Promises Between Us (Cooper Siblings Scandals #2)

Chapter One

London

The Lincolnshire Slayer.

That’s what they still called him.

To be fair, they called him many things.

Rake. Ruthless. Indecent. Disgrace.

Monster.

Matthew Cooper, Viscount Lincolnshire, had hoped the moniker might fade over time.

The ton’s attention span was short, but their fear was eternal.

Admittedly, being a social pariah had some benefits.

He never needed to bustle his way through a crowd—paths parted for him with ease.

Small talk? Ha! No threat of that! Wherever he went, his name acted like a beacon above his head, warning everyone to stay out of pistol range.

Which was ridiculous, as he had slain only one man directly.

As an arms manufacturer during wartime, his inventions had killed an untold number of men.

It was irritating to be infamous for one.

Every well-dressed, well-to-do gentleman who turned his nose up would have done the same, had it been their sister at gunpoint—if they had half the stones he did.

And those who wouldn’t? He didn’t care for their opinion anyway.

It was easier to weed out the weak when they showed their faces so plainly.

Even with his face fully covered by a black mask, everyone knew who he was. Under a noxious cloud of costumes and perfume, aristocrats mingled and danced—careful not to touch him. Having the freedom of unfiltered expression, he glared at them all.

Duke Kendall’s masquerade ball opened the social season, and what a fine start it had been. As was his custom, His Grace decorated the ballroom with gold from the polished oak floor glinting in the low candlelight, to the dome above painted in sunset hues with clouds and angels.

The closest view of heaven I’ll ever get.

The orchestra played lively tunes with strings and woodwinds, and he longed to dance.

He enjoyed dancing. He preferred when he could lose himself to the music instead of practiced steps, but he would find no dance partner tonight.

Several of the ladies in the room had no complaints about sharing his bed, but to be on his arm? Definitely not.

He wouldn’t be here at all, but Duke Kendall invited him personally.

As his favorite gunsmith, Matthew had designed a collection of one-of-a-kind rifles for him, each more deadly and complicated than the last. His current project was a pistol that needed to be fully accurate, with a fast-approaching deadline of the Duke’s birthday.

An infuriating contraption he couldn’t sort out, waiting for him at his factory.

He should be there, working on it, instead of—

“—hear me, brother?”

“Yes, Caroline,” Matthew lied.

His youngest sister turned to him with a devious expression.

Dressed as a canary, her yellow dress matched her golden curls, pinned with delicately placed feathers.

Her amber eyes matched his, but where he was tall, she was petite, and covered from head to foot in freckles.

Thanks to his work, her dowry could tempt a prince, though it hardly mattered.

Even after her third season, she hadn’t found a gentleman who interested her.

As her guardian, Matthew’s sole role in life was to protect her—which was difficult—because that look on her face always made him want to pitch her into the Thames.

“If you heard me, what did I say?”

He said nothing.

Caroline leaned forward on her toes. “I knew you hadn’t, because you certainly would have had a reaction to me saying, ‘I think that’s Lady Jasmine—’”

“Where?!”

With his breath caught in his throat, he searched for her. Scanning the room, his eyes stopped at every flash of black hair.

He turned to Caroline and warned, “Do not test me, sister.”

Caroline smirked.

“Red dress.” She pointed. “On the staircase.”

Matthew pivoted, gaze shooting to the spot.

And there she was.

Lady Jasmine Sinclair.

Tall, with sun-kissed skin, lush curves, and raven black hair flowing freely down her back. A fiery red dress covered her from her shoulders to the floor, engulfing each step as she descended. She wore a half mask of a phoenix, as if she had risen from the ashes of hell to haunt him.

His feet moved of their own accord, making a straight line to her across the ballroom. Guests hastened out of his way—all except Lord Durham, who had the audacity to stand in his path.

“What an exquisite gown, my lady.” The stocky gentleman bowed to her and extended his hand. “I do not believe we’ve met, Lady…?”

“Jasmine.” Matthew made direct eye contact with her. Her chocolate eyes narrowed in response. “Step aside, Lord Durham—the lady promised me her first dance.”

The man turned to him and blanched.

“My lord,” he stammered. “O-of course! I hadn’t thought—please, excuse me.”

Matthew stepped forward as Lord Durham stumbled out of the way. He bowed to Jasmine when he wanted to kneel.

In response, Jasmine performed the worst curtsy he had ever seen from a marquess’s daughter. With her lips pursed, she placed her hand in his. Her touch sent fire roaring through his veins.

As they settled into waltz position, with her in his arms once more, the warmth in his heart spread to his soul.

He hadn’t forgotten how it felt to hold her, but living flesh and blood was miles above memory.

She smelled of lilies and spring, as she always had.

If he closed his eyes and placed his lips on her neck, would she taste as she had that night so long ago?

Overcome with the unbearable wish to be alone with her, he fought every impulse to kiss her.

He had imagined this moment for years. Had a speech prepared with what he would say to her if she ever returned from Spain.

Now, the only words that crossed his mind were, ‘I love you,’ ‘I’ve missed you,’ and ‘I’m sorry. ’

As he opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off.

“I most assuredly have not promised you any dances,” Jasmine hissed. She met his eyes with the utmost disdain. “I did not intend on dancing at all.”

Matthew frowned at the sharpness of her tone. As he tried to guide her through the dance, she resisted his lead. He attempted to turn her, but she twisted the other way, nearly toppling them. She fought him on every move, far from the grace she had exhibited in their previous dances.

“Why come to a ball if you hadn’t intended on dancing?” he asked.

“My mother forced me. I’m only dancing with you because you gave me no choice.” She huffed. “I don’t need to know your name to know I’m not interested.”

He almost tripped on his next step. Incredulous, he asked, “You don’t know my name?”

“Should I?” she challenged. “As far as I can tell, you’re no different from these other gentlemen. Pompous and preening. You’re all the same.”

Under his mask, his jaw dropped.

She didn’t know who he was?

He hadn’t changed that much in three years, had he? Did she not recognize his voice? After hearing it for her entire life! Not his manner or the way he held her?

I’ll need to jog her memory.

“You’re wrong about me, Lady Jasmine.” Using his rakish charm, he whispered, “I’m nothing like the other gentlemen in this room.”

She scoffed. “How original.”

On their next turn, she subtly dug her fingernails into his shoulder and placed her foot in just the right spot for him to skip a step. Recovering, he twirled her with a flourish. Her skirts fanned out and brushed along the floor. Outraged couples moved out of their path with affronted huffs.

“Allow me to ask you a question.” He pulled her closer and laced their fingertips together. She squeezed his fingers to prevent him from advancing further. Wincing, he asked, “Did you wish to dance with that man?”

“No.” Her eyes challenged him. “I didn’t wish to dance with anyone.”

“Then I have done you a great service,” he said. “Now, no one will dare dance with you for the rest of the evening.”

“I suppose I should be thanking you?” Her voice took on a demure note. “Thank you so much, my lord.”

“You’re more than welcome, my lady,” he whispered. “I would do anything for you.”

Her eyes flickered with almost-recognition, but a glare replaced it as soon as it appeared. “And how do you imagine you’ve saved me? As soon as I’m off your arm, I’ll be on another.”

“You won’t,” he promised. “You’ll see.”

“And why is that?”

“Because they’re all too afraid of me to contest my interest.”

“Lucky me.” She rolled her eyes. “How could you possibly have an interest, a big scary man like you?” she cooed acidly. “Let me guess, it was my beauty that drew you to me. Definitely isn’t my charm. Wouldn’t have anything to do with my father, my dowry, or—”

“I don’t need your father’s money,” he bit out. And because it was true, he added smugly, “And I’ve never struggled for his favor.”

“You would be the first,” she muttered.

He wanted to tell her that not only did he have her father’s favor but also his blessing. If only he had asked her years ago, when he had the chance. But there were a thousand ‘if-onlys’ in his life that only ever amounted to ‘never.’

During their next turn, she scrunched her nose. “You smell familiar. Almost like… cedarwood.”

He smirked.

“My pomade. I’ve worn it since I was a boy. I’ve never had anyone comment on it.”

The song slowed and then stopped. She stepped away from him, but he grabbed her hand, unwilling to part with her.

“Not yet. One more.”

He held her hand in the middle of the ballroom floor, anchoring her to him as dancers rotated partners.

Eyes focused on them. The gossip would spread like a flame, but he didn’t care.

Jasmine stomped to face him, with her other hand flat, poised to strike.

Her chest rose—and good Lord, wasn’t that the most beautiful thing he had ever seen?

As she pulled away, his hand firmed on hers, tugging her indecently close as the music started once more.

“How dare you?” she ground out, shoving him back a step. “I’ve been in London for two days, and you mean to embroil me in scandal immediately?”

“I’m only ensuring your wallflower status,” he said innocently. “If I wanted to start a scandal, I would kiss you.”

“Yes, me murdering you on the ballroom floor would cause quite the scandal.” Her grip turned bruising. “You hide your face behind a full mask. You must be monstrous underneath.”

“That is one of many things people say about me,” he admitted. “Are you searching for an attractive husband?”

“I’m not looking for a husband at all. And even if I were, I can promise you, it won’t be you.”

“Why would a woman not be searching for a husband at…” He paused as if he were analyzing her. As if he didn’t know her age, her birthday, or her favorite color. “Twenty-six?”

“My age is my business, my lord.” She stomped on his toes and sang, “Oh, clumsy me.”

Aside from the throbbing in his foot, the rest of his body thrilled at her reaction. There it was—that spark. How many men had she given the cut-direct to over the years? This was an old song and dance for her, expertly navigated with vicious precision.

No man had survived it.

Not in England, not in Spain.

“Why?” He had to know. “Why haven’t you found a husband?”

She lifted her nose in the air. “I haven’t found anyone worthy of me.”

“Unworthy! That’s a new one!” He barked a laugh. “I see you haven’t lost your talent for hurting a man’s pride.”

Her lips parted at the sound of his laughter, and her hand softened in his.

“Do I know you?” she whispered.

Her eyes lingered on his, and he wanted to remove both of their masks and kiss her. Right there, right now. Right in the middle of the ballroom, because there would be no faster or surer way to get her to the altar.

“I know you. Better than anyone else in this room.” He lowered his voice. “This isn’t the first time I’ve held you in my arms.”

She stiffened. She was close, so very close.

His name was on the tip of her tongue. Exactly where he wanted it to be.

Exactly where it had been one drunken night four years ago, when his lips had pressed against hers in an alley at a harvest festival.

He had her in his grasp then, and she slipped from his fingers.

“Remove your mask.” Jasmine’s voice quivered. “Tell me your name.”

“You know my name,” he teased. “You’ve used it to reject me. Several times, in fact.”

“Probably with good reason. What was it?”

“You had a long list,” Matthew admitted. Then, he gave her the most painful truth of his life. “Ultimately… I turned you away.”

She stumbled, her breath caught, and yes, she knew.

“Why?” The word came out as a pained whisper.

He gave her a sad smile, hidden under his mask.

“Because I’m a murderer.”

She trembled, but kept her hand in his.

“Lord Lincolnshire,” she breathed.

He tsked, removed his mask, and grinned at her.

“Has it been so long that you would not call me Matthew?”