Sutton's Spinster: A Wicked Winters Spin-off Series (The Sinful Suttons Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  When he did as she asked, she pulled his shirt over his head before casting the damp, bloodied garment aside as well. Try as she might, she could not keep her eyes from feasting on the sight of his bare chest. There was a bruise marring his ribs. She traced over it lightly. “What happened here?”

  “Bradley scum fights dirty. Don’t worry. I gave them something to remember me by.”

  Of course he had.

  But this evidence of the brutality of the beating he had participated in—it was shocking proof of the new world in which she found herself mired. Not the world she had once known, of pristine drawing rooms, polite manners, and majestic balls. Here, men fought each other with fire and fists.

  “You could have been badly injured tonight,” she said, giving voice to the worries swirling within her. “Or worse.”

  “Then you’d be less one scoundrel who forced you to be his wife, wouldn’t you?” he asked, voice wry.

  She had been overly harsh when she had accused him of forcing her into this marriage, and she knew it. The choice had been hers, even if he had cleverly manipulated events in his favor. She knew the fault lay primarily with herself for having returned to him despite his warnings. She had understood the danger, but the allure had far surpassed all else until finally, she had been caught in a spider’s web of her own making.

  However, she was not ready to concede.

  “I do not wish any harm to befall you,” she allowed. “Shall we remove your boots next?”

  “I can do it.” But though he made the claim, he winced as he doubled over to remove them.

  Likely due to the ugly bruising on his ribs. Octavia placed her palms on his shoulders and gently pushed him back. “Let me help.”

  Without awaiting his response, she dropped to her knees.

  Jasper had imagined Octavia on her knees before him on many, many occasions. At long last, here she was, beautiful and wrapped in a prim dressing gown that did nothing to hide her ample curves, long black hair unbound down her back. Unfortunately, instead of taking him between those pretty pink lips, she was pulling on his muddy boot.

  Curse Tim Bradley for managing to hit him in the ribs with that iron poker. Hopefully no broken bones, but bending over hurt like the bloody devil. Rather unmanning, having one’s wife removing one’s boots.

  But her help, much like her presence in his chamber, was welcome.

  It was difficult indeed for him to remain cross with her when she was so damned lovely and so filled with spunk. His initial desire to send her away had crumbled quickly when he faced the idea of a night without her. And what better excuse than a bruised and battered hide she needed to tend to?

  Perhaps she would take pity on him.

  She removed each boot and then his stockings as well without a word before she rose, going to the wash basin to clean her hands of the muck which had transferred itself from his boots to her hands. He watched her every motion, admiring her easy elegance not for the first time. She had not complained at the state of his boots nor the state of himself. If the blood of John Bradley, Old Tim’s feckless son, on his own hands and clothes had disturbed her, she had said nary a word.

  The gin he had consumed upon his return to The Sinner’s Palace was no longer doing its work. Although he was weary, his body sore, his cockstand was at the ready. Reminding himself that whilst she was his wife, she was also very much an innocent, he stood, intent upon disrobing himself to preserve her modesty.

  She was still washing her hands in the basin, her back facing him, as he worked the buttons of his trousers and pushed them down his hips, shedding them with ease. Next came his smalls. Damnation and hellfire, but she was even lovely from this angle. All that glorious hair, so lustrous and soft, falling in a perfect curtain to just above the swell of her bottom. He imagined wrapping his fist in it as he kissed her senseless, which did nothing at all to abate the rigid state of his prick.

  She whirled about just as he was preparing to turn away from her and dip his weary body into the bath awaiting him.

  “Oh!” Her soft gasp of surprise and the way her honey-brown gaze lingered on a certain portion of his anatomy was enough to tempt a saint.

  He stood there, allowing her to look her fill. Damn it, but he liked her eyes on him. Heated and wide, those eyes. Innocent and yet also with a hint of knowledge. The things he wanted to teach her. Wicked things. Filthy things.

  “You…” she began before allowing her sentence to trail away. Blinking, she flicked her gaze back up to his. “You should get into the bath before it cools.”

  “So you said before.” He could not keep the amusement from his voice.

  She may still be harboring some anger toward him from what she thought she had seen earlier that day, but she could not deny she wanted him. Her need was written all over her beautiful face. And she was not wrong. His bath water was likely going to be as warm as the Thames before he managed to sink into it and soak his bones.

  But there was a new heat flaring in the chamber. Not from the fire in the hearth. Not from the steam which had risen from the bath. But from the connection between them. He wanted to fuck her.

  Hot and hard.

  To show her she was his. To make her cry his name and admit she longed for him every bit as much as he did for her.

  But he also wanted to take her in his arms and lay her tenderly on the bed, to take his time and lick and kiss and suck every inch of her delectable body.

  Instead, he turned away and forced himself to get into the tub.

  The water was warm but no longer hot. It would do. The manner in which his wife lingered on the other side of the chamber, however, would not.

  He crooked a finger. “Come.”

  To his amazement, she was moving. Heeding him. Crossing the chamber with that dressing gown flowing around her. In the absence of the stays she wore beneath her gowns, her breasts were on display in a new, mouthwatering fashion. Was it his imagination, or were those her hard little nipples poking out, all stiff and begging for his tongue beneath her prim wrapper?

  “What would you have me do?” she asked.

  Was riding him in the tub out of the question? He had a feeling it was, so he held his tongue on the request, gesturing instead to the soap and cloth. Winter’s soap, and curse it, he did not like the Winter family overly much, but Devereaux Winter made a damned good-smelling article.

  “Wash me, wife.”

  He was pushing her, and he knew it. But he also liked to see how far she would allow him to go. Was she still furious with him? Had his attempts at explanations done their job? It was impossible to tell.

  He hated that he had hurt her.

  Hated that he had caused her a moment of pain.

  Christ, if he could, he would endure another lashing on the ribs rather than upset Octavia again.

  But despite the conflict of earlier, she did as he asked, taking up the cloth and dipping it into the water.

  “Tepid,” she said, “just as I suspected.”

  The bath was cooling, but Jasper was not. His wife’s perfect, dainty hands were about to be on him once more. Separation by cloth scarcely mattered. She wetted the cake of soap by drawing the damp square over it.

  “I’ve bathed in worse,” he said. “This ain’t bad at all.”

  Especially since she was here.

  He didn’t need to tell her that.

  “Hmm,” was all she said, a feminine hum that should not have had an effect on him and yet somehow managed to.

  But that was nothing compared to when she smoothed the soapy cloth over his chest. Her fingertips grazed his hungry flesh. Right over his nipple, a place he had never realized was particularly sensitive. He clenched his jaw and gripped the rim of the tub, steeling himself against the rush of desire.

  Damn.

  She continued her work, dragging the cloth along his chest, then his throat. Obligingly, he tipped his head back, watching her as she alternated between wringing out the square and rinsing him and applying more
soap. He had not been prepared for how good it would feel to have her at his side, washing him.

  His wife.

  And what an arsehole he was, ruining things on the second day of their marriage.

  “I’ve let it be known that Mary is no longer welcome at The Sinner’s Palace,” he said into the silence which had fallen.

  Why, he was not sure. As he had told her, he was not accustomed to explaining himself. He did not have to. His siblings trusted him. They made decisions together, but he was the leader. Always had been.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, continuing her ministrations. “Lean forward so I may wash your back.”

  He did as she asked, inhaling sharply when he jostled his sore ribs.

  She stilled. “Have I hurt you?”

  “Bloody ribs,” he said on a grunt.

  “You must take better care with yourself,” she said softly, continuing with the cloth. “Is attacking your rivals a regular occurrence?”

  “When they light my future gaming hell on fire, it is,” he gritted.

  And he would not hesitate to do it again. Although Bradley continued to deny any part in the fire, Jasper did not believe his protestations of innocence. It had been a brawl today, but next time could be deadly.

  “Is this what I am to expect in our marriage?”

  Her question hit a place inside him he had not realized existed. His heart? Christ. He had daughters. A wife. In the past, when he had gone to battle over territory, he had never had anyone to fret over him save his sisters, and Caro’s chief concern had been stitching up wounds rather than apprehension over future wars.

  “Is that worry I hear in your voice, minx?” he asked, aiming to keep his tone light.

  Trying to ignore his straining cock.

  And that queer shift happening in his chest.

  “Am I not meant to worry about you?” She finished with his back and moved around the tub, her gaze meeting his at last. “You are my husband now.”

  “Forced or not, eh?”

  He could not let the matter drop. Perhaps he should have done. But he wanted her to admit she had chosen to marry him. That she liked his kisses. That last night, in her bed, she had melted for him. Had come undone for him. That she wanted him now, as well.

  “Some of my words earlier were harsh and spoken in haste,” she said, nibbling on the lush fullness of her lower lip.

  And he could not stop himself. He reached for her. Did as he had imagined, wrapping those midnight silk curls around his hand and holding her still for his kiss. Chasing the memory of the last mouth that had been on his, unwanted and terrible as it had been.

  This was the only woman whose mouth he wanted, now and forever.

  Hers.

  Octavia dropped the cloth, and then her wet hands were on him, wrapping around his neck. She kissed him as she always had, as if she wanted to devour him. And he kissed her in return with the same devotion. He could never kiss her enough, have her enough.

  Why had he thought marrying and bedding her would cure him of this ache? It would not. Nothing would suffice. She had found her way past the armor he had once believed impenetrable. Here she was. His wife. Someone he did not mind answering to.

  Most importantly of all, a reason to come home, along with Anne and Elizabeth.

  He broke the kiss before he could deepen it and lose complete control, reminding himself that he still smelled of smoke. His hair needed washing. She was watching him with wide eyes and dark-red lips. Red and sweet, the color of ripe hothouse strawberries, that delicacy he had only chanced to consume in recent years. After he and his siblings had become flush enough in funds to experience what the lords and ladies above them did.

  Everything except legitimacy and rank. Money could buy one almost everything. But entrée into polite society’s upper echelons was priceless. For the first time, he wondered what it had cost Octavia to become his wife. Was she sad to have left her careful world of titles and drawing rooms behind?

  He did not like the thought.

  Irritated and overcome with desire, he sank lower in the tub, shifting his body and holding his breath as he submerged his head. That ought to cool him off. The water was the temperature of the room by now. Perhaps this moment of calm would restore some of his rational thinking.

  If he were capable of it where she was concerned.

  When he reemerged, he pushed the wet hair from his eyes and found her there, wild-eyed, concern etched into her delicate features.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing?” she asked.

  “Washing the smoke and soot and Christ knows what else from my hair,” he answered.

  He was not going to bed stinking of what had transpired earlier in the day.

  “Let me see.” Frowning, she moved behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and urging him toward the lip of the tub once more.

  He went as she asked, and for a moment, her touch lingered on him, kneading and caressing his muscles. A groan tore from him, making her pause.

  “Did you injure your shoulders as well?”

  “No, minx.” He bit back his grin. “I like the way you feel. That’s all.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  But despite his cravings, she did not continue massaging his shoulders. Instead, she lathered his hair, fingertips working his scalp in a way that made him forget all about his aching muscles. Satan’s teeth, this was heaven. She was heaven. His one bit of paradise in an otherwise cesspool of enemies, danger, work, and filth.

  If he had known how damned wonderful it was to have Octavia as his wife, in his bed, at his side, he would have thrown her over his shoulder the moment she had first wandered into his hell with her pudding-headed notion of using The Sinner’s Palace as a mine for her gossip journal.

  Far sooner than he would have wished, she had washed his hair to her content. Her fingers fled.

  “You may rinse.”

  Instead of dipping his head below the water this time, he arched back. The motion pulled at his bruised ribs, and this time, his groan was for another reason entirely. Pain. He had sustained many wounds in his days, but this one…as the gin wore off, he found it increasingly difficult to ignore.

  “Your ribs?” Octavia guessed, her voice grim.

  “Yes,” he admitted, and he did not know why.

  Jasper Sutton never showed his weaknesses to anyone. Yet, everything with her seemed different. There was a comfort with her, an intimacy that was not a product of her being his wife or sharing his bed. It was something far more, far deeper.

  “Let me,” she said.

  And he did. The fearless, fearsome Jasper Sutton allowed his woman to rinse his hair, admitting without words that he needed her help. That he was reliant upon her. She said not a word. A lesser woman would have crowed over her victory. Not Octavia. She merely rinsed the lingering soap from his hair as if it were the most natural action. Indeed, as if it were the only action.

  Water dripped into his ear, and if there was one thing he detested, it was water in his damned ears. But it was a testament to the way this woman made him feel that he neither complained nor flinched. The water would work its way out as he slept. How could he glower and growl at her when she had been nothing but perfection from the moment he had returned, likely reeking of smoke and blue ruin and only the devil knew what else?

  He could not.

  And so he remained still and willing as she finished the ablutions then bade him to rise from the tub. Even as he tried to be on his most gentlemanly behavior—a most taxing endeavor for Jasper, to be sure—there was no hiding the effect she had on him. His cock protruded, proud and long and eager for her.

  Octavia swallowed before turning away. She fetched a towel and held it for him as he stepped from the bath. He took it, covering his naked body and drying himself off. But now that he was clean, he had another problem.

  His bed was on the opposite end of the chamber, and Octavia was not in it.

  “Stay with me,” he said.r />
  Not a command, but not quite a request.

  She had averted her gaze from his nudity, but she had not retreated. Her slender shoulders stiffened. “Jasper.”

  Fine. Perhaps she was not ready for more lovemaking yet. It had been one hell of a long day, and although his body was eager, it was also sore and tired. He could wait.

  A foreign word slipped off his tongue. “Please?”

  Who had he become?

  She turned back to him. “I am not ready. Not after what happened this afternoon.”

  Ah, so he would need to earn her affection and his place in her bed once more. Never mind that. Jasper accepted the challenge. He had complete faith in his skills of seduction.

  “I am weary, Octavia,” he explained. “All I want is for you to sleep next to me. I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

  Well, perhaps that was a lie.

  She raised a brow. “You, a perfect gentleman?”

  He grinned, relieved for the lightness in her voice. “As perfect a gentleman as I can be,” he corrected.

  A small smile curved her lips. She hesitated for longer than he would have preferred. But then, at last, she nodded.

  “Very well. I shall.”

  The relief that hit him in the chest was almost enough to make his knees buckle.

  But he would worry about that another day.

  Chapter 10

  Octavia awoke from a sinfully wicked dream of Jasper’s mouth between her legs. She was breathless, heart pounding, but as she blinked and lucidity returned, chasing the remnants of slumber, she realized he had made good on his vow to be a gentleman. They had not made love the night before. Instead, they had settled into bed and he had been asleep before Queen Mab had claimed her.

  However, Jasper moved a great deal in his sleep.

  Currently, there was a heavy male arm draped over her waist and a long leg tangled between hers. As awareness returned, she noted a hand cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her night rail and the deep, even breaths of her husband.

  She was facing him, and his eyes were closed, his face relaxed. A dangerous man in repose. He was not awake.