Sin (10 page)

“I’ve never met a woman like you, Vixen. An artist. A creator. So very talented.” With his tongue, he traced the rim of her ear, enjoying the way she trembled. God, he loved her scent—the natural delicate perfume of her skin underneath a splash of jasmine and rose.

“Most men don’t believe a woman is capable of true artistic skill. Even my…my father balked at the thought of me painting in oils.”

She’d hesitated at the word ‘father’. They had that in common, she and him. A father who kept their lives in turmoil, who created disasters for them to clean up.

“Tonight you’ve seen how many people you have enthralled with your imagination and talent.”

“Truly—?” Her voice caught. “But you must be angry.”

“Not at you,” he reassured.

On a soft sigh, she thrust her rear back against him, engulfing his member with her luscious cheeks. “I want you so, Marcus. So much. I don’t care about my virginity.”

He shaped his hands to the globes, filled his palms, squeezed. God, he wanted to be inside her. And there were other ways, now that her knowledge of sensuality had grown—

Her bottom was lush and tempting. He splayed his right hand over both cheeks, slid his left to open her pussy lips. Heat and honey awaited him. Stickiness coated his fingers. He rubbed his wet fingertip over her clit.

Her back arched. “Please,” she moaned.

The one word ripped through him. He pressed hard against her, trapping her against the window sill. “I can pleasure you without tearing your maidenhead, without risking pregnancy.”

She shoved her derriere back against him, grinding hard against his cock. “Oh, yes…how—?” Then insight dawned. “You mean in the way of the two men. Sodomy.”

“Pleasuring you through your bottom.” He used the gentle words for her. In his head he thought—
I want to fuck your delectable ass
.

Quiet stretched except for pounding rain, an angry wind. Then she half-turned her head. “Yes. Yes, Marcus, I want this.”

He groaned. “I can’t now, Vixen.” Not with an innocent. He needed warmed oil. Needed to make her comfortable. To make her slick and prepared. He could lick his fingers, use his tongue on her, but it wouldn’t be enough.

She moaned, a desperate, begging sound. “You can’t resist now, my lord.”

He gave a low chuckle. “No, sweeting, I promise I can no longer resist.” He drew a finger down between her cheeks, dallying at her puckered anus. Sensual agony lanced through his groin. “But I need to prepare you. If I don’t, I risk causing you pain. I’d never hurt you, Vixen.”

“Pain?”

“Let me make you come with my tongue, Venetia.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But I want more.”

“And soon you will have more.”

“Open your trousers. Take out your cock. Please, my lord Trent. I want to make you come.”

He’d never ached like this. Had never been so sexually hungry. His hand went to the buttons of his placket, already straining. After easing them free, he reached into his small clothes. His cock twanged free and planted itself in the cleft of her ass cheeks. Snug and satiny, they clamped him, squeezing him. His cock dripped its readying fluid on her curves.

Even that wouldn’t be enough to ease this for her. But he would tease her a bit, then stop and devour her with his mouth and tongue, lick her cunny, clit, rosebud anus…

Taking cock in hand, he stroked the tip against her tight, puckered anus. She pushed back on a sweet moan and he felt her blossom open around his cock. The wet tip slid in a touch. Enough to swamp his brain with lust. So tight. So fiery hot.

God, yes.

Hell, no.

He stroked her clit with his fingers, her rear with his cock. Her juices ran down his fingers, her ass was slick with his fluid. The promise of sex surrounded him. Speech left him. All he could do was grunt and groan.

Instinct sent his hips thrusting forward. His slick cock slid down, skimmed over the bridge between pussy and ass, wedged itself in her satiny slit.

He had to draw back. His fluid was flowing. He could make her pregnant—

A deep boom sounded, an echo playing though the long, dark gallery. Thunder? No. The dinner gong.

Marcus dropped to his knees and turned Venetia, so her quim was at his mouth, his to pleasure. His first suckle had her hips arching hard against him, his name in a cry on her lips.

She clutched his shoulders and skillfully he teased her clit until it plumped into his mouth. Until she was sobbing and incoherent. With his finger, he teased the tight rim of her anus…

It could be his cock. Clamped tight, stroked by strong muscles…

Not now.

Her fingernails drove into his scalp, holding his face tight to her cunny. In answer, he slid his finger in and out of her ass.

Strands of her hair flew free as she thrust back against him, a wink in the low light, the way fairy dust should be. She thrust against his face, pumped on his finger, taking him deeper into her derriere. Deeper than he intended to go. To the hilt and the length of his finger was gripped by scorching, silky walls.

“Oh. Oh. Oh.”

Yes, sweetheart, come for me
.

He furled his tongue around her clit, licked, circled, used every skill he’d learned. Then he just let his tongue rest flat against her, let her grind against him as she wished. Her fingers drove into his shoulders.

God, she was beautiful. Like a sensual
houri
, adept at using voluptuous hips to tempt, Venetia danced over his mouth. Curls flew, hands clutched, her head arched back, exposing the white, lovely arch of her neck.

As she came, her cry rattled the windows. He plunged his tongue into her passage, to revel in the pulsing of her cunny, and watched her surrender.

Making a woman climax was always a victory. But with Venetia, it was sweeter, more intimate. Despite the driving pain of his hard cock, he felt he was sharing her ecstasy.

Slowly, her cries descended into sobs and sighs. She dropped forward, eyes shut tight. Drawing back from her heat, his face slick and sticky with it, he planted a kiss above her nether curls, on the curve of dewy skin.

“Now that you are satisfied, Vixen, we must go to dinner.” His voice was strained, his cock aching, standing proud of his trousers. Like a pointer on a hunt, pointing up toward her cunny.

“No.” The poor sweet could barely stand. He held her hips to support her. Drawing back the curtain of her hair, she whispered, “I want to do it to
you
.”

Her lips were plump and swollen. She began to sink down—

The double doors swung wide. Light and coarse laughter spilled in. Chartrand’s jocular baritone rang through the gallery. “It appears we missed the performance!”

In a second, Marcus was on his feet and Venetia’s skirts covered her once more.

The second bong of the gong swelled through the gallery, echoing off the row of windows.

Shit.
He was destined to spend dinner in pain.

At dinner, Venetia had to survive by her wits.

Even here, in the midst of a bacchanalia, order of seating was preserved. Placed between Mr. Wembly and Viscount Swansborough, she sat across the table from Lydia Harcourt. As an earl, Marcus sat much closer to the head of the table, between Lady Chartrand and Lady Yardley, who had one hand permanently beneath the table. On Marcus’ leg. Or worse.

Twice Marcus had lifted the countess’ elegant hand and placed it back on the table, but Venetia’s heart hammered like a trapped bird. Madness, of course, because she knew he was promiscuous and no doubt he’d made love to all these women before.

She tried not to think of it.

Without title—or even a full name—Venetia was surprised to be allowed at the table at all, but she was Marcus’ partner, and that kept her from languishing at the very end, where the lesser jades and handsome, anonymous bucks downed their wine.

Lydia Harcourt’s curious gaze kept falling on her. She would stare at her wineglass or her dinner but she had to plan how to best deflect curiosity. Appearing witless was the only tack she could think to take.

What other choice did she have?

She wished she could have an honest discussion with Lydia instead of hiding behind a giggle and clumsy speech but she couldn’t take the risk that Lydia would identify her. She breathed a sigh of relief as Lydia turned her attention to Wembly. The famed dandy wore an elegant tailcoat and trousers, an ivory waistcoat, a simple cravat with crisp knot. His taste was subdued—rather like Marcus’. His hair was a tumble of waves of dark blond streaked with soft gold. His lips were soft and full.

Lydia swirled the red wine in her large glass. Rubies gleamed at her throat, ears, and wrists, the same deep scarlet as her lips and gown. The one in the center of her necklace was the size of a robin’s egg.

Anger rose. This woman could live forever if she merely pawned her jewels.

Perhaps she already had. These could be fine fakes.

Wembly leaned suddenly close. He smelled of sandalwood and starch, just as Marcus did, but unlike Marcus’, his scent didn’t enthrall, didn’t steal her wits.

“My dear Miss Vixen,” he murmured, “I heard your climatic screams, even over the crashing storm. They electrified me, sweet nymph. I should very much like the chance to make you scream like that myself.”

She stared, dumbfounded. This man was considered London’s sharpest wit?

“You are a sensual woman,” he continued. “Untutored, that much is obvious, but naturally wanton. I want you, my dear.”

Fear uncoiled in her belly. “I belong to Lord Trent.”

Wembly’s fingertips, elegant in white gloves, stole to her hand, and stroked. “I’ll obtain his permission, of course, sweet Vixen. Meet me at midnight in my rooms. How delightful to end this day with my head up your skirts.”

Venetia felt her mouth gape open. Marcus would never allow it. She wouldn’t go!

Lydia’s rich tones spilled over the table, clear and distinct. “I gather you wintered in Italy, Mr. Wembly. Escaping debts or seeking the sun?”

Oh, thank you, Lydia, for the interruption.

“Both, dear lady, both,” he returned. Laughter rewarded the quip and he raised his wine glass in a salute before draining it to the quick.

One of Chartrand’s footmen—a muscular one with vibrant blue eyes and a cocky grin—began the parade of carrying in the main course. Each and every footman was striking. And as for the gentlemen…Chartrand had filled his event with the most handsome noblemen of the ton.

But not one made her knees weak, the way just a glimpse of Marcus did.

And that promised disaster. If the most handsome, delicious men of the ton couldn’t set her heart pounding, it meant she had a partiality for Marcus.

Oh, hell and damnation, it meant she was falling in love with him!

“Did you encounter Princess Caroline on your travels, Mr. Wembly?” Lydia speared a piece of roast lamb.

“Alas, no. She had packed off her entourage to Pesaro, where she lives in seclusion with
il Barone
.”

From mocking caricatures, Venetia knew he meant Mr. Pergami, the princess’ ‘servant’.

“Poor Caroline deserves to have a lover. And I think our dear princess is remarkably clever. Surely you must agree.”

Wembly gave a jaded shrug. “She’s remarkably tasteless. She’s run to fat and seems to thinks she’s a dozen years younger than she is. A clever woman…” He paused, stared pointedly at Lydia, “Recognizes her age.”

“Indeed,” Lydia agreed. “A
clever
woman does.”

Venetia felt a stab of pity. Poor Princess Caroline was mourning her daughter’s tragic death in childbirth. Wembly’s cutting remarks were cruel. But then he was a favorite of the Prince of Wales. Prinny must reward him for his caustic comments about the Prince’s despised wife.

“The Princess has found a clever way to flaunt English law,” Lydia continued. “For Mr. Pergami is safe, being an Italian citizen. It would be treason, would it not, for a Englishman to have an affair with Caroline? Punishable by death?” The long dark eyelashes fluttered as Lydia spoke. Her hands made lovely, expressive motions.

“An affair with Caroline would be a punishment.” Wembly drained his wineglass. A footman stepped forward to refill it but Wembly’s hand knocked the stem, sending the stream to the table. An exclamation, effuse apologies and the mess was cleaned, the glass refilled.

Looking smug, Lydia turned to smile toward Lord Brude.

Venetia gave a furtive glance at him, thankful she had the mask to hide behind. Any educated country girl would be swooning to be in the presence of the brooding, darkly handsome poet. Glossy dark curls dangled before the famed, enigmatic black eyes. His hair was not raven black, like Marcus’, more of the color of dark, bitter chocolate.

A country lass drawn into this world of high society debauchery would be fawning over Brude. To play her part, she sighed and gave him dreamy looks. Cow-eyed looks.

Having caught Brude’s attention, Lydia embarked on a spirited discussion of literary work with the poet.
Tom Jones
, Cleland’s
Fanny Hill
, Austen’s
Emma
, Brude’s latest collection.

A different gleam showed in Lydia’s eyes as she mentioned her own memoirs. Venetia recognized the look. Tentative, a little fearful, but oh, so very proud, so very hopeful one’s artistic effort would be a true success.

“Have you hired someone to write them then?” Brude asked with false innocence.

“Writing is rigorous work and often trying, I agree,” Lydia said, “But my work is my own. I shouldn’t think of having
someone else
writing my book.”

Mussels arrived. Brude shoveled several on his plate, skewered a plump one and popped it in his mouth.

“Eat hearty,” called out one buck, “To fortify one’s strength for later sport.”

Venetia flushed as the handsome man winked at her. “Mussels are a famed aphrodisiac.”

She slid a glance down the table. Lady Yardley was trying to feed Marcus mussels.

“His lordship has no need of those,” Lydia remarked, with a sly smile.

“I know,” Venetia replied, trying for airy feminine spite. “He’s inexhaustible.”