by Clee, Adele
“How often did you see your father?” His dark eyes shone with intrigue. Scarlett suspected the question stemmed from more than an interest in her childhood.
“Not often enough.” The intolerable ache in her heart throbbed.
Mr Wycliff rubbed his chin as he contemplated her answer. “Regardless of his reasons, I daresay you felt abandoned.”
Was he determined to twist the rusty blade further into her chest? Scarlett raised her chin. “Abandoned, and dreadfully lonely.”
Good Lord! She would rather bare her scarred breast than her tortured soul.
“I presume your father is dead, hence the reason you left the seminary and took to the stage.”
“Yes.” She should mention that he took his own life, that the coroner proclaimed felo de se—suicide—rather than cite an unstable mind as was common practice. Consequently, everything the man owned went to refill the Crown’s coffers.
“So what prompted you to marry Lord Steele?” His intense stare fixed her to the floor. Where she had previously heard a faint softness hidden beneath his words, now she heard a ruthless arrogance, a blatant disregard for women who married for money and status.
“It might have something to do with the fact a stranger followed me home every night for a week. That a cloaked fiend throttled me in the alley and only fled because Lord Steele intervened.”
Now she suspected that Steele’s arrival was not a coincidence. The devious blackguard was besotted, besotted with the notion of marrying another weak woman who would cower to him in grateful servitude.
Mr Wycliff’s mouth twisted with disdain and he arched a mocking brow. “How convenient. Did it not occur to you that it was all part of his depraved plan?”
At the time, rational thought had abandoned her, too. “Have your emotions ever plagued you to the point you long for a moment’s peace?”
“Indeed.” He inclined his head. “Though from the scars littering your back, peace is the last thing you found in your marriage.”
No, fighting for survival had pushed her to unimaginable limits. “Oh, but for the wisdom of hindsight.” It was her turn to sound cold and cynical.
“Did you kill your husband?”
“No.”
“But you thought about thrusting a blade into the bastard’s chest.”
“Every day.”
“Remind me how he met his end.”
“His heart gave out while wedged between his mistress’ thighs midthrust.”
The corner of Mr Wycliff’s mouth curled up in amusement. “A delightful way to go.”
She would rather swing from the gallows than suffer the weight of Steele’s paunch or the stench of his rancid breath. “That depends upon one’s partner.”
He crossed his hands behind his head and lounged back on the pillows. “Or upon one’s position. I’d prefer to be on my back, gazing up at my mistress’ bountiful breasts.”
Scarlett swallowed her surprise. She had heard he favoured no one special. “You have a mistress?” The question brought an uncomfortable lump to her throat.
“It was a figure of speech. Why would I want the responsibility of a mistress when I can bed any woman I choose?”
The conceited devil!
“Not any woman,” she challenged.
His eyes grew warm and wide, and he laughed. “You think you’re immune to my charms, Widow?”
“When it comes to me, arrogance is your downfall.”
He sat up, rose to his feet with predatory grace and closed the gap between them. Capturing her chin between his fingers, he stared into her eyes.
“What would it take to seduce the Scarlet Widow?” His sinful mouth was but an inch from hers, his muscular thighs pressing her back against the wall. “I imagine an ounce of tenderness, a kind gesture, a slow, passionate melding of mouths and you would fall into bed as easily as any jaded member of the demi-monde. Am I right?”
He was so right it pained her to admit it.
Craving love would always be her weakness. That’s what happened when one sat at the window waiting for a father who never came. One genuine act of kindness meant more than a chest of priceless gems.
“Your plan to seduce me has one major flaw,” she said, for she had learnt to rely on nothing but her steely defences.
“Do you think I give a damn about your scars?” His rich, liquid tone washed over her, threatened her resolve. A man could not look upon her body without staring at the savage lines. The fact he had mentioned the ugly marks supported her theory.
“You forgot the first rule in battle, Mr Wycliff.” Scarlett stroked her hand down her red pelisse, drawing strength from her costume. “In planning your attack, you have failed to consider your defence.”
Perhaps he had forgotten that she’d glimpsed him at his most vulnerable. Affection had flashed in his eyes when reunited with the lowly actress who had saved him from death’s door. Disdain quickly replaced it upon discovering she was the scandalous Scarlet Widow.
He released her chin and braced his hands on the wall above her head, trapping her in his masculine cage. With his broad shoulders and muscular arms blocking her view, she wasn’t sure if it was a move to entice or intimidate.
He bent his head. “Why would I need to form a defence when you are desperate to surrender?”
“Surrender? Are you so certain? Might a sign of weakness not be a planned tactic?” She gave a mocking snort as she was beginning to enjoy this game. “In that first tender touch, I would have you on your knees. The real you—the man who longs for affection just as much as I do—not the fake construction used to create mischief and mayhem. Your kind gesture would leave your heart as open and as exposed as mine. And as for your passionate kiss, well, there is every chance you might taste the truth.”
“The truth?” His dark eyes looked almost black as he pinned her to the wall. All she need do was raise her lips to feel that hungry mouth on hers.
Scarlett smiled. “That you wore red today because your persona is as fake as the Scarlet Widow’s.”
He pushed away from the wall as if the plaster had burnt his hands. “You think you know me. You don’t.”
Perhaps not, but she fought the desire to know him in every way a woman could know a man.
In the blink of an eye he was sitting on the bed, thrusting his feet into his boots with such force he was likely to cause himself an injury. “But rest assured, Widow, we will rectify the situation tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“When you accompany me to the Marquis of Blackbeck’s ball.”
“A ball? I heard you refuse to speak to your father let alone attend functions at his house.” She’d heard that Damian Wycliff avoided respectable gatherings.
He stood, snatched his coat from the hook on the door and shrugged into the garment with some impatience. “Perhaps I am willing to make an exception in light of the fact Joshua and Jemima Steele are attending. They think you are somehow responsible for their father’s untimely death and are, no doubt, eager for revenge.”
Anger surfaced. “I did not secretly administer medicine that might make his heart give out.” Jemima openly conveyed such suspicions. But she was too weak to plan the numerous attacks on Scarlett’s person. Mr Wycliff would know that if he bothered to ask more questions. “While you know about the intruder, you know nothing about the other attacks.”
“Don’t I?” He folded his arms across his chest in a display of superiority. “Something spooked your horse in Hyde Park forcing the beast to rear and cast you from your saddle. Word is you should have broken your neck.”
“Through my many trials and tribulations whilst married to Lord Steele, I have learnt how to fall.”
His arrogant grin faltered, but only long enough for him to mutter a curse. “A carriage mounted the pavement in Piccadilly and almost took you under its wheels.”
“Thankfully, I have developed quick reflexes.”
“There was the wild dog incident in Green Park.”
&
nbsp; Scarlett arched a brow. The animal had darted from the bushes, teeth bared, ready to attack. “The key with all vicious dogs is not to show fear.” And to bribe them with the sweet biscuit she’d retrieved from her reticule. “And you learnt all of that since last night?”
“Well, I have not spent the morning supping ale and fondling the serving wench.”
“Then the poor girl must be sobbing into her apron. You forgot to mention the attempted poisoning, though my housekeeper will take great pleasure in telling the story. She so enjoys playing the victim.”
“Then I shall call for you fifteen minutes earlier this evening.” He pulled his watch from his pocket and inspected the time. “The hour is up.” He replaced his watch and unlocked the door. “This is the first time I have left a hired bedchamber feeling wholly unsatisfied.”
“If you plan on spending time in my company, Mr Wycliff, you should become accustomed to the sensation. I am the only woman in Christendom opposed to the prospect of warming your bed.”
“Liar,” the devil on her shoulder shouted.
Amused, Mr Wycliff placed a guiding hand at the small of her back and led her from the room. “If you knew me, Widow, you would know not to offer such a tempting challenge.”
Chapter Five
Damian tugged on the cuffs of his black evening coat and brushed imagined dust from his lapels. He stood on the stairs leading down to his father’s ballroom, surveying the lavish spectacle. The crystal chandeliers created an air of opulence. Candlelight glistened in the tall gilt mirrors. The orchestra on the balcony wore matching gold damask coats as they played their instruments with a skill worthy of royal patronage. Liveried footmen in powdered wigs wandered through the room carrying silver trays laden with flutes of champagne.
Damian’s gaze settled on his host.
The man he had spent a lifetime hating.
The Marquis of Blackbeck liked nothing more than to bathe in extravagance. Wealth oozed from every fibre of his being. Confidence sparkled as brilliantly as the huge diamond pin decorating his cravat. The marquis conducted his personal liaisons with the same nonchalant indifference he gave to his excessive expenditure.
Heads turned in Damian’s direction long before the majordomo made his announcement. Ladies gaped in shock. Some stared with lust lighting their eyes. By the time he reached the bottom step, he would have more than one invitation to join a private party in a lonely lady’s bedchamber tonight.
But he wasn’t the only newcomer being ogled.
Men in their droves—dissolute and respectable, old and young—eyed the beauty standing confidently at his side wearing a vibrant red dress.
He could hardly blame them. From the moment the Scarlet Widow slipped out of her wrapper, he had fought the urge to run his horny hands over the smooth silk hugging her curves. Delicate lace covered her shoulders. The high collar hid the bruises and scars. She did not need to display mounds of creamy white flesh, for the material clung to her body like a second skin.
The widow touched the sleeve of his coat and whispered playfully, “Something has captured the guests’ attention. I wonder what it could be.”
It wasn’t the comment that created an odd flutter of excitement in Damian’s chest. The widow spoke as if he were the only man privileged to hear her inner thoughts, and that fed his vanity.
Damian offered his arm, and the widow slipped her hand into the crook. “Shall we set the ballroom ablaze?” he said, relishing the prospect of causing his father embarrassment. “The gossips’ tongues will be so hot every word spoken will sound like a sizzle.”
The widow looked at him and arched a brow. “While I take immense pleasure in causing a scene, that’s not why we are here.”
No, he’d come to settle the debt, to prove Joshua and Jemima Steele had conspired to commit murder. Naturally, the motive was money. By his estimation, he would have their confession within the hour. Then he would set about seducing the beguiling creation at his side until she begged him to bed her, before relegating the whole event to a distant corner of his memory. Simple.
“Surely you have a plan,” she continued.
“Only the staid and sober waste time plotting and scheming. Reckless gentlemen act on impulse.”
“It was impulse that saw you left for dead in an alley.” An impatient huff left her lips though she maintained her affected smile. “I should have known you would tackle my problem with nothing but devilish joviality. No doubt you brought me here tonight for your own devious ends.”
It annoyed him that she was right.
Damian steered her through the throng, who parted as if he were Moses waving a staff of divinity. Parched, he snatched a flute of champagne, swallowed the contents and returned it to the tray before grabbing two more.
“Reckless gentlemen rely on their talents to achieve success,” he said, offering the widow a glass. And some rogues were like cats. No matter how far they fell, they landed on their feet.
She wrapped her gloved fingers around the stem. When she brought the vessel to her lips, he noticed the slight tremble that spoke of suppressed anxiety. The mere glimpse of the vulnerable actress raised his pulse a notch.
“When your only talent amounts to whoring, Mr Wycliff, I must say I am intrigued to hear more.”
“Whoring has its uses. Indeed, I intend to test my expertise on Miss Jemima Steele tonight.” He nodded to the thin lady with rodent features standing near the terrace doors. One hard thrust and the chit would snap like a twig. “While I make a point never to seduce wallflowers, I shall use my talent to weaken her resolve.”
The widow’s eyes grew wide with alarm. “You intend to bed Miss Steele?” she whispered through gritted teeth. “That is your plan?”
Damian shrugged. “I intend to place her in such a compromising position she has no choice but to tell the truth. The lady is far too prim for her own good. And I’m too much of a devil to let the opportunity pass.”
“I doubt Satan himself would stoop so low.” She seemed more upset than angry.
“I have sworn to protect you, to put a lead ball between the brows of the blackguard who wants you dead.” Damian clasped her elbow to reinforce his point. “Whether you like it or not, you’re my responsibility until the debt is repaid.”
What did she expect? She was the one who used his love for his mother against him. He’d sworn an oath in Maria’s name, and he would not disrespect her memory.
Damian braced himself for an argument, but after a moment’s reflection, the widow inclined her head in acquiescence.
He stared at her, trying to understand why she had not fought against his control, until a discreet cough to their left drew his attention.
“Lady Steele,” the foppish gentleman began. “Forgive the intrusion.”
Before Damian could growl “bugger off” in his most vicious voice, the widow said, “Lord Rathbone, what a pleasant surprise.” She batted her lashes, her smile as fake as her warm tone.
Rathbone inclined his head to Damian and then bowed to the widow. “I wonder if I might claim the next dance?”
Did the fool not know he had won the bet?
Did he not know that he hadn’t a hope of taking this woman to his bed? The widow sought more than elegant clothes and a handsome countenance.
The lord’s curly brown hair accentuated the softness of his features. His high collar failed to hide his weak chin. He looked like the sort of fellow who would rather pander to a lady’s whims than seduce her into submission. No doubt he wore a nightcap and shirt to bed, made love to his mistress on a set day of the week, always at nine with the candles snuffed.
Damian made a mental note to seek the lord out at the card table and wipe the charming smile from his lips.
“Thank you, my lord,” the widow replied. “But it is such a crush tonight, and I have yet to pay homage to the host. Perhaps our paths might cross later in the evening. Or we might find an opportunity to converse over supper.”
Over Damian’s dead b
ody.
The woman who came with him stayed with him.
“Of course.” Rathbone accepted the excuse too easily. That said, Damian afforded the man a modicum of respect. He must be keen on the widow to stand before a notorious rogue knowing one wrong word might land him a dawn appointment. “I’m told the supper table boasts many extravagant delicacies.”
“Then I look forward to sampling its delights.”
That was enough. Damian gritted his teeth. Even though he knew it was all an act, he despised her obvious flirtation.
Without offering a word to the soppy lord, Damian cupped the widow’s elbow and steered her away. “If I’m supposed to be bedding you, I’ll not have you fawning over Lord Rathbone.”
She snorted though did not object to his high-handed approach. “If I am supposed to be bedding you, Mr Wycliff, I’ll not have you compromising Miss Steele.”
“Any attempt to rouse jealousy is for naught. I am immune.” He refused to admit that resentment made him want to throttle the lord. Besides, when it came to Miss Steele, he had his limits and planned to do nothing more than frighten the chit.
“It is not my intention to play games, sir. Lady Rathbone is one of the few matrons to show me an ounce of human kindness. Consequently, I find myself unable to be rude to her grandson.”
“Then you should put the fellow out of his misery. His excessive drooling must surely frustrate his valet.”
The widow’s genuine smile almost made Damian stumble. “Lord Rathbone means well, but his overzealous need to capture my attention leads me to wonder if he’s pledged money in the wager at White’s.”
“Distrusting others is something we have in common.” The first strains of a waltz drifted through the room. Damian never danced. If he did, he would whisk the widow around the floor, hold her scandalously close just to annoy Lord Rathbone. “Would you like me to make discreet inquiries?”
She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “I doubt you have a discreet bone in your body. Besides, Lady Rathbone is keen to see her grandson wed, and not to a notorious widow.”
“Marriage is not for the likes of us,” he said, drawing her towards the terrace for he needed an opportunity to thrust the note he’d written into Miss Steele’s hand.
