Sin (14 page)

But she couldn’t bring herself to protest. She’d look a fool.

He blew her a kiss from the connecting door and Venetia felt her heart fracture.

Lydia Harcourt yawned and gazed sleepily in her mirror as Juliette arranged her hair. She dared not take too deep a breath. Juliette had drawn the black silk corset to excruciating tightness. But the effect was dramatic. A man’s one hand could almost span her waist, but her breasts overflowed the cups. Her hips swelled voluptuously below, her legs clad in black-dyed stockings with scarlet garters. She tugged the cuffs of her long black silk gloves.

Ironic that at these events she never shared anyone’s bed for the night. She much preferred her own. She looked at it longingly in the mirror. But that would not be for a few hours yet. Perhaps not until dawn.

The silver brush winked in the soft firelight as Juliette drew the bristles through her hair, smoothing the pass with her hand. She’d snared Juliette away from the Countess of Yardley, since she was far more generous, and far more fashionable.

Her hair tumbled down her back and she purred. Stroke, stroke, stroke. The tug on her scalp soothed. “Leave it down, Juliette.”

It had been a very tedious night. She’d successfully reminded her more affluent and stubborn victims of the dangers they faced, but there’d been no promises to pay. Good God, Wembly would be shot for what he’d done. Treason. She’d thrown a few shots at dinner, enough to shake his sangfroid. Surely he’d cough up the blunt. And it had amused to taunt Brude about plagiarism, when London’s ladies swooned over his words.

Lydia waved a dismissive hand. “There is a man waiting for you tonight, Juliette. You will not see his face, nor know his name. He will degrade you. He will be brutal, but you must not defy him. Do you understand?”

Juliette licked her thin lips. She bobbed a curtsy. “
Oui
, madame.”

Juliette was not pretty or young. Gray threaded the fine black hair, which was drawn, as always, in a tight bun. Hatchet-faced, sharp eyed, with a thin, prim mouth, Juliette was not the sort to attract men. Yet she wanted men. Her predilection was sex with an unseen brute.

Lydia smiled at the reflection of her maid. How amusing to think that beneath the severe black dress beat the heart of a perverse woman. From the coarse men she’d paid, she’d learned of Juliette’s peculiar, unsavory tastes. It didn’t cost much to buy such men. But it required a discerning eye to avoid those who would take the game too far.

All in the name of control.

Juliette drew back her chair and Lydia strolled to the secretary. Her nightdress lay on her bed, waiting for her. Peach silk, her favorite. She was not like other courtesans, who favored flannel nightgowns when not entertaining men. She surrounded herself with beauty at all times.

Behind her, Juliette’s black wool rustled as she left. The door clicked. She would lock it before she retired.

Lydia brought out a sheet of paper from the drawer, then sank down on the plush stool. Thoughtfully, she wrote a list of gentlemen’s names. Brude. Chartrand. Montberry. Trent. Wembly. She dipped her pen in the inkwell. Scratching it across the page, she wrote in one more name.

Swansborough.
He’d wished her to bind his arms, to drip hot wax on his chest. He’d wanted to howl in pain…then he had made her howl, too. He had drawn her to do acts she would never submit to for any other man. Not even Rodesson.

But Swansborough had been too dark. Too disturbing. She loved Rodesson’s games much more than his. But Lord Swansborough proved a great enigma.

She could not learn what drove him to enjoy such torture. He was careful with his secrets. Rather like Trent. But unlike Trent, Swansborough did not have a father with a loose tongue. Though the late Lord Trent would have throttled her rather than paid her…

She tapped the pen to her lip, thinking of the women in attendance. Those of interest to her. Lady Yardley. Rosalyn Rose. Lady Chartrand.

Approaching Lady Chartrand as well as her husband had proved a lucrative strategy. Her ladyship had dipped into her pin money and had paid. As for Rosalyn…she would not be merciful to Rosalyn in her book, but, for a price, she wouldn’t reveal that the Duke of Thorndale had not been the father of Rosalyn’s child. Thorndale had been generous to all his bastards—two lived in his London house, others were reputedly named in his will. Alas, she’d never quickened during her affair with the great duke.

And Lady Yardley would crack. Soon. Her rage was a sign she was on the brink. All Lydia had to do was continue to play a cool hand.

The sharp rap at her door startled her and she blotted ink on the page

“Mrs. ’arcourt, ma’am?” The lazy vowels, the deep timbre identified Tom’s voice.

Relief surged. He was an ally in a house of foes. Clever of him to finagle his way into Chartrand’s employ.

Not that she would have ever pegged Tom for a guardian angel.

The silver and scarlet of his livery set off his dark hair, his swarthy skin, his deep blue eyes. Two years her junior, Tom was no doubt a handsome man. He’d likely fuck every young maid in the house by the time the party ended. No wonder he wore such a cocky grin.

“A message from your host, ma’am.” He gave a bow, a wink, and retreated.

“Thank you, Polk.” Even in private, she used his false name. He was careful around Chartrand and the guests. No one could possibly guess he was her half-brother.

She unfolded Chartrand’s note.
I’ll pay, you bloody witch. Gallery. Ten.

Finally. But she sighed. Did he mean ten in the morning or at night? Bother the man. Chartrand would rise that early, she knew. Regardless of how he punished himself the night before, he always rose for breakfast.

Before noon, Chartrand’s chapter might be closed. And she would have enough blunt to flee to Venice.

With victory in sight, she turned her thoughts to another puzzle. Trent’s fancy piece. Who was she? Was the disguise amusement or necessity?

The late Earl of Trent had pursued wellborn virgins. The last had been a fool of girl who became pregnant easily. A foolish fall, a hope to lose the babe, and the girl was in the ground.

A sad story of a dupe and a wicked man. Lydia crumpled her paper and threw it into the fire.

So who was the girl in Trent’s company? And what would such information be worth?

“Join us for a game, Trent?”

Lounging in the doorway of Chartrand’s study, Marcus made a pretense of considering Chartrand’s invitation. He scanned the card tables filling the room. Most were in use. A nude woman sat on the lap of each man. Rosalyn’s prostitutes earning their keep and some looked young. The one on Chartrand’s lap possessed tiny breast buds and petite pink nipples, which Chartrand pinched with one hand as he held cards in the other. Most men did likewise, while the girls giggled. Some couples had progressed to fucking—the men’s falls open, the girls bouncing eagerly, chairs thumping on the ground.

Marcus rolled his eyes. Despite being buried in snug sheaths, the men were still gambling. “No, thanks. I think I’ll tour the other entertainments.”

The more experienced courtesans such as Lydia, Trixie, and Rosalyn were not in the room.

“Bored with pretty Vixen?” Chartrand leered. “I’d be happy to purchase her for the night.”

“She’s awaiting my return.”

“So who is she, Trent?”

Without answering Marcus turned to leave, but a slim waif clutched at his arm, making an admirable job of looking shy and sweet. The jade brushed back her curtain of auburn hair, then lifted her tiny breasts for his admiration.

“Now, that’s a lovely redhead, Trent,” Chartrand called. “Swap her for your treasure?”

Marcus gave a curt, dismissive shake of his head. Wembly, who already bounced a blonde on his knee, snapped his fingers. The girl crawled onto his other knee. With a laugh Wembly laid down his cards and nuzzled first the auburn-haired girl’s nipples, and then the blonde’s.

Wembly grinned. “Never thought I’d see you tamed, Trent. Makes me intrigued to discover exactly who is the woman behind the mask—”

“And you won’t.” Marcus turned to leave, ignoring Wembly’s parting words. “Care to wager, Trent?”

Talk at the table nearest the door caught his attention.

A man in regimentals was complaining. “Chartrand had ordered up a dozen more whores. But the river’s flooded its banks and taken the bridges with it. All that delectable female flesh is trapped on the other side.”

“Blasted luck,” agreed another officer. “And it looks like the erotic scavenger hunt might be postponed—or cancelled—the only bloody reason I came this year. That and the chance to do some pretty birch work.”

Marcus rubbed his temple. If the wenches were trapped in the village, it meant he—and Venetia—were trapped at Chartrand’s. He knew the geography well enough—the river separated Chartrand’s estate from the village. A tributary fed into it, so two bridges joined Chartrand’s to the King’s highway, and likely both had been lost.

There would be places where the river might be crossed on horseback, but given the flooding, he wasn’t sure. To try to travel in other directions required travel through dense wood, and up unforgiving hilly terrain.

There would be no way he could whisk Venetia away from this place tomorrow. And her blunt question raced again through his mind.
Do all men enjoy such things?

He grimaced as a healthy dose of guilt hit him. After tonight, how could a sensual woman like Venetia Hamilton find happiness in a typical staid, proper English marriage? She would lie on her back for her husband, too afraid to express desire for the pleasures she truly wanted and endure frustration. He should never have allowed her to come here. He’d never expected she would tempt him so much. He’d made a mistake.

The thoughts haunted him as he headed toward Lydia’s room. He tried to concentrate on his mission—find Harcourt’s book, then find her, and teach her a lesson for threatening to hurt Min.

As Marcus strode up the back stairs, he had to skirt around maids entertaining drunken men. Bleary-eyed women grabbed at him, pinching his buttocks, and clutching at his cock. They offered him their tits and arses, shrieked his name. Gentleman offered him higher and higher sums to purchase Vixen, all of which he rudely refused.

A drunken lieutenant grabbed at his lapels. “Fifty pounds for the tart.”

Insulted, he shoved the officer aside and the young buck swung wildly at his head. A neat step to the side and he watched the officer land face first on the floor.

Various aphrodisiacs were in use and lust-driven couples rutted in the hallways. Two gentlemen sprawled with a pretty chambermaid around one corner, both thrusting eagerly into her. One sucked her breasts, the other clamped his hands on them to gain leverage. “Coo, this is heaven!” she cried.

He couldn’t resist a grin. He loved to hear a woman enjoying herself. He’d loved to hear Venetia enjoying herself. Damn, why shouldn’t she enjoy herself? Why was it forbidden for a good woman to know carnal pleasure? Because men were proprietary beasts, he knew. The girls had been a pretty diversion, but he knew, here, he would not let another man touch Venetia.

Lydia’s corridor was deserted. He rapped on the door, waited, then sprang the lock.

V
enetia threw her stack of linen sheets and her box of brushes on her bed. The mahogany lid flew open and her brushes bounced out, scattering over the wrinkled counterpane. She knelt to find the pots of paint hidden beneath the shifts and corset in her trunk.

Marcus had no idea what she’d smuggled inside. No doubt he’d be furious if he found out. But she kept the key on her person, so curious servants couldn’t search for her secrets.

She hesitated over the pots wrapped in linen.

Paint would be too much bother. She would use charcoal. She could sketch figures and poses in the dim light, capture the more spectacular scenes from last night. But she would not draw Marcus. She feared what she might see if she did.

My heart laid bare.

Was it so impossible to have love affairs without feeling the pain and tug at one’s heart? No, it wasn’t impossible, for Chartrand’s guests did it with ease. She had shared orgasms with Kate, Lizzie, and Sukey, but she wasn’t the sort to lose her heart to another woman. Though she felt warm, sensuous, and deliciously sinful as she remembered what they’d done.

It should be easy to resist falling in love. Her mother had shed a lifetime of tears over Rodesson. She knew the consequences. Even though Rodesson hadn’t lived daily in their lives, they’d lived at his pleasure. Every time her mother began to be free of him in her heart, he’d come back into her life, seduce her all over again, then vanish the way red paint did from a brush dropped in turpentine. The brush came out clean, but the stain of red tinged the fluid forever.

Venetia flopped down on her bed and hiked her robe so she could sit, lotus positioned. Plunking her sketchpad over her crossed legs, she feathered the stick of charcoal onto the page.

Why had Marcus not come back to her room? Why sleep alone in his?

Had he even spoken to Lydia? How could he leave her in suspense? But the truth was that, if he had returned to her bed and slept with her, she wouldn’t be angry that he hadn’t let her know about Lydia. No, she would have curled up to him, been happy and content, and stayed at his side until he awoke.

Oh, she was a fool. How could she be so easily dazzled, how could she so easily let him touch her heart, when she had her mother’s example? She couldn’t let herself fall in love with a man who hadn’t thought enough of her to even slip a note under her door.

At least she knew there was no other woman in his bed. Heaven help her, she’d opened the door a crack and peeked.

Embers glowed in the fire, adding light to the faint dawn gloom. With long strokes Venetia blocked in the lines of the daybed, then the shape of Cole’s head, the planes of his broad shoulders. Quick sketchy lines gave him his sleek, youthful limbs. She wanted to capture…the intimacy…that surprisingly potent aftermath of sex. Which meant drawing slumbering cocks instead of erect ones. The moment had delighted her. Would it delight men? Did they only wish to see erect, rampant cocks?

What did it matter? These pictures couldn’t be sold. They were only for her.

Flowing strokes brought Cole’s tumbled curls to life but she couldn’t lose herself in the erotic moment. She could only think of Marcus and draw by instinct.

Had Marcus offered to pay Lydia? She could not allow it. But what could she do?

What a tangled mess.

She flipped the page and tried to capture another scene. Lady Chartrand and Rosalyn, each lapping her tongue between the other’s thighs—just as she and Marcus had done…

She tried another. Lady Yardley and the raven-haired footman…Her ladyship’s expression wasn’t merely lust—there was vulnerability…She looked so enraptured. The highborn lady captured by the sensual skills of a handsome, low born man as he sucked her breasts and slid his entire hand in her cunny—

Her heart raced. Her hands shook. And her fingers were black with charcoal.

Venetia closed the book, inexplicably clutched it to her chest. What if Lydia demanded more? Even if Marcus allowed her to paint his nephew—and she doubted he would since he knew how wanton she was—she would have to give all her money to Lydia.

His offer had been a wonderful gesture of trust, of kindness. He had invited her into his family. She still could not understand why he had sought to help her rather than just stop her. Did his sister’s good opinion mean so much to him?

Suddenly, she felt guilty to be betraying him by painting. She hid away her supplies and sketchbook, then padded to the window as she wiped her hands on a cloth.

Thick black clouds covered the sky. Rain beat down, a gray sheet of it, striking the paned windows and the stone walls. She couldn’t even see the terrace or the garden fountain for the rain. Lightning forked the sky, slashed through the thick clouds. Thunder rumbled, exploded and she jumped on the spot.

She didn’t fear storms, but she stood, with bare feet on the thick carpet, within reach of the connecting door. It tempted her again.

If she crept into Marcus’ room quietly, she could see him sleeping. She’d never seen a man sleep—other than some country husbands, dozing off their drink. She ached to steal a look. To catch Marcus with eyes shut, mouth relaxed, lost in his dreams. Did he look innocent and sweet? Or ruthlessly sensual?

Folly to do it. He might wake. How would she explain herself?

Fool that she was, she wanted to climb into his bed and wrap her arms around his lean, firm waist. She wanted to press herself along the length of his beautiful back, her cunny to his ass, and hold him.

Footsteps. She heard someone walking in Marcus’ room. A servant? As she watched, the doorknob of the connecting door turned.

She couldn’t help but watch it, as the latch clicked free, and the door swung into her room.

He stood there, wearing only an inviting smile, with tousled hair and boyish charm in his eyes. Oh yes, this man could break her heart.

Thank heaven she’d hidden away her artist’s tools.

Brimming with confidence even without a stitch of clothing, he smiled. “Join me, Vixen. Come into my room.”

He issued his invitation with every confidence she’d race to accept. It was peevish to ask, but she truly wanted to know. “Why, my lord, didn’t you come back to mine?”

Marcus sat back on his rumpled bed with his legs spread. In the silver-gray light of morning and the warm glow of his candles, Venetia’s thin cotton skirts were translucent, revealing shapely legs, the alluring gap between. His cock rose to half-mast, curving toward his hip. With his legs open in invitation, he had a warm spot between for her to sit. “Join me.”

She stood in the doorway, her right hand clutching the sleeve of her opposite arm. Last night, she’d been wild with him. This morning she looked vulnerable.

“I assume your fire hasn’t been made up for the day? Mine hasn’t.” He glanced at the window, the drapes drawn back. Rain pelted at the windows as though the storm wanted to break the glass and get inside. Blasted rain. He’d brought her into a storm in many ways.

But now, he wanted her in his arms. He patted the bed again. “Come here.”

She’d slipped her nightgown on—a simple long-sleeved gown of muslin and modest lace. She padded across his room, bare feet visible beneath her hem. In her country village world, a glimpse of ankles was a scandal.

She drew up her skirts and crawled onto his bed. Without concern for grace or seductive display. Her thoughts were elsewhere, not on being appealing to him, and he liked that about her.

“You asked me why I didn’t return to your bed.”

“I didn’t intend it to sound possessive. We are at an orgy, after all.”

He drew her back, enfolded her in his arms. “So no proprietary feelings, love? Not even after the intimacy we shared?”

“I wouldn’t dream of spoiling your fun, my lord.”

He knew that tone of voice. The primness of a woman teased. “Ah, sweeting. I didn’t sleep with you because of a piece of advice my father gave me.”

“Which was?”

Her breasts were full, tempting swells against the soft gown. He filled his palms with them, strummed her nipples with his thumbs. The most tempting feminine moan drifted up, like smoke from their solitary candle. “You may touch me, if you want. You may fondle my cock at any time you wish, Venetia. It now belongs to you.”

She giggled. “But what
did
your father say that kept you out of my bed?”

“He warned that nothing but trouble came from waking up with a woman.”

She pushed his hands from her breasts. “Well, my lord, I may have been nothing but trouble to you, but you’ve been nothing but trouble to me!”

Who else but Venetia would answer him like that? He was a powerful earl, and people toadied to him all the time. She was indignant, he was laughing. “Indeed. And how have I troubled you? Was last night a great trouble?”

From above, he saw cheeks blush. “Last night was wonderful.” She turned in his arms. “What about Lydia? Did she agree? And what did you offer?”

Marcus skimmed his hands over her belly. “I have to admit failure there, love—”

“She refused?” Venetia squeaked.

“No, I couldn’t find her,” he admitted.

“You got
distracted
, you mean!”

Her accusation stung. “Not in the way you’re thinking, sweet. The only distraction for me here is you.”

She waved away the sentiment, but it was the truth. The tapes on her gown were loose, he slipped his hands in to stroke her breasts. Even in her disappointment, her nipples greeted him by growing hard. “How could you not find her?”

But despite her abrupt and accusatory question, she squirmed between his thighs, obviously enjoying his touch.

“I can’t saunter through gentlemen’s bedrooms and search for her beneath the covers.”

“Here?” she snapped. “I would have thought that part of the fun.”

“Not entirely, sweet. And she wasn’t a participant in the public displays.”

She half-turned, resting her hand on his thigh. The gesture spoke of forgiveness and he cherished it. “What type of public displays?”

“A lot of fucking, love. In the ballroom, the drawing rooms, the hallways. Couples, groups. And all I could think of was you upstairs in your bed.”

Hell, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. Of being in her bed, spooned snugly against her lush body, instead of downstairs, pawed by squealing women, watching his step on a floor strewn with drink and spilled seed.

The truth was he’d spent most of the night searching fruitlessly for Lydia’s blasted manuscript. He’d finally picked the lock on one trunk, to discover it filled with books. But then he’d heard footsteps. He threw the books back and hid in the wardrobe while a woman with a dubious French accent had sex with a coarse speaking Englishman on Lydia’s floor. Her maid, he’d assumed. After finding nothing in Lydia’s room, he’d braved the storm to search her carriage—another wasted effort.

Was it possible he’d been wrong? That she hadn’t brought the book with her? No. He’d get another look at that trunk of books today.

But now…he had Venetia in his arms. In the quiet cocoon of his room, with the storm raging outside, the magic of the moment captured his senses. She was beautiful as she leaned back against his chest, all slender limbs, long hair, and rounded curves. The cleft between her cheeks teased his hard cock, which stretched up against her spine. Her breasts were velvety soft and delightfully heavy against his palms.

“We won’t leaving today—not until we find Lydia?”

“We won’t be leaving for days, Venetia. All this bloody rain has swelled the river over its banks. The torrent washed out the bridge and has turned surrounding roads into mires of mud. Travel would be next to impossible.”

She was silent, thoughtfully stroking his thigh. His cock twitched with each long, lazy brush of her fingers. “So we’re trapped here,” she said finally.

“Last night most gentlemen I encountered wanted you. Wanted to buy you from me. I want to get you the hell out of here, but I can’t.”

She looked startled.

“You’ve intrigued them and they want you. Eventually one might decide to take you.”

Marcus tightened his embrace, buried his face into the crook of her neck. “I won’t let that happen—but I want you to understand the risk.”

“And you don’t want me to leave your side.”

She still smelled of sex, ripe and arousing. The truth of her words hit him. He was a bloody fool. He should have slept with her last night.

Clarity struck—he’d lost something he could never regain. He could never have that night again.

She was alone with a man who had strangled his wife.

Wiping her gloved hands nervously on her skirts, Lydia rose from the bench to greet Chartrand who arrived in the gallery surrounded by sniffing hounds. Dressed in breeches, tweeds, and boots, he looked more country squire than dissolute marquess and he held the whining dogs on tight leads.

“Good morning, my lord.” She dropped into a curtsy, an abbreviated one, not the low one that gave a view of her cleavage, aware of rage in his narrowed gray eyes.

She trembled as she rose.

“You’re a lying bitch, Lydia. I had nothing to do with my wife’s death. The gypsy swung for it.”

Had he remembered what he’d told her? Perhaps not. That night he’d been so foxed with drink, so riddled with opiates that he had passed out on her floor and almost choked in his own vomit. That frantic night, the thought of a dead marquess in her drawing room had spurred her to action. She’d dragged him upstairs, had dunked him in a frigid bath to rouse him, had listened to his confession.

Had it been a sexual game or rage? That much she’d never known.

“I brought you back from the dead that night, my lord.”

The hounds whined. A curt command had them lying at his feet. “To bleed me dry.”

“No. I’ve named my price and I will be satisfied with it. That I promise.”

“Your story would be a pack of lies. No one would believe it.”

“It was grief then, that drove you into neck or nothing carriage races, foolish duels, brutal sport? That drove you to have your head knocked sideways at Gentleman Jackson’s? Grief and not guilt.”