The Sins of Shadowmere (Rotten Scoundrels #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

By definition, Dominic Hawke was a scoundrel.

He was not a wastrel—he had amassed a fortune to rival Midas. Nor was he a rogue; rogues charmed their way into ladies’ hearts before ruining them, and he lacked the stomach for seduction.

With a commotion erupting in Lord Templeton’s marble-clad hall and pallor spreading through the ballroom, he might be a villain. Yet a man avenging a murdered mother was a hero. So why did matrons eye him like a bloodstain on brocade?

Amused, he adjusted his cuffs, offered a wolfish grin, and descended the stairs with the swagger of a man who held a trump card.

Lord Templeton was at his side before Dominic’s foot touched the polished parquet.

“Good God, Hawke. What the blazes are you doing here? If this is about the misunderstanding last week, we’ll discuss it in my study.

” Templeton offered a tight smile, the sort worn by men trying not to soil their breeches.

“Curse the devil. My wife will expect me to throw you out. What am I to tell her?”

“Anything but the truth, unless you want to break her heart.” Best he didn’t mention warming a widow’s bed instead of tending the tenant accounts.

Men like Templeton thought rules were for lesser mortals, the sanctity of marriage for peasants. He should have thought of his wife before tangling himself in Shadowmere’s web of secrets.

Dominic turned from the gaping horde and tapped the lord’s chest, as one might silence an anxious servant. Templeton, still in his thirties and desperate to preserve his reputation, flinched.

“Step aside. It’s not your neck in the noose tonight. Though I do bring a letter from Monique. Perhaps your wife would care to learn you spent the weekend at my estate in Kingston upon Thames.”

A violent flush crawled up Templeton’s neck. He grasped Dominic’s arm and drew him closer. “What about the contract? What happens at Shadowmere is never spoken of beyond its doors. You gave your word.”

Dominic looked at the hand as if it were a beetle on silk, with faint disgust and the urge to flick it off.

“I suggest you retire to your study and read it in depth. Buried in the small print is a clause. I’m permitted one favour.

Refuse me and the contract’s void. If you want to attend the next gathering, you’ll remove your manicured hand from my arm and placate your wife. ”

Templeton stepped back, doing a passable impression of someone in charge. “Just be aware, not everyone will welcome you tonight.”

Let them call him Lucifer. He hadn’t spent nine years amassing the ton’s sins to be turned away by cowards. They would have to kill him to silence him—though most were too weak to resist their base appetites, let alone act on conscience.

“They don’t have to welcome me. They only need to get out of my way.” He smirked at the panicked lord and gave his cheek a playful tap. “Monique sends her regards.”

Head high and shoulders squared, he cut through the crowd with ease. Whispered speculations trailed in his wake. Was he here to claim a debt? To expose a scandal? To inform a lord of his wife’s infidelity?

Men quaked as he passed.

Women shrank behind their painted fans as though he were a harbinger of doom. A daring few brushed his hand with theirs, a fleeting caress, as obvious as a beckoning finger. To bed him was considered the epitome of conquests.

But he had only one woman on his mind.

Miss Daphne Harland.

Daughter of the bastard who had driven his mother to an early grave.

Daughter of the lord who had preyed on a widow’s poverty and blackmailed her into handing out favours.

The villain’s identity had remained a mystery until a few weeks ago.

But the best enquiry agent in London had succeeded where Dominic had failed.

The thought grated.

He’d be in no one’s debt. Least of all the illegitimate son of a duke who liked playing detective.

He snatched a flute of champagne from a passing tray, downed it in one swallow, and tossed the empty glass into a potted fern.

Everyone watched him, not the demure debutantes scrambling to secure a suitor now the end of the Season was nigh. The orchestra struck up a lively reel, but the room held its breath, waiting to glimpse the poor fool bold enough to coax the devil from Kingston.

For his own wicked amusement, he paused beside a gentleman long enough to watch the blood drain from his face. Others exhaled, relieved they’d been spared his attention for now.

He hadn’t come to talk.

He’d come for vengeance.

To storm through the heart of the ton, take the serpent’s spawn in his arms, and kiss her so thoroughly that no one in the room, not even a scandal-hardened dowager, would doubt they were lovers.

The plan was simple: cast aspersions on her character and force her father to call him out.

Let the gossips sharpen their knives. It would be worth it if it forced Harland’s hand. If the whispers were true—if she was to be wed against her will—then scandal might prove her salvation.

Would that not make him a hero in her eyes?

Yet some part of him knew it was wrong. Miss Harland hadn’t been forced to barter her body or bury her pride for coin. She would pay the price for another man’s sin. Just as his mother had.

Firming his jaw, he reminded himself why he’d come. For justice. For retribution. For the woman who’d given up everything to protect him. For the need—

That’s when he saw her.

Miss Daphne Harland.

A dove trapped in a gilded cage.

The music faded.

Conversation died.

All eyes shifted to him, then to her.

It wasn’t her silky dark hair that caught his attention, nor the braided Apollo knot fastened high at the crown. Not her skin, pale as candlelit alabaster, untouched by vice. Not even her mouth, composed with the restraint of a woman who guarded her thoughts.

It was her eyes.

Sad as a mourning song.

By God, he’d be damned if his step didn’t falter.

He considered turning back and abandoning the plan he’d nurtured for weeks. He would find another way to destroy the man he despised to the marrow.

But then came the whisper of his mother’s voice, brittle with shame.

Forgive me, Dominic. I had no choice.

He bit back a curse, gathered himself, and strode up to the lady he intended to ruin. “Miss Harland.” He took her hand, dainty in her pristine white glove, while her female companions stood bleating like lambs in a wolf’s shadow. “I know what we agreed. But I couldn’t stay away.”

Everything else faded to the ragged catch of her breath and the swift rise of her breasts. A frisson of awareness chased up his arm and settled somewhere far more dangerous.

Damnation.

“Release her, Mr Hawke.” The sharp voice to his right belonged to Miss Harland’s aunt, Lady Sanders, a commanding figure with hair as pale as steel and a will to match.

“I don’t know who you’re searching for, but I’m confident it is not my niece.

” She turned to her companion. “Don’t stand there gaping, Loretta.

Fetch Templeton. Better still, drag my brother from his precious game of piquet. ”

Dominic should have moved quickly. He should have hauled this sheltered little innocent to his chest and scorched her lips with the fire of vengeance.

But one damning truth held him still.

The angel he’d dragged to Hades did not pull away.

Curse it all, that only made her more intriguing.

“I hear the strains of a waltz, Miss Harland.” He cupped her elbow, eager to prove his heart was blacker than a Whitechapel alley at midnight. “Will you honour me with this dance? Indulge me, or make a scene. Either suits me fine.”

Miss Harland looked at him, her gaze unreadable. “The damage is done, sir. I may as well enjoy a turn about the floor. I expect it will be my last.”

He felt a twinge of regret and dismissed it. “Then I shall endeavour to make it memorable.” What the blazes was wrong with him? He shouldn’t care if she wept through every turn.

Lady Sanders caught hold of her niece’s sash, gloved fingers bunching the fabric in a vice-like grip, and gave him a glare that could crack stone. “Cease this nonsense. Or you may find yourself summoned to a dawn appointment.”

“Then I hope Lord Harland has made peace with his maker.”

A duel would give him exactly what he came for.

Lady Sanders swept a hand towards the gentlemen nearby. “Well? Do you mean to stand there and permit this heathen to ride roughshod over us? Does no one here possess a backbone?”

But the whispers had begun to circle like vultures scenting ruin. Protecting their sordid acts and salacious affairs mattered more than defending a woman with a tainted reputation.

Miss Harland was the only one with the strength to argue her corner.

“If I’m to salvage anything, you’ll let me dance with Mr Hawke.

I’m sure he’ll leave once the ton have had their fill.

” She turned to him. “Well, sir? Is there a shred of honour beneath that armour? Will you leave after one dance? Villains rarely linger past the last chime of the bell.”

That she saw him as such struck a nerve, one buried deep. But revenge came with consequences. Ones he’d need to swallow. “One waltz with you, Miss Harland, and you’ll never have to lay those sorrowful eyes on me again.”

She sighed, then whispered a remark that made her aunt’s fingers go slack. “Some things are more important than reputation. Neither of us can afford for my father to die tonight.”

With clear reluctance, Lady Sanders let go.

Trying not to look too smug, Dominic guided Miss Harland onto the floor, weaving past gilded gowns and the cloying scent of perfume and pomade. He paused beside the musicians. “Play the same waltz twice without pause.”

Revenge was sweeter when savoured.

He meant to relish every second.

“I suppose you plan to scandalise me further.” She shivered beneath his palm as he laid a hand on her back. “I’m surprised you know how to waltz with your clothes on. I hear the only dances at Shadowmere amount to naked romps with strangers.”