Deeper in Sin (8 page)

“No.”

“Even though you were married?”

She knew she was blushing. She quickly explained, “We were wed truly just before he went to war. We had only one night together . . . our wedding night.”

“Ah.”

“I felt that strange tension, but it faded when we did that thing. When we rutted. It was nothing like what you did. I had no idea—” Bother, she was blushing more.

She was naïve, she knew. From the country. Untutored. Did she try to pretend she wasn't? Or just admit the truth. “I am very willing to learn,” she said solemnly. Well, as solemnly and seriously as she could, since she was straddling him with her exposed cunny, which was slick and wet.

“You've never had an orgasm before?”

“A what?”

“An orgasm means the release you achieve with sexual pleasure. You've never touched your pussy, love? To pleasure yourself.”

“My pussy?”

“ ‘Pussy' is cant for your quim, Sophie.”

“I'm not supposed to touch myself there. I wasn't even supposed to when bathing. Only quickly and with a washcloth.”

“Sophie, love, how can you want to be a courtesan?”

She frowned. “Well, I don't know everything yet, of course. But I do have the book.”

“This book again . . .”

“It's a memoir written by a famous London courtesan. Anonymously.”

“And a courtesan's memoir is your guide?”

“Yes.” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “She wrote about a man eating her. Goodness, now I understand what that meant. I never knew before tonight that people used mouths.” Tentatively, she touched her lips. “I could use mine on you. I think.”

“No, Sophie.”

“But why not? Why don't you want these things? I do wish you would tell me. I wish you would let me help. I think”—she gazed at him helplessly—“I think I'm falling in love with you.”

 

Cary groaned. Sophie looked like a lost puppy.

“The truth is, you are not in love with me, Sophie. You know nothing about me. That was pleasure talking.”

“But it—” She broke off.

“You don't want me, Sophie. You do not want to be the lover of a man like me.”

She giggled. “Of course, I do. You're a duke.”

He shook his head. What did he do with the girl? “I'm damaged, love. And even being a duke doesn't make up for that.”

“How are you damaged?”

He clasped her hand. “Climb off me, my dear, then help me sit up. I will explain while I undo your corset. You need to go to your bed and get some sleep.”

He lifted her from his chest, supporting her as she clambered off him and the bed.

As he struggled to sit up, he was aware how battered and bruised he was. Every inch of his body ached. Even his cock hurt—it ached from unfulfilled desire.

Cary managed to sit upright and let Sophie stuff the pillows behind his back. “Sit in front of me,” he directed.

She did. Then she tipped her head forward, caught her hair with a sweep of her hand, and pulled the whole shimmering mass over her shoulder to reveal the back of her gown.

He began to undo the fastenings.

“You aren't going to tell me, are you? You were tricking me.”

“I will tell you.” He would give her the usual explanation he used for his strange, almost reclusive behavior. “In 1817, I left England to serve as an officer during the rebellions in Ceylon. I was held as a prisoner of war for several months. The experience proved brutal and grueling. Since then, I've found it . . . impossible to have female companionship.”

She half twisted around, her forehead wrinkled with a frown. “I would have thought you'd be more eager after going through something so awful.”

She was a clever young woman. She'd gotten at the logic—why would a man who had been through hell not want to fall into the loving arms of a woman? After being deprived of freedom, wouldn't any normal man be eager for passion and pleasure?

“I was chained up, starved, beaten. Tortured. And I cannot put it aside. When you wanted to have sex with me, I felt a swift rush of arousal, but getting that near to pleasure brings forth all my bad memories. I don't know why. Maybe I don't feel worthy.”

“How could you feel that?” she asked. “You are wonderful.”

“You don't know that.”

“I do! You rescued me from three footpads without even a thought for your own safety. But if you can't have sex because of your painful memories, why were you at a Cyprian ball?”

“To see if I could heal myself. If I could change. I'm a duke. Expected to marry. To produce an heir.” He sighed. “Now it is time for you to go off to bed, Sophie. It's close to dawn. I will ensure you aren't disturbed until late.”

“Then what?” she asked.

“We will discuss that in the morning. I'm too tired to think right now.”

“Could I sleep with you?”

“That is not a good idea.”

“But I'm worried about you!”

“I don't think I will develop a fever now. I think we've proven I'm still fairly strong.”

Yet she looked so heartbroken, he felt his resolve yield. “Sophie, I admit it would be nice to share my bed. It's been a vast, lonely place for years now. But you have to promise you won't try to ravish me in my sleep.”

She giggled. “Normally, that is what the woman fears. But you have my solemn promise: I won't be naughty.”

It had been years since he had fallen asleep with a woman in his bed—back when his father was alive and Cary had his own bachelor rooms.

Sophie stood, and he caught his breath as she pushed her gown down and stepped out of it.

She sat again so he could unlace her corset. Then she said, “Your majordomo has been checking on you. To ensure you haven't developed a fever. He last looked in on you when I first came in.”

“He didn't see you?”

“I hid behind the bed.”

“I doubt he will return. Not until morning. But lock the door. I'd rather Penders didn't have the shock of finding us together in my bed. There is no point in savaging your reputation when it's my plan to send you home.”

“I've already accepted that my reputation is something that must be sacrificed to protect my family.”

“Sleep now. We'll worry about that later.”

“All right,” she mumbled.

He shifted over, making room for her in his bed. “Go to sleep, love.”

 

Cary got out of bed.

He felt damned guilty. He'd intended to save her, send her home—not try to have sex with her.

He poured himself a tumbler of brandy and walked over to the grouping of chairs by the fireplace. He sat on a stool, grimacing as he settled down, and he watched Sophie. She looked so small and sweet in his huge bed—a bed used by four generations of Dukes of Caradon.

He'd learned a stark damning truth tonight: He couldn't get past the hell of his memories.

It was more than what had happened to him as a prisoner of war in Ceylon. All that had done was release the secrets he'd kept hidden for so long.

When he was five years old, he had been kidnapped for ransom. He had been chained up in a decaying house. And his perverted captor had done things to him. . . .

He had almost prayed for death, since he had been forced to do sinful things. Then the day had come where the man had wanted more, wanted to completely rip apart his innocence and virginity. Cary had been young, but he'd understood that the man had intended to penetrate him.

For that, the man had unchained him, unafraid of a child.

But a child could move with lightning speed. He'd run, desperate to get out. But every door had been locked, the windows nailed shut. Sheer terror had led him to grab a weapon to defend himself.

He had hidden, armed with a fireplace poker, standing on a dresser so he could hit the man's head.

He'd intended to knock the man out. But he was so scared the monster would wake up, he'd kept hitting and hitting....

After he'd been rescued, he'd been . . . different. He had never felt right afterward. He saw other boys growing up, and he envied the fact they had no idea what vile monsters existed in the world.

For a long time, he had been the wildest rake in London, and he'd managed to bury the past. Then he had been taken prisoner, and that had unleashed the memories of his kidnapping—the ones he had buried—

Cary downed his brandy.

What in hell was he going to do?

His mother wanted him to marry—she claimed it would kill her if he didn't.

Sophie wanted to heal him.

Should he keep trying with Sophie? Should he make her his mistress and see if he could actually get over this?

But Sophie was naïvely in love with him. What about when he had to let her go so he could get married? He wasn't the kind of man who could marry and keep a mistress.

She would find another man. Then another. After a while, she would be older and jaded and cynical.

He thought of Angelique and the other hardened, tough Cyprians. He didn't want to see Sophie lose her sweet, innocent optimism.

No, he had to send her home.

Cary got up to pour more brandy.

In the morning, no doubt he was going to have an argument with her about that.

What he didn't expect was the arrival of the magistrate, along with Saxonby, at seven o'clock in the morning—because he was suspected of murder.

7

 

—From an unfinished manuscript entitled
A Courtesan Confesses
by Anonymous

 

 

Silken sheets whispered over her skin. She was deliciously
warm
. Warmer than she'd been in bed for five years.

Sophie sat up in the Duke of Caradon's bed, and she rubbed her eyes. If this was all a dream, she'd best face reality as quickly as she could.

She blinked her eyes twice.

No, the magnificent furnishings, the heavy velvet draperies, and the silk curtains tied to the bed columns were still there. She was still sitting in the warm, comfortable bed.

And the duke—Cary—was still sleeping beside her.

Hope actually left her breathless. It embraced her heart so tightly, it was squeezing her. But it was a wonderful feeling.

She was so close! She could feel it. She could convince Cary to keep her.

She had her book,
A Courtesan Confesses,
and now she would understand some of the things she hadn't before. She would learn how to be the best seductress in England, and she would snare her duke.

Sophie felt a bit guilty, since she was in a delightful, cozy bed while her son, Alexander, and Belle and Belle's children lived in drafty, damp, meager cottage.

But all that would soon to come to an end. She could treat Belle and the children to warm, soft sheets. The children could have a bed each. They could build fires in the grates without having to scrounge for scraps to burn.

Men like the horrible Earl of Devars couldn't touch her. Or Belle. Not
ever
.

The children would have futures. They would never fear workhouses. Belle's daughter would never fear the horrors of a man like Devars preying on her.

Sitting up, Sophie watched the duke. The sheets had fallen down, baring his naked chest with its curls of golden hair, planes of hard muscle.

Just being in the same bed was enough to set her pulse pounding—even though he was on one side of the bed, she on the other, and there was enough room between them to fit three other people. He was so beautiful. Golden hair. Long lashes. Lush lips like on Michelangelo's David.

Sophie hugged her knees.

Last night, he had given her so much pleasure, he had made her see stars.

Her heart wobbled.

She wanted him. Wanted, wanted,
wanted
him.

It was like how she had felt for Samuel. She'd gone bald-headed after Samuel.

Surely, pleasure and happiness and love could help Cary forget his painful memories. He was a wonderful man. He
deserved
to be healed.

Sophie wriggled across the bed to the duke. It took longer than she'd expected—it felt like crossing a vast plain.

She pushed down the counterpane and leaned over him. His cock was half erect, even though he was sleeping.

Taking a deep breath, she bent over and took the tip of it into her mouth.

The head was like soft velvet against her lips. The skin was slightly sweet with perspiration, a little salty, and there was a tang of a bitter taste.

He groaned, murmured something. She held just the head in her mouth. Delicately. Her lips formed a tight, but gentle O around him. Her tongue rested against the head. She coasted her tongue wetly around the smooth head and the firmer crown. Her questing tongue found a taut piece of flesh, rather like a bowstring, and she strummed it lightly.

Against her tongue, his cock seemed to swell. It grew bigger, longer, and much more rigid.

Something dribbled, touching her tongue. From a little opening in the very tip of his cock came a tangy, salty fluid. Curious. She had no idea men grew wet too. She did when she was aroused, so this was a good sign. She sucked a bit, swallowing, hoping to arouse him more.

The head and shaft grew, filling her mouth at a shocking rate. Sophie had to draw back. But once she caught her breath, she slid more of him into her mouth. He was rigid now, hard as a tree trunk, and remarkably thick. Try as she would, she couldn't take more than a third of him into her mouth.

She must please him. Desperately, she tried to remember exactly what he'd done to her. Delicious things with his tongue. Some rough things. Gentle teasing things.

At the ball, she had seen the woman's mouth at the man's groin, and she was sure his entire erection was inside the woman's mouth.

She must have been wrong. That had to be
impossible
.

She flicked her tongue around the head. Was she making him feel pleasure? Or was she doing everything all wrong? All she could do was explore and try and, well . . . pray.

Cary thrust his hips.

Obediently, she opened her mouth wider and took him in, cheeks hollowing.

His hips pumped, lifting off the bed rhythmically to drive his erection into her mouth.

Ah, that was what he wanted. Cushioning her mouth around him, she tried sucking him in deeper. Just a bit. Then a bit more.

She slid up on him, then starting bobbing her head—

“Sophie, what in blazes?”

The duke's raspy voice startled her. So much, she almost forgot what she was doing, and she scraped him.

Now she saw he was awake, his blue eyes wide with surprise. He stared down at her, where his shaft vanished into her mouth.

She kept bobbing.

“No,” he said abruptly. He cupped her cheeks, lifted her off him so she had to release his cock. “You were supposed to behave yourself.”

She flushed with embarrassment. “Is pleasuring you so very wrong?”

A look of agony shot over his face. “It is when I ask you not to do it.”

She hung her head, her cheek pressed against his palm. “You were sleeping. I suppose I did play a dirty trick.”

A soft, rough laugh came from him.

She looked up. “I only wanted to help you. How could naughty pleasure not make you feel better? I should think it would take your mind off things.”

He shoved back his tangled blond hair. “It's more complicated than that, love.”

“How is it—?”

A sharp knock on the duke's door made her choke on her sentence.

Someone was going to come in—the valet or the butler or a maid for the fire?

“Aak!” she squealed. She gripped the counterpane and tried to scramble underneath it.

“The door's locked,” Cary reminded her calmly.

“And Penders—or whoever—will wonder why.”

Since she was going to become a courtesan, why was she worried?

Protecting her reputation was instinct. One she had to forget.

“Stay calm and quiet,” the duke said. He raised his hoarse voice. “What is it?”

“It—it is the Duke of Saxonby, Your Grace.” Penders, who had perfect, somewhat snooty butler tones last night, now sounded shaky and afraid. “He has come with a magistrate from Bow Street. They asked to speak with you. They have insisted that it is an urgent matter.”

“The
magistrate
is here?” Raw panic hit her.

“Sophie, what is it?”

She realized Cary was looking at her strangely. His eyes narrowed. His mouth became hard and grim. “You look afraid,” he said. “Is there any reason a magistrate would want you?”

Oh God, she'd made him suspicious.

But if the magistrate had come for her, she was doomed. Should she tell him exactly what had happened with Lord Devars and beg Cary for any understanding and mercy he could spare?

Her lips moved—

Sound wouldn't come out.

She couldn't do it. She could not tell him. Not what she'd had to do to escape Lord Devars and rent a cottage for Belle and the children, then provide them with food and buy herself a gown so she could get a protector.

He would know she had been a thief.

He would never trust her. She would have absolutely no chance with him then.

The last thing she could do was be honest with him.

She shook her head so hard, it made her dizzy. “No. No, I don't know why he would be here.”

He looked at her for endless minutes while she fought fear.

Finally, Cary shouted. “I will come.” It sounded like such a strain on his voice when he raised it. He winced, touching his bruised jaw. “You stay here,” he instructed.

Sophie nodded, but her heart was in her throat.

Could she really just wait there in his bed while the magistrate might be telling him about her crime? While they might be plotting her arrest?

 

Cary grabbed a robe, intending to throw it on quickly. But his body had stiffened up after last night. Laudanum and protective shock had worn off. It had been easy to forget pain last night, when he was struggling with bigger demons—and when he'd been wrapped up in sexual delights with Sophie.

Now he was aware of how his every muscle ached.

Cary had chosen a heavy brocade banyan—something sturdy enough to cover his huge, throbbing erection. He stood with it draped over his arm, his body locked in a spasm of pain. He rubbed his leg, wincing at the tenderness.

White as a sheet, Sophie came to him. She took the robe and helped him put it on without saying a thing. When she'd heard the word “magistrate,” she'd turned pale as the moon. She was afraid. And obviously not giving him the truth.

Last night, he'd gone to a Cyprian Ball to conquer his inability to make love. Since then—since he had encountered Sophie—he had been driven wild with sexual frustration for a woman who seemed innocent but claimed she wasn't. He had been attacked by three men, had been beaten to a pulp, and now had a mysterious visit from the magistrate.

Either Sophie was destined to bring him a hell of a lot of bad luck, or there was more to her than met the eye.

He paused at his door before leaving. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” he asked.

And watched her face go stark white again.

“No,” she said slowly. “Why would there be? Everything I told you is the truth.”

Hell, he didn't know whether to believe her.

 

By the time he reached his study, Cary had assessed a dozen reasons why the men might be here.

That was battle training. In minutes—moments—he could invent dozens of scenarios and their possible outcomes. He'd developed the skill in Ceylon, where the army had often been ambushed.

But when he walked into the room, he laid aside all his speculation. In this situation, he had to listen—he couldn't go in with preconceptions.

But he couldn't push aside one nagging question—was Sophie the reason the men were here?

This couldn't be related to the attack last night, as he'd had no time to tell anyone about it. The only people who knew were his servants, Sophie, and the men who had attacked him.

“Good morning, gentlemen. What brings you here at this ungodly morning hour?” Cary drawled, taking in the scene.

A gray-haired gentleman sat in one of the leather club chairs positioned in front of the fire, where a good blaze burned. Saxonby stood at the window, looking out of the rear gardens. Sax's hands were clasped behind his back, his shoulders set stiffly. Cary's house occupied the corner of Park Lane and Upper Brook Street, and possessed reasonable grounds for a London house. But he suspected Sax wasn't looking at the gardens.

Caradon had been friends with Sax since they were both boys. Sax could hide things well, but Cary knew the signs. His friend was deeply worried.

Now Cary noticed a third man who stood in the corner of the room, running his fingers over the books on the shelves. This man was younger than Cary, tall and dark haired, with stubble shadowing a square jaw. He wore a belligerent sneer.

The magistrate stood at once and gave a quick bow. “Your Grace, very good of you to make yourself available—” The man's words stopped abruptly. He blinked in surprise.