He would remember his promise.
He would remember the precious gift.
“As you wish.” Scarlett lowered the hood of her cloak to reveal her face.
Mr Wycliff sucked in a sharp breath.
A tense silence filled the room.
Long seconds passed as he stared into her eyes, studied every facial feature as if comparing it to a fading memory. His hard, stone-like expression relaxed as his gaze moved to the long braid draped over her shoulder.
Marta, her maid, had complained about the s
tyle, insisting it made her look young and naive and lacked the sophisticated elegance people expected from the Scarlet Widow. But she had to dig down deep if she hoped to unearth this man’s conscience.
“You’re alive?” Damian Wycliff’s dark eyes grew as warm as his tone. A softness settled around his features, the same softness she had witnessed the day he’d thrust the gold cross into her palm, the day he’d stroked her cheek and made the promise that had brought her to this iniquitous den tonight. He exhaled a relieved sigh and shook his head numerous times. “When you moved, your landlord said you’d left no forwarding address.”
No forwarding address?
He spoke as if she had been a lady of quality, not a downtrodden actress desperate to secure her next meal. They had parted knowing their paths would never cross. And yet many times he had returned and knocked on her door, always left food parcels—bread and cheese and wine—when she failed to answer.
To answer would have been a disastrous mistake.
Damian Wycliff possessed a natural charisma, a boyish charm, a powerful body, hard and expertly sculpted. A needy woman would easily grow to love him. But a rumbling stomach and cold bones were easier to live with than a shattered heart.
“I left that life behind.” While she had secretly fled to Gretna Green with Lord Steele, her heart had remained in the wretched lodging-house where he had caressed her with his dark eyes during one perfect moment of bliss. “Though I must thank you. Your generous gifts made those last months bearable.”
Every week for two months after she had sewn his wound and tended to his fever, a sack of firewood arrived at her door. The chandler called to deliver candles, always beeswax never tallow.
Mr Wycliff inclined his head. “It was the least I could do under the circumstances.”
Ah, there he was. The gentleman she had imagined taking into her body to turn the nightmare of the marriage bed into a dream.
They stared at each other for a moment, their deep breathing the only sound in the room, until one rogue standing at the billiard table chuckled.
“Damn it all, Wycliff. Do you know how many men would trade places with you right now? I knew I had seen the Scarlet Widow before.”
Scarlett winced. A fake persona proved useful when dealing with degenerates, those eager to make a mockery of marriage. The name came with the power and strength of a Viking army. The name surrounded her, followed her everywhere with raised shields, painted faces and vicious snarls. She bore the scars of her many battles with Lord Steele, emotional and physical scars that had earned her a reputation for being fearless.
The lady on the sofa jumped to her feet. “It seems I am wasting my time here and shall look for sport elsewhere.” She straightened her dress, waited for Mr Wycliff to protest. When he ignored her attempt to gain his attention, she strode to the door, skirting nervously around Scarlett as if anticipating a Norse attack. “If anyone can win the wager it is you, Wycliff.”
After a moment of confusion, Mr Wycliff’s stone-faced expression returned. “Would someone care to speak in plain English? What widow? What blasted wager?”
The golden-haired god stepped forward. “Ignorance comes from spending too much time abroad. Ignorance comes from refusing to mingle in society, from refusing membership to your father’s club. You must be the only man alive not to have heard the gossip.”
“Gossip!” he spat. “I’m a man who deals in truths, not petty lies.”
Scarlett squared her shoulders. “Then the truth is, Mr Wycliff, that I left my lodging-house because I married Lord Steele.” A man old enough to be her father. Not a day passed when she did not regret her decision. “The truth is that since my husband’s death I am known throughout the ton as the Scarlet Widow. The first man I take to my bed will win a ridiculous amount of money from the members of White’s.” She inhaled deeply. There wasn’t a lord left in London who hadn’t tried his hand at seduction. “Now, before you swoon, might I suggest you sit down?”
His formidable glare turned as cold and as black as granite. Wearing a look of contempt, Mr Wycliff scanned her from head to toe.
“The Scarlet Widow?” he mocked. “Who thought of that name? You?” He dropped onto the sofa, lounged back and folded his muscular arms across his chest. “How inventive.” Arrogance oozed from every fibre of his being as he stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “So the actress lacked morals after all. As a cynical man, I am not surprised.”
His bitterness snapped at her like a rabid dog.
Did he honestly believe she had wanted to marry a disgusting debaucher? A filthy philandering foyst?
“You would say that. You’re a man who wants for nothing.” Anger surfaced. He’d be dead if it weren’t for her. What right had he to judge? “Some of us must bow and scrape to survive.”