Sutton’s Sins: The Sinful Suttons Book 2

by Scott, Scarlett

  Thank heavens she had escaped him. All she needed to do was remain out of his reach until her birthday. And possibly beyond. But she would confront that matter later, when the necessity arose. For now, she was tired and comfortable and safe.

  Or rather, as comfortable and safe as she could possibly feel given her tenuous position. Despite the kindness Rafe Sutton had shown her that day in the carriage, Persephone remained convinced it was only a matter of time before her lies were revealed. Whether unintentionally or out of an abundance of caution given that she was providing care for his nieces, she could not say. All she did know was that each morning, she woke with dread in her belly even as the sun rose high on the promise of a new day.

  Undoubtedly, tomorrow would prove no different.

  Persephone unleashed a wistful sigh as she reached the door to her room. Holding her taper aloft to illuminate the passage, she reached for the latch and pushed the door open, crossing over the threshold. The moment the portal closed at her back, however, she knew something was amiss.

  The scent of the room was different.

  Different, yet familiar.

  Shaving soap and man and…

  Rafe Sutton.

  Freezing where she stood, she cast a wild glance about the shadows of her small room.

  “Good evening, Miss Wren.”

  She wheeled about to find him behind her, his large form occupying the inkiness of the far corner of the room where a small chair dwelled. Often, the piece of furniture in question provided an excellent place to read in the morning before she needed to join Anne and Elizabeth for their first lessons of the day. It was her place, the only space in the entire town house which was solely hers. The only place that had ever seemed hers, in fact.

  And now, Rafe Sutton was occupying it as if he belonged there.

  “Mr. Sutton,” she snapped, holding her free hand to her madly galloping heart. “What are you doing here?”

  He made no move to stand. Instead, he waved his hand in a languid gesture which encompassed his body. “What am I doing here beneath this roof, or here in your room again?”

  “Beneath this roof,” she said hastily. “Or rather, in my room. Oh, bother. Both.”

  Her foolish gaze seized the opportunity to drink him in. His long legs were encased in trousers, his ankles crossed. His hazel eyes met hers through the murk, sending a spark of awareness straight through her, as burning as if it had been cast directly from a live flame. He wore no jacket this evening, she realized as she moved nearer, chasing the darkness with the soft, warm illumination of her candle. Instead, he was in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, the knot of his snowy cravat loose at his throat.

  Why did he have to be so wickedly alluring? There was something about the man that transcended mere looks. He simply exuded something that drew her to him in a way no man before him had. Or, she suspected, could.

  “I am staying here.”

  The smooth, self-assured response had her instantly on edge.

  “Here in my room?” she blurted, before inwardly chastising herself.

  It could not be! Mr. Sutton and Lady Octavia would never allow such a scandalous arrangement. Her mind whirled. She was flustered. Her face hot. The rest of her body…hotter.

  What was this flush that overcame her whenever he was near? Why and how? Could she put an end to it?

  Rafe chuckled and unfolded his body from the chair, rising to his full height. Curse him, but the sound was velvet and silk to her senses. Soft and smooth and decadent.

  Rafe? When had she begun to think of him in such intimate terms?

  “Beneath this roof, Miss Wren. My brothers and sisters and I are opening a new venture in the West End, The Sinner’s Palace II. I’ll be running the daily operations, which means I need to be closer than the East End more often than not.”

  Beneath.

  This.

  Roof?

  He was staying here? Every night? Worry assailed her, mingling with the unwanted desire. Not fear about his presence, but rather for what it would mean to her in terms of the looming secret she had revealed.

  “Have you told Mr. Sutton and Lady Octavia about what happened at my last situation?” she asked, trying to tamp down her body’s frantic response.

  He moved soundlessly, with the same innate grace she had noted before. Catlike and elegant and yet delightfully masculine all at once.

  “Even if I were to tell Jasper and his wife that bastard Gregson attempted to force himself on you, they would find fault with that cowardly scoundrel, where it belongs,” he said, his countenance serious, his gaze searching. “Surely you know that?”

  “I forged my letter of character to gain this position,” she said. “When I left Lord Landsdowne’s home, I knew I would have to forfeit that, but I was also desperate.”

  “You did what you needed to do.” Rafe removed the remainder of the distance between them, plucking the taper from her fingers before moving away to light a brace of candles and a small lamp.

  More light flooded her room, and she was at once grateful for it and dismayed.

  Grateful because her eyes no longer had to strain through the darkness to make out the beautiful symmetry of his face. Dismayed because her eyes no longer had to strain through the darkness to make out the beautiful symmetry of his face. And all the rest of him, too.

  He was more handsome than she had recalled, if at all possible. Surely it was impossible, was it not? Certainly implausible. Yet, he was. She found herself moving toward him, seeking his warmth. Seeking his presence.

  “I did what I had to do, yes, but I lied,” she pointed out. “I lied to you. I lied to them. All you need to do is tell them my letter of character was forged, and they will ask me to leave without reference.”

  She was giving voice to her fears. Quite foolishly. And yet, the words had left her in a mad rush. When had Rafe Sutton become her confidante?

  “I won’t tell them, Miss Wren.” Gently and slowly, as if he feared she were a wild creature who might start and flee, he reached out, running his forefinger beneath her jaw. The caress was so tender and fleeting, she would have believed she had imagined it if not for the tingling warmth where his bare skin had touched hers. “Will you tell me your name?”

  “Persephone,” she said, the only part of her that was not a lie. The only part of her that was truly hers to give him.

  When she had escaped Cousin Bartholomew, she had known she would need to change her surname to render it more difficult to find her. It was a matter of course that he would come looking. He would not wish for his fortune to flee him. But she had kept her given name, not wanting to lose herself entirely.

  She was still Persephone. She was merely no longer Lady Persephone Calcot.

  “Persephone,” Rafe repeated, a small grin quirking his lips, his dimples appearing. “Ah, how interesting.”

  “Interesting?” She was trying not to allow herself to be charmed by him and failing miserably.

  She ought to tell him to leave her room instead of admiring the glint of the low light in his blond curls, and yet she could not. There was the faintest golden stubble of whiskers on his jaw that she found utterly mesmerizing.

  “Hades and Persephone. I know the tale,” he said, his smile fading and taking with it those maddening grooves that served to enhance his appeal. “Hades stole Persephone away to the underworld.”

  He ran his hand along the well-defined angle she had been admiring, and for a brief, mad moment, she wondered what it would feel like, what would happen if she were to replace his hand with hers.

  Then, she banished the dangerous thought from her mind.

  You’re being foolish, Persephone. This man is not for you.

  “I am afraid I fail to see what is interesting about the story,” she forced herself to say. “It seems rather unbelievable, if you ask me. He fell in love with her after seeing her picking flowers? How trite.”

  Rafe raised a brow. “I reckon that for the right woman, a man might
lose his heart and his head easily. He may even forgive a lady for slipping laudanum into his brandy.”

  A strange warmth invaded her. What was he suggesting? Surely not that he had lost either his head or his heart to her. That was impossible. He scarcely even knew her. And furthermore, she was still lying to him, even now. Her every waking moment was one falsehood after the next, perpetuated over and over, without end.

  The guilt returned, heavy as a stone. “Perhaps you should not have forgiven me, Mr. Sutton.”

  “I’m a forgiving chap when forgiveness is due.” His jaw clenched. “Not when it ain’t. You can be sure Lord Gregson won’t be trying to force himself on any other ladies any time soon. I’ve made certain of that.”

  Lord Gregson.

  The mentioning of him had her entire body stiffening as if she had been struck. Slowly, Rafe’s words permeated the intensity of her reaction.

  “You’ve made certain?” She searched his countenance. “How?”

  “I whipped his lily-white arse until he was bleeding and sobbing like a babe.”

  She blinked, certain he was jesting. But Rafe Sutton’s expression remained solemn and imperturbable. “You…whipped him?”

  Surely he knew he could be arrested for daring to strike the son of an earl.

  “He deserved it.” Half his mouth pulled up in a small grin that was sadly bereft of dimples.

  “Something serious could befall you for doing so, Mr. Sutton.”

  “Eh.” He waved a hand in dismissive fashion, as if he were chasing an irritating fly. “No need to worry on my account. I made certain the buffle-headed scoundrel hasn’t a bloody inkling who gave him the drubbing. All ’e knows is why.”

  A rush of emotion swept over her, so overwhelming that her eyes began to sting with the precursor to tears. The knowledge he had done violence to Lord Gregson left her reeling with shock and a stirring sense of justice having been done.

  But what to say in such a moment? It had been plain to Persephone, from the moment she had first met him, that Rafe Sutton was not the sort of gentleman who ordinarily graced Mayfair drawing rooms. His admission, however, was confirmation. He had whipped Lord Gregson.

  Rafe’s words echoed in her mind.

  He deserved it.

  Yes. He had deserved it. But no one had ever taken such a stand for her before. She’d never had a champion. All her life, she had been at the mercy of others. She blinked as her vision blurred with tears. They trickled down her cheeks, unstoppable.

  “Ah Christ, lovely.” Rafe extracted a handkerchief from his waistcoat and dabbed at her cheeks. “No need to cry over the fate of such a piece of shite.”

  His gesture, so tender and unexpected, and in complete disparity to the viciousness of the act he had perpetuated upon the viscount, made her tears flow anew.

  She sniffed but held herself still, accepting his ministrations. “I am not weeping over Lord Gregson.”

  A frown creased his brow. “Why, then?”

  “Because no one has ever championed me.” The admission was humiliating.

  A woman grown, four-and-twenty years of age, and not one soul had ever cared about what had become of her. Aside from when she had run away from Cousin Bartholomew, she did not expect he had ever given her much consideration. And before that…well, she had no memories of her mother or father.

  “Bleeding hell,” Rafe swore. “Then you’ve never known anyone who deserved to know you.”

  The most ridiculous urge to throw her arms about him rose within her. To hold him tight, breathe in his scent and bask in his nearness. But how strange, when she had never embraced another in her life, aside from her charges. And oh, what a blessing the exuberant hugs of Anne and Elizabeth were. Although not the same.

  Not a man’s embrace.

  Not Rafe Sutton’s arms circling her waist.

  Would he embrace her in return?

  “Thank you,” she said, and then she gave in to the desire.

  One step was all it took. One step, and she was pressed against him from breast to hip. Her movement was so sudden and awkward, she nearly upset their balances and sent the both of them crashing to the floor. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the soft linen of his simply tied cravat. He held her against him, and unless she was mistaken, he pressed his nose to her crown. She inhaled deeply, wanting to commit the scent of him to memory. To remember always the warmth and vitality he exuded. To preserve this moment so that she could return to it in her mind and be newly astounded by the rush of feeling.

  “You needn’t thank me, lovely,” he rasped.

  Lovely, he had called her for the second time. She could not lie—she liked the way it sounded in his deep, smoky baritone, with his accent that was not quite proper, just a bit raw and rough and…real. Just him.

  And then the sweetest gesture of all—his lips pressed to her part. He had kissed her. Rafe Sutton, East End charmer, had sought vengeance against Lord Gregson for her, and then he had dried her tears, held her in his arms, and kissed her. Not on her lips, where others had forced kisses she had not wanted in the past. But in that previously unconsidered place, the top of her head.

  He was a complex and mysterious man, and she knew in that moment that if there was anything she must do when in his presence, it was to guard her heart. Rafe Sutton was the sort of goodhearted rogue a woman could fall in love with. And she very much could not afford such a folly.

  One moment more, Persephone.

  Or two.

  One, two, three…

  Let go of him, you fool.

  With another sniffle, she released her hold on him and stepped away, feeling both bereft and embarrassed by her display of emotion.

  “Thank you,” she repeated, for it was necessary, and words, in this instance, were insufficient. “I suppose we should both get our rest, then.”

  “We should,” he agreed, tucking his handkerchief back into the pocket of his waistcoat with a nod.

  She thought of his cravat which she had discovered the morning after he had slept in her bed. Likely, she ought to return it to him, and yet, she found herself strangely reluctant to relinquish the scrap of starched linen, pitifully wrinkled by its presence beneath her pillow.

  And the number of times you have extracted it and held it to your nose for a hint of his scent.

  “I bid you good evening, Mr. Sutton,” she said, hating the words, hating putting an end to their time together, and yet knowing she must.

  For her own self-preservation, if nothing else.

  “Call me Rafe,” he said, that rogue’s smile of his firmly back in place. “Good evening, Persephone.”

  With a bow, he was gone.

  And she stood in her room alone, arms hugging her waist, wondering why she had never felt her loneliness in such acute fashion until now.

  CHAPTER 6

  Rafe woke in the wee hours of the morning in a strange bed, unable to sleep.

  Thinking of her.

  The governess.

  Persephone.

  She was one staircase and thirty-seven steps away from him. Not that he had been counting…

  Oh, Christ. Who was he fooling?

  He had counted. Of bloody course he had. Both on his way there the previous evening and on his return to the guest chamber Lady Octavia had assigned him.

  On a snort, Rafe threw back the bedclothes, rising from the bed. And fancy that, a guest chamber. It sounded like something some spoiled lordling would inhabit. Suttons were not meant to live in Mayfair and observe proprieties and mingle with ladies and lords, earls and viscounts, and dukes and marchionesses.

  Suttons had been born to the stink and the sadness of the rookeries, and that was where they were meant to remain. At least, that was what Rafe had always believed. Until Jasper had married Lady Octavia and settled his family here. In fucking Mayfair!

  He poured cold water into a basin and splashed his face, performing his morning ablutions. The reaction Persephone had given to the
news he had exacted vengeance upon Viscount Gregson for what he had done to her had been surprising. He had not anticipated tears, gratitude, or such a physical response. And curse him if he could not still imagine her body pressed to his, her arms around his neck, the sweet scent of her invading his senses. Summer, sunshine, flowers, glorious, beautiful life…Persephone.

  Damn it, perhaps living at his brother’s town house to help ease the burden of moving between The Sinner’s Palace and the second Sinner’s Palace had been a terrible idea. In fact, he knew it had been. Because temptation was here.

  And temptation’s name was Miss Persephone Wren.

  Temptation had sunset hair, eyes that were warm and brown with hints of cinnamon and gold, and breasts he could not help but to imagine burying his face—or cock—between, and she was tall. They were nearly the same height.

  A long Meg.

  A delectable one.

  His for the taking.

  No, what the devil was he thinking? He could not seduce Persephone. Rafe reached for a towel and blotted his face, neck and hands. She had already been mistreated by far too many arseholes, and she deserved better. A woman like Miss Wren was the sort a man married, not the sort he shagged.

  And Rafe wasn’t the kind of chap who longed to find himself leg-shackled. His life was plummy the way it was. He was happy tending to his family’s gaming hells and bedding whomever he bleeding liked.

  Reminding himself of that often would likely be a necessity if he stayed here in Mayfair for too long, the temptation of Persephone too close for comfort.

  On a sigh, he finished dressing and then left his chamber, a lone taper accompanying him to illuminate the way since the hour was so early, even the servants were still abed. May as well get a start to his day. He had an endless mountain of work awaiting him. The Sinner’s Palace II was, quite unlike its predecessor, a West End affair. For the rich culls who didn’t dare venture to the stews. For earls and dukes and marquesses and mayhap even princes. This was to be their true beginning. A solidification of their family’s power and influence.