Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  The grimness in his tone wasn’t lost on her. Oh dear. She had made a muck of it, hadn’t she? But how was she to think properly when his hands were on her and he stood in such proximity, his touch so knowing and delicious, weakening any resolve she’d had remaining?

  “You’re a stranger to me,” she reminded him. “My surprise stems from the fact that I’ve known you for so short a time, and already you’ve changed many things for me.”

  “More than you know, buttercup.” His mouth tightened as his fingers trailed over her décolletage, across the twin swells of her breasts. She hoped he wouldn’t notice she was still wearing the same gown she’d worn yesterday. At some point, she would need to fetch her belongings if indeed her father would even allow it.

  She swallowed, trying to tamp down the desire clamoring inside her as he skimmed the lace and bead-trimmed bodice before slipping beneath her corset. “Tell me about yourself, Sebastian.”

  “There isn’t much to tell.” He found her nipple, rolled it between thumb and forefinger.

  Daisy couldn’t quite suppress her gasp. The heaviness between her legs pulsed with each pluck of his clever fingers. “How old are you?”

  “I have thirty years.” He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the skin just beneath her ear. “How many have you, sweet?”

  Good heavens, his tongue was upon her. Licking. Scalding. His teeth nipped gently. She couldn’t think. Here was the man she’d been drawn to, in her arms at last. The seducer. The wicked lover. What had he asked?

  Years, she recalled belatedly. He had inquired after her age. “Twenty.” She steeled herself against his potent allure. “Have you any siblings? A mother?”

  He paused, his lips against her throat. “None in this world.”

  She recognized the pain in his voice, the regret. A glimmer of the true man, raw and real, showed through his arrogant façade. “I’m so sorry, Sebastian.” She ran her hands over his back in gentle caresses, seeking to soothe.

  “Bloody hell.” Abruptly, he straightened, whisked his touch away, and clamped firm hands on her waist, setting her from him. His breathing was labored, his eyes dark and unreadable. “I promised you a courting, not a fuck on the desk in my study.”

  His words made her cheeks burn. She had heard coarse speech before, enough to know what such a word meant. But for the first time, it held a previously unknown appeal for her. The appeal of the wicked. Truth be told, she wouldn’t have objected to a fuck on the desk in his study, and whatever unknown delights such a thing would entail.

  She wisely refrained from saying so aloud, even as she felt the loss of his touch as keenly as if he had taken away an intrinsic part of her. She crossed her arms over her chest, watching him as he transformed yet again before her. He was as changeable as the weather, it seemed. Sunny, drizzling, a torrent. She could not predict which version of himself he would be from one moment to the next.

  “Jesus.” He raked a hand through his hair, pinning his gaze on something over her shoulder as he attempted to compose himself. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I should not have said something so profane to a lady. To my wife.”

  “I daresay I’ve heard worse.” She sought to assuage his concern even as she noted the odd inflection in his voice as he’d called her his wife. As though it were somehow unfathomable. Or perhaps even unwanted.

  She had not been raised to be a delicate flower. Though her name was Daisy, she’d never related to her namesake—spindly stems and bright, cheerful blooms that withered in no time. All that brilliant show and heads hanging as if in shame within a few days’ time. Her father had wanted her to be that sort of woman. Pretty on the outside but meek and mild, easily bent. She had defied him time and again, bearing the ugly consequences. He had not crushed her yet. And perhaps, she was beginning to realize, the real truth was that she was uncrushable after all.

  “All the same,” he said stiffly, “I beg your forgiveness. Now if you’ll excuse me, my dear, I do have some matters that need my attention. I shall see you at dinner, yes?”

  She was being dismissed. A chill ran through her. Uncrushable, but she had her pride. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. Undoubtedly, there are any number of things I must see to as well.”

  Yes, she was sure there were. She had a household to manage. A house and domestics to familiarize herself with. Somewhere, there was a library brimming with books she might read. And yet, what she wanted more than any of those things was to remain here, basking in the Duke of Trent’s presence. How confounding he was.

  Perhaps this was how marriage was handled amongst the aristocracy. Having spent most of her life in New York without a mother, Daisy hardly knew what to expect. No one had prepared her. Aunt Caroline had told her some nonsense about always being a dutiful wife, heeding her husband’s every whim. Never voicing a contradictory opinion.

  She turned to go, realizing she stood there staring at him like a green country girl gazing upon the first handsome man she’d ever seen. She knew when her presence was no longer desired, and she had no wish to linger where she wasn’t wanted. Had she made a mistake in marrying the duke? Trapped by circumstance, she may have been. Foolish, she was not. It would seem that only time could decide.

  Daisy’s hand was on the intricate knob to his study door when he called out to her.

  “Daisy.”

  She spun to face him. He stood where she had left him, standing before his desk, so handsome her heart gave a pang in her breast. “Yes?”

  “Your dress.” He waved a hand to encompass it, from her head to her hem. “You look stunning in it, but one cannot help but notice it is a repeat of yesterday’s. Ironic coming from the woman who berated me for a similar crime.”

  She pursed her lips. “The crime was not similar in all senses. Moreover, the plain truth is that I only arrived here yesterday with this gown and not a stitch else. I’m not certain my father will even allow me to return to retrieve my wardrobe.”

  “You’ll not return there,” he ordered with the air of a man well-accustomed to issuing commands. He was a duke, after all. “Send an intermediary, and if Mr. Vanreid is unwilling to allow you to have your possessions, commission new dresses. Dresses that button all the way to the throat. I’m told that’s the rage these days.”

  He had noticed after all.

  “Thank you, Sebastian.” She turned to leave again with one thought foremost in her mind.

  How odd that he should pay special attention to lady’s fashion. Particularly when high-necked bodices were decidedly de trop. Yes, that was very odd indeed.

  he was late.

  Sebastian paced as he waited for Daisy to join him for dinner. He pulled out his watch to find that only a bloody minute had passed since he’d last checked. Damn it, she had him in an uproar. His mind was as jumbled as a field after battle and every bit as dark and desolate.

  Her tardiness was not the only sin he could lay at her door. She was making him go mad, goddamn it. Mad with guilt, mad with frustration, mad with self-disgust, and worst of all, mad with lust.

  His need for her was like a pulsing, raging beast inside him that wanted to spring free of its cage and devour her in a single, voracious bite. What was it about Daisy Vanreid that made him want to lick and kiss and nibble, to plunder and grind and fuck until he filled her with his seed?

  The thought was enough to make him stiff as a fire log, even dressed for dinner and irritated, stalking the polished parquet as he awaited her. He willed his lust to cool. Counted his steps. One, two… ten… fifteen. Stared at the portrait of the Third Duke of Trent, sometime Lord Privy Seal. Thought about how much of a blessing it was that men were no longer required to wear wigs in the name of fashion. Recalled what Paris had looked like after the siege, its citizens reduced to eating rats, buildings turned to rubble, dead bodies everywhere.

  Twenty-two… twenty-nine… thirty-four.

  It wasn’t working, goddamn it.

  Nothing could distract him from her. From what he’d done. From what he
wanted to do and what he’d almost done. Jesus, he’d nearly taken her. On his desk. In his study. Knowing she was suspected of treason. Knowing Carlisle intended to see her cast into a prison. Everything in him had been calling for him to turn her around, lift her skirts, and slide home. It was appalling to realize just how well and truly depraved he’d become over his years serving the Crown.

  What the hell was the matter with him?

  And Daisy? She’d been kind. Sweet, actually. Genuine, too. Like him, she wore many roles and showed a host of different faces to the people around her. But she had been giving and true. He’d heard too clearly the unadulterated sympathy in her voice when he’d revealed he had no living family remaining save himself. Had felt the comfort in her gentle hands, her embrace.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  Sympathy was the last thing he wanted from her. What he wanted more than anything was her body beneath his. Taking him, shuddering against him, relishing his claim upon her. He did not want to like her. Did not want to be troubled by the fact that for a woman who had suffered brutal abuse at the hands of her father, she was quick with compassion and concern. That he was manipulating her, deceiving her, and she could be an innocent. That nothing—no amount of conscience or reasoning—lessened how much he wanted to claim her. Even if it was wrong. Even if it was pretense. Even if everything between them was a lie carefully crafted to betray her and make her vulnerable.

  None of it made a whit of sense.

  Just as it made no sense that here he was, pacing the hall like a caged tiger, waiting for her, when he very well could have gone to have a glass of whisky and had Giles call him when she finally deigned to join him for dinner.

  At long last, she appeared at the top of the staircase, beginning her graceful descent as though she wasn’t—he consulted his watch again—thirty-three minutes late. When he glanced back up at her, his mouth went dry and a hunger that had nothing to do with dinner and everything to do with her slammed straight into his chest.

  Her gown was purple brocade with full, tiered skirts that were pinned with flowers and trimmed with lace. Her ivory shoulders were mouthwateringly bare above small, delicate sleeves. But the most arresting feature of her gown was the ribbon that crisscrossed over a bodice that hugged her ripe bosom and trim waist to perfection. The ribbon tied into a pretty bow just between her breasts.

  He had never wanted to untie a ribbon more in his life than he did now as he wordlessly drank in the sight of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. His woman, and he felt that possession of her in his bones as though it was just as right and natural and necessary as his own blood. Some devil in him, some wild impulse, wanted to keep her.

  Forever.

  What the bloody hell?

  He frowned, feeling like a volley of cannon had exploded in his head. “You’re late,” he barked out, his voice a tad more sharp than he’d intended.

  She faltered on the last step, losing her balance and pitching forward. Like a child drawn to a sweet, he’d already stalked to the base of the stairs, his body subconsciously seeking proximity. When she fell, it was directly into his arms. He caught her, soft and warm and bergamot-scented and unbearably fucking lovely.

  Her golden curls brushed his jaw.

  “Sebastian.” She sounded breathless.

  Her small hands splayed against his chest, twin brands through three layers of cloth. When she would have taken a step back, he held her firm. He told himself it was so that he could ascertain she was steady on her feet. The truth of it was that he wanted to hold her. He craved her. Had to have her.

  “Dinner was set for half an hour ago.” Some churlish part of him, that part at war with himself, forced him to issue the cool admonishment. He could have said so many other things. Told her how blindingly lovely she looked, for instance. Demanded she spin on her heel and return to her chamber so he could strip her out of the gown she’d just spent half the evening donning.

  The push and pull inside him was like a gong. Had to have her. Couldn’t have her. Shouldn’t. Wouldn’t. Needed to. Longed. Damn it, when had this mission become so complicated? The first moment he’d ever laid eyes on the dazzling, complex goddess that was Daisy Vanreid. That was precisely when.

  She tilted her head back, considering him with that signature, intense regard of hers. A frown creased her brows, the only imperfection on her face, and he wanted to smooth it with his lips. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting. It took rather a great deal of… persuasion on the part of the footmen sent to my father’s house. By the time my gowns arrived, it was already quite late.”

  Her voice, dulcet and warm, slid through him like honey to the senses. By God, looking and smelling and sounding as she did, he could forgive her anything. Even treason, whispered an insidious voice inside his mind.

  Conscience? The devil? He didn’t know.

  He forced himself to clear his suddenly thick throat and form a response. “Dinner is served at eight here. Now that you’ve the fripperies you required, I trust your tardiness won’t happen again.”

  Her expression shifted, her smile disappearing. He felt the loss of that sunshine as viscerally as a tooth extraction. He was being a cad. He knew it. But damn it, he’d never before been so torn between duty and what he felt. He wasn’t meant to have feelings. He was bloody well meant to feel nothing. At. All.

  “Since my tardiness has so disturbed your good humor, perhaps you ought to release me so that we may attend dinner without further delay.” Her tone was tart. The depths of her eyes sparkled with something indefinable.

  She was fierce. And right. Jesus, he was still holding her in his arms as if he couldn’t bear to release her. He hadn’t let her go. That was how perfect she fit, how much the beast inside him needed to keep her there.

  He set her away from him as though she were made of flame rather than the most tempting feminine flesh he’d ever touched. “Of course. I wished to be certain you were steady on your feet.”

  The look she gave him was knowing. “Yes, naturally. Thank you for ascertaining my… stability.”

  What could he say to such cheek? He would dearly like to put her stability in peril once more by sweeping her off to the nearest chamber, lifting her skirts, and running his hand up her thigh to the slit in her drawers. He’d stroke her pearl until she cried out for him, slide his fingers inside to test her tight sheath and ready her for his cock.

  Dear God, the fire in him was burning out of control. Had she poisoned his afternoon tea? He swallowed. Bowed to her with a formal precision that was the antithesis of the raw crudity roiling inside him. “Allow me to escort you to dinner, Duchess?”

  She took his proffered arm. “I thought you’d never ask, Duke. Dinner is to be served at eight, you know.”

  Though she appeared as poised and regal as any lady born to play the role of duchess, there was an unmistakable tinge of laughter in her voice. She mocked him. The daring of the woman would never cease to astonish him. As he led her to the dining room, he realized, quite belatedly and much to his consternation, that he too was smiling.

  Mad it was, then.

  The descent had begun.

  Daisy barely tasted the potage aux choux. The soup course was savory yet sweet, unutterably delicious even though she didn’t take more than five full spoons to her lips before nodding to one of the footmen in attendance to whisk it away. Her eyes were only for the man seated opposite her.

  Sebastian. Duke. Husband.

  He was all of those things and yet he remained, more than any of those descriptors, an enigma. A man she could not quite understand, but one to whom she was drawn with the madness of a child staring into the sun. Such folly could only lead to a bad end. Blindness? A headache? Worse?

  It didn’t matter. She wasn’t hungry for soup.

  She was hungry for him.

  For his hands on her, for the way he held her, as if she was as necessary to him as air. Such gentle strength in that touch. Not an ounce of anger, not even when he wage
d a silent battle within his mind. He couldn’t hide himself from her as well as he imagined he could.

  Silence stretched, awkward and interminable, as the next course was laid before them. Salmon à la Chantilly—a fine piece of fish smothered in decadent sauce. Daisy forked a bite but didn’t bring it to her lips. For most of the meal thus far, Sebastian had studiously avoided her gaze.

  Conversely, she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes from him. Strange how she had never before noted how tempting the cords of his neck were. An errant impulse to set her lips to him there, absorb his pulse, to taste his skin, struck her. He glanced up from his dinner at that moment and their stares clashed. Awareness sizzled between them even as she flushed at being caught gawping at him as if she’d never before seen a man in the flesh.

  “Are my manners remiss?” he asked in a teasing tone, his earlier ice melted.

  Her cheeks flamed hotter. She longed to press her palms to them. “Forgive me. I’ve never been adept at silence.”

  That much, at least, was true, though she’d been ogling him merely for the pleasure it gave her. No need to tell him that, however. She’d already made a fool of herself.

  A half smile curved his lips. She felt its sensual effects in a swell of desire that flooded her as sudden as sunshine filling a darkened room. “How reassuring. I thought perhaps I had béchamel on my chin.”

  Daisy pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile of her own. How enjoyable it was to banter with him. This relaxed, charismatic side of him—a side he seemed to reserve and reveal only sparingly—made her feel as if all the wine she’d sipped had gone to her head.

  What had he said again? Ah, yes. Now she recalled. She quirked a brow at him. “I’m sure you must know that the sauce on the fish course isn’t béchamel at all, Your Grace.”

  He flashed her a devastating, full-blown grin. “I’ve never been adept at French cuisine. I daresay that makes us even, buttercup.”

  Buttercup.

  She liked when he called her that. “My tardiness for dinner and your sauce confusion?”