Sutton's Spinster: A Wicked Winters Spin-off Series (The Sinful Suttons Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  But in true Lady Octavia form, she refused to obey. Instead, she remained where she was. “Was I interrupting you with a paramour?”

  “My future wife,” he said, just to see if the knowledge nettled her, although he had yet to decide whether or not he would leg shackle himself to Mrs. Martin.

  Why he wanted to irritate her, he could not say. After all, what did he suppose, that Lady Octavia would wish to take on the role? Ha! Not a bleeding chance of that.

  Nor would he want it.

  Even if the thought of having her in his bed was enough to nearly bring him to his knees.

  “Your…you are betrothed?”

  One of his men passed silently through the hall behind them, the movement catching Jasper’s attention and reminding him of the need for privacy. He wanted to keep her to himself. Just for another few minutes, until he sent her on her way once more with a firm reminder to never again return.

  He took her arm in a gentle grip and pulled her into his office, slamming the door behind them. “Not yet.”

  “You need not have pulled me about so rudely,” she protested, glaring at him.

  “And you need not ‘ave returned to The Sinner’s Palace,” he countered smoothly, willing his expression to remain impassive even as the decadent scent of her floral perfume hit him and unleashed a new tide of soul-searing need.

  He was speaking like the rookeries scourge he was again.

  And it was not intentional this time, as it had been with Mrs. Martin. Then, he had been testing the woman. Prodding her to see how she truly felt about the prospect of being eternally bound in matrimony to an East End scoundrel who had committed every crime that existed in his rise from the gutters.

  No, this time, he had lost control because that was what the ebony-haired aristocrat before him made him do. Without fail.

  “I needed to speak to you one more time.” There was a hesitation in her tone that was unusual for her.

  Ordinarily, Lady Octavia spoke as he imagined a queen would, with great authority, certain of the fealty of all her lowly subjects. He moved closer to her, drawn out of sheer stupidity and an instinctive desire to feel her warmth. To see if he could gather that luscious scent of hers into his lungs and hold it there forever.

  Stupid thoughts.

  But as he drew closer, her attempt to flit away was halting, almost as if she had limped. He did not miss her wince.

  The sight drew him up short.

  “You have injured yourself,” he observed.

  “It is nothing,” she denied with a haste that did not surprise him.

  Of course she would wish him to believe her omnipotent.

  “You are in pain,” he continued, reaching for her.

  She sidled away, only to emit a small cry of dismay. “I am fine,” she nonetheless insisted.

  Had she been limping when he had pulled her into his office? Jasper was ashamed to admit he had been too struck by her unexpected arrival to take note. What a despicable scoundrel he was.

  “Nonsense, minx.” Without waiting for further protest, he bent and scooped her into his arms.

  “Sutton!” Her eyes were wide, palms planted on his chest.

  He stalked across the chamber in three strides and deposited her on the chair opposite of the one Mrs. Martin had so recently vacated. Somehow, the notion of Octavia sitting in the other woman’s seat felt inherently wrong.

  Jasper dropped to his knees on the carpet, an ironic pose given what he had been thinking earlier. But she was not in his bed. Nor was she his. And neither could she ever be. Curse the pang that stole through him at the reminder.

  “Why are you limping?” he asked, grateful his voice did not sound nearly as filled with lust as he felt.

  Her ankles were hiding beneath a barrier of fabric. All he needed to do was lift the muddied, torn hem.

  Muddied and torn?

  He lifted her skirts before she could answer, finding a slash in her delicate stockings and the red of dried blood. The rage that thundered through him clogged his throat, rendering him incapable of speech before he bit out his next words. “Were you attacked?”

  If anyone had dared to touch her, he would tear off the bastard’s arms and beat him to death with them.

  “Of course not.” She shifted her skirts, hiding her calves from view. “Do get up, Sutton. I merely injured myself slightly when I fell from the last branch of the tree.”

  Through the roaring in his ears, her words reached him slowly.

  Injured myself.

  Fell.

  Branch.

  Tree.

  Tree?

  He shook his head. “What were you doing in a damned tree?”

  “As far as I am aware, the tree was not damned.”

  Was she making a joke? Bloodlust and the need to avenge her were still making his hands tremble. He flicked an irate glance up to her, which proved a mistake.

  She was smiling at him.

  Impishly.

  And she had been in a tree.

  “You did not answer my question, minx. What were you doing in a tree?”

  “Using it to climb from my window.”

  Satan’s teeth.

  “Are you dicked in the nob, woman? You are lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

  Someone had to protect her. From herself, if no one else.

  That someone is not going to be me, he reminded himself sternly.

  But another voice rose in his mind. A question he could not answer. Why not?

  “The branch I fell from was quite low-hanging and my neck is just fine, as you can see.” Primly, she gestured to her pale throat.

  He thought about setting his lips there. About licking that soft, inviting skin to see if it tasted as heavenly as she smelled. Somehow, he knew it would. If he used his tongue and teeth on her, would she be shocked?

  Something told him that she would not.

  But she had mentioned branches, she had hurt herself, and she was climbing about in trees. To say nothing of her continued mockery of his orders for her to remain far from The Sinner’s Palace. In addition to being utterly mad, she was a menace.

  “Why were you climbing about in trees this evening?” he demanded, catching her hem and flipping it up once more to examine the wound on her calf. “This needs to be cleaned.”

  And Caro, the healer amongst them, was not here to offer aid. Fortunately, she regularly brought her salves and other medical supplies to The Sinner’s Palace now that she was a married woman. He could not deny that the chance to tend to Lady Octavia himself appealed.

  “It is merely a scratch,” she said, flicking her skirts over his hands and her ankles both. “I can take care of myself.”

  “No you cannot. Your skirts and stockings are torn, you don’t do as you’re told, and you fell from a tree.”

  “You cannot tell me what to do, Sutton,” she countered stubbornly.

  “Yes I can, minx.”

  He rose and crossed his office, going to the pitcher and basin where he kept water for a different reason entirely than tending to wounded aristocrats. Rather, this was the water he used when he had to rely on his fists to make his opinion known in this chamber.

  Thankfully, that was no longer as often as it had once been.

  He wetted a clean cloth and brought it back to where Lady Octavia sat, watching him with an unreadable stare. Part of him was surprised she had not defiantly moved. Part of him was pleased.

  More opportunities to touch her.

  Jasper sank to his knees once again. “Raise your gown and hold it in your lap so that I may see what I’m about.”

  “I told you that I am fine.” Her lips were set in a mulish line.

  If that was how she wished to play this game…

  Ignoring her, he raised her petticoats and gown himself. Her white silk stockings were fastened above her knees with garters. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. Jasper had never been the sort of man who worshiped a woman’s limbs as some did. But he could not li
e. The sight of Lady Octavia’s finely turned ankles and delicate calves encased in such finery was more intoxicating than a gallon of gin.

  But this was not about seduction. She was his patient, unwilling or not.

  Gently, he unfastened the garter on her injured leg. His fingertips grazed over velvet-soft feminine flesh. His heart was pounding steadily. He would not get a cockstand while cleaning her scratches. He vowed it. He would not.

  Down went the stocking, revealing more glorious, creamy skin until he reached the place where the tree branch had wounded her. Gently, he dabbed at the angry-looking scratches, cleansing the dried blood. Some of the cuts were deeper than he had originally supposed.

  She flinched, inhaling on a hiss.

  He paused, glancing up at her. “Stings, yes?”

  She bit her lower lip. “Yes.”

  “I will be gentle,” he promised, before resuming, aware of how bloody much of a looby he was.

  There was nothing gentle about Jasper Sutton.

  And yet…

  For her, there was. Incredibly enough. He finished his ministrations and then applied some of Caro’s salve to aid with healing, taking his time. Reluctant to allow this moment between them come to an end. When it did, he would have to lower her gown and petticoat. He would have to stop touching her.

  He added more salve. More than was necessary. Prolonging the moment. His thumb traced circles over the bony protrusion of her ankle, a place he had never found particularly alluring on a woman before. But a place he very much admired now. Here was evidence of her strength and fragility all at once. Her ankles were slim enough that he could encompass one in his meaty paw. He had never felt more like a brute than he did now, tending to Lady Octavia as if she were a bird with a broken wing.

  “I do not think your betrothed would approve,” she said tartly above, breaking the spell that the luxury of his bare skin on hers had cast.

  Reminding him of all the reasons why he must put an end to this.

  Why he must send her on her way.

  But I want to keep her.

  The realization hit him as their gazes met and held. Mrs. Martin was the last thing on his mind. His obligations flitted away.

  “I don’t have one yet, as I told you,” he said, finding a small place were her skin was slightly puffed and swollen. “Did you twist your ankle when you fell?”

  “I may have. This is quite enough, Mr. Sutton.”

  She sounded as prim as a governess. And now he was a mister instead of merely Sutton. Her dudgeon was up.

  “Jasper,” he found himself saying. “If you insist on trespassing in my establishment, you may as well call me by my name.”

  “Again, I do not believe your betrothed would approve of such familiarity.”

  His gaze flicked up from his lengthy exploration of her beautiful limbs. That was when he noticed how tightly she held her gown in her lap, the delicate knuckles white with strain. Restraint or anxiety?

  “I don’t give a damn if Mrs. Martin approves,” he said slowly, honestly.

  He had made it clear as a window pane to the widow that he had no intention of curtailing his ways. He would change for no woman, least of all her. Marriage was for one reason alone: the sake of his daughters. They needed a womanly influence, and he could not provide that. Nor could his sisters. Caro was married. Pen was trouble. And Lily was too young for the role. Jasper had already failed at hiring a servant to care for them. Mrs. Bunton had been sent on her way.

  “You ought to care,” Lady Octavia snapped. “You may release my limb now, if you please.”

  So proper.

  So polite.

  He wanted to ruffle her perfect feathers.

  And why not? She had come here to him. An idea began forming in his mind. It was a wrong idea, to be sure. Wicked. Troublesome.

  Fucking stupid.

  He should not do it. Not under any circumstances. Jasper knew that.

  He was going to do it anyway.

  Rising to his feet, he stuffed her ruined stocking into the pocket of his waistcoat and then held out his hand for her. “Come with me, Lady Octavia.”

  Chapter 4

  For the second time that evening, Octavia found herself being conveyed in Jasper Sutton’s arms. When she had reluctantly taken his hand to allow him to pull her to her feet, she had wobbled on her sore ankle, which pained her more by the moment as her injury set in. He had taken note, and before she had so much as blinked, he had swept her up as if she weighed no more than a child.

  Despite her protests, he had refused to allow her to walk on her own locomotion. And now, he was taking her through the labyrinth of The Sinner’s Palace’s private halls. Deeper into the den of the lion. She had expected him to take her back to the conveyance which had brought her here—a small curricle which was indistinguishable, accompanied by the same tiger who had brought her on previous occasions. Her relief that Mirabel had not warned the groom against taking her on further jaunts—likely to spare Octavia embarrassment—had eclipsed the pain in her ankle and calf from the spill she had taken.

  As it turned out, climbing trees was an endeavor which ought to happily remain relegated to the follies of her girlhood. Sutton had been right when he had told her she had been fortunate not to have broken her neck. There had been a wild moment of fear when she had been hanging limply from the slippery branch of the tree, as if she were a doll. Her landing had been pure luck, on her feet.

  In the style of a cat.

  Only with less grace.

  Her heart had been pounding by the time she had realized her slippers were on terra firma, mouth dry. But she had decided that her near-death had to be repaid by one last chance to persuade Jasper Sutton to help her with her scandal journal.

  Last chance.

  Those words had been echoing in her mind during her furtive jaunt to The Sinner’s Palace. They repeated themselves with each of Sutton’s footfalls. Like a taunt.

  Last chance.

  It was true. Mirabel would no longer trust her if she discovered that Octavia had disobeyed her concerns and ventured here once more. Her heart ached at the notion.

  “I am capable of walking,” she told him, trying to ignore the unique perspective she currently possessed.

  His profile was near. So near, she could see the dark shadow of his whiskers individually delineated. Her eyes traced the blade of his nose, the slash of his jaw. His coal-black hair was worn in waves that looked as if they had been carefully affected. Knowing Jasper Sutton, however, she would be willing to wager his locks simply fell in such casual, careless perfection.

  His jaw worked now as he continued carrying her through the maze of halls.

  He ignored her objection. But of course. He was Jasper Sutton.

  Part of Octavia was irritated by his arrogance. Part of her did not mind at all. That weakest half of her was relishing the opportunity to be in this powerful man’s arms. To breathe in the sandalwood and earthy musk of him—less smoke than she ordinarily smelled upon his coat this evening. Had he not been on the floor of his gaming hell yet?

  Oh, why should she wonder or care? The answer held no significance for her either way.

  Still, she could not help but to admire the grace and strength he exhibited in carrying her. She was no small woman, and yet he transported her as if she were no lighter than a bird. As if she were not there.

  Hmm.

  Perhaps she ought to do something more to make her presence known.

  Octavia released her grip on his shoulder and allowed herself the liberty of tracing the whorl of Jasper’s ear.

  A muscle in his jaw worked, but his stride did not falter. “What are you doing, minx?”

  Minx.

  The word sent a hot streak of longing into her belly.

  He meant it as an insult, she supposed. But he had used it several times this evening, and she could not shake the suspicion that it was also something of an endearment. After all, he had shown her scrapes such care.

&nbs
p; A complicated man, Jasper Sutton.

  “I…” she faltered, unable to think of a proper answer. “I thought I saw something there, but it was a shadow.”

  And she could not seem to stop touching him now that she had begun, much to her shame. Her hungry fingers moved lower, to the swath of skin above his cravat. She liked the manner in which he wore his neck cloths—no fanciful dandy’s waterfalls for Jasper Sutton. He was a man of function. One tidy knot, almost stern. Half dress was all he required.

  He elbowed his way through a door, and suddenly she was in a new chamber.

  A dark one.

  “Fucking hell.”

  His low growl and epithet took her by surprise, as did the lack of light in the room.

  “A candle is always to be left lit,” he added in a grumble, moving them an indeterminate span of space through the gloom.

  She found herself deposited on something soft and large.

  A settee of some sort? She leaned, expecting to find a cushion, and fell to her back instead. There was only one answer to the piece of furniture she had been settled upon. A bed.

  Ought she to be concerned by this? Likely. But somehow, the absence of Jasper’s warmth and arms around her hit her first. Hugging herself, she waited as her eyes attempted to adjust.

  There were some scrapes and more muffled curses, and then a spark and flare of light from first one candle. Then others.

  Gradually, the room became illuminated, and she realized the place he had brought her was not just a dark chamber but a large one.

  A masculine one.

  And she was indeed seated upon a bed.

  There was something about her surroundings that suggested she could only be in one chamber.

  His.

  “Where have you brought me?” she demanded anyway, as if asking the question would somehow alter the conclusion she had already reached.

  Because he could not have truly taken her where she suspected he had. Jasper Sutton would not take her to his bedchamber. He was a rogue. A gaming hell owner. Hardly a gentleman. But surely he would not…

  “My chamber,” he said.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  He had. She was in his room.

  In his bed.

  “Why?” she demanded, her voice high, tinged with a bit of an embarrassing squeak.