Never Love a Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  “Get him out of here,” North said. From where his voice originated, Jason guessed he’d been the traitor who’d stopped him from hitting Ethan.

  Two footmen helped Ethan up. Ethan’s hand went to the back of his head and when he brought it down, blood striped his fingers.

  Ethan’s mouth lifted in a semblance of a smile as he sent a mocking gaze at Jason. “Get what you wanted?”

  Jason pulled at the men—what, three of them?—holding him. Fingers dug into his biceps; they weren’t letting him go. He glared at Ethan with all the malevolence boiling his insides. “Not even close.”

  “Then I’ll look forward to the next time.” Ethan nodded at the men holding Jason. “‘Evening, lads.” Then he turned and left the office.

  The door closed after his departure, and the men released Jason. He strode for the door, intent on going after Ethan and pummeling him into dust, but Scot got there first, his back slamming into the wood. He shook his head. “Not now. You’ve got a house full of people.”

  Those words permeated Jason’s brain like no others could. Scot may as well have said, “Do you want a repeat of seven years ago?” If he took his fight with Ethan outside of this office, everyone at the party would see the outburst and perhaps conclude that Jason really was mad. Then his parties would cease, and he wouldn’t allow Ethan to take his sole enjoyment from him too.

  He strode to the sideboard and poured another whisky. The door clicked, and when he turned back to the room he saw that only North remained. His butler regarded him with wary eyes. He said nothing, but stood between Jason and the door.

  “I won’t go after him,” Jason said, gripping his whisky as if it were the only friend he had. But he knew it wasn’t. North and Scot were more than retainers who valued their jobs. They’d saved Jason from making a colossal mistake—again—because they cared.

  North nodded once, but didn’t relax. His gaze lost a bit of their guardedness, but his tense posture said he was still vigilant.

  If Scot were here, he’d ask questions, but North would simply wait for Jason to speak, if he wanted to. And Jason didn’t want to. He tossed back the rest of his drink and set the glass behind him on the sideboard.

  At length, the door opened. Scot stepped inside and held the door. Cora swept into the office, her scarlet skirts brushing over Scot’s boots.

  “Darling,” she said, coming toward Jason.

  What the hell had Scot done bringing her here? Was she supposed to somehow provide solace? He didn’t want that. He didn’t want her. Not now.

  As she moved closer, he wanted to retreat, but couldn’t because he was already up against the sideboard. He slid to the side a bit.

  Cora’s forehead creased with concern. Her dark eyes looked over him curiously, lingering on his cheek, which was surely reddened from Ethan’s blow. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he ground out. “You should go.”

  “No, let me help you, darling,” she cooed.

  He didn’t want sympathy or coddling. He wanted release. And then he realized he could get that with her. Take her upstairs to the bedroom they usually used and fuck her until he was senseless. But he didn’t want that either. He didn’t want her. He wanted to nurse his anger and plan his next move.

  He pierced her with his darkest stare, knowing he looked ferocious. “No. Get out.”

  Her eyes flashed with some emotion—pain, perhaps. But Jason didn’t apologize. He couldn’t. She turned, and Scot opened the door for her, shutting it firmly after she exited.

  Jason tried to force the tension from his shoulders by shaking his arms out. That was when he realized his hands were shaking of their own accord. He curled his fingers into fists and glared at his retainers. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I thought she might help,” Scot said without a trace of regret, his hand still on the door. “You and she get on well. And have for quite some time.”

  “That doesn’t mean you bring her to me after what just happened. You feel the need to guard me from my guests, but you bring her in here as an offering?”

  Scot let go of the door. “She’s not a guest, she’s your mistress.” Now there was a trace of apology to his tone, and he added, “Isn’t she?”

  Jason scowled at his valet. “No.” He didn’t want to think about Cora right now. He wanted to plan Ethan’s downfall. He pinned North with a vicious stare. “How’d that bastard get in without my knowing?”

  North took a step toward him. “Might I pour you another glass of whisky?”

  “Don’t patronize me. How did he get in?”

  “I’m not certain, my lord.” He clenched his jaw. “It could be that he presented his invitation to the footman and I was perhaps otherwise detained with a guest.”

  Possibly, but Jason rather thought the blighter had snuck in.

  North refilled Jason’s glass. “Here. I’m not patronizing, I’m fortifying. Put yourself back together and go back out there when you’re ready. And smooth things over with Miss Stroud. You upset her.”

  He’d sought feminine companionship any way he could get it for so long, and now he didn’t want it. At least not from her. For some reason, Lydia Prewitt’s dark-as-hell eyes appeared in his mind. Sparkling. Flirtatious. Expectant, as she’d been on the street yesterday. And he’d been obnoxious.

  He drank his whisky and threw a nod at North and Scot so they’d leave.

  Jason’s gaze raised to the portrait of the man who’d created two men who despised each other and who potentially had the power to ruin each other. “What a bloody mess you made. All because you couldn’t be faithful.” Jason wouldn’t make that mistake. He wouldn’t make promises he didn’t intend to keep. Which is why long-standing relationships with women had no place in his life. He wasn’t his father.

  He threw back the rest of the drink, relishing the hot trail it burned down his throat. Then he quit the office in search of Cora Stroud so he could tell her she was no longer welcome in his bed.

  Chapter Eight

  LYDIA ADJUSTED the cap covering her blond curls as she made her way down the back stairs of her town house. Quietly, she opened the door and stepped into the scullery. She’d waited to leave until she knew all the servants would be occupied in other areas. She hurried across the empty space and out the door, then rushed up the exterior stairs. Without a backward glance, she headed east toward her destination: Lockwood House.

  Dressed as a maid in a plain dress, apron, and cap, she drew no one’s attention. Anxiety coursed through her veins. She’d never ventured anywhere by herself. It was beneath her station, Aunt Margaret would say, unseemly.

  It actually felt quite liberating.

  Exhilaration overcame her anxiety until she thought about where she was going. What would Lord Lockwood say when she infiltrated his den of disgrace?

  She mentally shook her head. He’d hosted another party two nights ago. Aunt Margaret was only too eager to spread that information, and already Society was abuzz with his continued indiscretion. Did he not realize he couldn’t hope to gain invitations to events like the Whitmore Ball if he insisted on hosting vice parties? Clearly not. And it was also clear he needed someone to tell him so. Lydia had elected herself that person.

  Which only brought her anxiety back to the fore. He hadn’t exactly been welcoming during their last encounter, and now she was going to march right into the beast’s lair and put her reputation at risk. She was counting on being unrecognizable in her borrowed maid’s costume. Perhaps borrowed wasn’t the right word. Aunt Margaret’s maid, Coxley, had no idea Lydia had pilfered her extra uniform—she was closest to Lydia’s size. Hopefully Lydia would be able to return it before its absence was noted.

  Obtaining the maid’s clothing and escaping her aunt’s town house had been challenging enough, but the true test would be getting back in. She didn’t want to think about that now; it would only heighten her nervousness and she’d likely turn back in fear. Better to focus on her upcoming int
erview with Lord Lockwood.

  Why was he still having vice parties? No, that wasn’t the question she wanted answered most. Why did he have vice parties at all?

  She could still hear Aunt Margaret cackling with glee, saying how Lockwood couldn’t possibly improve himself. How his bastard half brother was going to fare better than he.

  The bastard half brother who wanted a meeting. That was the second item on her agenda to speak with him about today, right after the vice party discussion. And all the while she supposed she ought to flirt if she wanted to encourage Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s scheme. But did she? There was no easy answer. She wanted out of Aunt Margaret’s house, but there had to be a better option than shackling herself to someone like Lockwood. However, so far her choices were nonexistent. Which made this party doubly important. If she could help Lockwood regain his footing in Society, she would change people’s perceptions about her, and maybe then she’d finally attract a husband.

  Fifteen minutes later, after traveling at a brisk pace, she arrived at Lockwood House. Though the afternoon was cool and overcast, she was quite warm due to the exercise. She slowed as she passed the massive house, trying to determine how to enter. There was no visible servants’ entrance, so she turned into a narrow alley that ran along the side. Where the house terminated, a stone wall started and encircled the back garden. She didn’t spy a gate and frowned. Now what?

  She walked back to the street and decided she had no other choice than to approach by the front door. She couldn’t very well loiter outside any longer and risk being recognized. Although, she rather hoped she was unrecognizable in her maid’s attire.

  A few moments later, she rapped on the ebony door—a fitting color for Lockwood House. The door cracked open to reveal a tall, dark-haired butler garbed in black and gold livery.

  His gaze swept over her quickly and settled on her face. “I regret to say we do not have any open positions at present.”

  She affixed a sunny smile on her face. “Oh, no, I’m not here for employment. I’m here to see his lordship.”

  The butler’s dark brow arched almost imperceptibly, the only reaction he displayed. “I’m afraid I couldn’t bother his lordship with your . . . trifles.” His tone wasn’t arrogant or condescending, but matter-of-fact. She appreciated that.

  “Tell him Lady Lydia Prewitt is here to see him. And please, for the love of my reputation, let me inside.”

  The door swung wide, and she stepped into a massive marble-tiled foyer. She felt a moment’s panic as she realized she was inside the storied Lockwood House. But it was too late now. She was here. What’s more, she had business to conduct.

  He inclined his head for her to follow him. “Come with me.”

  He led her across the impeccably clean marble floor to a doorway and ushered her into a sitting room with a wide window facing the street. The door closed behind her and she moved farther into the room. It was tastefully decorated in ivory and gold, though the styles and fabrics were probably two decades old.

  She wandered the room looking for clues about this house, this man, but there were no portraits or interesting décor that might reveal something. Maybe the ceramic figurines of a shepherd and his flock on the mantel were dear family artifacts. She somehow doubted that. What had she expected? Portraits of naked women? A shiver danced along her flesh as she again realized she was inside Lockwood House. What happened in this very room during one of his infamous parties?

  The door clicked and she swung around. Lord Lockwood entered and closed the door behind him. He didn’t advance, just stood and studied her thoroughly.

  He was dressed in flawless attire—buff breeches and a blue coat. A rich brown waistcoat peeked from beneath his lapels, and a pristine cravat encircled his throat. His features were relaxed, his scar standing in stark relief, a potent reminder that he might look amenable, but that beneath the surface lurked a man of strong passion.

  Lydia ignored the pounding of her heart and forced herself to recall her errand. “Good afternoon, my lord. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  He cocked his head to the side, regarding her as if she had sprouted an extra arm. “Lady Lydia, you’ve arrived at Lockwood House dressed in a maid’s costume. Nothing about your visit isn’t disturbing. I’ve asked North—my butler—to call a hack, and a footman will see you home.”

  She refused to be deterred. “I realize how this may seem, but I assure you my reasons for coming here are sound. But you’re right, I don’t have a lot of time before I will be missed at home, so I appreciate the hack.”

  His eyes widened a fraction. “Before you will be missed? Did you sneak out?”

  Now it was her turn to look at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Do you think I simply announced to my aunt that I was going for tea at Lockwood House?” His mouth quirked the barest amount, but it was enough to make her smile. “No, of course not. Hence my costume.” She gestured to her maid’s gown. “I’ve come to offer my assistance.”

  He blinked at her. “Your assistance? Why am I suddenly filled with trepidation?”

  “Oh, you needn’t be. Do you mind if I sit? I walked over here rather quickly and I’m a bit tired.”

  “Certainly, please excuse my boorishness.” He indicated an ivory settee with slender stripes the color of burnished gold.

  She took a seat. “Thank you.” When he continued to linger near the door, she said, “Won’t you join me?”

  He eyed the space beside her with a wary gaze. Then he walked to a burgundy chair situated across a table from her and took that instead. He didn’t want to sit by her, but then she supposed that would be scandalous given that they were unsupervised in his home. Good Lord, what had she been thinking? Why did she assume this man—this notorious purveyor of vice—would be harmless?

  She had to stop letting her mind wander. “My lord, I’ve come to speak with you about your, er, parties.”

  He blinked once. Twice. “You’ve come to talk about my parties? I begin to see why this meeting is clandestine—aside from your sheer brazen lunacy in coming here.”

  “And that’s precisely the problem. We must remove the stigma surrounding your home.”

  “‘We’?” he repeated. He shook his head. “Let’s assume for a moment that Lockwood House is simply a gentleman’s residence—no vice parties. Your calling here unchaperoned is still the height of impropriety.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him playfully, vaguely aware that she was still flirting with him and probably oughtn’t. “You’re not really going to lecture me about impropriety, are you?”

  He smiled fully then. “Point taken. What do you want to say about my parties? And don’t ask if you can secretly attend. I’ve never allowed another young lady to do so, and I won’t start now.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Other young ladies have asked?”

  His eyes shuttered and his features darkened. “If you’ve come to accumulate gossip, you may as well wait in the foyer for your hack. I have no patience for such nonsense.”

  She felt the heat rushing to her cheeks and wished she could stop it. She settled back against the settee, hating that was always what people expected from her. She would need to work harder to change that assumption, and wasn’t that the reason she was trying to help him? “That’s not why I came. Please be assured that anything I learn today will be kept strictly between us.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t quite trust you completely.” His eyes were still guarded. “I’m afraid my experience with your aunt makes me skeptical.”

  Understandably so, given Aunt Margaret’s clear dislike of him. Lydia wanted to know the details of that experience from his perspective, but she didn’t have time to ask for specifics. If her errand proved successful, there would be plenty of opportunity to ask him in the coming days.

  She offered him a smile to try and set him at ease. “Fine, I shall have to demonstrate that you can trust me. As I said, I’m here to help you. You seem to want to reestablish your place in
Society, but you can’t if you continue to have vice parties. Indeed, I’m shocked you had one the other night after your success at the Whitmore Ball.”

  “It’s what I do.” He leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “And anyway, what success? I left early. I barely spoke to anyone. I only danced with one person.”

  Her. She tried not to think of his strong hand fanning over her back or of the arousing way in which he’d glided her across the floor. “But surely you understand that you won’t be invited anywhere if you continue to host these parties?”

  “Really, why?” he asked, seeming genuinely interested.

  He wasn’t that obtuse, was he? “Because they’re unseemly!”

  “It’s ridiculous,” he scoffed. “Do you know how many people from your precious Society attend those parties? You’d be scandalized. And, no, I won’t tell you any of their names.”

  Lydia hated that she wanted to know. Hated that her aunt had engendered within her a need to know, if not to wield information that shouldn’t matter a whit to her. “I’m not asking you to,” she said softly. “I’m trying to help you, but perhaps this was a mistake.”

  “Why would you want to help?” His gaze was direct, intense, scalding her with a heat she didn’t want to feel in his presence. He didn’t trust her and probably didn’t even like her. Why indeed.

  She had trouble thinking of an answer without dredging up everything she’d learned from Mrs. Lloyd-Jones. Perhaps they’d discuss those things, but not today. “Aside from simply wanting to help you, doing so will make me the toast of the ton.”

  He looked rather skeptical. “So helping me helps you?”

  “Yes. People will see that I’m more than a gossip.” She realized she was trying to persuade him as much as anyone. If he didn’t believe she’d changed, she had little hope of convincing anyone else.

  “What do you suggest?” he asked, still sounding suspicious.

  She folded her hands in her lap and raised her chin. “A vice-free party.”

  He leaned forward again, his jaw dropping slightly. “A what?”