Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  “You must marry the girl,” Carlisle announced.

  And Sebastian realized that he’d been wrong to think nothing could be worse than the dangers he’d faced and the risks he’d taken thus far. For marrying Miss Daisy Vanreid was surely the worst fate he could imagine.

  There was devotion to one’s country, and then there was sheer stupidity.

  “No,” he denied vehemently. “I won’t do it.”

  “No,” Daisy said. “I won’t do it.”

  Aunt Caroline took longer than necessary to react to Daisy’s outburst. No doubt, the delay had something to do with the four glasses of wine she’d consumed over the course of their host’s elegant dinner. “But Daisy, if Lord Breckly requests it, you must dance with him. He’s reached a tacit agreement with your father for your hand. It wouldn’t do to rebuff your future husband in so public a manner.”

  The thought of any agreement involving her hand—let alone the rest of her—and Viscount Breckly was an abomination. It made an unpleasant, ill sensation wash through her stomach. The heated crush of the ballroom didn’t help the situation. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin prickly. A roaring sound rushed to her ears.

  Four days remained until her father’s arrival.

  She’d gone from desperate to frantic. And she’d decided that tonight at the Darlington ball, she’d have to find a replacement groom. Anyone would do. Dancing with Breckly most assuredly did not fit into her plans of thwarting her impending nuptials with the wretch.

  Panicked. That was the proper word to describe her current condition.

  Four days, drat it all.

  “Aunt Caroline, he smells of hair grease and soiled linen. I won’t be able to bear it in this heat,” she said truthfully. “I feel ill just thinking of it now. There is also the matter of what occurred in the drawing room.”

  Her father’s sister frowned at her, but the overall effect was somewhat diminished by a rather indiscreet hiccup. “Oh dear. I’m afraid fish always tends to affect me in such a monstrous way. But that is neither here nor there. It wouldn’t be seemly for you to deny him, and that is that. Your father has a high opinion of the viscount, and if you don’t make this match, he’ll have my hide. I’m sure his lordship was overcome by your beauty, as all men are. You play with them, Daisy, make them into beasts.”

  Of course Aunt Caroline would blame the incident on Daisy, Aunt Caroline being cut from the same bolt of cloth as Father. Her marriage into an old blood Knickerbocker family in New York, the years she’d spent abroad, and the fact that she agreed with him in all things had made her Father’s clear choice in chaperone.

  “Would it be seemly for me to lose my dinner all over Lord Breckly?” Daisy inquired with sham politeness.

  A bejeweled matron swept past them, angling a look of ill-disguised disapproval in their direction. Daisy was accustomed to thinly veiled contempt. It wasn’t easy being an American girl who didn’t fit into the mold of fine English womanhood. Having a wealthy tradesman father who was half Irish and an aunt who liked to tipple didn’t exactly lend to being the belle of any ball. If she hadn’t her wits and her father’s wealth, she wouldn’t have dredged up any suitors at all.

  “Hush,” Aunt Caroline directed before issuing another hiccup. “You mustn’t ever speak your mind, Daisy, and certainly not in a ballroom, of all places. Someone could overhear.”

  Daisy didn’t particularly care if anyone did overhear. How better to advertise that she was available, ready for ruining? Her dowry was worth a small fortune. Surely some impoverished aristocrat would oblige her by rescuing her from the awful fate that awaited?

  She fanned herself, wondering if her face was as shiny as it felt. Of course she had left her pearl powder at home tonight. “Aunt Caroline, do forgive me. It’s merely that I’m overheated in this crush of people. I think I need to step outside for a breath of air.”

  “Outside?” Her aunt’s eyes narrowed with a prescient doubt.

  “Before I faint,” Daisy added for good measure. She felt not a speck of guilt for leading Aunt Caroline down the garden path, for she was as determined as Daisy’s father to see her sold off to Breckly. “I would hate to cause a scene. Would you mind holding my champagne?”

  Aunt Caroline’s slitted gaze fell upon the champagne flute. “Very well then, but don’t linger. And do not venture far. No good comes of young ladies flitting about in the dark.”

  Daisy pressed her glass into her aunt’s outstretched hand, completely aware that the glass would be empty upon her return. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Aunt.”

  With that, she took her leave of Aunt Caroline who, if past actions were to be an indication of future, would likely indulge in her champagne and spend the next few hours forgetting she had a niece at all. Which was just as well, for Daisy had to find an unsuspecting bachelor as expediently as possible.

  She took great care to make her way through the revelers and toward the exit as she’d said she would, lest her aunt watched. In just a few minutes, Aunt Caroline ought to be sufficiently distracted and Daisy could re-enter the ballroom to assess her prey.

  As she went, her eyes surveyed the room. The time for flirting and kissing was at an end. She needed to snare herself a husband by any means possible. The only means she could imagine that would force her father to acquiesce to a match other than the one he’d chosen was to ruin herself.

  Yes, tonight, she would need to create quite a scandal. A scandal that destroyed her reputation and left her with no recourse except marriage to someone other than Viscount Breckly.

  As she studied the gentlemen in attendance, her eyes collided with a familiar gaze. The effect was so stunning that she stopped where she was. Awareness sparked between them in live electrical wire fashion. The breath seemed to freeze in her lungs, and unwanted heat sluiced through her from head to toe, bathing her in a warmth that had nothing to do with the sultriness of the air and everything to do with the man watching her.

  The Duke of Trent.

  How was it possible that he was even more handsome tonight than the last time she’d seen him? Inexplicably, she recalled the sensation of his large hand, hot and heavy, pressed over her heart, directly to her bare skin. Had he followed her again tonight? Why did he watch her now, unflinching, his expression intense and unreadable? Hadn’t she told him to go play Galahad with someone else?

  Yet somehow, here he was, separated from her by a scant few feet and some lords and ladies in between. Looking at her as though he could see inside her, straight to the heart of her. She never wanted to be gazed upon in any other way for the rest of her life. He made her feel as though her entire body was a string pulled taut, waiting for the loving caress of a bow.

  Some wicked part of her thought that if she must entrap any man, surely there was no harm in selecting a man as beautiful as he to be her dupe. A man who could make wanton thoughts consume her before a crowded ballroom of people as she stood there in her silk and diamonds.

  Yes, let it be him.

  At last, she severed the contact, turning to continue her retreat from the ballroom and its noisy crush. She felt his stare on her back like a touch, stinging her shoulder blades. Daisy fanned herself as she stepped into the calming night. It was unseasonably warm for late February, and several others slowly promenaded about the main terrace.

  She skirted the perimeter and stole away into the shadows, farther from the din of the ball and prying eyes, farther away from reason and sanity, and deeper into unfamiliar, dangerous territory. For if she intended to carry out her plan to the fullest, she would require privacy.

  She stopped when she reached a statue that loomed over her, tall and eerie in the silvery night. Zeus perhaps? In the darkness, she couldn’t be sure. She was far enough that she could no longer hear the conversations of the guests on the terrace. Far enough for what she intended.

  A pang of guilt struck her then, for entrapping any man into marriage, let alone the insufferable duke, was the last thing she wanted to do. But w
hen her only other option was accepting the grim fate her father had selected for her, she knew what she needed to do.

  Save herself.

  “I confess, I’m quite curious to hear why you have such a peculiar fondness for disappearing at balls, Miss Vanreid.”

  The voice, low and clipped in perfect born-in-the-purple English, sent a fresh wave of longing through her. She knew without bothering to turn that it was him. How neatly he’d fallen into her trap.

  She searched for the bravado that seemed to have suddenly fled her as she slowly spun about. He stood a scant few steps away, gorgeous even in the dim light. Daisy offered him a full, perfect curtsy, for she could behave whenever the need arose. It was simply that she didn’t prefer to behave, having spent her life forced into doing it. “Your Grace. You seem to have a similar, peculiar fondness for following me at balls. Perhaps I too should inquire as to the reason?”

  “Inquire all you like, darling.”

  There was something about the way he uttered the term of endearment that made the otherwise ordinary word “darling” into a caress that she felt all over her body. Especially in her belly and… lower.

  She could play the role of flirt quite well by now, but he had a patent way of disarming her, throwing her off-kilter. Daisy took a step toward him, willing herself to keep her goal foremost in her mind. The urge to trade wits and verbally spar with him was strong. But clashing with the Duke of Trent would not compromise her, and so she needed to resort to different tactics.

  “If I ask, will you answer?” She took another step until she was near enough that she could smell him, and his scent began a steady ache deep within her. A need for something she didn’t understand.

  He still hadn’t moved, his large body illuminated by the moon’s sheen. “That depends.”

  Another step. “Upon?”

  “Upon whether or not I’m to expect one of your suitors.”

  She smiled despite herself, enjoying this game, and unable to resist baiting him after all. “Do you refer to the Earl of Bolton? Or perhaps to Wilford? Prestley? Tell me, Your Grace, do you keep a ledger of them all?”

  “I doubt any ledger of mine would contain enough pages.” His tone was grim.

  She flinched at the insult, but forced herself to take another step. She’d earned her reputation after all, even if it was in the name of a good cause: her own rescue. Little space separated them at all now, and in spite of his singular lack of charm, she was still determined to win her escape from Lord Breckly’s officious clutches.

  “One must wonder, Your Grace, why you followed me at all if your opinion of me is so poor,” she said then, careful to keep her tone flippant and unaffected.

  At long last, he moved, and with a lightning quickness that took her by surprise as he brought their bodies flush together. His hands settled on her waist when she would’ve lost her footing, anchoring her to him. Her breasts pressed to his chest. His breath coasted over her lips.

  “I never said my opinion of you was poor, Miss Vanreid,” he said slowly. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “Forgive me if I doubt that.” The breathlessness of her own voice alarmed her.

  Indecision threatened her suddenly, making her feel skittish. In the darkness, the duke was a force of nature, tall and large and potent. She couldn’t shake the odd notion that beneath his polished exterior lay a feral beast, waiting to lunge. To claim.

  There was more, far more, to the Duke of Trent than she had ever supposed. But she could sense it now, in the heat and strength of him, in the barely leashed savagery of the way he’d so neatly caught her in his trap.

  And all this time, she’d been fancying she’d trapped him. It suddenly seemed quite the opposite. But she wasn’t frightened. Rather, he intrigued her.

  “I’ve decided I want my turn,” he said.

  She blinked, wishing she could better see his expression through the darkness. Wishing she could read him, but the man had her at a complete loss. “I’m sorry, Your Grace?”

  “You asked me before if I wanted a turn.” His hand traveled from her waist to cup her jaw with a tenderness that belied the strength radiating from him. The unexpected gentleness shook her. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, sending a rush of sensation through her frenzied body.

  Ah yes, so she had, foolishly upon their last meeting. But she had meant to taunt him, to wring from him the truth of why he had seemed to dog her every move through society. It could have all been coincidence, of course. Anyone else—anyone whose mind didn’t operate the way Daisy’s did—would have likely never taken note. Would have never wondered. Would never have been suspicious. Dear Lord, not of a peer of the realm, and a duke at that.

  But Daisy wasn’t anyone else. She was herself, and she knew herself well enough to know that she was something of an oddity. She didn’t seem to fit in with anyone anywhere, though her father had done an admirable job of attempting to force her into any number of roles that suited him. Thus far, she had dodged them all, and she didn’t intend for that to change four days from now.

  Which brought her back to her plan. Her necessity.

  She needed the Duke of Trent to compromise her. Tonight.

  She took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled over the thumb that continued its slow exploration of her lip. “So take your turn then, Your Grace. Take it now.”

  He made a deep sound in his throat, and she couldn’t tell if it was a growl or a hum of satisfaction. “I believe I will.”

  In the next breath, his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding as she had imagined it would be. Daisy had been kissed many times before, but never the way the duke kissed her. His lips angled over hers, fitting perfectly, with a voracious hunger. This kiss claimed. It sent a flurry of something foreign washing over her, something that was part languor, part need.

  She caught his broad shoulders, clutching him to her as he ravaged her mouth, feeling the powerful muscles hidden beneath his evening finery. His tongue swept the seam of her lips, seeking entry, and she opened without hesitation. Nothing about the way the Duke of Trent affected her was feigned or forced. There was something indefinable—something primitive and raw—within him that called to her. That told her she was where she belonged.

  In his arms.

  Yes, if she had to marry any man, please Lord let it be a man who kissed the way the duke did. Who smelled the way the duke did. Who looked and felt as he did. Let it simply be him.

  Only him.

  His mouth left hers to trail a path of fire down her throat, lingering over the sensitive hollow beneath her ear. Who had known such a place would not only long to be kissed but that his lips grazing her there would send a pulsing ache of pleasure to her core? And then he licked her, his tongue darting out to tease her flesh, to taste her. To drive her mad.

  A mewling sound tore from her. She wanted more, even though she didn’t know what more was. He caught her earlobe in his teeth and tugged, tongued the whorl of her ear. His breath was hot and decadent upon her as he moved his mouth lower still, to her collarbone, and from there downward to her décolletage.

  He kissed over the swell of her breast, and she knew a poignant longing. How she wished for him to be unrestrained by her gown and corset, to be free to move his lovely mouth over every inch of her body. Especially to the aching tips of her breasts that had begun tingling in a most alarming fashion.

  She wondered fuzzily why no man before him had ever taken such a liberty, and then she was instantly glad they had not. For she couldn’t imagine enjoying this wickedness with anyone save him. She felt that she was made for him.

  And then, he snagged the delicate tulle of her sleeve and tugged. The sound of fabric rending split the night, sending a rush of cold air over her. She stiffened in his arms, training so ingrained in her that despite seeking her complete compromise tonight, she nearly pushed him away. A torn bodice was the ultimate hallmark of sin. What could he be thinking? Daisy could not face her aunt or return to the ballroom with
a ball gown that had been damaged.

  Perhaps he had lost his head, for he seemed undeterred by the spoiling he’d just done, continuing to kiss his way across the bare expanse of her bosom. An odd calm settled over her then, a calm she hadn’t felt in as long as she could recall.

  She was ruined.

  And it felt, in a word, divine.

  Overcome by the urge, she ran her fingers through his thick, soft hair and then pressed an impulsive kiss to his crown. Even his hair smelled good. He stilled in his exploration, his lips still pressed to her skin.

  Had she gone too far? Had he realized how far he, in turn, had gone? She’d never know, for he gave a quick, strong yank, and everything—her bodice, corset, and chemise—went down with it. Her breasts were bared, on full display in the moonlight.

  Daisy, wicked girl that she was, forgot that she had only meant to allow things to reach a certain point before demurely demanding he return her to her aunt along with a marriage proposal. She forgot that they stood not far removed from a ballroom full of people. Forgot that she had no business guiding the duke’s kisses lower, to the place she wanted them the most.

  Because in the next instant, he took her into his mouth.

  And in the next instant, she heard the shocked exclamation of none other than Aunt Caroline, who stood in the moonlight, gawping at them with a stranger by her side.

  aisy?” hissed the aunt, sounding faint.

  “Trent, is that you?” asked Carlisle, doing a fair impression of indignation for a man who had intentionally led the aunt into the darkness in search of her errant niece, knowing what they would find. “Good God, this is an outrage. You’ll have to marry Miss Vanreid at once.”

  Marry.

  The word turned the lust raging through his body into ice. Hastily, he hauled Miss Vanreid’s bodice back into place. But not before being treated to one more glimpse of the luscious ripeness of her breasts in the moon’s glow. There was no doubt about it—Miss Daisy Vanreid was pure, unadulterated temptation. And he had succumbed.