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.”
Chapter 4
For 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.