For as long as he drew breath into his lungs. But that was not the answer to give children, and he knew it.
“Forever,” he vowed.
The girls tipped their heads back at the same time and glanced up at him.
“Why were you yelling, Papa? In your sleep?”
“Did you ‘ave a terrible dream about a dog too?”
Unbidden, the memories that lingered, just below the surface of every waking moment, rose. He exhaled slowly, trying to maintain his calm and keep the old rage from overtaking him.
“It was a dream about a different kind of dog,” he said.
“Which kind?” chirped Elizabeth.
He patted her back. “Not the kind you shall ever need worry about. Now, the two of you ought to get some more rest, and I’ll be needing to have a word with Mrs. Bunton.”
And that word… Well, it sure as fuck would not be kind.
Octavia had become a prisoner in her sister’s home.
One week.
One.
Entire.
Dratted.
Sennight.
And she could not bear another day. She had to escape.
Seated in the gold salon of Tarlington House as her sister’s family finished their nightly ritual of reciting the newest addition to their unending story, Octavia could scarcely remain still. Mirabel and the children took turns regaling everyone with tales they invented as they went along. Mythical creatures, danger, excitement, silliness—the story was an endless source of entertainment.
Once, it had been enough. But now? Her feet itched to move. So, too, her hands. Ordinarily, this routine she shared with her sister, brother-in-law, niece, and nephews was beloved. Octavia respected and admired Damian Winter, who planned to stand for parliament soon. She absolutely adored Percy, Joanna, Davy, and Gideon. And of course Mirabel was more like a mother to Octavia than Mama was. Although nearly ten years separated them in age, Octavia and her sister had always been exceedingly close to each other.
Still, none of those facts seemed to matter.
Because all she could think about was journeying back to The Sinner’s Palace. And to her shame, her desire to return was motivated by not just her goal of beginning her own gossip journal, but also by the memory of Jasper Sutton’s lips on hers.
“Auntie Octavia?”
She blinked, returning to the present as her niece’s voice interrupted her wildly vacillating thoughts. “Yes, Joanna dearest?”
“What did you think of my story?”
A stab of guilt pierced her heart, for she had not been paying it any mind. “It was an utter favorite of mine, my darling girl.”
She restrained her natural inclination to wince at the lie. Ordinarily, she did not deceive the children. Nor did she ignore them. She was distracted. This would not do.
Joanna, having no notion of her auntie’s fabrication, smiled radiantly. “Thank you. What was your favorite part?”
Oh heavens. She had no wish to disappoint her niece.
Her sister’s gaze was shrewd, pinned to her. As always, she sensed Octavia’s need of assistance.
“I would venture a guess that Auntie Octavia enjoyed the portion of the tale where the dragon discovered the magical lily flowers,” Mirabel said. “Am I correct, sister dear?”
Mirabel knew she had not been paying any heed to the evening’s festivities. Of course she would.
Octavia tamped down a rush of disappointment with herself. “Yes, indeed, that was my favorite bit of the tale.”
Joanna smiled happily.
Octavia’s heart ached.
How terrible she was, being distracted by her own wicked desires. But she summoned a smile for her niece’s benefit just the same.
“Now, then,” Mirabel declared, louder than necessary. “It is past time you are all off to bed.”
Relief coursed through Octavia.
The evening was over.
Perhaps she could find a means of making her way to the mews…
“Octavia?”
As if she had sensed the vein of her thoughts, Mirabel demanded Octavia’s attention. The children rose with groans of protest and made about the business of retiring to the nursery for the evening. Their governess arrived. Soon, the older lads would be off to Eton. How quickly they had grown. Octavia watched them with a creeping sense of sentimentality before turning back to Mirabel.
“Yes, dear sister?”
Mirabel frowned as she closed the distance between them. “Are you feeling well this evening, Octavia?”
“Yes.” Her affirmation fled her, higher pitched than necessary.
Because she was lying.
Again.
Oh, what had become of her? A few kisses from Jasper Sutton, and she was lost. Hopeless.
Mirabel raised a brow, giving her a searching stare. “You seem distracted.”
Distracted? Her?
Of course she was distracted. Since the moment her sister had caught Octavia and put an abrupt end to her nocturnal travels, Octavia had been decidedly distracted. Longing as well. Yearning. Desiring.
Frustrated.
She swallowed. “Why should I be distracted, sister? No more than usual, I assure you.”
But Mirabel was not finished, drawing nearer still as her husband discreetly excused himself and left the luxuriously appointed chamber as well.
“Please, dearest heart,” she said in a low voice. “Be honest with me. This last week, you have not been yourself. You have been…withdrawn. Quiet. Changed.”
Changed.
Her sister had uttered the word with such vehemence. And also, a hint of condemnation, as if Octavia’s metamorphosis was somehow wrong. But she had changed before. Life was filled with changes.
Surely Mirabel, better than anyone, would know and understand.
“Is there something wrong with altering one’s expectations?” she asked carefully. “It seems to me that you have done so, and look at how happy you are now with Mr. Winter.”
But despite the warmth Octavia intended to convey with her assessment—and the approval—Mirabel paled. “Do you think to compare our situations?”
Octavia was taken aback by the query. “I cannot fathom how I would. I am a happy spinster, and you are a happily married woman.”
“Jasper Sutton,” her sister said, and not without a hint of disdain.
No one was sweeter or more trusting, accepting, and forgiving than Mirabel. She scarcely ever spoke a harsh word against anyone. Heavens, if she had, Octavia could not recall when or whom or why. Mirabel was an angel on terra firma.
So the manner in which Octavia’s sister had uttered Jasper Sutton’s name—almost as if it were an accusation—gave her considerable pause.
“What of him?” she asked.
“I cannot help but to believe he is the reason for this change.” Mirabel was frowning again. “If you are truly insistent upon beginning this scandal journal of yours, Damian and I are willing to help fund it. I would not have you believe you must seek out someone like Sutton for aid before your own family.”
“Thank you, sister.” She forced a smile she did not feel. “I appreciate your offer more than I can say. But I have decided to give the matter rest for now.”
Mirabel’s intentions were good. But she did not understand that Octavia wanted to begin her journal on her own terms. Accepting help from her sister was not that. A partnership with Jasper Sutton, however, would have proven far more beneficial, had she been able to persuade him. He would provide her access to his forbidden world in a way she did not currently have. Forming a business relationship with him would have also given her the pride of knowing she had accomplished what she wished on her own merits, rather than relying on her familial connections.
It would also have granted her the opportunity to continue seeing the enigmatic man whose kisses she could neither forget nor repent.
“Truly?” Mirabel’s gaze was searching, looking for answers Octavia did not wish to give. “You are wil
ling to abandon this notion of yours?”
Of course not.
Everyone needed a role in life.
Mirabel was a mother and wife.
Octavia would never be either; she had no wish to marry and forfeit her independence. But she wanted something of her own. Some part of herself to linger, even when she was gone. A legacy? Perhaps.
“I am placing the idea of my scandal journal on a shelf in my mind,” she told her sister softly. “To be considered later.”
There. She was not misleading Mirabel. Nor lying. Not directly.
Her sister sighed, then cradled the pronounced lump of her belly that not even the careful drapery of her gown could hide. “Staying away from Jasper Sutton and the East End is for the best, Octavia. I am only concerned for your safety and reputation.”
Octavia knew that. But she also knew that she could not be happy carrying on as she was, now that she had known the lure of adventure. To say nothing of the sinful promise of Jasper Sutton himself…
Tearing herself from those wayward thoughts, she nodded, then gathered her sister in a hasty embrace. “I am safe, and my reputation remains untarnished. Thank you for fretting over me, dearest. You should get some rest now, and I shall as well.”
Mirabel hugged her in return, and the two ascended the stairs to their separate chambers. Within the privacy of her room, however, Octavia fairly itched for the freedom she had enjoyed one week ago. It had enabled her to steal away from her chamber and entice one of the young grooms to accompany her to The Sinner’s Palace—with the aid of some pound notes, of course.
Silence for a price.
Many people and their favors could be bought. It was a lesson learned from Jasper Sutton’s own lips. And it had given her a rare insight into such a man, one who was capable of rising from the rookeries to become wealthy and powerful, who cared for his siblings. She had no doubt he was ruthless.
But to her, he had never been.
She huffed a sigh and paced the carpets, telling herself she must not think of him now. Or perhaps ever again. Mirabel had not been wrong. Seeking him out had been dangerous and foolish of Octavia. All those risks, and she had not been able to convince him to help her.
Nothing but the memory of his cruel lips on hers.
Oh, but they had not been cruel at all, had they?
Octavia found herself at the window, staring down into the small courtyard behind Tarlington House, which her chamber overlooked. The moon was full, shining high, illuminating the branches of the tree she often admired by daylight.
The tree with branches beckoning to her.
Her heart pounded.
No. She could not. Did not dare.
Octavia had not climbed a tree since she had been a girl, back at Longford Hall, her father’s country seat. It had been years. And never had she climbed into a tree from a window, nor from such a height.
And yet…
Mirabel had made certain there were servants about to prevent her from escaping with the same ease she had enjoyed before. However, Octavia was reasonably certain there would not be a footman stationed at the base of the tree.
One more chance, whispered a taunting voice in her mind.
One more chance to persuade Jasper Sutton.
One more chance to see her idea come to fruition.
And one more chance to kiss him.
Grimly, she reached for the window.
The woman before him was quite pretty. Beautiful, actually. If one preferred golden curls and rosebud pouts and generous breasts. Strangely, Jasper felt himself unmoved as he examined her.
Not even a stirring of his cock.
He would have thought the blasted appendage was dead were it not for the rousing manner in which it rose on every occasion his mind flitted to Lady Octavia Alexander. Which was not often.
One week since he had seen her last.
Kissed her last.
Since he had cupped her breast and felt her body’s reaction to his, the taut bud of her nipple…
He banished the thoughts lest his inconvenient prick decide to stiffen when he was attempting to conduct this interminable interview.
“How long have you been a widow, Mrs. Martin?” he forced himself to ask.
In truth, it hardly mattered. Nothing about her did, other than her willingness to be a kind mother to his daughters. He had been meeting women such as the lovely widow for the last three days, and none of them had suited thus far.
“Two years, Mr. Sutton,” she answered, well-spoken.
She was the daughter of a banker who owed him a favor. The connection would be a boon. She was educated, polite, and clean about her appearance. She was too pretty, it was true. But fortunately, he felt nothing when he gazed upon her, which was precisely what he wanted in a wife.
“Any children of your own?” he asked.
“I was not so blessed.”
Blessed.
A pious woman, then? Did she sit in church every Sunday? The notion rendered her less appealing as a possibility, for sinners and saints did not tend to dwell together in harmony.
Just why had Pen decided upon this woman as a possibility? Perhaps asking his sister for her aid in procuring a wife had been a mistake.
He frowned. “Did you wish for them?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “My greatest desire is to become a mother.”
“My daughters are… mischievous,” he said, reaching for the right word. “They are in need of mothering.”
“I understand, Mr. Sutton. When did their mother die, if I may ask?”
“Three weeks ago,” he said, which was true as far as he was concerned.
The venomous baggage was not welcome in his daughters’ lives after she had abandoned them.
Mrs. Martin’s brows arched in surprise. “Your period of mourning, sir…”
“Ain’t one.” He shrugged. “We weren’t married, Mrs. Martin. Their mother was a doxy.”
The widow nodded. “Of course, Mr. Sutton. Forgive me for my assumption.”
She was apologizing. And dreadfully polite. Why in the hell would a woman like her want to marry Jasper Sutton?
“I am not a polite man, Mrs. Martin. Nor respectable. You are aware that this is a gaming hell?”
“You are in need of a mother to your daughters,” she said, intelligent enough to understand the reason for his words. “I am in need of a wealthy husband. My late husband…he was a wastrel, Mr. Sutton.”
Ah.
He began to understand that it was not just her father’s influence which had prompted her call.
“And here I was, thinking it was my dial plate that lured you in.”
A becoming flush tinged her cheeks. “Dial plate?”
“Face,” he explained, knowing a moment of guilt for relying on his flash. Part of maintaining patrons who were plump partridges was acting the part of a gentleman. Or at least aping their speech, and he had worked hard to scrape all traces of the East End.
A knock sounded on the door.
The interruption was welcome. “What is it now?” he barked rudely, just to see if his lack of proper manners would have any effect upon Mrs. Martin.
Her shoulders stiffened.
It was then he realized she was wearing a lace fichu tucked into her bodice for modesty.
“Mr. Sutton, she has returned,” Hugh announced on the other side of the door.
Jasper did not need to ask who she was.
He knew.
And so did every other part of his body.
Fire licked through him, along with anticipation. He had missed her. What the devil was the matter with him? When had he ever in his life missed a female who was not one of his sisters?
“I believe this shall be enough for the moment, Mrs. Martin,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Thank you for agreeing to visit at this hour of the evening.”
It had been irregular and badly done of him to request her to visit when most respectable ladies were abed, and he knew it. Bu
t that had also been part of his motivation in making the request. The woman he married needed to understand his life was The Sinner’s Palace. He spent most of his time awake all night, tending to the hell and its patrons. Mornings were for rest. His wife would have to make certain Elizabeth and Anne were cared for and happy during the hours he was not available. As it was, since their unexpected arrival, he had assigned his nightly duties to his brother Rafe instead.
That would not continue, however. Jasper preferred to be a creature of the night.
Mrs. Martin rose from her chair. “Thank you for paying me the honor, Mr. Sutton.”
She did not fool him.
He gave her a curt bow just the same. “I expect you tomorrow at the same time so that we may continue our interview.”
“Of course, Mr. Sutton.”
He guided her to the door and opened it to find Hugh and Lady Octavia awaiting him. Satan’s teeth, she had not even had the presence of mind to wear a veil this evening. Her honey-brown gaze met his, sending a searing bolt of lust through him, before she jerked her stare away to the widow at his side.
“Hugh, see that Randall escorts Mrs. Martin to her residence,” he said, not bothering to introduce the two women to each other.
While he doubted a widowed banker’s daughter with depleted funds would be familiar with a lady, he still found himself oddly protective of Lady Octavia. Why, he did not care to examine.
Hugh guided Mrs. Martin down the interior halls of The Sinner’s Palace, leaving Jasper and Octavia alone in the low light of the sconces. He drank in the sight of her for a moment, admitting to himself just how much he had longed to see her again. Damn, but she was beautiful, her dark hair coiled in an elegant braid, a few curls teasing her temples. Which reminded him…
“Why are you not taking any care with your reputation?” he snapped.
“Because I do not care about my reputation,” she returned, chin tipping up to a stubborn angle.
The urge to kiss her was stronger than the instinctive need to take another breath at the moment. The violence of his body’s reaction to her was cause for alarm. She was a fever, infecting him. And yet, he had no wish to stop her.
“Come,” he ordered, nodding toward his open office door.
Sutton's Spinster: A Wicked Winters Spin-off Series (The Sinful Suttons Book 1) Page 4
