Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

H e woke up as he always did when he had the dream.

Yelling.

Covered in sweat.

But this time, there were other cries of terror joining Jasper's. High-pitched and girlish. Through the gloom of the early morning light slipping between the curtains, he discovered that he was not alone in his bed.

"Anne and Elizabeth," he bit out, trying to keep the curtness from his voice, "what the devil are you doing in my chamber?"

They were meant to be in the chamber which had recently been turned into a nursery for them.

Loge's chamber.

But now was not the time to think of his dead brother. His daughters had apparently been wandering the private quarters of the hell in the midst of the night. And the bloody woman who was meant to be watching over them had failed to take note.

He needed to find a wife.

"We ‘ad a dream that scared us," Anne told him, speaking on behalf of her sister as she sometimes did.

The girls were often a we rather than an I .

"Mrs. Bunton were asleep," Elizabeth added. "We couldn't wake ‘er, so we found you."

Could not wake her? Christ, was the woman gone to Rothisbone?

He tamped down the remnants of panic lurking in his chest and studied his children through the murk. "Was she breathing?"

"Snoring," Anne confirmed.

Not dead, then.

He nodded, grateful he had not gone to sleep in the nude, as he oft did, but in a shirt instead. Jasper rose from the bed to light a brace of candles. After slipping on a banyan for modesty, something he did not ordinarily possess much of, he turned back to his daughters. They were watching him with wide, hazel eyes. In the low light, the similarity of their features rendered them almost impossible to tell apart. Little wonder almost everyone confused them.

"What dream plagued you?" he asked them, wondering if he ought to offer some sort of comfort.

But what sort?

He was unfamiliar with this new role he played, being a father. As the eldest and leader of his siblings, and in the absence of their parents, he had never been terribly adept at consoling his sisters. Caro was the healer of their motley lot.

But she was married now, and gone from The Sinner's Palace.

"The dog with big teeth was chasing us," Elizabeth elaborated.

"He bit me," Anne added.

"You mean to say the two of you had the same dream, at the same time?" Suspicion stirred.

"Yes," Elizabeth answered.

"No," Anne said simultaneously.

He studied his daughters with great care, sensing there was more to their sudden appearance in his chamber and their unlikely story. "Are you fibbing, girls?"

They shared a guilty look.

And his suspicions were confirmed. He returned to the bed, where his daughters were snuggled together atop the coverlet in their night dresses, their long, dark hair running unruly down their backs. Jasper settled his arse on the edge of the mattress.

"Anne. Elizabeth." He gave them his sternest stare.

The one he ordinarily reserved for his enemies. At least, he hoped it was. Attempting to be harsh with his daughters was damned difficult, even if he knew they were lying. They were just so cursed sweet-faced.

And there was a strange tightening in his chest—square in the vicinity of his black heart—every time he saw them.

"We wouldn't fib," Anne said.

"Not to you, Papa," Elizabeth concurred.

More lies.

"Did you know that papas can always tell when their daughters are gammoning them?" he asked, deciding upon a prevarication of his own.

Their eyes widened.

"Indeed, they can," he continued. "And that is why I know the both of you are being dishonest with me. Tell me why you are here."

"Mrs. Bunton said you don't want us," Anne said, looking down, her lower lip quivering.

"She was drinking gin," Elizabeth added.

Mrs. Bunton was finished .

That explained the bloody snoring. Apparently, the woman had found her way into his liquor stores. And she had upset his daughters. There would be a reckoning for her daring.

"Is it true, Papa?" Anna asked softly. "Ma didn't want us neither."

He held open his arms. "Come."

He did not need to offer the invitation twice. They threw themselves against him with more force than he had been anticipating from girls of their stature. Jasper nearly toppled off the bed as he awkwardly patted their backs.

"Of course I want you," he reassured them, his voice gruff against a sudden rush of emotion he had not believed himself capable of feeling. "You are my family. A part of me. Suttons ."

Once, that name had not meant a damned bean.

But Jasper and his siblings had changed that. They had scrambled and clawed their way to the top of the East End.

"You won't try to sell us?" Anne asked.

"Or make us go pickpocketing?" Elizabeth queried.

Both their voices were muffled against his banyan.

He swallowed against a knot of outrage. "Never. Who threatened you thus?"

"Ma," they said as one.

The witch. Thank Christ she had abandoned them instead. Apparently, she had decided the girls were not worth the trouble of feeding any longer. When they had first arrived, they had been scrawny as a pack of starved alley pups. If he ever discovered where that bird had flown to, he was going to see that she paid for what she had done to his daughters. For keeping them from him for six damned years.

"You are with me now. You aren't going to be hurt," he promised.

Not over his dead, bleeding corpse.

"Forever?" one of the girls asked. With their faces still hidden, he could not be certain which of the two had spoken.

For as long as he drew breath into his lungs. But that was not the answer to give children, and he knew it.

"Forever," he vowed.

The girls tipped their heads back at the same time and glanced up at him.

"Why were you yelling, Papa? In your sleep?"

"Did you ‘ave a terrible dream about a dog too?"

Unbidden, the memories that lingered, just below the surface of every waking moment, rose. He exhaled slowly, trying to maintain his calm and keep the old rage from overtaking him.

"It was a dream about a different kind of dog," he said.

"Which kind?" chirped Elizabeth.

He patted her back. "Not the kind you shall ever need worry about. Now, the two of you ought to get some more rest, and I'll be needing to have a word with Mrs. Bunton."

And that word… Well, it sure as fuck would not be kind.

Octavia had become a prisoner in her sister's home.

One week.

One.

Entire.

Dratted.

Sennight.

And she could not bear another day. She had to escape.

Seated in the gold salon of Tarlington House as her sister's family finished their nightly ritual of reciting the newest addition to their unending story, Octavia could scarcely remain still. Mirabel and the children took turns regaling everyone with tales they invented as they went along. Mythical creatures, danger, excitement, silliness—the story was an endless source of entertainment.

Once, it had been enough. But now? Her feet itched to move. So, too, her hands. Ordinarily, this routine she shared with her sister, brother-in-law, niece, and nephews was beloved. Octavia respected and admired Damian Winter, who planned to stand for parliament soon. She absolutely adored Percy, Joanna, Davy, and Gideon. And of course Mirabel was more like a mother to Octavia than Mama was. Although nearly ten years separated them in age, Octavia and her sister had always been exceedingly close to each other.

Still, none of those facts seemed to matter.

Because all she could think about was journeying back to The Sinner's Palace. And to her shame, her desire to return was motivated by not just her goal of beginning her own gossip journal, but also by the memory of Jasper Sutton's lips on hers.

"Auntie Octavia?"

She blinked, returning to the present as her niece's voice interrupted her wildly vacillating thoughts. "Yes, Joanna dearest?"

"What did you think of my story?"

A stab of guilt pierced her heart, for she had not been paying it any mind. "It was an utter favorite of mine, my darling girl."

She restrained her natural inclination to wince at the lie. Ordinarily, she did not deceive the children. Nor did she ignore them. She was distracted. This would not do.

Joanna, having no notion of her auntie's fabrication, smiled radiantly. "Thank you. What was your favorite part?"

Oh heavens. She had no wish to disappoint her niece.

Her sister's gaze was shrewd, pinned to her. As always, she sensed Octavia's need of assistance.

"I would venture a guess that Auntie Octavia enjoyed the portion of the tale where the dragon discovered the magical lily flowers," Mirabel said. "Am I correct, sister dear?"

Mirabel knew she had not been paying any heed to the evening's festivities. Of course she would.

Octavia tamped down a rush of disappointment with herself. "Yes, indeed, that was my favorite bit of the tale."

Joanna smiled happily.

Octavia's heart ached.

How terrible she was, being distracted by her own wicked desires. But she summoned a smile for her niece's benefit just the same.

"Now, then," Mirabel declared, louder than necessary. "It is past time you are all off to bed."

Relief coursed through Octavia.

The evening was over.

Perhaps she could find a means of making her way to the mews…

"Octavia?"

As if she had sensed the vein of her thoughts, Mirabel demanded Octavia's attention. The children rose with groans of protest and made about the business of retiring to the nursery for the evening. Their governess arrived. Soon, the older lads would be off to Eton. How quickly they had grown. Octavia watched them with a creeping sense of sentimentality before turning back to Mirabel.

"Yes, dear sister?"

Mirabel frowned as she closed the distance between them. "Are you feeling well this evening, Octavia?"

"Yes." Her affirmation fled her, higher pitched than necessary.

Because she was lying.

Again.

Oh, what had become of her? A few kisses from Jasper Sutton, and she was lost. Hopeless.

Mirabel raised a brow, giving her a searching stare. "You seem distracted."

Distracted? Her?

Of course she was distracted. Since the moment her sister had caught Octavia and put an abrupt end to her nocturnal travels, Octavia had been decidedly distracted. Longing as well. Yearning. Desiring.

Frustrated.

She swallowed. "Why should I be distracted, sister? No more than usual, I assure you."

But Mirabel was not finished, drawing nearer still as her husband discreetly excused himself and left the luxuriously appointed chamber as well.

"Please, dearest heart," she said in a low voice. "Be honest with me. This last week, you have not been yourself. You have been…withdrawn. Quiet. Changed ."

Changed.

Her sister had uttered the word with such vehemence. And also, a hint of condemnation, as if Octavia's metamorphosis was somehow wrong. But she had changed before. Life was filled with changes.

Surely Mirabel, better than anyone, would know and understand.

"Is there something wrong with altering one's expectations?" she asked carefully. "It seems to me that you have done so, and look at how happy you are now with Mr. Winter."

But despite the warmth Octavia intended to convey with her assessment—and the approval—Mirabel paled. "Do you think to compare our situations?"

Octavia was taken aback by the query. "I cannot fathom how I would. I am a happy spinster, and you are a happily married woman."

"Jasper Sutton," her sister said, and not without a hint of disdain.

No one was sweeter or more trusting, accepting, and forgiving than Mirabel. She scarcely ever spoke a harsh word against anyone. Heavens, if she had, Octavia could not recall when or whom or why. Mirabel was an angel on terra firma.

So the manner in which Octavia's sister had uttered Jasper Sutton's name—almost as if it were an accusation—gave her considerable pause.

"What of him?" she asked.

"I cannot help but to believe he is the reason for this change." Mirabel was frowning again. "If you are truly insistent upon beginning this scandal journal of yours, Damian and I are willing to help fund it. I would not have you believe you must seek out someone like Sutton for aid before your own family."

"Thank you, sister." She forced a smile she did not feel. "I appreciate your offer more than I can say. But I have decided to give the matter rest for now."

Mirabel's intentions were good. But she did not understand that Octavia wanted to begin her journal on her own terms. Accepting help from her sister was not that. A partnership with Jasper Sutton, however, would have proven far more beneficial, had she been able to persuade him. He would provide her access to his forbidden world in a way she did not currently have. Forming a business relationship with him would have also given her the pride of knowing she had accomplished what she wished on her own merits, rather than relying on her familial connections.

It would also have granted her the opportunity to continue seeing the enigmatic man whose kisses she could neither forget nor repent.

"Truly?" Mirabel's gaze was searching, looking for answers Octavia did not wish to give. "You are willing to abandon this notion of yours?"

Of course not.

Everyone needed a role in life.

Mirabel was a mother and wife.

Octavia would never be either; she had no wish to marry and forfeit her independence. But she wanted something of her own. Some part of herself to linger, even when she was gone. A legacy? Perhaps.

"I am placing the idea of my scandal journal on a shelf in my mind," she told her sister softly. "To be considered later."

There. She was not misleading Mirabel. Nor lying. Not directly.

Her sister sighed, then cradled the pronounced lump of her belly that not even the careful drapery of her gown could hide. "Staying away from Jasper Sutton and the East End is for the best, Octavia. I am only concerned for your safety and reputation."

Octavia knew that. But she also knew that she could not be happy carrying on as she was, now that she had known the lure of adventure. To say nothing of the sinful promise of Jasper Sutton himself…

Tearing herself from those wayward thoughts, she nodded, then gathered her sister in a hasty embrace. "I am safe, and my reputation remains untarnished. Thank you for fretting over me, dearest. You should get some rest now, and I shall as well."

Mirabel hugged her in return, and the two ascended the stairs to their separate chambers. Within the privacy of her room, however, Octavia fairly itched for the freedom she had enjoyed one week ago. It had enabled her to steal away from her chamber and entice one of the young grooms to accompany her to The Sinner's Palace—with the aid of some pound notes, of course.

Silence for a price.

Many people and their favors could be bought. It was a lesson learned from Jasper Sutton's own lips. And it had given her a rare insight into such a man, one who was capable of rising from the rookeries to become wealthy and powerful, who cared for his siblings. She had no doubt he was ruthless.

But to her, he had never been.

She huffed a sigh and paced the carpets, telling herself she must not think of him now. Or perhaps ever again. Mirabel had not been wrong. Seeking him out had been dangerous and foolish of Octavia. All those risks, and she had not been able to convince him to help her.

Nothing but the memory of his cruel lips on hers.

Oh, but they had not been cruel at all, had they?

Octavia found herself at the window, staring down into the small courtyard behind Tarlington House, which her chamber overlooked. The moon was full, shining high, illuminating the branches of the tree she often admired by daylight.

The tree with branches beckoning to her.

Her heart pounded.

No. She could not. Did not dare.

Octavia had not climbed a tree since she had been a girl, back at Longford Hall, her father's country seat. It had been years. And never had she climbed into a tree from a window, nor from such a height.

And yet…

Mirabel had made certain there were servants about to prevent her from escaping with the same ease she had enjoyed before. However, Octavia was reasonably certain there would not be a footman stationed at the base of the tree.

One more chance , whispered a taunting voice in her mind.

One more chance to persuade Jasper Sutton.

One more chance to see her idea come to fruition.

And one more chance to kiss him.

Grimly, she reached for the window.

The woman before him was quite pretty. Beautiful, actually. If one preferred golden curls and rosebud pouts and generous breasts. Strangely, Jasper felt himself unmoved as he examined her.

Not even a stirring of his cock.

He would have thought the blasted appendage was dead were it not for the rousing manner in which it rose on every occasion his mind flitted to Lady Octavia Alexander. Which was not often.

One week since he had seen her last.

Kissed her last.

Since he had cupped her breast and felt her body's reaction to his, the taut bud of her nipple…

He banished the thoughts lest his inconvenient prick decide to stiffen when he was attempting to conduct this interminable interview.

"How long have you been a widow, Mrs. Martin?" he forced himself to ask.

In truth, it hardly mattered. Nothing about her did, other than her willingness to be a kind mother to his daughters. He had been meeting women such as the lovely widow for the last three days, and none of them had suited thus far.

"Two years, Mr. Sutton," she answered, well-spoken.

She was the daughter of a banker who owed him a favor. The connection would be a boon. She was educated, polite, and clean about her appearance. She was too pretty, it was true. But fortunately, he felt nothing when he gazed upon her, which was precisely what he wanted in a wife.

"Any children of your own?" he asked.

"I was not so blessed."

Blessed.

A pious woman, then? Did she sit in church every Sunday? The notion rendered her less appealing as a possibility, for sinners and saints did not tend to dwell together in harmony.

Just why had Pen decided upon this woman as a possibility? Perhaps asking his sister for her aid in procuring a wife had been a mistake.

He frowned. "Did you wish for them?"

"Of course." She smiled. "My greatest desire is to become a mother."

"My daughters are… mischievous," he said, reaching for the right word. "They are in need of mothering."

"I understand, Mr. Sutton. When did their mother die, if I may ask?"

"Three weeks ago," he said, which was true as far as he was concerned.

The venomous baggage was not welcome in his daughters' lives after she had abandoned them.

Mrs. Martin's brows arched in surprise. "Your period of mourning, sir…"

"Ain't one." He shrugged. "We weren't married, Mrs. Martin. Their mother was a doxy."

The widow nodded. "Of course, Mr. Sutton. Forgive me for my assumption."

She was apologizing. And dreadfully polite. Why in the hell would a woman like her want to marry Jasper Sutton?

"I am not a polite man, Mrs. Martin. Nor respectable. You are aware that this is a gaming hell?"

"You are in need of a mother to your daughters," she said, intelligent enough to understand the reason for his words. "I am in need of a wealthy husband. My late husband…he was a wastrel, Mr. Sutton."

Ah.

He began to understand that it was not just her father's influence which had prompted her call.

"And here I was, thinking it was my dial plate that lured you in."

A becoming flush tinged her cheeks. "Dial plate?"

"Face," he explained, knowing a moment of guilt for relying on his flash. Part of maintaining patrons who were plump partridges was acting the part of a gentleman. Or at least aping their speech, and he had worked hard to scrape all traces of the East End.

A knock sounded on the door.

The interruption was welcome. "What is it now?" he barked rudely, just to see if his lack of proper manners would have any effect upon Mrs. Martin.

Her shoulders stiffened.

It was then he realized she was wearing a lace fichu tucked into her bodice for modesty.

"Mr. Sutton, she has returned," Hugh announced on the other side of the door.

Jasper did not need to ask who she was.

He knew.

And so did every other part of his body.

Fire licked through him, along with anticipation. He had missed her. What the devil was the matter with him? When had he ever in his life missed a female who was not one of his sisters?

"I believe this shall be enough for the moment, Mrs. Martin," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "Thank you for agreeing to visit at this hour of the evening."

It had been irregular and badly done of him to request her to visit when most respectable ladies were abed, and he knew it. But that had also been part of his motivation in making the request. The woman he married needed to understand his life was The Sinner's Palace. He spent most of his time awake all night, tending to the hell and its patrons. Mornings were for rest. His wife would have to make certain Elizabeth and Anne were cared for and happy during the hours he was not available. As it was, since their unexpected arrival, he had assigned his nightly duties to his brother Rafe instead.

That would not continue, however. Jasper preferred to be a creature of the night.

Mrs. Martin rose from her chair. "Thank you for paying me the honor, Mr. Sutton."

She did not fool him.

He gave her a curt bow just the same. "I expect you tomorrow at the same time so that we may continue our interview."

"Of course, Mr. Sutton."

He guided her to the door and opened it to find Hugh and Lady Octavia awaiting him. Satan's teeth, she had not even had the presence of mind to wear a veil this evening. Her honey-brown gaze met his, sending a searing bolt of lust through him, before she jerked her stare away to the widow at his side.

"Hugh, see that Randall escorts Mrs. Martin to her residence," he said, not bothering to introduce the two women to each other.

While he doubted a widowed banker's daughter with depleted funds would be familiar with a lady, he still found himself oddly protective of Lady Octavia. Why, he did not care to examine.

Hugh guided Mrs. Martin down the interior halls of The Sinner's Palace, leaving Jasper and Octavia alone in the low light of the sconces. He drank in the sight of her for a moment, admitting to himself just how much he had longed to see her again. Damn, but she was beautiful, her dark hair coiled in an elegant braid, a few curls teasing her temples. Which reminded him…

"Why are you not taking any care with your reputation?" he snapped.

"Because I do not care about my reputation," she returned, chin tipping up to a stubborn angle.

The urge to kiss her was stronger than the instinctive need to take another breath at the moment. The violence of his body's reaction to her was cause for alarm. She was a fever, infecting him. And yet, he had no wish to stop her.

"Come," he ordered, nodding toward his open office door.

But in true Lady Octavia form, she refused to obey. Instead, she remained where she was. "Was I interrupting you with a paramour?"

"My future wife," he said, just to see if the knowledge nettled her, although he had yet to decide whether or not he would leg shackle himself to Mrs. Martin.

Why he wanted to irritate her, he could not say. After all, what did he suppose, that Lady Octavia would wish to take on the role? Ha! Not a bleeding chance of that.

Nor would he want it.

Even if the thought of having her in his bed was enough to nearly bring him to his knees.

"Your…you are betrothed?"

One of his men passed silently through the hall behind them, the movement catching Jasper's attention and reminding him of the need for privacy. He wanted to keep her to himself. Just for another few minutes, until he sent her on her way once more with a firm reminder to never again return.

He took her arm in a gentle grip and pulled her into his office, slamming the door behind them. "Not yet."

"You need not have pulled me about so rudely," she protested, glaring at him.

"And you need not ‘ave returned to The Sinner's Palace," he countered smoothly, willing his expression to remain impassive even as the decadent scent of her floral perfume hit him and unleashed a new tide of soul-searing need.

He was speaking like the rookeries scourge he was again.

And it was not intentional this time, as it had been with Mrs. Martin. Then, he had been testing the woman. Prodding her to see how she truly felt about the prospect of being eternally bound in matrimony to an East End scoundrel who had committed every crime that existed in his rise from the gutters.

No, this time, he had lost control because that was what the ebony-haired aristocrat before him made him do. Without fail.

"I needed to speak to you one more time." There was a hesitation in her tone that was unusual for her.

Ordinarily, Lady Octavia spoke as he imagined a queen would, with great authority, certain of the fealty of all her lowly subjects. He moved closer to her, drawn out of sheer stupidity and an instinctive desire to feel her warmth. To see if he could gather that luscious scent of hers into his lungs and hold it there forever.

Stupid thoughts.

But as he drew closer, her attempt to flit away was halting, almost as if she had limped. He did not miss her wince.

The sight drew him up short.

"You have injured yourself," he observed.

"It is nothing," she denied with a haste that did not surprise him.

Of course she would wish him to believe her omnipotent.

"You are in pain," he continued, reaching for her.

She sidled away, only to emit a small cry of dismay. "I am fine," she nonetheless insisted.

Had she been limping when he had pulled her into his office? Jasper was ashamed to admit he had been too struck by her unexpected arrival to take note. What a despicable scoundrel he was.

"Nonsense, minx." Without waiting for further protest, he bent and scooped her into his arms.

"Sutton!" Her eyes were wide, palms planted on his chest.

He stalked across the chamber in three strides and deposited her on the chair opposite of the one Mrs. Martin had so recently vacated. Somehow, the notion of Octavia sitting in the other woman's seat felt inherently wrong.

Jasper dropped to his knees on the carpet, an ironic pose given what he had been thinking earlier. But she was not in his bed. Nor was she his. And neither could she ever be. Curse the pang that stole through him at the reminder.

"Why are you limping?" he asked, grateful his voice did not sound nearly as filled with lust as he felt.

Her ankles were hiding beneath a barrier of fabric. All he needed to do was lift the muddied, torn hem.

Muddied and torn?

He lifted her skirts before she could answer, finding a slash in her delicate stockings and the red of dried blood. The rage that thundered through him clogged his throat, rendering him incapable of speech before he bit out his next words. "Were you attacked?"

If anyone had dared to touch her, he would tear off the bastard's arms and beat him to death with them.

"Of course not." She shifted her skirts, hiding her calves from view. "Do get up, Sutton. I merely injured myself slightly when I fell from the last branch of the tree."

Through the roaring in his ears, her words reached him slowly.

Injured myself.

Fell.

Branch.

Tree.

Tree?

He shook his head. "What were you doing in a damned tree?"

"As far as I am aware, the tree was not damned."

Was she making a joke? Bloodlust and the need to avenge her were still making his hands tremble. He flicked an irate glance up to her, which proved a mistake.

She was smiling at him.

Impishly.

And she had been in a tree .

"You did not answer my question, minx. What were you doing in a tree?"

"Using it to climb from my window."

Satan's teeth.

"Are you dicked in the nob, woman? You are lucky you didn't break your neck."

Someone had to protect her. From herself, if no one else.

That someone is not going to be me , he reminded himself sternly.

But another voice rose in his mind. A question he could not answer. Why not?

"The branch I fell from was quite low-hanging and my neck is just fine, as you can see." Primly, she gestured to her pale throat.

He thought about setting his lips there. About licking that soft, inviting skin to see if it tasted as heavenly as she smelled. Somehow, he knew it would. If he used his tongue and teeth on her, would she be shocked?

Something told him that she would not.

But she had mentioned branches, she had hurt herself, and she was climbing about in trees. To say nothing of her continued mockery of his orders for her to remain far from The Sinner's Palace. In addition to being utterly mad, she was a menace.

"Why were you climbing about in trees this evening?" he demanded, catching her hem and flipping it up once more to examine the wound on her calf. "This needs to be cleaned."

And Caro, the healer amongst them, was not here to offer aid. Fortunately, she regularly brought her salves and other medical supplies to The Sinner's Palace now that she was a married woman. He could not deny that the chance to tend to Lady Octavia himself appealed.

"It is merely a scratch," she said, flicking her skirts over his hands and her ankles both. "I can take care of myself."

"No you cannot. Your skirts and stockings are torn, you don't do as you're told, and you fell from a tree."

"You cannot tell me what to do, Sutton," she countered stubbornly.

"Yes I can, minx."

He rose and crossed his office, going to the pitcher and basin where he kept water for a different reason entirely than tending to wounded aristocrats. Rather, this was the water he used when he had to rely on his fists to make his opinion known in this chamber.

Thankfully, that was no longer as often as it had once been.

He wetted a clean cloth and brought it back to where Lady Octavia sat, watching him with an unreadable stare. Part of him was surprised she had not defiantly moved. Part of him was pleased.

More opportunities to touch her.

Jasper sank to his knees once again. "Raise your gown and hold it in your lap so that I may see what I'm about."

"I told you that I am fine." Her lips were set in a mulish line.

If that was how she wished to play this game…

Ignoring her, he raised her petticoats and gown himself. Her white silk stockings were fastened above her knees with garters. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. Jasper had never been the sort of man who worshiped a woman's limbs as some did. But he could not lie. The sight of Lady Octavia's finely turned ankles and delicate calves encased in such finery was more intoxicating than a gallon of gin.

But this was not about seduction. She was his patient, unwilling or not.

Gently, he unfastened the garter on her injured leg. His fingertips grazed over velvet-soft feminine flesh. His heart was pounding steadily. He would not get a cockstand while cleaning her scratches. He vowed it. He would not .

Down went the stocking, revealing more glorious, creamy skin until he reached the place where the tree branch had wounded her. Gently, he dabbed at the angry-looking scratches, cleansing the dried blood. Some of the cuts were deeper than he had originally supposed.

She flinched, inhaling on a hiss.

He paused, glancing up at her. "Stings, yes?"

She bit her lower lip. "Yes."

"I will be gentle," he promised, before resuming, aware of how bloody much of a looby he was.

There was nothing gentle about Jasper Sutton.

And yet…

For her, there was. Incredibly enough. He finished his ministrations and then applied some of Caro's salve to aid with healing, taking his time. Reluctant to allow this moment between them come to an end. When it did, he would have to lower her gown and petticoat. He would have to stop touching her.

He added more salve. More than was necessary. Prolonging the moment. His thumb traced circles over the bony protrusion of her ankle, a place he had never found particularly alluring on a woman before. But a place he very much admired now. Here was evidence of her strength and fragility all at once. Her ankles were slim enough that he could encompass one in his meaty paw. He had never felt more like a brute than he did now, tending to Lady Octavia as if she were a bird with a broken wing.

"I do not think your betrothed would approve," she said tartly above, breaking the spell that the luxury of his bare skin on hers had cast.

Reminding him of all the reasons why he must put an end to this.

Why he must send her on her way.

But I want to keep her.

The realization hit him as their gazes met and held. Mrs. Martin was the last thing on his mind. His obligations flitted away.

"I don't have one yet, as I told you," he said, finding a small place were her skin was slightly puffed and swollen. "Did you twist your ankle when you fell?"

"I may have. This is quite enough, Mr. Sutton."

She sounded as prim as a governess. And now he was a mister instead of merely Sutton. Her dudgeon was up.

"Jasper," he found himself saying. "If you insist on trespassing in my establishment, you may as well call me by my name."

"Again, I do not believe your betrothed would approve of such familiarity."

His gaze flicked up from his lengthy exploration of her beautiful limbs. That was when he noticed how tightly she held her gown in her lap, the delicate knuckles white with strain. Restraint or anxiety?

"I don't give a damn if Mrs. Martin approves," he said slowly, honestly.

He had made it clear as a window pane to the widow that he had no intention of curtailing his ways. He would change for no woman, least of all her. Marriage was for one reason alone: the sake of his daughters. They needed a womanly influence, and he could not provide that. Nor could his sisters. Caro was married. Pen was trouble. And Lily was too young for the role. Jasper had already failed at hiring a servant to care for them. Mrs. Bunton had been sent on her way.

"You ought to care," Lady Octavia snapped. "You may release my limb now, if you please."

So proper.

So polite.

He wanted to ruffle her perfect feathers.

And why not? She had come here to him. An idea began forming in his mind. It was a wrong idea, to be sure. Wicked. Troublesome.

Fucking stupid.

He should not do it. Not under any circumstances. Jasper knew that.

He was going to do it anyway.

Rising to his feet, he stuffed her ruined stocking into the pocket of his waistcoat and then held out his hand for her. "Come with me, Lady Octavia."