The Scoundrel's Honor

by Christi Caldwell

  He took another draw on his cheroot. Filled with restlessness, he abandoned his office and made his way through the darkened halls to the observatory. He shoved the door open and stepped inside.

  From where he stood at the front window overlooking the gaming hell, Calum glanced over his shoulder, and then swiftly returned his attention to the floors. “You don’t visit the observatory at this hour.”

  The casual observation contained a wealth of weighted meaning.

  Ryker moved over, claiming a spot so they were shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t answer to anyone. However, you did marry me . . . And the very least you can do is sit and attend the bloody affair . . .

  A smile hovered on his lips. In the glass panel, Calum’s eyes rounded. “Are you smiling?”

  Ryker flattened his lips. “No.” One would have to find and take pleasures in something, and Ryker had long committed to a life where he didn’t want, crave, or need anything.

  The other man favored him with a dubious look, and then made work of resuming his perusal of the activity on the floors. This evening, the club was filled with the same number of patrons that had graced his floors before the bloody scandal had nearly beggared him. He angled his neck to the right, stretching his muscles. “Full floor,” he observed, taking another puff on his cheroot.

  “Another fight broke out earlier,” Calum said, glossing over Ryker’s observation.

  “Fights are not uncommon here,” he pointed out. With liquor purposefully flowing to loosen pockets and inhibitions, along also came unrestrained tempers.

  The door opened, and they looked as one to the entrance. Adair pushed the heavy wood panel closed behind him and strolled over. He joined them at the window but remained silent.

  “Your wife was on the floors when it occurred.”

  A blanket of thick tension descended on the room. Ryker narrowed his eyes and slowly turned.

  “She was unhurt,” Calum rushed to assure. He yanked at his cravat. “I escorted her from the club.”

  Ryker leveled him with a lethal stare. “This is the first I’m hearing of it?”

  In a nonchalant manner that made Ryker want to bloody his nose, Calum shrugged a shoulder. “You do not tolerate interruptions.”

  At having his carefully enumerated rules thrown in his face, he gritted his teeth. “This is different,” he said sharply. Surely the bloody arse saw the difference.

  When Calum still said nothing, Ryker jabbed his index finger up. “Let it be clear that anything having to do with Penelope’s safety, whereabouts, or what she eats for goddamn supper is information I want.” She was his responsibility. That was the only reason to account for this primordial possessiveness. “I do not want her on the floors. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly.” Calum paused. “To me, anyway. Your wife, however, I expect is going to be more problematic.”

  The lady had proved problematic since she’d burrowed under a garden bench like a small thief in the Dials. Did she not know the risks she faced as his wife? As soon as the thought slid in, he scoffed. Of course, such a woman would not be content to be closeted away, even for her own protection.

  “The same lessons you gave Helena, you need to instruct your wife in.” The gravity of that urging interrupted Ryker’s musings, conjuring altogether different ones. Penelope with a knife in hand as he guided her through those lunge and parrying movements; his body flush to hers—he fought down a groan.

  Those lessons would entail him being alone with his siren of a wife, who with her unguarded eyes and hopeful smile roused greater terror than any one of Diggory’s or Killoran’s henchmen. “Helena was five when we found her.” A child who’d been thrust from a comfortable townhouse with her mother, into the streets with Diggory, and then Ryker and their small gang. No, his sister hadn’t been a proper miss who’d never known the meaning of work or suffering.

  “That makes her entrance into this world all the more dangerous, Ryker.”

  An eerie cold stole through him at the ominous thread to his brother’s words.

  Ryker leveled him with another look. “The discussion is at an end.” With that he stalked off, in search of his wife.

  By God in hell, weren’t proper English misses supposed to turn their noses up at a goddamn gaming hell? He’d found the only one in the whole entire kingdom who’d waltz about the damned floors. She didn’t have the sense God gave an owl. He might resent Calum’s high-handed advice on schooling Penelope in the ways of survival, but the man had been correct in one regard—for him to have any harmony, the lady needed to learn the rules. Only then could he put her from his mind and devote his proper attention to the Hell and Sin.

  Ryker went in search of Penelope.

  Chapter 14

  Dearest Fezzimore,

  White stucco and pink stucco townhouses are so dull. Everyone has them. I shall insist my future home someday be painted red. Mother will be scandalized.

  Penny

  Age 11

  Somewhere between shoving aside heavy furniture and moving in-the-way knickknacks, Penelope’s hair had tumbled free of her butterfly combs.

  Ensconced in the storage room, Penelope mopped her damp brow with the back of her hand and continued exploring the treasures locked away in this room. Every last corner was filled with heavy dark furniture, aged pieces from another time. She picked her way around the crowded space. Her muslin skirts whished noisily about her ankles in the otherwise silent room. Focusing on the veritable trove of furniture prevented her from thinking of the hard, unyielding words Ryker had delivered to his sister.

  Deep mahogany, crimson fabrics—there was an overall darkness to the furniture stored away. Her gaze snagged on a spot of blue, the only cheer in a darkened, forgotten space, and her heart sped up.

  Penelope squeezed between a sideboard and a painted cabinet, and then stopped, her knees knocking into a gilt taboret.

  She stretched reverent hands out to the secretaire, brushing her fingertips over the dancing couple etched in the glass mirroring. Painted in a sea foam with pink and yellow flowers adorning the bookcase and bureau, it was a piece that conjured summer days and hopeful innocence.

  It was perfect. And more . . . it was a sign. In a place so devoid of cheer and color, if one but looked, there was light around. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision, and she blinked several times, as hope stirred within her breast, once more. It blotted out her earlier misery. Filled with a renewed vigor, Penelope looked at the treasures around her.

  She stepped onto a red satin ottoman and jumped onto the floor, a grin pulling her lips. She’d spent four years trying so very hard to be proper that she’d buried away the thrill that came from defying societal expectations, just to be . . . herself.

  Now she was married, and her marriage to Ryker afforded her freedoms long denied her. The freedom of movement and control of her dresses and decisions, without fear of recriminations.

  She stopped alongside a stack of framed art. It is not proper to paint people, Penelope . . . The long-ago lamentation of her mother so real, her voice echoed in this foreign room. With a grin that would have turned her mother’s hair grey, she proceeded to sift through the elaborate gold frames. Penelope gasped and let them go so abruptly that they knocked loudly against one another. She widened her eyes. There was a difference in painting the human likeness and painting . . . Penelope peeked down at the front image—naked bodies. Or to be specific, women without a single scrap of cloth adorning their voluptuous and not at all too-slender frames.

  She forced her feet away from the scandalous images and wandered over to a cerise-upholstered walnut sofa with a rippled trim. The faded fabric showed the wear of time. How glorious it must have been in its newness. It would have been vibrant and cheerful. Time, however, had left its marks.

  Then, wasn’t that how it was for all? Objects or people, one was indelibly shaped and marked by life.

  Dust danced in the air as she settled into the folds of the seat. The springs
, loose with time and use, dipped noisily. Glancing about once more, she knitted her brow in confusion. Why would Ryker maintain such a sterile environment when he had these items simply forgotten in a room? Was he so consumed by his club that he didn’t put proper attention into the details that made a home . . . well, a home? Penelope rested her hand on the arm of the sofa and stretched her fingers to the bronze-mounted marble table beside it, as this room of treasures called forth questions about the man she’d married.

  An emerald green Louis XV ormolu-mounted bracket clock lay haphazard on its side, a sad testament to its forgotten state; its time was forever frozen at ten minutes past two. Shoving up on her knees, Penelope lifted the heavy piece and regret filled her. What a beautiful piece to close off from the world. She made to lay it down when her eyes landed on . . .

  Her entire being burned with the force of her blush at the naughty image painted upon the in-laid center. She glanced at the open door, and when no passerby popped out of hidden corners to jab damning fingers in her direction, she leaned forward and studied the couple in the throes of passion. The woman lay with her legs open, and nothing remained visible of the man between her thighs except the back of his powdered head. The artist had expertly captured the rippled muscles of the man’s naked buttocks, but it was not his flawless form that held her in thrall. Rather, the rapture glimmering from the woman’s eyes, her parted mouth, in a silent scream Penelope could all but hear calling from the—

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Shrieking, Penelope skidded forward on the edge of the table and landed on her chest, with her buttocks jutting in the air. She swallowed hard, as her gaze collided with the broad, powerful frame of her husband filling the doorway. Fury glinted in his eyes.

  Well, drat. Penelope gave a faltering smile. I married the lady . . . For what purpose did he seek her out when he’d been clear with the duchess that he had little use of her? “Hullo.” The least he could do was utter a hello. Instead he looked . . . she followed his focus to her buttocks. With a gasp, she shoved herself upright onto her knees, so the fabric of her silly white skirts fell around her ankles, properly hiding the skin. “Ryker, I did not see you at breakfast this morning,” she laced an accusation under that statement and tipped her chin up.

  He folded his arms at his chest. “I don’t take meals with the others.”

  “Your family.”

  He puzzled his brow.

  “You do not take meals with your family. Which you really should. It is important to begin the day—”

  “What are you doing?”

  At that abrupt interruption, she blinked wildly. So he didn’t wish to speak on his eagerness to shut everyone out, including his kin. Well, a leopard couldn’t change its spots without a bit of paint and skill. “Did you realize you have an entire room filled with furniture here?” she asked, conceding the first battle until later. Penelope motioned to the storage space.

  He smiled an ever-so-faint half grin that tripped her heartbeat. That beautiful movement of his hard lips made him so much more real than the formidable gaming-hell owner.

  “Of course you know,” she blurted, when he still said nothing. “I wondered why your rooms were so stark. I believed mayhap the club was not profitable.”

  “I assure you, the club is plenty profitable,” he said dryly. “Do you know what the Hell and Sin was before I purchased the establishment?”

  At the abrupt shift in discourse, she shook her head.

  “A brothel.” He pushed the door closed and effectively stamped out the light spilling into the storage space.

  “A . . .” she squawked.

  “A brothel,” he supplied for her. “These items belonged to the madam who ran it.”

  She moistened her lips. “Your club isn’t vastly different from a brothel.”

  His mouth tightened. She’d not let the matter go.

  Penelope held her hands up. “You have young women who have no option except to . . .” Her cheeks went hot. “Trade their bodies for survival.”

  “And those women have security because of that work,” he reminded her.

  How could he not see? “Yes, they do. But they can just as easily have security in serving drinks or tending rooms or . . .”

  Her words emerged faintly breathless as he came to a towering stop above her and crossed his arms. “Are you a reformer, Penelope?” Heat filled her veins at his nearness. No man had a right to be so impossibly tall when she herself was just five inches above five feet.

  “P-perhaps.” She struggled through the thick haze of desire he’d cloaked her in. “Would you care if I was?” His answer very much mattered.

  He lowered his gloveless palms to the arm of the sofa. “I care if you’re on the gaming floors,” he said with such a blunt aloofness, her desire disappeared. Damn him for being so singularly unaffected. “I do not want you belowstairs.”

  “I suspected as much.” Then, he didn’t really want her anywhere except in their chambers.

  The masculine blend of cheroots and brandy that clung to his breath fanned her lips. “And yet you went anyway.”

  She gave a juddering nod. “Oh, yes.” She drew in a deep breath, and the scent of him flooded her senses all the more. “I expect it is time we had an important talk, Ryker.” If she could wrap her muddled senses around her deserved outrage.

  “Oh?”

  Ignoring the faintly condescending edge to that single syllable, she nodded again.

  “I’ll not be a prisoner in my home.”

  His blue, nearly black, eyes ran over her face. “Is that what this is?” he whispered, cupping her nape. “A home?”

  “I-isn’t it? We live here as husband and wife, along with your brothers. Granted, it is not the manner of home most people think o—”

  Ryker swallowed her words with his kiss, devouring her mouth in a meeting that merged passion and possessiveness. Guiding them down onto the sofa at her back, her husband thrust his tongue inside her mouth, swarming her senses, and she melted into him, sucked into an eddy of desire that she wanted to wholly lose herself in.

  “Who are you, Penelope Tidemore?” he rasped, as he blazed a trail of kisses down the long graceful column of her throat.

  Penelope tipped her head back, allowing him better access to the sensitive flesh. “Black,” she keened softly as he suckled at the flesh, nipping it, worshiping it. “I am Penelope Black.”

  Those words on her lips sent lust surging through Ryker’s veins. Those four words that marked her as his. Words that indicated she knew she belonged to him. And her hungry cries and whimpers saying she wanted him drove Ryker to a frenzy of desire.

  Guiding her around, he worked the delicate row of pearls free of their buttonholes. “Too many goddamn buttons,” he growled.

  “Silly gown, isn’t it,” she panted, as he suckled the delicate shell of her ear.

  Like silk. Was there a part of her that wasn’t satiny perfection? He rent the lacy dress down the back and the buttons popped, striking the floor with soft pings. Ryker shoved the garment down, exposing more of her to his gaze. Next, he freed her of her chemise, and trailed a path of kisses along the ridge of her spine.

  She burrowed into him, like a contented cat, arching her back.

  Ryker reached around and palmed her breasts in his hands, cupping them together, strumming her nipples until her keening moans echoed off the walls.

  Only it wasn’t enough. He needed to see all of her. Ignoring her cry of protest, Ryker drew back. He worked her dress lower, down past her hips, and she shifted and shimmied, ultimately kicking it free, until she was bared completely to his gaze.

  Ryker hooded his eyes and took in the creamy white perfection of her lithe body, the delicate curve of her hips. Her rose-tipped breasts, rounded like small, perfectly shaped apples, and this was the temptation that had taken Adam down the path to sin.

  Penelope shifted and made to cover herself. “Don’t,” he said gruffly, holding out a staying hand.
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  Any other Society miss would have cowered under his regard.

  She let her arms hang at her sides. This was the manner of fearless woman who hid under benches and walked through the streets of St. Giles to demand a meeting with a man avoided by all, and he wanted her all the more for it.

  Not taking his gaze from hers, Ryker shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it aside. He drew his shirt overhead, and it joined the other garment in a noiseless heap. Penelope’s eyes formed round circles and then desire dimmed in her gaze as she looked to the scars marring his chest.

  He stiffened, braced for her proper ladylike revulsion and horror at the jagged white flesh marred from too many knife fights.

  When she lifted her eyes to his once more, so much tenderness poured from their depths, it robbed his lungs of air. “Oh, Ryker,” she whispered. That sentiment, that gentle warmth he’d never known, or wanted, sent panic racing through him. Desire was safe. He knew what to do with this driving lust.

  With a primitive growl, he lowered his head and at last claimed the swollen tip of one breast. A shuddery gasp spilled past her lips, and she clenched her fingers reflexively in his hair, holding him in place as he worshiped and laved the engorged nipple. He trailed his tongue around the bud, alternating with a deep suckling that wrung those throaty moans from her that drove him to the edge of madness. Guiding her down on the red velvet sofa, he reached between them and with his fingers parted her folds.

  He groaned and slid a finger inside her sodden center. “You are so wet for me.”

  Penelope bit down on her lower lip and pushed against his hand, her hips lifting and falling, and he slid another finger, earning a keening moan. He continued to work her, increasing his movements and then drawing back inside her hot passage until their breaths merged in a broken rhythm.

  Her undulating hips took on a frantic tempo as she squeezed herself around his hand. He pulled back and a plaintive cry spilled past her lips.

  Ryker shoved himself to standing, and his hands went to the waistband of his trousers. Her passion-clouded eyes followed his movements and a spark of nervousness flared in their sapphire depths.