And The Widow Wore Scarlet: Scandalous Sons - Book 1

by Clee, Adele

  They stared at each other for a moment, their deep breathing the only sound in the room, until one rogue standing at the billiard table chuckled.

  “Damn it all, Wycliff. Do you know how many men would trade places with you right now? I knew I had seen the Scarlet Widow before.”

  Scarlett winced. A fake persona proved useful when dealing with degenerates, those eager to make a mockery of marriage. The name came with the power and strength of a Viking army. The name surrounded her, followed her everywhere with raised shields, painted faces and vicious snarls. She bore the scars of her many battles with Lord Steele, emotional and physical scars that had earned her a reputation for being fearless.

  The lady on the sofa jumped to her feet. “It seems I am wasting my time here and shall look for sport elsewhere.” She straightened her dress, waited for Mr Wycliff to protest. When he ignored her attempt to gain his attention, she strode to the door, skirting nervously around Scarlett as if anticipating a Norse attack. “If anyone can win the wager it is you, Wycliff.”

  After a moment of confusion, Mr Wycliff’s stone-faced expression returned. “Would someone care to speak in plain English? What widow? What blasted wager?”

  The golden-haired god stepped forward. “Ignorance comes from spending too much time abroad. Ignorance comes from refusing to mingle in society, from refusing membership to your father’s club. You must be the only man alive not to have heard the gossip.”

  “Gossip!” he spat. “I’m a man who deals in truths, not petty lies.”

  Scarlett squared her shoulders. “Then the truth is, Mr Wycliff, that I left my lodging-house because I married Lord Steele.” A man old enough to be her father. Not a day passed when she did not regret her decision. “The truth is that since my husband’s death I am known throughout the ton as the Scarlet Widow. The first man I take to my bed will win a ridiculous amount of money from the members of White’s.” She inhaled deeply. There wasn’t a lord left in London who hadn’t tried his hand at seduction. “Now, before you swoon, might I suggest you sit down?”

  His formidable glare turned as cold and as black as granite. Wearing a look of contempt, Mr Wycliff scanned her from head to toe.

  “The Scarlet Widow?” he mocked. “Who thought of that name? You?” He dropped onto the sofa, lounged back and folded his muscular arms across his chest. “How inventive.” Arrogance oozed from every fibre of his being as he stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “So the actress lacked morals after all. As a cynical man, I am not surprised.”

  His bitterness snapped at her like a rabid dog.

  Did he honestly believe she had wanted to marry a disgusting debaucher? A filthy philandering foyst?

  “You would say that. You’re a man who wants for nothing.” Anger surfaced. He’d be dead if it weren’t for her. What right had he to judge? “Some of us must bow and scrape to survive.”

  Hatred—dark and menacing—flashed in his eyes. “And some of us would rather die than submit to those who get a thrill from manipulating the weak. What was it that finally tempted you? Gold? Diamonds? The finest Parisian silk?”

  There was an air of vulgarity about his tone that made her want to sink into a steaming bathtub and scrub her skin red raw. No one could despise her decision more than she did.

  “I married Steele because—” The answer would not help her cause, but after three years of betrayal and deceit, she needed to feel clean again. “I married him because someone tried to kill me and I needed his protection.”

  Panic flashed in Mr Wycliff’s eyes.

  Two blinks, and it was gone.

  The devil reappeared.

  “Did I not thrust my card into your hand?” His mouth twisted into a sneer as if the words tasted foul on his lips. “Did I not tell you to call on me should you ever need assistance?”

  “You did.”

  “And you went to Steele instead?” Disgust dripped from every word.

  “Yes.” The pain of regret threatened to destroy her calm composure.

  It was a matter of self-preservation. One more act of kindness and she would have fallen under Mr Wycliff’s spell. After all those cold, lonely days in the seminary, those bitterly cold nights spent alone in the lodging-house, she would have welcomed a soft touch and a warm embrace. He might have made her his mistress—a temporary arrangement which would have tarnished the dream.

  Mr Wycliff jumped to his feet. “Then what the bloody hell are you doing here now?”

  Surrounded by her Viking army, Scarlett was impervious to a man’s rage.

  She glanced over her shoulder to the men watching their exchange, hanging on every word. “Might we have some privacy?”

  Mr Wycliff considered the men hovering behind and shook his head. “You can speak openly in front of my friends.”

  “Of course,” she replied with a smirk. The man thought nothing of fornicating in front of these men. “Then I am here to call in a debt.”

  “A debt?”

  “The debt. You swore an oath. You are a man of your word, are you not?”

  The muscle in his jaw twitched. He looked at his friends. “Leave us. Remain on the other side of the door and thrash anyone who attempts to enter.”

  “Even Mrs Crandell?” the golden-haired fellow said.

  “Yes, even Mrs Crandell. The woman is desperate to warm your bed. I am sure you’ll find a way to keep her out.”

  Both men inclined their heads. They placed their cues in the mahogany rack on the wall. One rolled a red billiard ball, sinking it into the pocket before they both left the room.

  A thick, oppressive silence descended.

  Damian Wycliff observed her for some time before stepping closer, so close heat radiated from his body, warming her as it had done on that cold night three years ago. He was so broad, so tall, so commanding. Most women would feel helpless and fragile in his presence.

  But she knew how to deal with domineering men.

  And yet she couldn’t help but feel nervous of this one.

  “I come to hold you to your promise, sir.” Her insides churned. Her limbs felt too heavy to lift. Not because she was frightened, but because it took all her strength not to place her palm on his chest, not to beg him to hold her and never let go.

  Mr Wycliff clicked his tongue as a mark of disrespect. “As a woman of some notoriety, I imagine you’re used to the crude mouths of men. So tell me this. Why would I help you when you have pissed all over my pride? My promise meant nothing to you before.”

  “You know why I did not come to you.” Because she would have wanted more than food and firewood, and her heart had been too weak then. She would have died inside every time he left her alone, alone and naked in his bed.

  “Do I?” He dragged his hand through his mop of raven-black hair. “Feel free to enlighten me.”

  The Scarlet Widow did not expose her vulnerability.

  The Scarlet Widow was cold and cunning and came to the point.

  “You stand here today because I saved your life, Mr Wycliff.” Scarlett stared down her nose as she did to those in the ton who once mocked her naivety. “You owe me a debt, and I’m told the devil always pays his dues.”

  The corners of Mr Wycliff’s mouth curled into a scornful smirk as he braced his hands on his hips. “Then show me your wound, and I shall stitch it. Show me the broken bones and black bruises.”

  The need to drain every drop of arrogance from his magnificent body burned in her veins. “Very well. But I insist you lock the door.”

  This was not how she had envisioned their reunion, but she had come prepared to show him the canvas that spoke of years of misery. For months she had stood, stripped bare as the artist did his work. Shame cut sharper than the pain. But despite every harsh stroke, Lord Steele failed to paint an obedient wife.

  Lord Steele had painted the Scarlet Widow.

  Chapter Three

  Damian sauntered past the Scarlet Widow and turned the key in the lock. Mrs Crandell knew the importa
nce some guests placed on privacy, though he suspected he would not glean an ounce of pleasure from whatever he was about to witness. He paused, his fingers still gripping the cold metal, the same fingers his angel had once bandaged and tended with care. The same fingers that ached occasionally to remind him of the only perfect moment in his entire life.

  He kept the heavy sigh from leaving his lips.

  Disappointment left a sour taste in his mouth.

  She was not his angel, not anymore.

  She was tainted, spoiled by society’s sycophants.

  He had lost count of the times he’d dreamed of seeing her again. He’d found her innocent smile beguiling. Purity had shone through the dirt and rags to cleanse his soul, too. That sparse little room was still his sanctuary. The only place he had ever felt an ounce of peace.

  Ruined.

  Replacing his mask of arrogance, he turned to face this monstrous creation who could never compete with her benevolent understudy.

  “Show me,” he said with a level of disdain he refused to hide. Facades were for the weak. “Let me see your wounds so I might judge their severity. Perhaps they are merely surface scratches for I doubt you have ever bled out onto the piss-soaked cobbles of an alley.”

  She did not turn to face him but hung her head as she untied the ribbons on her cloak. The garment fell to the floor—a red pool around her feet—leaving her standing in her widow’s weeds.

  “Would you mind unfastening the buttons, Mr Wycliff?”

  Damian snorted. “I’m no one’s maid, Widow.” He felt like ripping the blasted garment off her shoulders, tearing it to shreds.

  He expected her to bite back, but she reached behind and fiddled with the tiny black buttons.

  It took too long.

  His patience wore thin.

  Offering a frustrated groan, he stepped forward. “I do not have all night.” No, after this he would storm up to one of the bedchambers and plunge long and hard and deep into any willing wench.

  The widow dropped her hands, her fingers brushing against his in the process.

  Every muscle in his body sparked to life.

  Damnation!

  Anger surfaced. She was the only person in the world ever to affect him. He yanked at the button, ripping it from its thread and sending the damn thing skittering across the wooden floor.

  “Pay it no heed,” she said calmly. “I have many others.”

  He did not know if she meant dresses or buttons. Still, he tore the garment open, drew a sense of satisfaction from the shearing sound until he realised she wore nothing underneath.

  It was not lust he felt as he stared at her bare skin.

  A hot, murderous fury ignited in his veins.

  Damian pulled the material apart to reveal shiny pink welts crisscrossing her back. In that dank alley, he’d vomited on her boots. Now he feared he might do so again.

  “Steele did this?”

  She nodded. “My husband sought to break me.”

  Thank the lord the sick bastard was dead, else Damian would charge around to his house, slice him open from neck to navel and serve his innards to his dogs.

  “From your infamous reputation, I presume he did not succeed.” Talking was the only way to cool his raging blood. “The man deserves to rot in hell.”

  “They’re the scars of a hard lesson learned. They’re the evidence of my grave mistake, but they are not the only ones.”

  He wasn’t sure he could stomach seeing any more. But he had taunted her, belittled her cause, had insisted she plead her case.

  She turned to face him, pushed the black silk off her shoulders down to her waist to reveal rosy nipples and spectacular breasts.

  Every man in the world would admire her full, round bosom were it not for the scar running from her collarbone to the delicate pink areola. It was not the mark of a whip but one left from a cut with a blade.

  “Have you seen enough?” The widow stood there, every ounce of pride she possessed stripped from her body and discarded along with the morbid material. “Hardly surface scratches,” she added to punish him for his foolish comment. “Had I been fighting against Napoleon, I might have received a medal for my injuries.”

  He stared into her blue eyes. The white flecks made them look as cold as ice floating on an Arctic sea. “If not a medal, you would have earned every man’s respect.”

  “I am only interested in earning your respect, Mr Wycliff.”

  He stepped closer, struggled to fight the urge to draw her into his arms and offer comfort.

  Hellfire!

  This woman was dangerous.

  Unable to soothe her pain, he pulled the sleeves of her dress up over her shoulders without once admiring the softness of her lush breasts, without dipping his head and feasting on her flesh. Only then did he notice the green bruises marring the skin at her throat.

  The sight forced him to gasp and step back.

  “They’re not black,” she said, sounding far too composed, “but they’re bruises all the same.”

  “Your husband couldn’t have done this.” Having recently returned from Paris, Damian knew nothing of the lord’s demise. But if there was a wager at White’s, his death must be fairly recent.

  Had she killed the blackguard?

  Is that why she sought his help?

  The widow snorted. “No. My husband died six months ago, his puny manhood still buried inside his mistress. But someone stole into my house in the dead of night and sought to squeeze the last breath from my lungs. Thank the lord for a chamber pot. I walloped the culprit hard enough to send him running.”

  Numerous questions flooded Damian’s mind. Not least to ask if the pot was empty. The most pressing one was what she expected him to do about it.

  “What do you want, Widow?” Whatever it was, he should inform her she was wrong about him. He never kept his word. Forever made false promises.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she said, pulling up the high neck of her dress to cover the ugly marks around her throat. “I saved your life. I ask that you save mine.”

  “You want me to find this felon?” He was not a damn errand boy.

  “I want your protection.”

  Those were the words she should have used three years ago. He would have bedded her, given her every luxury. He would have drained every drop of goodness from her innocent body, ridding himself of the deep ache he had long since suppressed.

  “You want me to make you my mistress?”

  “Of course not.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “No man shall ever put his hands on me again.”

  Now there was a challenge.

  One too tempting to resist.

  “But for my own purposes, I will have society believe we are lovers,” she continued. “During which time you will help me discover who wants me dead.”

  “I’m a scoundrel who lives life to excess, not a Bow Street runner turned enquiry agent.” Then again, the marquis would be disappointed to hear Damian kept company with such a notorious widow. That was worth the effort alone.

  “And I was an actress, not a surgeon or seamstress.”

  “Of that, I am aware. I still bear the evidence of your inferior sewing skills.” Though women loved his jagged scar.

  “You would have died,” she countered.

  “A blessing some might say.”

  The widow glared. “You may wave your indifference like a celebratory flag, but I know honour flows in your blood.”

  With his defences already raised, he wanted to prove her wrong. He hated that she knew something about him. Something real. Something true.

  Damian plastered a sinful grin, and in the husky voice of a skilled seducer said, “Lust is the only thing flowing in my veins, Widow. Perhaps you might tempt me to accept if you sweetened the deal.”

  She did not smile or mock him.

  She did something far worse.

  Pity flashed in her eyes. “Your mother would be ashamed of you,” she said, and the words hit harder than any punch.
“You called to her in the alley, and she answered your prayers. She sent me to save you. You held her cross, and you made a vow. A solemn promise. And in Maria’s name, I hold you to it now.”

  Maria!

  Damian swallowed hard. “You remembered her name.”

  When the widow attacked, she cut to the bone.

  “You gave me her most treasured possession. How could I ever forget?”

  The ache in his heart returned. Giving her the cross was a mistake. With every passing day, he’d grown to regret his rash decision.

  “I trust the money bought you some comfort.” Had she used the funds to buy new boots, dresses, more books? “My mother would have given you everything she owned in gratitude for saving her son.”

  No one would love him that much again.

  A weak smile touched the widow’s lips though it in no way reminded him of the angel who had slept peacefully in his arms in bed. “The necklace brought me more comfort than you could ever know.”

  Wycliff nodded as he silently accepted his fate, accepted that this woman knew how to read his thoughts, knew how to press his back against the wall and cut off all means of escape.

  Releasing a weary sigh, he said, “If I am to save your life, Widow, I need to know everything about your situation. I want to know every intimate detail. No lies.”

  She raised her chin and inhaled deeply as her eyes misted. “You have seen me stripped to the bone, Mr Wycliff. You have seen my truth. Other than the blackguard who created them, you’re the only man ever to gaze upon my scars.”

  For some reason, the thought pleased him.

  “And you understand that being associated with me will only add fuel to the fire of your notoriety. There is a reason I spend so much time abroad.”

  He had shot Lord Cockram in a duel after discovering he was responsible for the beating in the alley. He had shot two other dishonourable devils since. And he would put a lead ball between Lord Steele’s brows were he not rotting beneath the ground.

  The lady arched a brow. “I am counting on it. You may call at my house in Bedford Street tomorrow, and I shall tell you anything you feel pertinent to my case.”