets of giggles.
Christ. The both of them were at it tonight. Sinner that he was, he sent a silent prayer for patience heavenward. And then with a scowl, he rose from his chair and hunkered down to peer beneath the massive piece of furniture which had only recently been repaired after a pistol had blown a portion of it apart. Two sets of grins and hazel eyes greeted him.
“Girls,” he chastised sternly, “you are meant to be sleeping. What the devil are you doing hiding beneath my desk at this time of the evening?”
“We miss playing ’idey,” Elizabeth announced, unrepentant.
Hidey, as he had come to learn, was a game his daughters had established to enliven their evenings when one of their mother’s gentlemen callers paid a visit.
“Ma always told us it were fun to ’ide when the gentlemen arrived,” Anne added brightly.
It was clear their mother had been a Covent Garden nun. Could have been one of the doxies employed by The Sinner’s Palace for the entertainments of his patrons. Could have been someone else. The girls said her name was Ma Bellington.
Bellington was a right fancy name for an East End whore. He suspected the woman had never told their daughters her true name, as Bellington did not mean a thing to him. Not that he expected it to. There had been occasions when he had not bothered to exchange names with his bedmates, it was true.
He wasn’t proud of his past now that he was older and wiser. But he’d been a reckless, wild rakehell in his youth. No denying it. Just as there was no denying these hellions were his.
“Out from under the desk,” he ordered the twins sternly. “We’ve talked about this before, no?”
“We wasn’t tired,” Elizabeth announced, crawling from beneath the desk in her nightdress and standing to eye him balefully. “It’s right dull ’ere, it is.”
Anne emerged from beneath the desk as well, frowning. “I told Lizbeth I didn’t want to do it, but she made me.”
He sighed. It had only taken him hours to discover that Elizabeth was the twin who delighted in galloping all over the hell, leaving mischief in her wake, and asking him so many questions he feared his head might explode like a melon tossed from a roof. Anne had a saucy disposition, was quick to turn into a watering pot, and liked to blame everything on her sister.
“What did I tell you yesterday when I caught you hiding beneath the hazard table?” he asked with as much calm as he could muster.
He’d been furious at the sight of his children wandering about the gaming hell, disrupting confused patrons. The discovery had made his need of a wife—someone to tame and look after his wayward offspring—all the more apparent.
“You said we couldn’t go where the fancy coves be,” Elizabeth said.
“You didn’t say nothing about your desk,” Anne added mulishly.
Before he could address either of them, a knock sounded on the door. Three raps in quick succession, which signified more trouble.
“Christ,” he muttered.
“That’s the Lord,” Anne told him.
“I am aware,” he said, silently praying for strength. And patience. And strength.
“You owe ’im an apolology,” Elizabeth announced with a superior air.
Sodding hell. “Apology, Elizabeth,” he corrected.
“What’s sodding mean?” Anne asked.
Damnation. Had he said that bit aloud? To his utter shame, he discovered that he—Jasper Sutton, scourge of the East End—was bloody flushing.
He coughed to cover his embarrassment and called out to Hugh, who was on door duty this evening. “What is it now?”
“She’s returned,” Hugh called, his tone grim.
Jasper did not need to ask whom his man was speaking of. Over the last few months, one woman had continually appeared, ignoring his warnings, his threats—hell, even his kisses.
And damn him if the mere name of the dark-haired beauty did not make his cock twitch to life. Until he recalled his children were still standing before him.
Children.
His.
He was yet growing accustomed to this abrupt change of circumstances.
“Tell her to go back to Mayfair where she damned well belongs,” he ordered Hugh, for he had far more important matters awaiting him this evening.
Namely, the twins who had once more escaped from their shared room to wander about unattended.
The door burst open, and Lady Octavia crossed the threshold, elegant, beautiful, and maddening as hell. Her vivid brown eyes settled upon him first, and how he despised the bolt of lust that hit him. So, too, the memories of the frantic kisses they had shared, her tongue in his mouth.
The minx.
Christ, she was delicious.
And infuriating.
And delicious.
Damnation.
“You are not welcome here, Lady Octavia,” he told her, just as he had on numerous occasions in the past. “I will have one of my men escort you back to the safety of your sister’s home.”
“Children, Sutton?” she asked, her gaze flitting from his daughters, to him, then back again.
“Aye,” he ground out. “Children. Mine.”
She had not trespassed at The Sinner’s Palace in three weeks. Not that he had been counting. And not that he had missed her irritating intrusions. Because he most certainly had not.
Her mouth dropped open. Pretty, lush mouth. Not a spinster’s mouth at all, and that bothered him for reasons he didn’t care to examine. Lady Octavia Alexander had no desire to marry. All she wanted was to be at the helm of a gossip journal. Hers, of course. When she had initially approached him with the idea, he had laughed. And then he had kissed her senseless. And then she had been the one laughing.
The bloody nuisance.
“Your children,” she repeated at last.
“Mine,” he said again, willing her to go away.
To go far, far away.
To the Continent, in fact.
Or mayhap the Americas.
Out of his reach, wherever that took her.
Was the moon a possibility?
“You are a father.”
He did not miss the manner in which she emphasized the you, as if the very notion of his paternal state were blasphemy.
“Aye,” he gritted, frowning at her. “Are you daft, woman? I’ve just said so.”
He was being rude, and he knew it. Also, he did not care.
“Don’t say daft,” he added as an afterthought, addressing his wide-eyed daughters.
“I would never,” Anne breathed. “It would be unkind, Papa.”
Papa. His cold, dead heart never failed to warm at the title, and curse him if he knew why. He’d certainly not wanted spawn. Still didn’t want them. Not particularly. They were trouble, these two.
Hence his need for a wife.
Yesterday.
A plain, appreciative woman without expectations who was willing to guide his children and turn a blind eye to whatever the hell he wished to do that did not involve her.
Lady Octavia was grinning at him like the cat who’d got into the cream. “Yes, Papa. It is most unkind to call a lady who has only ever been polite to you daft.”
“Do not call me Papa,” he growled at her, stalking forward.
Toward her.
Pulled.
Always, always pulled. This woman was vexing and she was intoxicating, and he wanted more of her, and he wanted her to go away and never to return.
But mostly, he wanted more of her.
“Papa?” asked one of his daughters, and he was ashamed to admit that with them at his back, he could not distinguish one voice from the next.
He paused, stopping just short of Lady Octavia. “What is it now, daughter?” he asked, casting a glance over his shoulder.
“I want a cat,” Anne said.
“I want a dog,” Elizabeth announced.
“Then you shall have both,” Lady Octavia proclaimed, her voice cheerful, benevolent.
Annoying.
He turned back to her, pinning her with a glare. “Hold your tongue, Lady Octavia.”
She winked, the outrageous baggage. “Force me to if you dare.”
Challenge accepted, milady.
He would have great fun with her tongue. Later. Not with his children as an audience. Kisses could wait. Anne and Elizabeth needed to get to bed.
“I would never dare force a lady to do anything she did not wish,” he told her smoothly instead, ever aware of their audience.
He even gave her his most pleasant smile.
Which was probably a grimace.
Satan’s teeth, he needed some drops of jackey.
Lady Octavia’s honey-brown eyes were on his. Her lips were smiling. Full. Delicious. Perfectly pink. The number of times he had taken himself in hand while imagining those lips wrapped around his cock was appalling.
But he would not think about that now.
Or ever.
“How…gentlemanly of you, Mr. Sutton,” the minx dared.
If she knew him—truly knew him—she would not dare such taunts. Strangely, the notion of correcting her assumptions about him held little appeal at the moment.
“Do you ‘ave a dog and a cat?” Anne asked, skirting round Jasper to peer inquisitively at Lady Octavia.
“Your cat ain’t going to like my dog,” Elizabeth told Anne. “It must be one or the other.”
Christ.
He stabbed at his suddenly throbbing temples with his forefingers. “Curse it, girls. You ain’t going to be having cats and dogs. I’ve already dogs aplenty.”
Anne’s nose wrinkled. “Barnaby snores.”
“Drunkard slobbers,” Elizabeth added.
Jasper winced.
Lady Octavia’s dark, winged brows arched. “You have a dog named Drunkard?”
He released his aching head and planted his hands on his hips. “He was named after the tosspot who abandoned him. Do you object, milady?”
“Arsehole likes to bite,” Anne declared before her ladyship could answer.
Well, hell. Not that he gave a damn what Lady Octavia thought of him, but even Jasper Sutton knew it was not done to allow his children to curse. It was true that Motley, yet a young pup, liked to nip with his sharp little teeth. Some of the guards at The Sinner’s Palace had taken to referring to him as Arsehole instead of his proper name. Apparently, Elizabeth and Anne had overheard. He was going to have to put the fear of eternal damnation into Randall, Hugh, Bennet, Timothy, and Anthony.
“His name is Motley,” he growled at his daughter. “That other word ain’t for ladies and I’ll not have you repeating it again.”
“We ain’t ladies,” Elizabeth and Anne declared in unison.
He glowered down at the pair of them. He had carried out some despicable deeds in his life. He had thieved and he had beaten men with his fists, had stabbed them with blades. He had even killed. He ruled his family’s gaming hell with the ruthlessness such a position required. But no duty he had ever taken on in his life had been more difficult than being a father to these two hellions.
Lady Octavia drew nearer, tearing Jasper’s gaze from his daughters as she sank to her knees before them, caring little for her fine gown. “Of course you are ladies,” she said. “It is plain to see. What are your names, if you please?”
“I am called Anne Bellington,” Anne said gravely.
“And I am Elizabeth Bellington,” her sister added.
“Sutton,” he reminded grimly. “You are Suttons.”
“Ah.” With another raised brow, Lady Octavia cast a knowing glance in his direction. “You have only recently arrived at The Sinner’s Palace, then?”
There she went. Asking questions. Causing trouble.
He frowned at the bothersome wench. “My lady, why are you here? You were tol
d not to return.”
Before he had kissed her thoroughly.
Damn him, but owning her mouth had been the best sin he had committed yet.
Wait until I own her cunny as well.
No. Hell no. Jasper struck the unwanted thought from his mind. Ladies were a bad halfpenny. Lady Octavia Alexander in particular brewed more problems than an entire brigade of them. And a virgin lady? He suppressed a shudder and tamped down the desire which never failed to simmer to the surface in her maddening presence.
Terrible.
“You were blustering, Sutton,” Lady Octavia declared, tearing him from his thoughts. “You like my visits.”
Yes, he did. Curse her. Not that he would ever admit such stupidity aloud.
He pinned her with a glare. “I was not blustering.”
“You were.”
“Papa does lots of blustering,” Anne informed their unwanted guest helpfully.
“And cursing,” Elizabeth added. “Not nearly as much as Ma did, though. And he doesn’t have gentlemen friends.”
“But he does have lady ones,” Anne continued where her twin had left off.
“Only, they ain’t truly ladies neither,” Elizabeth concluded.
Lady Octavia’s luscious mouth suddenly took on a pinched quality. “I can well imagine they are not, my dear girl.”
He snorted. “Enough of all this shi—nonsense. Lady Octavia, my daughters need to seek their beds for the night. Hugh will see you safely to wherever you belong.”
Which was decidedly not here at The Sinner’s Palace.
And not in his arms or bed, regardless of how much he wanted her there.
Damned inconvenient cock, lusting over a fancy lady.
He took Anne and Elizabeth gently by the arms and escorted them from his office as they protested, skirting past a disapproving Lady Octavia. And blast her, but the sweet scent of her still haunted his nostrils long after he’d slammed the door at his back.