Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

F or the second time that evening, Octavia found herself being conveyed in Jasper Sutton's arms. When she had reluctantly taken his hand to allow him to pull her to her feet, she had wobbled on her sore ankle, which pained her more by the moment as her injury set in. He had taken note, and before she had so much as blinked, he had swept her up as if she weighed no more than a child.

Despite her protests, he had refused to allow her to walk on her own locomotion. And now, he was taking her through the labyrinth of The Sinner's Palace's private halls. Deeper into the den of the lion. She had expected him to take her back to the conveyance which had brought her here—a small curricle which was indistinguishable, accompanied by the same tiger who had brought her on previous occasions. Her relief that Mirabel had not warned the groom against taking her on further jaunts—likely to spare Octavia embarrassment—had eclipsed the pain in her ankle and calf from the spill she had taken.

As it turned out, climbing trees was an endeavor which ought to happily remain relegated to the follies of her girlhood. Sutton had been right when he had told her she had been fortunate not to have broken her neck. There had been a wild moment of fear when she had been hanging limply from the slippery branch of the tree, as if she were a doll. Her landing had been pure luck, on her feet.

In the style of a cat.

Only with less grace.

Her heart had been pounding by the time she had realized her slippers were on terra firma, mouth dry. But she had decided that her near-death had to be repaid by one last chance to persuade Jasper Sutton to help her with her scandal journal.

Last chance.

Those words had been echoing in her mind during her furtive jaunt to The Sinner's Palace. They repeated themselves with each of Sutton's footfalls. Like a taunt.

Last chance.

It was true. Mirabel would no longer trust her if she discovered that Octavia had disobeyed her concerns and ventured here once more. Her heart ached at the notion.

"I am capable of walking," she told him, trying to ignore the unique perspective she currently possessed.

His profile was near. So near, she could see the dark shadow of his whiskers individually delineated. Her eyes traced the blade of his nose, the slash of his jaw. His coal-black hair was worn in waves that looked as if they had been carefully affected. Knowing Jasper Sutton, however, she would be willing to wager his locks simply fell in such casual, careless perfection.

His jaw worked now as he continued carrying her through the maze of halls.

He ignored her objection. But of course. He was Jasper Sutton.

Part of Octavia was irritated by his arrogance. Part of her did not mind at all. That weakest half of her was relishing the opportunity to be in this powerful man's arms. To breathe in the sandalwood and earthy musk of him—less smoke than she ordinarily smelled upon his coat this evening. Had he not been on the floor of his gaming hell yet?

Oh, why should she wonder or care? The answer held no significance for her either way.

Still, she could not help but to admire the grace and strength he exhibited in carrying her. She was no small woman, and yet he transported her as if she were no lighter than a bird. As if she were not there.

Hmm.

Perhaps she ought to do something more to make her presence known.

Octavia released her grip on his shoulder and allowed herself the liberty of tracing the whorl of Jasper's ear.

A muscle in his jaw worked, but his stride did not falter. "What are you doing, minx?"

Minx.

The word sent a hot streak of longing into her belly.

He meant it as an insult, she supposed. But he had used it several times this evening, and she could not shake the suspicion that it was also something of an endearment. After all, he had shown her scrapes such care.

A complicated man, Jasper Sutton.

"I…" she faltered, unable to think of a proper answer. "I thought I saw something there, but it was a shadow."

And she could not seem to stop touching him now that she had begun, much to her shame. Her hungry fingers moved lower, to the swath of skin above his cravat. She liked the manner in which he wore his neck cloths—no fanciful dandy's waterfalls for Jasper Sutton. He was a man of function. One tidy knot, almost stern. Half dress was all he required.

He elbowed his way through a door, and suddenly she was in a new chamber.

A dark one.

"Fucking hell."

His low growl and epithet took her by surprise, as did the lack of light in the room.

"A candle is always to be left lit," he added in a grumble, moving them an indeterminate span of space through the gloom.

She found herself deposited on something soft and large.

A settee of some sort? She leaned, expecting to find a cushion, and fell to her back instead. There was only one answer to the piece of furniture she had been settled upon. A bed.

Ought she to be concerned by this? Likely. But somehow, the absence of Jasper's warmth and arms around her hit her first. Hugging herself, she waited as her eyes attempted to adjust.

There were some scrapes and more muffled curses, and then a spark and flare of light from first one candle. Then others.

Gradually, the room became illuminated, and she realized the place he had brought her was not just a dark chamber but a large one.

A masculine one.

And she was indeed seated upon a bed.

There was something about her surroundings that suggested she could only be in one chamber.

His.

"Where have you brought me?" she demanded anyway, as if asking the question would somehow alter the conclusion she had already reached.

Because he could not have truly taken her where she suspected he had. Jasper Sutton would not take her to his bedchamber. He was a rogue. A gaming hell owner. Hardly a gentleman. But surely he would not…

"My chamber," he said.

Oh.

Oh.

He had . She was in his room.

In his bed .

"Why?" she demanded, her voice high, tinged with a bit of an embarrassing squeak.

"To teach you a lesson, of course."

A lesson?

Something warm slid through her. Something nothing at all like alarm but instead…anticipation.

"Are you going to ravish me?"

He stilled, his gaze burning into hers. "Do you want me to, minx?"

Yes! Her body was clamoring with the need to reply in the affirmative. Yes in every way!

"Absolutely not, Sutton," she lied, making a show of righting the fall of her skirts about her. "This is unconscionable and terribly scandalous of you."

He moved toward her, looming tall and not menacing but somehow thrilling in the sinful shadows. "You like scandals, if I recall."

"Not my own." Mirabel would be furious with her if she discovered her current predicament. "What is the meaning of bringing me here?"

He flashed her a grin. "You'll not be climbing any more trees this evening."

There was a distinct disadvantage to returning in the same fashion she had fled Tarlington House. Likely, climbing the tree from the courtyard would not be easy, given the injuries she had already sustained. However, there was the matter of her sister learning what she had done.

Mirabel would not be happy.

The repercussions would likely be quite damning.

Why, her sister could even force her to return to Mama and Papa.

"What does climbing trees have to do with bringing me to your chamber?" she asked instead of giving voice to the fears churning through her.

"I'm keeping you safe, minx." He sketched an exaggerated bow. "You're welcome."

The alarm she had been lacking before stole through her now. "You cannot keep me here, Sutton."

He winked. "See if I can't. Unlike most, I see the value in locks on interior doors. Never know when one needs to make use of them."

And then, the rogue began stalking from the chamber.

Octavia slid from the bed, wincing when her sore ankle received the full weight of her body, and rushed after him. "Sutton," she called after his broad, retreating back. "This is madness. Come back here!"

Whistling a ditty, he crossed the threshold and closed the door at his back just as she reached it. The undeniable sound of a key turning and a lock sliding into place reached her. She pounded on the door. "Sutton?"

No one answered.

"You kidnapped a gentry mort."

His brother Rafe's words drew Jasper's attention from studying the remaining gin in his glass. "I wouldn't say I did."

They were seated in one of the private rooms where patrons could dine if they chose. With the lateness of the hour, no one was in search of food. It was a slow evening, the tables not overrun as they were on some nights, and their younger brother Hart was watching the floor.

"Oh? And what would you call it, wise brother of mine?" Rafe taunted.

Rafe was second in command at The Sinner's Palace. Each of the siblings had a role in the hell. Jasper had seen to it that they would. Family—his family—was all important. Through their darkest days, it was what had held them all together.

"I would call it doing the lady a favor." He swirled his gin and then tossed back the last of it.

The burn was not as gratifying as it ordinarily was.

Not tonight.

Because there was an altogether different burning happening within him. One that had everything to do with the lady he had left shouting at him on the other side of his locked chamber door.

What was he going to do with the minx?

He knew what he wanted to do with her.

"Locking her in your chamber is doing her a favor?" Rafe asked, quirking a brow. "With your reputation…"

He allowed his words to trail off. But Rafe was one to talk. Jasper had gone through his share of ladybirds in his bed, but Rafe was worse. He had a different wench for each day of the week.

"My reputation ain't as bad as yours," he reminded his brother wryly.

"You planning to keep ‘er there all night?" Rafe asked instead of responding to Jasper's taunt.

"I reckon I may." Even if there would be consequences for keeping her here at The Sinner's Palace till morning.

Rafe grinned and shook his head. "You're dicked in the nob."

Maybe.

There had been little sanity involved when he had taken her in his arms and carried her to his chamber. That much was certain.

"Not any more than the rest of you," he countered, wondering if he should fortify himself with another glass before he returned to her.

He had no doubt Lady Octavia would be displeased with him. He would be returning to a hell cat. The notion sent more heat through him. This was a dangerous game he played. One false move…

"You going to get snapped in the parson's mousetrap?" Rafe prodded.

Marriage to Lady Octavia.

The idea held a strange, foreign appeal.

But no.

He poured some more liquor into his glass. "Damian Winter ain't going to force me to marry Lady Octavia."

"I meant Mrs. Martin. That beautiful blonde widow Pen brought round for you earlier," Rafe explained.

To his shame, his face went hot. And it wasn't on account of the drops of jackey he'd just tossed down his gullet either. Nor was it on account of Mrs. Martin. Rather, it was because he'd been thinking about his raven-haired minx again. Nary a thought for the woman he had invited earlier with the intention of seeing if she would make a decent mother for Anne and Elizabeth.

"I ain't sure if I'll wed that one either," he said, growing weary of their dialogue.

Octavia was in his room.

Waiting for him.

What the hell was he going to do with her until the sun rose and he returned her to the bosom of her aristocratic family? Aristocratic with the exception of Damian Winter, that was.

"Pen and Lily keeping your wild ones busy for the night?" Rafe asked, smirking.

The arrival of Jasper's daughters had been an endless source of amusement for Rafe. And Jasper could not deny it was ironic. Rafe himself had never yet spawned a bastard that he knew of, yet being the important word.

"Our sisters are angels," he said by way of response.

"Not what you said about them before," Rafe reminded.

Ever helpful, his bloody brother. Their sisters were not quite the hellions his daughters were, but they were older. Which meant they could get into far more damning trouble than Anne and Elizabeth could.

"They grew into their wings," he grumbled. "Anne and Elizabeth aren't running wild over the floor tonight."

Since he had been forced to remove Mrs. Bunton from her position, Lily and Pen were temporarily taking charge of his daughters while he attempted to carry on with his business. Business which included finding a woman to mother them. A woman whose role it would be to make certain they wanted for nothing and possessed the manners of a true lady.

Someone like her , whispered an insidious voice again.

But Lady Octavia Alexander was not the answer to his problems.

"Do you intend to stay here drinking jackey all night long, or are you going to see to the lady?" Rafe queried, tearing Jasper from his whirling thoughts yet again.

"Deciding what I'm to do with her is all," he defended.

"Take her where she belongs," his brother suggested. "Winter ain't going to be pleased, and we've just made peace with them not long ago. And it won't be good for word to make the rounds that we've been kidnapping ladies."

There had been a time when the Winter family had been the biggest rivals of the Suttons. Recently, they had begun working together. It had all started with the sale of the waterworks. Caro's marriage to Gavin Winter had truly cemented the truce, however.

As for kidnapping? What shite! He could not kidnap a woman who had come to him of her own will—repeatedly. Now that he thought upon it, this was all her fault, really.

"I'll be the one deciding what is best," he told Rafe. "Don't forget who is the head of this family."

With that pointed reminder, he rose to his feet and quit the room before his brother could offer any further attempts at inciting his guilt. But he did not return to his chamber immediately. Instead, he found himself in the kitchens, dredging up some sweets and wine for her. Maybe she would be hungry or thirsty.

With the provisions in his arms, he made the journey back to his chamber, wondering with each step what he was going to do. Rafe was right. Keeping her here was trouble. But if he returned her to her home at this hour, it would cause more trouble. And if he locked her in his chamber for the night…

As he approached the door to his chamber, the silence greeting him gave him cause for suspicion. Drawing nearer, he discovered the door ajar. Why had he left the key in the lock, damn it?

Cursing low, he shouldered the door open.

The sight that greeted him was the last he had expected.

Three heads were in his bed, the counterpane drawn to their chins. Eyes closed.

Asleep, all of them.

What angels they appeared—Lady Octavia in the middle, Anne and Elizabeth nestled close to her on either side. They must have somehow wandered from Pen and Lily, the hellions. He would give his sisters a stern talk in the morning.

And yet, he could not be angry in this moment of quiet and peace. For there it was, the answer. The answer to his problems.

Lady Octavia.

Something shifted inside his chest. Something heavy. Something unfamiliar.

Marry her. That was what he was going to do with her.