Rafe released her nipple, kissing the side of her breast before raising his head, his eyes opening to meet hers. “Bleeding hell, I can’t be doing this with you. You’re an innocent, a governess. I’m no better than Gregson.”
She was about to argue when the sound of voices and the telltale creak of footsteps in the hall reached her. A frantic glance toward the windows overlooking the street showed the undeniable glow of morning light filtering in. Heavens! She had been kissing him for so long she had lost all sense of time.
And now, the servants were moving about.
Which meant…
“Fucking hell,” Rafe swore, keeping his voice low as he set her apart from himself. “I can’t be caught here with you like this. It’ll ruin you.”
His concern for her would have warmed her at any other time, but now that his mouth had ceased weaving its spell over her, rational thought was beginning to return. She needed this position. She needed to remain hidden here, out of Cousin Bartholomew’s reach, for another two months. Everything depended upon it.
“I will go first,” she said, desperation taking command. “Wait until you can be certain no one will see you, and then you can leave.”
How calm she sounded, when inside, she was anything but. Kissing the sinfully handsome brother of her employer was not a habit of hers. Nor was such recklessness. She would have given herself to him. And she would not have regretted it, either.
But she had no wish to lose her post. Forging another letter of character and finding a new situation was more trouble she did not need to invite.
“Forgive me, Miss Wren. I never should ’ave touched you,” he rasped, looking as torn as he sounded.
The loss of his h was telling.
His reaction would have crushed her had she not been so desperate to flee. She took up the brace of candles and bolted without offering him a proper farewell, desperate to leave the library and return to the haven of her rooms, where no one could find fault with her actions.
It was only when she was safely within that she allowed herself to wonder which was worse, her willingness to be ruined, or his regret over what they had done.
CHAPTER 7
Regret filled Rafe’s mouth with a bitter taste as he stalked along the pavements. There was no excuse for what he had done. None worth a damned scrope. No denying it or trying to make it sound any better than what it was.
He had lingered in the library long enough to make certain no servants saw him leaving the same room she had exited. Ruining a governess was out of the question. He’d avoided the parson’s mousetrap thus far, and he’d continue evading it. And after what she had endured at the hands of Lord Gregson at her previous post, how could he defend all but seducing her this morning?
He could not. Nor could he excuse the start to the day. In lingering with Miss Wren, he had failed to realize the sun had risen, and it was past time for his arrival at the club. The work awaiting him would not finish itself.
The plain and awful truth of it was that he had almost fucked his nieces’ governess in his brother’s fancy Mayfair library. Had the interruption of the servants not occurred, he would likely still be there, tangled up in her, ballocks deep.
And what a place to be. Paradise, for certain.
He banished the unworthy thought.
This morning had not been one of his proudest moments, Rafe had to admit. Seducing a servant, and one who had previously been the victim of a vile lordling, was not his ordinary modus operandi. Hell, he had never done anything like that in his life. Innocents were not to his taste. Nor were ladies who spoke with crisp accents and could read fluent Latin and wore prim dressing gowns buttoned almost to their chins.
To do penance, he had forced himself to walk the distance from Jasper’s Mayfair town house to the site of the new gaming hell he and his family would soon be opening. He was no stranger to sinning and the furthest one could reasonably find from a saint, but even he knew he had done wrong.
So why could he not cease thinking about her response to his kiss? Why was his mind still haunted by the way her lips had moved against his, so sweetly hesitant at first, and then with greater confidence and enthusiasm? Devil take it. Although the hour was early and the morning was chilly and damp, this vein of thought was heating his blood and proving dangerous, if not disastrous.
She had kissed him first, it was true. But he was no green virgin. He should have resisted the urge to kiss her, to slide his tongue inside the satiny warmth of her mouth. To not have lingered, putting his lips on every part of her he dared, including the pebbled bud of her nipple. He still cursed the layers that had kept him from the warmth of her flesh.
Even so, her moan of appreciation would echo in his mind to his dying day as the single most erotic sound he had ever heard. He was certain of it.
Scowling, he stepped inside The Sinner’s Palace II, forcing his mind to where it belonged: work. This establishment was going to be grander, bolder, bigger, and infinitely more lucrative than its original. All he needed to do was recall why he was in the West End. And it wasn’t to seduce Persephone Wren, damn it. She wasn’t for him, and thinking about her wasn’t going to line his bleeding purse.
He tried to summon a smile as he was greeted by the men who had been engaged to rehang the wall coverings. What a scoundrel he was. He’d had no right to return her kiss, no right to feast on her creamy throat or suck her nipple.
Irritation rose as he nodded to the men and stalked deeper into the labyrinth which was still in the process of being turned into the well-oiled machine The Sinner’s Palace was. Fortunately, his siblings were aiding him in this endeavor.
From around the corner, raised voices reached him, one of them familiar. Speaking of siblings…
Rafe stalked into what would be the main gaming room of their establishment. To his surprise, his sister Pen, who was overseeing the decoration of The Sinner’s Palace II, was in the center of the chamber having a heated discussion with one of the tradesmen. Auburn-haired like their brother Logan, Pen was quick to flush when she was angered or embarrassed. And given her stance and the loudness of her voice, Rafe was willing to wager she was the former rather than the latter.
She was not meant to be here today, curse it. He was going to have to discover just how she had arrived this morning. If she had dared to travel alone from the East End, he would give her an earful.
She paused when she spied him, relief coloring her voice. “Rafe, come here if you please, and explain to Mr. Waters why we cannot have inferior table cloths at our establishment. I have brought him here to show him the precise locations of the tables, and he now insists he cannot have the embroidery we require within the next month.”
Embroidery?
Hell.
She was taking her role seriously, was she not?
“Mr. Sutton,” the linen draper greeted, sounding relieved. “Perhaps you can provide the voice of reason, sir. Miss Sutton’s demands are, regretfully, nigh impossible to achieve.”
He very much doubted it. But the distraction would prove useful.
He looked from Pen to Mr. Waters. “What’s the problem?”
“I want all the table cloths to be embroidered with a palace,” Pen said, her voice taking on the same mulish cast as her expression.
No one was more stubborn than Pen when she was in fine dudgeon.
“A palace embroidered on each cloth?” he repeated, passing his hand along his jaw as he imagined how dear a price such a table linen would fetch.
“Only think how it will set us apart from our competitors,” Pen declared.
He rather doubted the drunken lords and merchants who would haunt these halls would give a damn about whether or not the tablecloths were embroidered. Perhaps Pen was taking her role a mite too seriously.
“I have all the linens you originally purchased at the ready,” Mr. Waters was saying. “But as for the embroidery, I must ask for an increase of price and far more time. I won’t be capable of producing the n
umber requested with the embroidery before you open your establishment, and Miss Sutton refuses to accept this.”
“I won’t accept it because your excuse simply isn’t good enough, Mr. Waters,” Pen said. “If you refuse to give us what we need, then we will take our business to someone who will.”
Damn it, Pen was buzzing like an angry bee this morning. Waters was one of the finest linen drapers in London, and persuading him to sell his fine tablecloths to the Suttons for a gaming hell had required an extra greasing of the palm. It had hardly been the first time Rafe had used bribery to get what he wanted, and he had no doubt it would not be the last. But now Pen was doing her best to undo all the good work he had accomplished.
“You ought to consider yourself fortunate to have Waters and Sons linen gracing your tables,” the draper said coldly, reinforcing Rafe’s concerns.
“We will accept the linens you’ve already agreed to provide, Mr. Waters,” he said smoothly, hoping to avoid further argument between Pen and the linen draper.
By God, he already had an aching head.
Which, he supposed, was only mildly better than an aching cock. At least this distraction, vexing as it was, had served to distract him from thoughts of Persephone and what could have happened in the library.
“We most certainly will not!” Pen snapped, outraged. “Mr. Waters, you can take your pompous airs and your plain tablecloths and stuff them up your—”
“That is enough, Penelope!” he barked, interrupting her tirade before she could finish. “Please excuse my sister, sir. Our order remains the same.”
Flashing his most charming grin, he hastened to escort Mr. Waters from the room before Pen caused any more trouble with her antics. He exchanged a few more pleasantries and reassurances with the draper before returning to find his sister in tears.
Ah, hell. He could not abide by women turning on the waterworks. It made him devilishly uncomfortable.
“What is amiss, Pen?” he demanded, crossing the room in hasty strides.
He did not think he had ever seen Pen weep before. First her ridiculous requests, then her outrage with Mr. Waters, and now she was sobbing? Just what the floating hell was wrong with her this bleeding morning?
“How dare you undermine me?” she demanded through her tears. “He had the number of tablecloths wrong, and I fail to understand why he cannot provide the embroidery. He asked me where Mr. Sutton was when he arrived.”
A fresh wave of tears punctuated her words.
He reached into his coat and extracted a handkerchief, offering it to her. “You need to calm yourself, Pen. The tables will be filled regardless of whether or not there is a bit of thread stitched in a palace on them.”
She snatched the mouchoir from him and dabbed frantically at her cheeks. “Men are nothing but a great bloody lot of arrogant loggerheads!”
Ah.
“Is this about Lord Aidan Weir, Pen?” he asked.
“Of course not.” She sniffled. “It’s his brother the haughty arse who…”
Rafe’s suspicions rose. “His brother? Which one?”
If he had to issue a warning to another member of the Weir family, he would. And gladly, too. Just what the devil had Pen been doing?
Pen shook her head. “It hardly matters now. I’ll not be seeing Lord Lindsey again.”
Lindsey? The viscount was the most notorious stickler of fashionable society.
He frowned, wondering how Pen would have crossed paths with the man. “That is for the best, sister.”
“Of course it is,” she agreed, smiling with unnatural cheer. “But never mind his high and mighty lordship. We have a gaming hell to open.”
“Indeed we do, and we’d both do well to keep our minds on The Sinner’s Palace II where they belong,” he said, as much for his own sake as hers.
* * *
“This is a most unusual matter, and I hesitate to even bring it to your attention,” Mr. Jasper Sutton said, pity lacing his voice and countenance both.
Persephone’s heart ceased to beat.
At least, that was what it felt like, so swift and fierce was her alarm.
Her spine stiffened and she sat up straighter in her seat. At first, she had believed the unexpected interview with her employer was so he might inquire, as he periodically did, after the improvements of his daughters in their lessons. When she had initially met the girls, they had been learning to read for the first time, but in the weeks she had known them, they had surpassed her greatest hopes. They were naturally intelligent and blessed with a stubborn determination that stood them in great stead.
However, it was apparent he had not called her here to discuss Anne and Elizabeth.
Which only meant one thing.
Someone had seen her leaving the library early this morning, disheveled and flushed from Rafe’s kisses. They must have also spied him leaving shortly after. She had hoped he would be able to avoid detection as she had believed she had, but now, it would appear she had been mistaken.
“Forgive me for my intrusion in the library, sir,” she rushed to say, hoping she might persuade him that nothing untoward had occurred. “I had been unable to sleep last night on account of some dreams which have been plaguing me, and I wandered from my room in search of something to read. Unfortunately, I fell asleep while reading. I would never have allowed the candles to burn for so long unattended. If you wish to remove the cost from my wages, I shall understand. As for Mr. Sutton, I can assure you that he was doing nothing more than being a gentleman, after having found me sleeping in the chair. He awoke me so that I might seek the comfort of my room instead. No propriety was breached.”
As the mad burst of words came to a halt, she became aware Mr. Jasper Sutton was looking at her with an odd expression on his face. The pity had been replaced by surprise.
He drummed his fingers idly on the surface of the desk behind which he sat, his inkwell and papers spread before him. “The library, Miss Wren?”
Her mouth went dry as a new, different wave of panic struck. “Is that not what you wished to speak with me about, Mr. Sutton?”
The movement of his fingers continued in a steady pattern. Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap. Aside from his fingertips on the desk, silence reigned. For an indeterminate span of time, Mr. Jasper Sutton did not answer, his searching hazel gaze—so like his brother’s—pinning her in place where she sat.
“You were in the library with Mr. Sutton,” he said slowly, rather than answering her question. “With Mr. Rafe Sutton, my brother?”
She swallowed a steadily rising knot of worry. “Yes, Mr. Rafe Sutton. Your brother, sir.”
Lord in heaven, had no one seen them? And had she just foolishly admitted to being alone with Rafe in the library desperately early this morning?
“He behaved in a gentlemanly fashion toward you, Miss Wren?” Mr. Sutton asked, frowning.
His manner was not usually so serious and stern. When she saw him with Anne and Elizabeth or with Lady Octavia, he was quite soft-spoken, given to smiling, not at all rigid. But there was a foreboding quality about him now, emanating from him, that filled her with dread.
“The perfect gentleman,” she responded, hating herself for the suddenly high-pitched nature of her voice. Almost a squeak, if she were honest with herself.
“I don’t suppose my brother and the word gentleman have ever gone along together before this little patter of ours,” Mr. Jasper Sutton said.
He did not believe her. And he was not wrong to cast doubt upon her tale. Rafe had been tender and gentle and sweet, but he had not been a gentleman in the expected sense of the word. A gentleman would never have kissed her in return, would never have held her close or pressed his lips to her throat.
But she was heartily glad he had not been a gentleman on this occasion, and that he had done all those things.
She shifted in her chair, desperately uncomfortable. “In this instance, it is quite suiting, I assure you.”
Yet another lie, but what was o
ne more in an endless swell of so many?
She thought of his lips moving along her cheek, traveling down her neck, closing over her nipple and sucking. When she had finally arrived back at her room, she had discovered a wet spot there, over her still aching nipple, from him. She had felt like a wanton, and yet she had also felt undeniably pleased.
“Hmm,” was all Jasper Sutton said, his fingers still methodically dropping atop the desk. “I shall take you at your word, Miss Wren. The library ain’t my reason for asking you here, however.”
He spoke very much like Rafe, she noted for the first time. Polished and intentional accents with the occasional rawness. Perhaps a bit more of it even than Rafe possessed. But she was less concerned with the comparison between the two brothers than she was with the true reason Mr. Jasper Sutton had summoned her to his study for an interview.
“If I may be so bold, Mr. Sutton, what was the reason?” she asked, worry lacing through her anew.
“Viscount Gregson,” he said.
A name, nothing more.
She froze, lips and heart and mind going numb.
“What of him?” she forced herself to ask.
“He claimed to have been…uniquely humiliated in your name,” Mr. Sutton said. “He came to The Sinner’s Palace in a rage.”
“How did he know I am in your employ?” she asked, startled by the notion that the viscount had found her with such ease.
If he had done so, then surely Cousin Bartholomew might as well, supposing he learned she was calling herself Persephone Wren and working as a governess.
“I inquired with his father, Lord Landsdowne, concerning the letter of character he provided for you.”
Oh good heavens. She had not supposed he had done so. Her deception had been bold and risky, but it had been her only choice. But it was apparent that if he had inquired with the earl, then he must have also discovered she had forged the letter.
Sutton’s Sins: The Sinful Suttons Book 2 Page 8
