Sutton’s Scoundrel: The Sinful Suttons Book Five, page 1
SUTTON’S SCOUNDREL
THE SINFUL SUTTONS BOOK FIVE
SCARLETT SCOTT
Sutton’s Scoundrel
The Sinful Suttons Book 5
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2022 by Scarlett Scott
Published by Happily Ever After Books, LLC
Edited by Grace Bradley
Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
For more information, contact author Scarlett Scott.
https://scarlettscottauthor.com
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Don’t miss Scarlett’s other romances!
About the Author
For my first grade teacher, who first encouraged my love of writing. And for all teachers who find that spark in their students and nurture it.
CHAPTER 1
LONDON, 1816
The lady was trouble.
Wolf Sutton knew it the moment she crossed the threshold of the office he and his brothers kept at The Sinner’s Palace.
For one thing, she was bloody well wearing white kid slippers and matching pure-as-snow gloves in the East End. A cove just had to take one glance at her to know she was expensive. She looked as if she were dressed for a ball, in a creamy, gauze gown with a blush-pink layer beneath, the entire affair adorned by satin flowers. An embroidered shawl was wrapped tightly around her shoulders as if it were armor, and she had pearls at her ears and throat. Her brown hair was swept away from her heart-shaped face, with perfect curls framing her loveliness beneath the brim of a bonnet.
For another thing, and her impractical togs aside, she was damned beautiful.
Beautiful morts were always trouble. Which was why Wolf stayed far, far away from them. Unfortunately, he could not stay far away from this one. She had invaded his territory. And for a reason, he reckoned.
Best to figure out what it was so he could send her on her merry way. It was not every day that a lone woman who wasn’t a Drury Lane vestal cozened her way into The Sinner’s Palace’s inner sanctum. Ladies of easy virtue were to be had aplenty when there was the chance of attracting a cull with a fat purse. But the woman before him, boldly facing him after having demanded an audience—much to the dismay of one of his best guards—was no harlot. He’d wager the last farthing to his name on that.
“Are you lost, my lady?” he guessed, sweeping an appreciative gaze over her, yet remaining where he was, standing behind his brother’s desk, hands clasped at his back.
How the devil had her slippers remained so pure after traversing the rotten streets outside? And what manner of lady would dare to infiltrate a well-known gaming hell? Alone?
“This is The Sinner’s Palace, is it not?” she returned.
Her voice was serene and yet bore a hint of husky depth that had as unwanted an effect on him as her appearance did. Her aristocratic accent was crisp and educated in a way his own could never hope to be, regardless of the effort at hiring tutors their elder brother had gone to for Wolf and his siblings. The tarnish of the East End would forever mar him—it would mar them all. Strange he had never given a scrope about that until this moment.
Until her.
And that didn’t sit well in Wolf Sutton’s soul. No, indeed.
Nettled, he pinned her with a glare. “Don’t know. You tell me where you think you are, madam.”
Her eyes narrowed. Not much. Just a hint.
He’d irritated her.
Bleeding excellent. Because she has more than irritated me.
“I know I am at The Sinner’s Palace, sir,” she said coolly. “I gave my coachman the direction myself. Shockingly enough, I am capable of simple geography.”
Her tone had turned tart, bearing a tone of governess-like admonishment.
It was not meant to have the effect it had on him, he was sure, and he was also damned glad for the barrier of the desk keeping her from seeing what her prim chastisement was doing to his wayward prick. Clearly, the time had come to put an end to living the life of a monk. Just not with the tempting beauty before him. She needed to be dispensed with swiftly and efficiently.
Aye, she needed to go the bloody hell back to the ballrooms and drawing rooms where she so obviously belonged.
“If you know where you’ve landed, then allow me to guess the reason for your call,” he said. “You’ve come in search of your husband.”
And what a pity that was. He knew a hint of envy for the nameless, faceless nob, to have such a lovely woman in his bed.
An elegant brow arched. “I am a widow, sir.”
It was wrong, the instant balm of relief he knew at her correction. The lady’s husband was gone to Rothisbones, after all. But not even Wolf’s conscience could seem to banish the unworthy feeling.
“A lover, then.”
“No.”
She had neither husband nor lover. The discovery should not please him nearly as much as it did.
He glowered at her, resenting the intrusion on both his solitude and his thoughts. “Forgive me, but you don’t look the sort to come looking to ply her wares.”
This time, both her eyebrows rose. “Ply her wares? Pray tell me you are not suggesting what I fear you are, sir.”
“That you’re a public ledger?” he asked, being as crude as possible just because he could not resist the urge to unsettle her as she had done to him. “Don’t know. Are you?”
He cocked his head, perusing her with a long, thorough leer. She was bleeding beautiful, this woman.
“A public ledger?” she repeated, her countenance haughty. “I am afraid I do not understand.”
She had the airs of a duchess. The urge to further vex her was strong. He had the most ridiculous thought of what it would be like to peel her free of the layers of respectability. He would begin with that shawl. Work his way to the tapes on her gown…
Stop this madness, you blockhead.
“A lady of easy virtue,” he elaborated. “There are certain sorts of molls who venture through these doors, that being the most common.”
Color rose to her high cheekbones and her nostrils flared. “Do you make a habit of insulting your patrons?”
He grinned, enjoying himself. “You ain’t a patron.”
There was something about his unexpected guest that was compelling. It was not merely her beauty that drew Wolf, though that was plain enough. There was a lively intelligence sparkling in her emerald eyes, an undeniable bravado in her proud bearing that he couldn’t help but to admire.
“I could be,” she countered.
“We don’t allow morts at the tables, no matter how pretty they are. There’s a gaming establishment for ladies not far, the Lady Fortune. Seeing as how you’re capable of simple geography, you ought to be able to give the directions to your coachman.” Wolf could not deny himself the pleasure of throwing some of her lofty words back at her.
“A clever fellow, are you not?” Her tone was dry as she pinned him with a discerning stare that only served to make him harder.
Damn, but her ice set him ablaze. He had never, in all his days, experienced anything like it.
“If I were truly clever, I’d throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here so I can continue with my day,” he said coolly, attempting to suppress his reaction.
But it would not abate. And neither would the brazen widow who had infiltrated his office retreat as she ought.
Her expression turned pugnacious. “I dare you to try it, sir.”
Well, bleeding hell.
She had challenged him, and now he would have to show her that Wolf Sutton was a man of action. He had never carted a noblewoman out of The Sinner’s Palace whilst sporting a cockstand before, but there was a first for every occasion.
* * *
Dear heavens, he was moving toward her. The broad-shouldered, long-legged, hulking wall of man who had stolen her breath when she had first spied him was stalking in Portia’s direction, intent clear in every line of his well-muscled form. What was he going to do if he caught her?
And why did the notion of his hands on her send a distressing bolt of heat straight to her core?
“You dare me, do you?” His voice was a low growl that made her belly tighten as if it were a knot being drawn.
Yes, she had, had she not?
But no hope for it now. She had done all those things. And she had come here for a reason.
Portia defied the instinct that told her to turn and flee while she could, remaining where she was as the man reached her. “Yes. I dare you, sirrah.”
He was a tall man, which was refreshing and, she could not deny, appealing. She was accustomed to towering over most of the men in her acquaintance. But this man, this East End rogue with wavy, dark hair and a proud chin and strong jaw and hazel eyes that had swept over her body like a caress, he was only a scant inch taller than she. Their gazes connected as he stood before her, bold and—she loathed to admit—distressingly handsome in a rugged, unpolished way. In a way that made her heart leap in her breast.
“If milady insists.”
There was that voice again, deep and pleasant. It was a voice she imagined would be well-suited to telling a lady wicked things. His baritone twined around her, laden with the promise of untold sins.
Oh, she was being fanciful now.
Big hands grasped her waist, seizing her in a grip that was surprisingly gentle for his brutish size and apparent strength. No man had ever touched her there, holding her thus, and that this stranger should be the first—and worse, that she liked it—ought to be cause for alarm.
His nearness was intoxicating.
She licked lips that had gone dry. “I did not give you leave to be so familiar with my person.”
A slow grin hitched up the corner of his lips, causing her to note how very finely formed they were. “’Course you did, madam. You dared me to throw you over my shoulder. I’m a busy man with much to do this evening. Trifling with petticoats ain’t one of them. Seems the most efficient action is to accept your offer.”
The way he said offer filled her with fire. A longing she had not experienced in years blossomed. All the yearning she had so ruthlessly suppressed chose that moment to return.
For this man.
This dangerous stranger.
She did not even know his name.
It did not matter. Portia placed her gloved hands atop his, thinking to remove his touch. But the heat of him seared her through the barrier of soft kid. And the scent of him, musk and citrus, so sensual and unexpectedly alluring, hit her. He was raw power, harsh, masculine beauty, and she had never, not since her days as a reckless debutante who believed the world rested in the palm of her hand, wanted to kiss a man more than she wanted to kiss him. The realization stunned her.
Robbed the breath from her lungs for the second time. Stole her ability to speak. Banished her determination.
I must remember why I am here, she urged herself sternly. I must think of Avery.
Yes, Avery was the reason she had come. The unexpected call from Mrs. Courteney had led her here to The Sinner’s Palace in the hope that she would find some answers, or at least a whisper of a hint of something, anything about where he may be.
But then, the man’s head dipped, his delicious mouth hovering just over hers, and she forgot about her reason for venturing to The Sinner’s Palace in furtive fashion just before the ball Granville had insisted she attend. Forgot about everything but the maddening stranger and the desire suddenly coursing through her traitorous body.
“Are you going to do it?” she asked, her voice huskier than she would have preferred, marked with hunger.
Because all she was truly thinking about was him kissing her. His lips on hers.
And then, somehow, her fanciful imaginings became reality. His mouth joined with hers, hot and surprisingly soft. The jolt of awareness that surged through her was unprecedented. She had not felt so much from a simple kiss in…
Ever.
She had never felt so wild, so alive, so desperately seeking and needing.
Not even the kisses that had enticed her to ruin years ago had possessed such an effect upon her. Suddenly, she was ravenous for more. Her hands fled his, no longer protesting his grasp on her waist but twining around his neck instead. One swift step forward, and her body molded to his sturdy frame, her breasts crushed to his wide chest. His heat and strength enveloped her as he wrapped her in an embrace that was at once protective and possessive.
This is where I belong.
The giddy realization was utter foolishness. Likely borne from the lonely, proper widow’s life she had been living. To say nothing of the cold marriage she had endured as penance for her youthful follies.
Thoughts of Blakewell inevitably subdued some of her ardor, chasing her enjoyment of the moment. The stranger kissing her must have taken note of the tensing of her body, for he abruptly pulled his lips from hers. Her mouth instantly mourned the loss of the fiery connection, the fierce pressure of his lips molding over hers.
To her relief, he did not withdraw entirely. Instead, he remained as he was, holding her tightly and yet not too tightly, near enough that his breath—gratifyingly ragged—passed hotly over her mouth.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It was not my intention to kiss you.”
How could he know the withering of her passion had not been caused by him, but rather by the insidious ghosts of her past, never far from her heels? He could not.
Somehow Portia knew, to her very marrow, that if she allowed her beautiful stranger to retreat, she would never again know his kiss. And for reasons she did not dare examine, she could not bear for that to happen.
The old Portia returned.
The wicked wanton.
The one who had allowed her passions to rule her.
The girl she had thought long buried.
Lady Scandal.
Because instead of disengaging and accepting his apology, instead of allowing him to accept all the blame for their sudden, fervent kiss, she slipped her gloved fingers into his too-long hair. Grasped a handful and held him there, where she wanted him.
“I believe it was I who kissed you, sir,” she said, denying him the right to claim the passion that had sparked to life, refusing to allow him to so summarily dismiss it.
Because she wanted—craved—more.
“Wolf,” he growled.
For a moment, she feared she had mistaken him. She blinked, dazed by a powerful combination of desire and shock at her own wayward actions, her response. “Wolf?”
“My name.” A smile curved his lips, revealing a straight line of teeth, a slight, charming gap between the front two. “It’s Wolf. Not sirrah. Not sir. Wolf.”
Good heavens, he had the name of a beast.
She ought to be appalled. It was a ridiculous name. A name no gentleman in her circles would proudly call his own. And yet, it suited him.
“Wolf,” she repeated, trying it on her tongue. He was a stranger no more, then. For he had a name.
“Aye.” The grin widened, his hazel eyes—gray and green with flecks of copper and gold—searing into her. “Better. If you kiss me, you ought to at least know that, just as I should know yours, milady.”
She should tell him a different name. Fears of Granville and what he would do should he discover she had come to a gaming hell alone and kissed a baseborn man she had not even been introduced to, cautioned her not to tell this man—Wolf—her true name.
And yet, it seemed a sin to besmirch the undeniable attraction burning between them with a lie.
“Portia,” she said.
And what was the harm? London was likely teeming with at least a dozen Portias, if not more. She had not told him she was the widowed Countess of Blakewell. He knew nothing of her, aside from her given name and her face. And where were their paths ever likely to cross, apart from her lone excursion to this gaming hell?
Nowhere.
“Portia.” One of his hands moved from her waist, sliding to her lower back, anchoring her to him. “Fitting name.”
