Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

O ctavia turned the page in the book she was attempting to read, words swimming before her but failing to find purchase in her heavily burdened mind.

The hour was late, but she was too distraught to sleep.

She had dined with Anne and Elizabeth in the nursery earlier and had given them their bath herself. Then, she had settled them in bed with another story and a seemingly endless round of hugs. They were sweet children, eager to please, and much in need of both attention and love.

If only she could say the same of their father.

On a sigh, she turned another page, cognizant she had failed to read any of the words strung together on the previous one. She had not seen Jasper for the remainder of the day. Nor had he visited her this evening as she had supposed he might.

It was just as well. She had no wish to see him. Perhaps he was spending the night with Mary . He had claimed she was not his mistress. However, that did not mean he was not sharing his bed with her. The bitterness invading her was unfamiliar, but there was no help for it. She had not expected for her marriage to change so abruptly.

Suddenly, a flurry of commotion in the hall beyond her room reached her. Thumps. Voices. Loud, low male voices. Although she was a newcomer to The Sinner's Palace, she was reasonably certain none of the sounds emerging were ordinary. Or good.

Concern replacing the fury curdling her stomach, she snapped the book closed and leapt to her feet. She scarcely knew what the next moment would bring beneath this roof. Crossing the carpets in her bare feet, she opened the door to her chamber a crack, peering into the hall.

What she saw tore a gasp from her throat.

Jasper was splattered with blood.

Without conscious thought, she found herself in the hall, taking in the appalling vignette before her. Her husband was not alone, but his accompaniment was not a woman, at least. It was his brothers, Hart and Rafe, who were equally besmirched, copper staining their white shirts, bruises marring their jaws, blood on their hands and knuckles. Jasper was leaning on Hugh when he spotted her.

"Well if it ain't my lady wife."

His words were more snarl than welcome.

The scent of smoke and damp clothing reached her. But this smoke was different—it was not tobacco. When she had been a girl, there had been a fire in the kitchens at Langford Hall, and the acrid scent tickling her nose now reminded her very much of that. A half moon darkened the skin below his eye, his hair was damp and ruffled, and the knuckles of his right hand were caked in blood.

The three men before her looked as if they had just returned from battle.

"What has happened?" she demanded, fear lending her voice a sharpness that made it ring through the otherwise quiet hall.

"Nothing for you to concern yourself with," he said.

She took note of a new tone in his voice. Was he in his cups?

"I shall be the judge of that," she countered, flicking an irritated glance to each of his brothers. "Which of you will tell me what has happened?"

Rafe grinned. "We gave the Bradleys a sound drubbing."

His words, too, were slurred.

Heaven help her. The Suttons were far more trouble than even she had bargained for.

"Who are the Bradleys, and why are you all bloodied and smelling of smoke?" she demanded next to anyone who would answer.

"The bastards who burned our building today," Hart offered helpfully.

"I'm sure Lady Octavia doesn't give a goddamn about what happened," Jasper said, scorn lacing his deep voice. "London's greatest scoundrel, et cetera."

Perhaps the harshness of her earlier words had indeed landed their barbs in his impenetrable hide. But what was she to think? She had walked in upon him kissing another woman. And not just any other woman, but a prostitute.

"Obviously I am concerned, or I would not be standing here in the hall in my dressing gown at such a late hour," she returned coolly, refusing to look at him. "Hugh, kindly tell me what has happened."

Hugh gave her an apologetic shrug. "It's as they said. The Bradleys set fire to the new Sinner's Palace earlier today and burned it to the ground. Mr. Sutton and ‘is brothers went to the Bradleys for answers."

"And blood," Rafe said with pride.

"And broken noses," Hart added.

"Go to bed, woman," Jasper said, stumbling a bit as he attempted to seek out his chamber without the aid of Hugh. "I've no need of you tonight."

His cutting words stung, and she would not lie. But neither would she allow him to know it. Her pride forced her to pretend as if his second dismissal of the day was of no greater import than the first had been.

"If you do not require me, then I shall go to bed," she said. "Forgive me for the interruption."

But just as she was about to return to the haven of her chamber, her husband's voice gave her pause.

"Stop."

She turned back to him to find him listing on his feet as if he were aboard a ship. The man was either thoroughly drunk, exhausted, or both. She wondered how hard he had been hit to cause the darkening bruise beneath his eye. And then she told herself she should not care.

"What is it, Mr. Sutton?" she asked.

"I've changed my mind," he said. "I need to be bathed. You'll do."

She would do, would she? The daring of the man. She longed to give him a piece of her mind. But not before the wide-eyed audience of his brothers and guard. Their marriage was private, the concern of Octavia and Jasper alone.

So she summoned a smile that was far less calm than the turmoil roiling within her. "Of course."

"Water's in the tub," Hugh told her. "We ‘ad it brought round earlier, before the drops of jackey started pouring."

Gin.

She had not been wrong, then.

Her husband and his siblings had suffered a devastating loss today from the sounds of it. And then he and his brothers had engaged in an altercation with the men they believed responsible for the crime. How…bloodthirsty.

She had never been presented with such raw, vivid evidence of retribution.

Summoning her strength, she moved forward, toward Jasper. "I will see to my husband as he wishes this evening, Hugh," she informed the guard. "If you would please see to my brothers-in-law?"

"I'd rather you see to me when you're finished with Jasper," Rafe told her with a rascal's grin. "Hugh's a Leather Lane concern by comparison."

"Insult my wife again, and I'll draw your cork," Jasper growled at his brother.

"Only a rig," Rafe grumbled. "I'd never touch what's yours."

Before any more threats could be traded, Octavia slid an arm around her husband's waist. "Come now, if you please. The hour is appallingly late, and if you must have your bath, the sooner it is done, the better."

She spoke to him in the firm tones she reserved for children. Because he was acting rather a bit like one. And because it was far easier to pretend he no longer affected her if she imagined him no different than any other charge. This evening, he was a duty.

Nothing else.

Never again anything else , she reminded herself fiercely. Jasper Sutton was not worthy of her trust. Or her body.

He slid an arm around her waist in return, leaning on her as they made their way into his chamber. Within, a brace of candles was lit and a generous bath had indeed been placed by the hearth where a hearty fire crackled in the grate. The day had been damp, and though not cold, there was a chill in the air. Even Jasper's coat was sodden, the wetness seeping through her dressing gown and making her shiver.

"You're trembling," Jasper said as she helped him to a nearby chair.

Somehow, even sotted, he remained observant. The knowledge nettled her.

"And you are soaked through," she told him crisply, ignoring what may have been an edge of concern in his deep voice. "Have you spent the entire evening in the rain?"

"Some of it." He sprawled in the chair, long, trouser-clad legs parted, looking every bit the dissolute scoundrel.

A lock of hair hung over his brow, and curse him, but he was despicably handsome, even with the purplish bruise forming under his eye. Sadly, his afternoon betrayal had done nothing to diminish his masculine attributes. Objectively, she still found him as gloriously masculine and sinfully delicious as ever.

Fortunately, she was made of sterner stuff than a mere weakness of the flesh. Her body may have already forgotten his traitorous actions, but her heart and her mind remained vividly aware of them.

"I suppose we should remove your coat first," she said, taking stock of his large form.

"Eager to get me naked, darling?" he asked, raising his brow.

"Eager to get you into the bath so I may return to the tranquility of my own chamber," she corrected, moving nearer and tugging on his left sleeve. "Off with this now, if you please."

Wrangling a damp coat from a man without any aid from him was no easy feat.

She shot him a glare when her attempts to pull the coat from his arm met with stony opposition. "I thought you wanted a bath."

"I do."

"Then you must help me," she pointed out, all too aware of his unsettling nearness and his hazel stare, fixed upon her.

Finally, he made an effort to assist, and she managed to peel the coat down his arm. She worked the garment from his shoulder, and he leaned forward, the action bringing their faces perilously close.

I do not want to kiss him.

I do not want to kiss him.

I do not want to kiss him.

She repeated the litany in her mind as she worked on the right sleeve of his coat. But she did want to kiss him, and that was very much becoming a problem. The scent of spirits mingled with smoke and the earthy tang of rain. He had just been involved in some manner of violence. There was blood speckling his white shirt and cravat. He had a bruised eye. Earlier that day, she had seen another woman kissing him.

And yet, none of that mattered.

"Octavia," he said.

Why did she like her name on his lips so much?

His hand settled on her waist, possessive and firm. Not holding her in place so much as steadying her. If she wished, she could slip away. Put distance between them once more.

"What is it?" she asked, hating herself for the breathlessness in her voice.

"I did not kiss her."

She stiffened, not wanting to relive that terrible moment when she had seen the golden-haired beauty with her arms wrapped around him. "It hardly signifies now."

"It matters to me that you know the truth." His gaze searched hers. "You're the only woman I want."

Just yesterday, his confession would have meant more than anything to her.

Now, she remained hesitant. Coming from him, it seemed a significant admission. He was not a man given to sentiment or flowery words. However, it was not an apology, and she remained uncertain whether or not she dared trust him.

"Your actions today suggested otherwise," she said primly, removing the coat at last and draping it over the washstand.

Trying to compose herself, she took extra time and care, which was unnecessary given the garment was in need of a sound washing. She was acutely aware of his stare on her, watching every movement she made.

"I ain't accustomed to having to explain myself."

The low rasp had her turning back to him in surprise. It was not what she had expected him to say. Something charming, perhaps. Or a request to assist him in removing his boots, yes. An acknowledgment, no.

"I can imagine you are not," she said, hardening her heart. "Your word here appears to be all it requires to make everyone scatter to obey your commands."

"Everyone but you." His gaze was heavy-lidded.

It affected her. How could it not?

Against her better judgment, she crossed back to him. "Your bath water will be quite cold if you continue tarrying."

Here, however, was another dilemma. Now that she had accompanied him to his chamber and they were alone, all the feelings she had been doing her utmost to banish had returned. The memory of his powerful body stripped of garments made heat pool in her belly and creep between her thighs.

But she was determined to remain impervious. He could be as handsome and as charming as he wished. And he could issue all the partial, growly apologies he liked. He had broken her trust today, and she would not soon forget that.

"You are still angry with me, minx?"

She worked on the knot of his cravat, not as easily removed thanks to the wet cloth. The copper spray there was prominent. A reminder this man was dangerous. Not just to her heart and body and mind. But to others as well.

"I am weary, is all," she lied. "I would like to find my bed and rest. It has been a long day."

"Christ yes." For a moment, his eyes fluttered closed, and he rested his head against the chairback.

How young he looked in repose. She opened the knot and drew his cravat away. The removal of the blood from the starched white linen would be a matter for another. She did not think it could be saved.

"Will you tell me what happened?" she asked before she could stop herself.

Her fingers worked the simple line of three buttons on his shirt. As she did so, they grazed the bare flesh beneath. She could not deny her body's reaction to him, against her will though it was.

His eyes opened once more, the hazel depths glittering with golden flecks. "The owners of a rival hell set fire to the building we intended to make into a second establishment. We paid them a call."

"Raise your arms, if you please," she said.

When he did as she asked, she pulled his shirt over his head before casting the damp, bloodied garment aside as well. Try as she might, she could not keep her eyes from feasting on the sight of his bare chest. There was a bruise marring his ribs. She traced over it lightly. "What happened here?"

"Bradley scum fights dirty. Don't worry. I gave them something to remember me by."

Of course he had.

But this evidence of the brutality of the beating he had participated in—it was shocking proof of the new world in which she found herself mired. Not the world she had once known, of pristine drawing rooms, polite manners, and majestic balls. Here, men fought each other with fire and fists.

"You could have been badly injured tonight," she said, giving voice to the worries swirling within her. "Or worse."

"Then you'd be less one scoundrel who forced you to be his wife, wouldn't you?" he asked, voice wry.

She had been overly harsh when she had accused him of forcing her into this marriage, and she knew it. The choice had been hers, even if he had cleverly manipulated events in his favor. She knew the fault lay primarily with herself for having returned to him despite his warnings. She had understood the danger, but the allure had far surpassed all else until finally, she had been caught in a spider's web of her own making.

However, she was not ready to concede.

"I do not wish any harm to befall you," she allowed. "Shall we remove your boots next?"

"I can do it." But though he made the claim, he winced as he doubled over to remove them.

Likely due to the ugly bruising on his ribs. Octavia placed her palms on his shoulders and gently pushed him back. "Let me help."

Without awaiting his response, she dropped to her knees.

Jasper had imagined Octavia on her knees before him on many, many occasions. At long last, here she was, beautiful and wrapped in a prim dressing gown that did nothing to hide her ample curves, long black hair unbound down her back. Unfortunately, instead of taking him between those pretty pink lips, she was pulling on his muddy boot.

Curse Tim Bradley for managing to hit him in the ribs with that iron poker. Hopefully no broken bones, but bending over hurt like the bloody devil. Rather unmanning, having one's wife removing one's boots.

But her help, much like her presence in his chamber, was welcome.

It was difficult indeed for him to remain cross with her when she was so damned lovely and so filled with spunk. His initial desire to send her away had crumbled quickly when he faced the idea of a night without her. And what better excuse than a bruised and battered hide she needed to tend to?

Perhaps she would take pity on him.

She removed each boot and then his stockings as well without a word before she rose, going to the wash basin to clean her hands of the muck which had transferred itself from his boots to her hands. He watched her every motion, admiring her easy elegance not for the first time. She had not complained at the state of his boots nor the state of himself. If the blood of John Bradley, Old Tim's feckless son, on his own hands and clothes had disturbed her, she had said nary a word.

The gin he had consumed upon his return to The Sinner's Palace was no longer doing its work. Although he was weary, his body sore, his cockstand was at the ready. Reminding himself that whilst she was his wife, she was also very much an innocent, he stood, intent upon disrobing himself to preserve her modesty.

She was still washing her hands in the basin, her back facing him, as he worked the buttons of his trousers and pushed them down his hips, shedding them with ease. Next came his smalls. Damnation and hellfire, but she was even lovely from this angle. All that glorious hair, so lustrous and soft, falling in a perfect curtain to just above the swell of her bottom. He imagined wrapping his fist in it as he kissed her senseless, which did nothing at all to abate the rigid state of his prick.

She whirled about just as he was preparing to turn away from her and dip his weary body into the bath awaiting him.

"Oh!" Her soft gasp of surprise and the way her honey-brown gaze lingered on a certain portion of his anatomy was enough to tempt a saint.

He stood there, allowing her to look her fill. Damn it, but he liked her eyes on him. Heated and wide, those eyes. Innocent and yet also with a hint of knowledge. The things he wanted to teach her. Wicked things. Filthy things.

"You…" she began before allowing her sentence to trail away. Blinking, she flicked her gaze back up to his. "You should get into the bath before it cools."

"So you said before." He could not keep the amusement from his voice.

She may still be harboring some anger toward him from what she thought she had seen earlier that day, but she could not deny she wanted him. Her need was written all over her beautiful face. And she was not wrong. His bath water was likely going to be as warm as the Thames before he managed to sink into it and soak his bones.

But there was a new heat flaring in the chamber. Not from the fire in the hearth. Not from the steam which had risen from the bath. But from the connection between them. He wanted to fuck her.

Hot and hard.

To show her she was his. To make her cry his name and admit she longed for him every bit as much as he did for her.

But he also wanted to take her in his arms and lay her tenderly on the bed, to take his time and lick and kiss and suck every inch of her delectable body.

Instead, he turned away and forced himself to get into the tub.

The water was warm but no longer hot. It would do. The manner in which his wife lingered on the other side of the chamber, however, would not.

He crooked a finger. "Come."

To his amazement, she was moving. Heeding him. Crossing the chamber with that dressing gown flowing around her. In the absence of the stays she wore beneath her gowns, her breasts were on display in a new, mouthwatering fashion. Was it his imagination, or were those her hard little nipples poking out, all stiff and begging for his tongue beneath her prim wrapper?

"What would you have me do?" she asked.

Was riding him in the tub out of the question? He had a feeling it was, so he held his tongue on the request, gesturing instead to the soap and cloth. Winter's soap, and curse it, he did not like the Winter family overly much, but Devereaux Winter made a damned good-smelling article.

"Wash me, wife."

He was pushing her, and he knew it. But he also liked to see how far she would allow him to go. Was she still furious with him? Had his attempts at explanations done their job? It was impossible to tell.

He hated that he had hurt her.

Hated that he had caused her a moment of pain.

Christ, if he could, he would endure another lashing on the ribs rather than upset Octavia again.

But despite the conflict of earlier, she did as he asked, taking up the cloth and dipping it into the water.

"Tepid," she said, "just as I suspected."

The bath was cooling, but Jasper was not. His wife's perfect, dainty hands were about to be on him once more. Separation by cloth scarcely mattered. She wetted the cake of soap by drawing the damp square over it.

"I've bathed in worse," he said. "This ain't bad at all."

Especially since she was here.

He didn't need to tell her that.

"Hmm," was all she said, a feminine hum that should not have had an effect on him and yet somehow managed to.

But that was nothing compared to when she smoothed the soapy cloth over his chest. Her fingertips grazed his hungry flesh. Right over his nipple, a place he had never realized was particularly sensitive. He clenched his jaw and gripped the rim of the tub, steeling himself against the rush of desire.

Damn.

She continued her work, dragging the cloth along his chest, then his throat. Obligingly, he tipped his head back, watching her as she alternated between wringing out the square and rinsing him and applying more soap. He had not been prepared for how good it would feel to have her at his side, washing him.

His wife.

And what an arsehole he was, ruining things on the second day of their marriage.

"I've let it be known that Mary is no longer welcome at The Sinner's Palace," he said into the silence which had fallen.

Why, he was not sure. As he had told her, he was not accustomed to explaining himself. He did not have to. His siblings trusted him. They made decisions together, but he was the leader. Always had been.

"Thank you," she said softly, continuing her ministrations. "Lean forward so I may wash your back."

He did as she asked, inhaling sharply when he jostled his sore ribs.

She stilled. "Have I hurt you?"

"Bloody ribs," he said on a grunt.

"You must take better care with yourself," she said softly, continuing with the cloth. "Is attacking your rivals a regular occurrence?"

"When they light my future gaming hell on fire, it is," he gritted.

And he would not hesitate to do it again. Although Bradley continued to deny any part in the fire, Jasper did not believe his protestations of innocence. It had been a brawl today, but next time could be deadly.

"Is this what I am to expect in our marriage?"

Her question hit a place inside him he had not realized existed. His heart? Christ. He had daughters. A wife. In the past, when he had gone to battle over territory, he had never had anyone to fret over him save his sisters, and Caro's chief concern had been stitching up wounds rather than apprehension over future wars.

"Is that worry I hear in your voice, minx?" he asked, aiming to keep his tone light.

Trying to ignore his straining cock.

And that queer shift happening in his chest.

"Am I not meant to worry about you?" She finished with his back and moved around the tub, her gaze meeting his at last. "You are my husband now."

"Forced or not, eh?"

He could not let the matter drop. Perhaps he should have done. But he wanted her to admit she had chosen to marry him. That she liked his kisses. That last night, in her bed, she had melted for him. Had come undone for him. That she wanted him now, as well.

"Some of my words earlier were harsh and spoken in haste," she said, nibbling on the lush fullness of her lower lip.

And he could not stop himself. He reached for her. Did as he had imagined, wrapping those midnight silk curls around his hand and holding her still for his kiss. Chasing the memory of the last mouth that had been on his, unwanted and terrible as it had been.

This was the only woman whose mouth he wanted, now and forever.

Hers.

Octavia dropped the cloth, and then her wet hands were on him, wrapping around his neck. She kissed him as she always had, as if she wanted to devour him. And he kissed her in return with the same devotion. He could never kiss her enough, have her enough.

Why had he thought marrying and bedding her would cure him of this ache? It would not. Nothing would suffice. She had found her way past the armor he had once believed impenetrable. Here she was. His wife. Someone he did not mind answering to.

Most importantly of all, a reason to come home, along with Anne and Elizabeth.

He broke the kiss before he could deepen it and lose complete control, reminding himself that he still smelled of smoke. His hair needed washing. She was watching him with wide eyes and dark-red lips. Red and sweet, the color of ripe hothouse strawberries, that delicacy he had only chanced to consume in recent years. After he and his siblings had become flush enough in funds to experience what the lords and ladies above them did.

Everything except legitimacy and rank. Money could buy one almost everything. But entrée into polite society's upper echelons was priceless. For the first time, he wondered what it had cost Octavia to become his wife. Was she sad to have left her careful world of titles and drawing rooms behind?

He did not like the thought.

Irritated and overcome with desire, he sank lower in the tub, shifting his body and holding his breath as he submerged his head. That ought to cool him off. The water was the temperature of the room by now. Perhaps this moment of calm would restore some of his rational thinking.

If he were capable of it where she was concerned.

When he reemerged, he pushed the wet hair from his eyes and found her there, wild-eyed, concern etched into her delicate features.

"What in heaven's name are you doing?" she asked.

"Washing the smoke and soot and Christ knows what else from my hair," he answered.

He was not going to bed stinking of what had transpired earlier in the day.

"Let me see." Frowning, she moved behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders and urging him toward the lip of the tub once more.

He went as she asked, and for a moment, her touch lingered on him, kneading and caressing his muscles. A groan tore from him, making her pause.

"Did you injure your shoulders as well?"

"No, minx." He bit back his grin. "I like the way you feel. That's all."

"Oh," she said.

But despite his cravings, she did not continue massaging his shoulders. Instead, she lathered his hair, fingertips working his scalp in a way that made him forget all about his aching muscles. Satan's teeth , this was heaven. She was heaven. His one bit of paradise in an otherwise cesspool of enemies, danger, work, and filth.

If he had known how damned wonderful it was to have Octavia as his wife, in his bed, at his side, he would have thrown her over his shoulder the moment she had first wandered into his hell with her pudding-headed notion of using The Sinner's Palace as a mine for her gossip journal.

Far sooner than he would have wished, she had washed his hair to her content. Her fingers fled.

"You may rinse."

Instead of dipping his head below the water this time, he arched back. The motion pulled at his bruised ribs, and this time, his groan was for another reason entirely. Pain. He had sustained many wounds in his days, but this one…as the gin wore off, he found it increasingly difficult to ignore.

"Your ribs?" Octavia guessed, her voice grim.

"Yes," he admitted, and he did not know why.

Jasper Sutton never showed his weaknesses to anyone. Yet, everything with her seemed different. There was a comfort with her, an intimacy that was not a product of her being his wife or sharing his bed. It was something far more, far deeper.

"Let me," she said.

And he did. The fearless, fearsome Jasper Sutton allowed his woman to rinse his hair, admitting without words that he needed her help. That he was reliant upon her. She said not a word. A lesser woman would have crowed over her victory. Not Octavia. She merely rinsed the lingering soap from his hair as if it were the most natural action. Indeed, as if it were the only action.

Water dripped into his ear, and if there was one thing he detested, it was water in his damned ears. But it was a testament to the way this woman made him feel that he neither complained nor flinched. The water would work its way out as he slept. How could he glower and growl at her when she had been nothing but perfection from the moment he had returned, likely reeking of smoke and blue ruin and only the devil knew what else?

He could not.

And so he remained still and willing as she finished the ablutions then bade him to rise from the tub. Even as he tried to be on his most gentlemanly behavior—a most taxing endeavor for Jasper, to be sure—there was no hiding the effect she had on him. His cock protruded, proud and long and eager for her.

Octavia swallowed before turning away. She fetched a towel and held it for him as he stepped from the bath. He took it, covering his naked body and drying himself off. But now that he was clean, he had another problem.

His bed was on the opposite end of the chamber, and Octavia was not in it.

"Stay with me," he said.

Not a command, but not quite a request.

She had averted her gaze from his nudity, but she had not retreated. Her slender shoulders stiffened. "Jasper."

Fine. Perhaps she was not ready for more lovemaking yet. It had been one hell of a long day, and although his body was eager, it was also sore and tired. He could wait.

A foreign word slipped off his tongue. "Please?"

Who had he become?

She turned back to him. "I am not ready. Not after what happened this afternoon."

Ah, so he would need to earn her affection and his place in her bed once more. Never mind that. Jasper accepted the challenge. He had complete faith in his skills of seduction.

"I am weary, Octavia," he explained. "All I want is for you to sleep next to me. I'll be the perfect gentleman."

Well, perhaps that was a lie.

She raised a brow. "You, a perfect gentleman?"

He grinned, relieved for the lightness in her voice. "As perfect a gentleman as I can be," he corrected.

A small smile curved her lips. She hesitated for longer than he would have preferred. But then, at last, she nodded.

"Very well. I shall."

The relief that hit him in the chest was almost enough to make his knees buckle.

But he would worry about that another day.