Deeper in Sin (4 page)

She swallowed hard. She
had,
but she couldn't let him know that now.

If she wanted to land him, she must get him lusting after her, desiring her, wanting her.

She had to try to seduce him. In some way.

She quickly stood and moved across to sit on his lap. But he caught her by her bottom before she could land on him. “No, Sophie.” He leaned toward the window. “We've arrived.”

“Where are we?”

“A brothel.”

Panic hit. For a moment, her faith in him wobbled. “Why are we here? Are you going to sell me to them?”

He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Now you understand that you have to be wary. You are far too impulsive. But no, I am not going to sell you to a brothel. I want you to see what can happen to young women in London.”

“I'm going to become a Cyprian. I'm not going to work in a brothel.”

“What if you do not become a highflyer, one of the elite courtesans? What then?” he asked.

“I
will
become one. I am highly determined to do it—and that means I shall succeed! And I would be perfectly fine, if you would be my protector.”

He did not answer. The door to the carriage opened, and without another word, the duke jumped out, ignoring the steps. He held out his hand and clasped hers to help her down.

Awareness rushed through Sophie in a big whoosh. She tingled all over.

Surely, it was plain to him—the magic that happened when their hands touched.

She saw the glow in his eyes as he looked at her. The fire in them. But he quickly shook his head as if to wave out the fire of desire the way you would wave out a match.

He did feel the same intensity!

Yet he was refusing to acknowledge it.

What she would do in that brothel was seduce the reluctant duke. He said he couldn't kiss her because he was haunted by terrible memories. But surely, kissing and sex would make him forget his awful memories.

She wondered what they were. But it didn't matter. She had to pleasure him as it was described in the book. Then, for sure, he would want her to be his.

The duke propelled her toward the door of a narrow house on a dark street. “Come, Sophie. We are going inside. I am going to teach you a lesson tonight and make you see sense—if it kills me.”

Sophie let the duke lead her into the brothel. The town house, jammed between others on the rather seedy London street, was neither well kept nor derelict. A burly man at the door greeted them with a grunt, and she was whisked inside. Heat crept through her silk gown and plain brown cloak—she had gathered up her cloak when they had left the ball.

She glanced into a parlor filled with women. Most of them wore thick lip cream and had kohl smeared around their eyes; and they were dressed in nothing but their shifts and loosened stays. They lounged, looking bored and fed up. They looked up hopefully at Caradon, but he shook his head. He had a quiet word with the grunting doorman, who then disappeared. Minutes later—minutes where Sophie took furtive looks at the prostitutes—a tall, thin woman appeared. The woman wore a gown of heavy red velvet festooned with lace.

Caradon and the woman conversed, too quietly for Sophie to hear.

This
was not going to be her future.

The tall woman smiled at the duke and pointed upward.

Caradon returned to her. “Upstairs,” he said.

She followed him up, and he took her into the first room on the upper floor. A sagging bed with four posts stood along one wall. There were a few glowing coals in the grate, and a lamp sat on a rickety-looking bedside table.

Sophie moved to him. Goodness, he was tall. The top of her head only reached his chest. She gazed up at him—at his strong jaw, wide full lips, pale blue eyes that looked almost like silver in the faint light. Her heart hammered. Her legs felt funny—weak, shaky.

She touched his chest. He pulled her hand away. “This, my dear, could be your future.”

Then, inexplicably, he walked to the wall and pressed his face to it as if he could see through. There was paper with a painted pattern of faded flowers plastered to the wall.

The duke motioned her over and clasped her shoulders, positioning her exactly where he had stood. Now she saw a glint of light coming through the wall. There were two tiny holes.

“Shouldn't they repair the wall? Someone could see through.”

He looked a bit smug. “That's correct. They are peepholes, intended for you to watch. Men enjoy doing it.”

He was trying to shock her. She couldn't let him. She couldn't let him scare her away.

It took a while to focus through the small holes and figure out what she was seeing. The room was decorated in garish colors—dark reds, purple, yellows. A canopied bed sat in the middle of the room. A small fire burned in the grate, and candles burned on the tables.

Squinting, she saw two round, naked, white bottoms.

Women's bottoms.

“That can't be right.”

The duke came up behind her. His hands gently touched her arms. A light touch, but how she quivered.

“What can't be right?”

“There are two people in there. Both women.”

The woman's gowns were bunched up, and they squirmed around on a bed.

“There are three people in the room,” Caradon said.

His breath whispered past her ear. How it tingled!

She strained to see. There wasn't anyone else—

A guttural chuckle sounded over the women's giggles and moans.

There was a man in the room. Heaven only knew where—

Then she knew, because she saw two naked, muscular arms emerge from the tangle of sheets and wrap around the two women's waists. The man was on the bed, under the two prostitutes.

The man pushed one girl onto her back and rose up over her. He had a long body, bulky with muscle, and dark brown hair. His buttocks were as taut as knotted rope.

“Isn't he being greedy? Two women? What does he do, have them take turns?”

“Likely a protector might ask you to do it,” the duke responded. “You should learn.”

In the room, the man tugged down one of the woman's bodices, and while he couldn't work it down very far, he freed one plump breast. That woman was blond. Her hair was a blousy mess, her lip color smudged. The other woman had bright red hair hanging to her waist in curls. The three of them squirmed on the bed like kittens. Each woman took turns grabbing at the thing hanging between his legs. He had the most enormous . . . prick, as it had been described in the book. She had only ever seen Samuel's. This was monstrous. And it swayed as the women tried to grab it and stroke it and bat at it.

“That is the Marquis of Stonely.”

“Rather apt,” she muttered.

She heard Caradon surprised laugh behind her.

Then Stonely managed to get the blonde's two breasts freed. And he suckled one while the redhead caressed and licked the other.

“Shocked?”

“I don't know. It was shocking, but . . . look, the blond woman seems to be enjoying it. I'm not that shocked anymore. I feel all warm. And excited.”

“You are supposed to be shocked.”

“Well, I was . . . for a while.”

“You are missing the point of this, Miss Ashley.”

“I'm learning about being a courtesan. Isn't that the point?” She half twisted to look back at him. “Is this the sort of thing you want?”

“No,” he growled. “Not what I want. But what many men want.”

“But I don't want many men. I only want you.”

He shook his head. “That won't happen, Miss Ashley. It can't.”

She couldn't imagine anything happening
but
that. It was all she wanted.

“So you might end up with a man like Stonely. He doesn't make love with a woman; he pounds into her. He doesn't care about her pleasure. He's too busy trying to prove himself.”

“Prove what?” she asked.

Stonely got out of the bed, strutting like a rooster. With his large hands, he pulled the redhead to the edge of the bed. Roughly, he yanked off her unfastened dress. He positioned her on her stomach with her legs over the bed and her naked bottom in the air, facing him.

Then he barked, “Come here” to the blond woman, and she complied. She was plump, her lush bosom spilling out of her dress. She swayed a bit, and Sophie saw many empty wine bottles in the room.

“Get a move on,” Stonely said, grumpily.

Perhaps she could see the duke's point. Stonely looked aroused, but not as if he were enjoying himself. He was driven, obviously, by desire.

But where was the breathless excitement he should be sharing with a partner, the thrill of making love together?

“Hurry up, girl,” said Stonely, then he picked up the plump girl, who had long, long legs, and positioned her on top of the first girl. She lay on top of the first girl, stomach to the redhead's back. Her bare bottom was on top of the other girl's, also pointing at Stonely.

Then Stonely chucked. A dark, leering laugh.

He sounded just like Devars, and Sophie flinched.

She couldn't retreat—Caradon stood behind her.

The blonde on top twisted to see him. “Put your prong in me now! I'll grip you much tighter than she will. I've got skill, and I can milk your big, thick prick. I can do for you much better than she can.”

“No, you can't!” the redhead protested.

“Yes, I can. I'm very, very good.”

“Not half as good as I!” shouted the redhead

“Can we stop arguing,” groaned the man, “and let me get on with it?”

Then he proceeded to move his jutting erection to point at the redhead, and he thrust into her with one fast punch of his hips. He banged vigorously against her bottom, rocking the two girls on the bed. At a few thrusts, his face was red and sweating. Then he jerked out of the bottom girl and thrust back into the top girl.

“I don't see why I have to be on the bottom,” the redhead complained. “She's squashing me.”

“And I like the idea of her big tits squashing you. Now silence, while I put my rod up your delicate little arse.”

“Good lord,” Sophie whispered. She had no idea about that!

Caradon bent close to her. “From this angle, I can see your cheeks are flaming red.” His hand slid around her waist, making her gasp.

But the trio on the bed didn't notice the quick, sharp sound, fortunately.

“I—I just didn't know.” She had to bluff her way through this.

“Do you think you would want to share your man with someone else?”

“Maybe he wouldn't want to.” That hadn't been in her mother's book. Nor that other thing he'd said he was going to do. Maybe the courtesan world had changed since her mother's day. Maybe men did expect more shocking things.

“Remember that men take mistresses because they want the sexual games they cannot expect from their proper wives.”

“What do you mean—wives?”

“You must know many men who take mistresses are married.”

Sophie swallowed hard. That was true. Her mother's journals mentioned that some of her mother's lovers had been married, but usually to wives they despised.

But could she do that—help to betray another woman?

“You aren't married,” she pointed out.

“Give up on me, Miss Ashley,” he growled. “I couldn't kiss you. I could not fuck you.”

She flinched at the word. “I don't see why we couldn't try. And if you won't have me—there must be, somewhere in England, another man as wonderful as you. It's the only hope for me.”

He made a strangled sound. “Damn it, why do you have to be so stubborn?” He grasped hold of her elbow.

“I have to know if you will try,” she said. “If not, you will have to return me to the ball, and I will have to find someone else.”

She hoped the thought of losing her might spur him to make an offer. She hated to manipulate, but she was desperate, and what else could she do?

“Would you tell me why you can't kiss me? Why you can't—make love to me?”

He hesitated. Then he growled, “No. I can't talk about it. But I will show you one more thing.”

What would it be? It had to be more scandalous than a man with two women. “You won't scare me.”

“Then you are a fool. But I don't think you are. I know you are intelligent. Certainly intelligent enough to understand this is a dangerous game.”

 

Cary saw what he was looking for as soon as he and Miss Ashley left the brothel.

He drew her along the lane and stopped near the entrance to a small, dark alley. From there they had a view across the street to the front of a small pub.

Faint light eked out of the dirty windows of the corner pub. One street flare burned on a distant corner, and the halo of yellow light faded to gloom where they stood. But the light from the pubs and the doss-houses illuminated a short, broad woman who wore a dark velvet dress and a large dark bonnet.

“There's a woman there, leaning against that brick wall,” Miss Ashley whispered. “She looks ill. We must help her.”

Impetuously, she launched forward, but Cary grasped her forearm and stopped her.

“Wait,” he said.

Laughter spilled out of the pub as the door opened. Voices shouted after the figure who stumbled out. A large man, bent over so he looked as ungainly as a large bear. He stumbled to-and-fro on the sidewalk, and screeching laughter flew out of the pub at his attempt to walk.

“Is that a man? I can't tell, for his face is as dark as the night. Heavens, his skin is black with dirt and soot under his cap.”