“There is no luck involved when you are the one who has made all the decisions leading us to this,” she countered, frustration rising to join the worry. “How dare you send word to my sister’s husband that I am here?”
She adored Damian Winter, she truly did. But he was fiercely protective. When he learned she had been here all night, she did not know how he would react. Nor did she know what would become of her. Would she be sent to the country with Mama? If word of her spending the evening at a gaming hell reached polite society, she would be ruined.
“One of us has to be rational,” he said calmly, as if everything made perfect sense.
As if he were not at all perturbed by the fact that an irate brother-in-law was about to come crashing down upon The Sinner’s Palace, demanding only heaven knew what as reparations. Why, it was almost as if he had plotted this entire affair intentionally and that…
Anne’s and Elizabeth’s words returned to her. You are going to marry Papa.
She gasped. “You scoundrel. You have ruined me intentionally.”
His lips quirked into a grin. “If I had ruined you, darling, you would be naked in that bed behind you, begging me for more.”
Why did he have to be so handsome? And insufferable? Why did she have to be drawn to this maddening rogue in a way she had never known with another man? And why did his words send heat and longing unfurling within her instead of outrage? She wished she knew.
“You…preposterous…smug…villain!” She was sputtering, and she knew it.
Villain was the worst word she could think of at the moment.
Hardly suiting.
He was devious.
Manipulative.
Overly confident.
Enticing.
“Careful, Mrs. Sutton. Your cruel barbs may hurt my poor panter.” His grin had deepened.
She supposed his panter was his heart. But she was not sure which was more irksome, his reliance upon cant or his laughter.
He found this amusing.
She planted her hands on her hips and glared him down. “I am not marrying you, Sutton. I am happily unwed, and I’ll not be changing that for you.”
He shrugged, unaffected. “I warned you to stay away from The Sinner’s Palace, did I not?”
Yes, of course he had. But even his own daughters had said he liked to bluster.
“I wished to have a proper conversation with you.”
“To persuade me of the wisdom of your pudding-headed plan.”
Pudding-headed?
Her glare turned into a glower. “There is nothing wrong with my plan. It is excellent. A business proposition which would have been beneficial to you.”
“A business proposition which would’ve only landed you in more trouble, minx.” Jasper shook his head slowly. “No, my lady. You will see that I ‘ave done you a favor.”
“No you have not,” she denied heatedly. “What you have done is managed to make a muddle of everything. I shall not marry you.”
He startled her by reaching out and running a lone finger along her jaw, then down her throat before tracing the line of her collarbone and pausing at the hollow where her pulse thundered. “So you’ve said twice now.”
“Because I will not do it.” She was the one who was blustering now. For if she was to be sent to Mama in shame, Octavia’s life as she knew it would be at an end.
Mama did not allow gossip, scandalous caricatures, or fun of any sort.
The rough pad of his fingertip traveled back up her throat, stroking gently in a slow caress. “You will be my wife.”
“You cannot force me.” But even as she issued her denial, her voice was weak. Her resistance was crumbling.
The place where his skin met hers seemed to be the center of her body. It was all she could think about, all she could feel. And it was not helping matters.
“No force needed where you are concerned, sweetheart.” His head dipped. “You want me.”
She did.
Just not as her husband.
“Not enough to marry you.”
“I need a wife.” There was victory in his voice, shimmering in those eyes of his. “You need someone to keep you out from under the hatches.”
His speech was smoother. More careful. Was he so assured of his success, or was he exerting every modicum of charm he possessed to convince her?
“I do not need a husband,” she said, breathless despite her best intentions to remain unaffected by his proximity and touch.
“Not one of those nibs,” he said, slowly rubbing his lower lip against hers in a half kiss. “A fancy cove ain’t for you. You need me.”
Back and forth went his lip against hers, teasing, taunting, tempting.
She wanted the full kiss. The tender force of both his lips on hers again.
Suddenly, a thought planted itself in her mind, rather in the fashion of a seed. If she were to marry Jasper Sutton, perhaps she could find a way to make her scandal journal come to fruition after all. A new surge of hope rose within, joining the desire.
But a knock on the door to the chamber cut through the potency of the moment.
“Winter’s ‘ere,” called an unfamiliar male voice from the other side of the portal. “And none too pleased.”
Jasper’s head lifted, ending the kiss before it could begin. “Excellent.”
Rafe had not sufficiently warned Jasper about the intensity of Demon Winter’s fury. Fortunately, Jasper was accustomed to sudden attacks, drunken fisticuffs, impromptu knife fights, and all manner of violence. So when he crossed the threshold of his office, the swinging fist intent upon connecting with his head was easily dodged.
“Where is my wife’s sister, you devil?” growled the irate man, clearly gathering himself up for a second attempt at breaking Jasper’s nose.
He had no wish to go to loggerheads with Demon Winter, particularly since Caro was now married to the man’s brother. But having a civil conversation was paramount to the success of Jasper’s plan. On a sigh he reached into his boot and presented the knife which was always secreted within a special sheath there. The gleaming blade was pointed directly at Winter’s chest, lest he refuse to listen to reason.
He sighed. “Settle, Winter. This ain’t no way to conduct yourself. Thought you were a fancy cove now.”
“And I thought you wanted to maintain peace with my family,” his opponent snarled. “Holding my sister-in-law captive is not the way to do that, Sutton.”
Jasper threw the knife into the air, giving it a twist, and caught the hilt with ease. “She’s not my captive.”
“Then where is she? And what was the meaning of this morning’s note?” Winter demanded curtly, eying the knife as Jasper toyed with it.
Winter wasn’t scared of the blade. He knew that. Just as Jasper knew he wasn’t going to use it. But sometimes, a show of force was necessary. He’d had ample time to consider his battle plan for today last night whilst tossing and turning in one of the girls’ narrow beds in Loge’s old room.
Long into the early hours of the dawn, he had stared into the shadows of the ceiling, calling himself every kind of fool for thinking he could marry a fine lady. The daughter of a lord. And yet, Octavia was different. She had developed an instant affinity with the twins from the first moment they had met. And instead of fleeing last night when the girls had attempted to seek him out and unlocked the chamber door, she had settled in with Anne and Elizabeth.
She had told them a story.
She knew them apart when almost no one else did.
But also, he was selfish. He wanted her in his bed. Not Mrs. Martin. Nor any other. He wanted her.
He was going to have her.
“She is in my chamber,” he told Demon Winter now, flipping his knife into the air and making another quick catch of the hilt without doing himself any harm.
Winter started forward, his countenance menacing, fists clenched. “Your chamber? If you have violated her—”
“Now, Winter,” he interrupted
before he could offer further insult. “What manner of gentleman do you think I am?”
“I do not think anything,” Winter bit out. “I know you are not a gentleman. Your actions for as long as I have known you, aside from aiding my brother, have shown it.”
Jasper could not argue the point. He took pride in not being a gentleman. He was not like the Winters, who possessed a wealthy merchant branch of their family and had married into nobility. He did not covet titles. He hated manners and rules, the dandies with their papa’s money, the ladies with airs who looked down their noses at the world. Polite society could damned well go hang.
Nor had he ever been a man keen to show weakness. A man did not claw his way up from the lowest of the rookeries by fretting over manners, education, or speech. He had never seen the inside of a drawing room or a ballroom. And that suited him fine.
He inclined his head, watching Demon Winter as he tossed the knife to his opposite hand. An excellent skill to possess—Jasper was adept with either hand.
“You are right,” he acknowledged. “I ain’t a gentleman. But I would never mistreat Lady Octavia in any fashion. That I swear upon my honor.”
“Your recent actions suggest you do not possess any honor either.”
Winter was treading dangerously near to the thin line within Jasper where amusement and irritation met. He tossed his knife through the air, and it hurtled end over end, landing in the wall just past Demon Winter’s broad shoulder. Missing him by plenty. Harming the man was not Jasper’s intention.
“Careful, Winter. You’ll not be wanting to make me angry,” he warned.
“The same is true for myself and my family,” Winter countered, seemingly unimpressed by Jasper’s words. “We protect our own.”
“Ah, but Lady Octavia does not belong to the Winters,” Jasper pointed out, smiling. “She belongs to me.”
“She is an innocent and a lady,” Winter said.
Jasper stared at his opponent, then gave a careless shrug. Her station mattered naught to him. He was Jasper Sutton, and he took what he wanted, when he wanted it. Because he could. Because he had spilled enough blood, crossed enough palms with blunt, defeated enough enemies.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” Winter asked, his frustration evident.
“I want Lady Octavia as my wife.” His blunt announcement stunned the other man for a moment.
Only a moment.
“No,” Winter said harshly. “You cannot have her, Sutton.”
Again, he shrugged, feeling triumphant and unable to keep the smug grin from his lips. “I already do.”
Winter’s nostrils flared. “I will call the charleys if I must.”
“And bring more harm to the lady’s reputation? I think not. And anyway, I own all the charleys in this part of town.”
He could see the moment Winter realized the truth of his statements. And the fight began to seep from him, ever so slightly. Inevitably, there was always a moment in an altercation of any sort where one party recognized the futility of the fight. Jasper had engaged in many, many fights in his life. Sometimes, to the death.
“What do you want?” Winter gritted.
Jasper’s grin deepened. “Lady Octavia as my wife. She spent the night in my bed after climbing out a window and coming to find me. It ain’t the first time she’s come to me either, Winter. But don’t worry. I’ll take better care of her than you did.”
Chapter 6
The banns had been read. The marriage contract arranged with her less-than-pleased father. Because she was over the age of one-and-twenty, Papa’s consent was not required. Neither he nor mama would be attending the ceremony. Despite that glaring omission, everything was settled. Octavia was going to be married this morning.
To Jasper Sutton.
Married.
“Are you listening, Octavia?” demanded her sister.
She blinked, staring down at the street below as she returned from her wildly tumbling thoughts. Conveyances bustled. Horses plodded along. The familiar jangling of tack reached her ears. Her forehead was pressed to the pane of glass in the gold salon. It was cool. Smooth. Her heart was pounding.
“I am listening,” she mumbled.
In truth, Mirabel’s harangue had been easy to ignore. Octavia did not want to hear all the things she had done wrong. All the missteps she had made which had led her to this inevitable choice: return to the country in shame and risk harming her beloved sister with the resulting scandal, or marry Jasper Sutton.
“Have you nothing to say?” Mirabel asked, her voice nearer.
No, not particularly.
She had taken one last chance in trying to persuade Sutton he ought to lend her his financial aid. But she had misread him, and she had pushed him too far. For some reason, he had decided that if he must take a wife, it may as well be her.
But he still had no intention of helping her with her scandal journal.
He had made that clear. The idea was foolish and would only land her in greater peril than she had previously thrust herself, he had said. So much for her fragile hopes. She had no expectation he would help her, though she would continue to pursue the matter. He had also told her he protected what was his.
And that she was his.
She shivered, though the day was not cool, merely damp.
What would it mean to be married to a man like Jasper Sutton? He was not cut from the same cloth as her brother-in-law, Damian Winter, that much was certain. He was not tender or sweet or attentive. He did not gaze upon her with his heart in his eyes as Mr. Winter did to Mirabel. Not that Octavia expected a love match. Heavens, she had not expected any match. She was a contented spinster. All she wanted was to start her scandal journal.
“I ought to have gone to you and Mr. Winter as you had advised,” she admitted to the window, sighing. “Instead of seeking out Sutton. I have no defense, save that I wanted very much to try to accomplish the journal through my own means, without having to rely upon your generosity.”
“We would have aided you, just as I said.” Mirabel’s hand landed on Octavia’s arm in comforting fashion. “Are you certain this marriage is what you wish, sister?”
“No.” She turned to Mirabel, worry tightening its hold on her. “I am not at all certain.”
She did not think Sutton would mistreat her. Not physically. But what manner of husband would he make? She could not deny the trepidation running through her was strong. Her life with her sister, brother-in-law, and the children had been pleasant. What would becoming the wife of a gaming hell owner mean for her?
Doors would close. Acquaintances would likely cut her. While Mr. Winter came from a somewhat scandalous past, he was standing for parliament. Mirabel’s position in society had aided them as well. But Octavia was not a duchess. She had never been a diamond of the first water. Her connections to the finest set were faint at best.
“You do not have to marry him,” Mirabel reminded her quietly, her expression grave.
More suited to a funeral than impending nuptials, it was true.
“My choices were limited,” she said. “Given the choice between being forced into obscurity in the countryside and becoming a companion for some cantankerous dowager, I shall take my chances with Sutton.”
“You know that I would not allow that to happen,” Mirabel said. “Mama and Papa have been harsh in their reaction, but you are always welcome to remain here with us at Tarlington House, just as you have been.”
“I cannot, Mirabel, but I thank you just the same.” Octavia shook her head. “I have caused enough troubles for you and Mr. Winter. The two of you have won society with your romance. If word of my misdeeds should be revealed, it would harm the children as well. I would not hurt any of you.”
“You have always been a hoyden,” Mirabel said, smiling wistfully. “I ought to have watched over you with greater care.”
Octavia took her sister’s hands in hers, giving them a fond squeeze. “You have your children and husband to look af
ter. I am a woman grown, and now I must accept the consequences of my actions.”
It was true. No one had forced her into seeking out Jasper Sutton. Octavia had known the risks, and she had taken them anyway. Until the devil had beat her at her own game.
“Come then,” Mirabel said. “We must get to the church.”
Jasper had suspected his past would repeatedly return to haunt him.
He just hadn’t realized it would arrive on the morning of his wedding in the form of his daughters’ mother. Nor had he been prepared for what the sight of her would do to him. She stood before him, reeking of blue ruin, her nearly transparent gown soiled, dark hair wild and matted as it trailed down her back. Her slippers were dirty and tattered, and she listed to the left like a ship in a storm.
Or like a tosspot, which was clearly what she had become, regardless of whatever she had once been. There was something familiar about her face, but the ravages of her dissipation had taken their toll upon her complexion. She was ruddy-cheeked and bloated. He recalled a wine-soaked romp with a widowed shopkeeper’s daughter. Her name had been Tess Smythe.
But the charming Tess of his memory was a far cry from the faded, sad woman who had demanded an interview with him.
“What do you want?” he bit out.
“What do you think I want?” She moved nearer to him, then stumbled and fell into his chest.
The scent of her hair made it apparent she had not bathed in some time. His stomach clenched, threatening to heave, as he took her upper arms in a gentle-but-firm grip and set her away from him.
“Tell me your name,” he said instead of answering her query.
Clearly, she forgot whose domain she had just entered and how much power he possessed.
“You don’t remember my name, lovey?” she trilled, taking a step in retreat and swaying again.
“You resemble a girl I once knew, a Tess Smythe.”
She laughed and then hiccupped. “Tess Bellington now. I’m a widow twice over.” Another hiccup. “Misfortune follows me.”
He could see why. Likely, it had something to do with the amount of gin she consumed. She wore the look of a woman who had experienced a harsh, grim life. The rookeries were not an easy place to survive.
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