Page 103 of Noble Scoundrel

Chapter Thirty-one

Mason sat on the floor of his bedroom, leaning back against the solid post of his large bed. Sketches—some rough, others more detailed and complete—were scattered across the rug beside him. Dozens of images of Claire, a few of Freddie, some depictions of random people he’d encountered here and there. There was even a recent one of his sister.

But the sketches he couldn’t seem to stop looking at were those he’d drawn of her. Lady Katherine.

His hands tensed to sweep them all away or crumple them in tight fists, but he couldn’t bring himself to destroy them. In fact, looking through them only made him want to create more. He didn’t have one yet that depicted her imperious brow lift. Or her reluctant smile. Or that glimmer of stubborn bravery she so frequently displayed.

Mason had excused himself as soon as possible after dinner. As the conversation between Katherine, her brother, and her cousin had progressed throughout the meal, Mason acknowledged the Blackwells were no longer alone in London. They had family. A man of obvious means who had proven a loyalty to his cousins.

The journals had been destroyed.

They’d no longer need a bodyguard. They’d no longer need him.

It was a good thing. A great thing.

Mason had the means to move forward with his new venture. The two men Newton had brought in would be perfect for Pendragon’s needs if they’d wish to accept positions at the brothel.

Claire would struggle with the separation from Freddie, but she had her papa, and Mason was going to make sure that whatever he did allowed for plenty of time for him to spend with his daughter.

It was definitely a good thing.

It wasn’t as though Mason could expect to remain in Mayfair forever.

His hand curled into a fist over the sketch on the floor beside him. He just barely stopped himself from crumpling the image of Katherine seated gracefully, looking over her naked shoulder.

He couldn’t stop thinking of the words he’d spoken in the carriage just as she’d arrived at Shelbourne’s party.

He’d take it back if he could. He hated himself for it.

Her soft words had made him feel things he’d never wanted to feel. Desire and longing had rioted through him, sparking an urge to reach over and haul the woman into his lap. The rush of tension and possession had been so swift and strong. But it’d been accompanied by a cold feeling of doubt. He’d not been made to offer sweet words and tender caresses. He was a rough and rowdy good time. One who swatted a woman on the arse as she made her way to the door.

Katherine deserved more than that. She was worthy of a man far better than him.

In that poignant moment in the carriage, he’d forced himself to recall he truth of what he was. He was a scoundrel of the East End. A bruiser and a cad. Good for a fuck but nothing more.

The reminder had been for him, but he realized as he’d thrown her words back at her that he’d needed her to remember that truth, as well.

He just hadn’t expected to see the quiet, stricken look in her eyes. And he couldn’t have known how her brief, quickly concealed flash of pain would hurt him so inexorably.

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