Sin (5 page)

An orgy. Venetia’s jaw dropped. How the devil could she go to an orgy to speak to a courtesan? But she had to! Rodesson could not travel. Once again, it was up to her.

Venetia saw the girl’s eyes widen to the size of sovereigns. Even from several feet away she could read the young ladybird’s sudden desperation. “But I want you to take me to the theatre, my lord. You promised it would be a most rewarding—”

A squeak escaped Venetia’s lips. Men really did indulge in sexual activities in the theatre! Then she stayed motionless, her heart thudding. Had that noise given her away?

But the girl and Lord Swansborough swept up the stairs, oblivious to her hiding place in the shadows. Venetia breathed out in happy relief. Lord Swansborough had given her a brilliant idea. She knew exactly how she could go to an orgy.

Lord Trent. No doubt he would be attending. It made perfect sense. He was the only rake she knew in London. She could ask him to take her.

V
enetia darted along the path that wound through Hyde Park. In the afternoon, the ton would flock here. A stroll in the park was
de rigueur
in the Season for the
haute volée
. But in the morning, gentlemen rode the paths. Handsome, sleekly muscled gentlemen on sleekly muscled mounts.

Even on this gloomy day, the panting of lathered horses filled the air. Bold, deep-voiced shouts rose from the men racing on the track—calls of victory, curses of defeat.

A massive black horse thundered up the Row, black mane flying, hooves throwing up sand. Horse and rider charged as one, streaking up the track toward her. Exultant power showed in the rider’s aristocratic face.

She tipped her hood back enough to view him.

It was the Earl of Trent and he rode like a god. Astride that giant coal-black gelding, he rose up, his powerful thighs clamping the horse’s body. Beneath his hat, his raven hair streamed back. Pure ecstasy gleamed in his eyes. Sweat shone on his high cheekbones.

She was mesmerized.

At the end of the track, he reined in and turned the giant beast with a twitch of his thighs. He frowned as he saw her. She began to walk toward him, to make it clear he was her intent.

He urged the horse into a trot and reached her side. She had to hold her hood in place as she looked up at him. On that enormous horse, he towered over her.

“How did you get here?”

His cool voice didn’t hold promise. For the last day—even knowing she was being blackmailed—she’d thought of him. Of that kiss.

“A hackney. It’s waiting for me. I came to find you—your butler admitted you were here.”

“If this is about your career—” he broke off. Smiled. “Don’t look so devastated, my dear. I would like to offer you a commission.”

Confused, Venetia asked softly, “For a book of erotica?” Drawing naughty pictures specifically for him? Her every nerve ignited at the thought.

Heat flared in his eyes but he shook his head. “No, for a portrait. A miniature. Of my nephew. He is but two weeks old, and his mother insists he changes with every moment. I wish a keepsake of him as he is now.”

There was no mistaking the tenderness in his voice, the wistful look in his eyes. “You wish me to paint you a portrait of your nephew?”

He was giving her a reason to stay in London. A reason to paint. A career. “But what of your sister’s family? Do they know who I am? The ton do not accept female artists.”

“I believe my sister, Lady Ravenwood, would be willing to give you the opportunity. She is very strident about rescuing women. As you said, if your father gambles again, what will you do?”

Strangely, she was almost happy her father would recover and be able to gamble again. But she was so astonished by the earl’s offer. How could his sister’s family accept her in their home and let her be in the presence of their child, knowing she painted scandalous art?

“Why would you—would they—do this for me knowing what I’ve done?”

“Lady Ravenwood believes you are an innocent woman forced to do what you must to survive.”

In that mad moment, she loved him. It was the kindest thing anyone had done. Noble, wonderful. She couldn’t imagine why he had even spared her another thought. Face aflame, she snapped herself to rights.

“Why would you do this for me?” What did she want him to say? That the kiss had entranced him as much as it had her? That she’d captured his fancy?

“Do you accept?” was all he said.

He was giving her everything she’d dreamed of—freedom, independence, her art, the excitement of London—but she couldn’t accept. Not until she could stop Mrs. Harcourt’s blackmail.

“Well?” he prompted. Her silence had offended.

She swallowed hard. She thought she’d known despair when Rodesson lost everything. But that had been nothing compared to having this presented to her when she must refuse it. “I came here, my lord, to ask you to take me to an orgy.”

The horse shied. She leaped back, almost tripping over her cloak. The beast reared, hooves flailing. Would it throw him? The earl pulled hard on the reins, forcing the horse down. The earth shook beneath her as the huge hooves pounded into the ground. He’d brought the horse down away from her, saving her life. He stroked the horse’s gleaming black neck, steadying the beast with soothing words and sheer dominant will.

With fluid elegance, he dismounted, swinging his long, powerful leg over the horse’s rump. She watched the beautiful play of his muscles beneath his breeches, the bulge of his calves in his polished boots. In a heartbeat, he was at her side, reins in hand.

Other men watched them with avid curiosity but none approached. Who did they think she was? His lover? The thought made her tremble.

Filled with concern, his turquoise eyes assessed her. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.

A sensual smile touched his mouth. “I’d give you another kiss to make certain, my dear, but this is not the place.”

Her heart thundered like the horses.

“Now the truth, my dear. Why have you searched me out to invite me to an orgy? I can assure you I have no intention of taking you, but you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

“I must go because you were correct. Someone else knows about me. I’m being blackmailed.”

“By whom?”

“A Mrs. Harcourt,” she whispered, “I must speak to her. Stop her. She is going to a scandalous orgy at Lord Chartrand’s. You are the only gentleman I know—”

“We cannot speak of this here,” he interrupted. “You must come to my home—you know where I live, of course.”

“So what does this Mrs. Harcourt want from you?” Lord Trent asked as he poured brandy into his glass.

Venetia cradled her enormous, delicate brandy balloon between her palms. Her mother had only taken spirits before noon when she mourned her broken heart—in the parlor, with the drapes closed. As Venetia nervously caressed the smooth glass, she realized, with shock, that the Earl of Trent was the only person she could confide her problems to.

At least she’d taken care to hide her face and hair as she’d walked back here. There had been only gentlemen about, no one had spared her a glance.

She took a sip of her drink. The spirit slid down her throat, igniting fire.

“Money,” she said. “Lydia Harcourt is a courtesan. My father was so foolish! She discovered that his hands are crippled and that he can’t paint. She learned about me. I don’t know if he told her everything or if she guessed, but she wants one thousand pounds to keep silent. I haven’t got one thousand pounds!”

She took another gulp of the brandy—it was easier now to take more than a sip. Courage blossomed in her heart.

“Does Rodesson know about this?

“Not until I told him yesterday afternoon.”

“It seems to me it is his dilemma to solve.”

With sarcasm, she said, “He creates the troubles that must be fixed. At first he assured me that her intention was to hurt him, not me. He insisted that she had no intention of revealing what she knew but that we should pay her. He decided to set off last night in her pursuit—or he would have done, but he had a mild attack of his heart.”

The earl’s brows shot up. “He survived, I gather?”

She nodded. “I was summoned by his footman and sent for a physician. The doctor looked dour and serious, and lectured, but he’s confident my father will recover. Still my father is in no condition to go to Mrs. Harcourt and I fear about what will happen to his health if he is trapped in bed and worrying.”

“And what does the orgy have to do with this, love?”

The earl smelled delicious from his ride—of leather from the saddle and his riding boots, heady sandalwood, his perspiration. Even his library was a delight for the senses. The room contained lavish color—rugs of crimson, indigo, ivory; a daybed heaped with silks and pillows of scarlet, sapphire-blue, deep green. Pillows were strewn on the floor, beside low tables, as though he sprawled there to read. Her book was there, on a table inlaid with jade.

“I went to Mrs. Harcourt’s house this morning and learned she has gone to Lord Chartrand’s orgy.”

“You went to her house?” The earl’s brows rose, then he strolled over to his desk. He picked up a card. Presented it to her. “Chartrand’s bacchanalia. Held in the Cottswolds. Near Moreton-in-Marsh.”

Venetia could barely breathe as she stared down at the printed card, tracing the gilt design with her thumb. It was not addressed to him in particular. With this in hand, she could easily attend.

“You aren’t going to attend an orgy.” He plucked the card from her fingers, tossed it back to his desk.

“But I must go. I can’t wait for her to return! What if she talks before then?”

“Hell and damnation,” he muttered. “You want to go to an orgy because you are afraid that anxiety will kill your father? I would say that he deserves some anxiety.”

But that would only cause her more, so she could not agree. “I believe if I go, I can understand what kind of woman Mrs. Harcourt is. And plead with her not to ruin my family.”

He sauntered over to a bookshelf, with his long predatory stride, and pulled out a slim volume. “
A Gentleman’s Choice
,” he read off the spine. “
Or a Guide to the Fashionable Impures of 1818
. Anything you wish to learn about this Season’s courtesans can be found in here. Lydia Harcourt is featured.”

“Someone publishes an annual guide to courtesans?”

“Illustrated as well.”

Given her own pictures, why was she blushing? “Do you select your mistresses from descriptions in a book?”

“You disapprove?”

Well, she did, but she had no right to.

“But you know how enticing a book can be. Here, take a look.”

She found Lydia Harcourt’s picture near the back of the volume, a voluptuous woman shown wearing only a corset. Large breasts pointed boldly at the viewer, her legs were crossed to hide her quim but to reveal her full thighs and generous bottom. The sketch was ink, in black and white, depicting Mrs. Harcourt with a pretty face and masses of black curls.

“Lydia Harcourt was once the Queen of London’s courtesans,” he said. “But now she is nearing forty, her charms are fading, and the men she once entranced are seeking out new, younger lovers. Rumor has it that she raved at the publisher of that book for placing her at the back and blackened his eye before he had her thrown out. Under her veneer, she’s a coarse scrapper who will do anything to survive.”

“Not very sympathetic, then.” She read the text that accompanied the picture.
Magnificent forty-inch breasts…most skilled mouth and clever hands…conquests include the Duke of Montberry, the Earl of Brude…Rodesson’s mocking pictures…

“My father painted her picture.” She hadn’t even thought to look.

Trent nodded. “Several unkind ones that revealed Lydia’s origins as a coarse butcher’s daughter and mocked her aspirations to bed dukes.”

Venetia frowned. Yet Lydia had still let Rodesson come to her bed. Why? Had revenge been Lydia’s goal all along and her father had stupidly played into her hands? Venetia closed the book. “Then I shall have my father write out an apology and take that to her. Surely that will help.” Now she understood—Lydia wanted her father to suffer, she wanted to torment him by threatening to ruin his daughters.

“You can’t go to an orgy, my dear.”

“I want to see what an orgy is really like,” she protested. “It would be…an adventure. I don’t wish to be good and proper and pure anymore! I want adventure. Even if only for once, I want to be part of the world I draw.”

“Have a love affair then, sweetheart. Do you ride horses?”

That surprised her. “Not well,” she admitted.

“Would you want to climb on the back of Zeus, my horse, and race him down the Row?”

“Heavens, no.”

“Then your first sexual adventure should not be an event that exhausts even London’s most experienced and randy men. At Chartrand’s orgy, you would be seriously out of your depth.”

“I know what happens at orgies. I’ve drawn them!” Venetia cried.

Marcus picked up Venetia’s book,
Tales of a London Gentleman
, and flipped the pages until he found an orgy scene. Rodesson had drawn dozens of such scenes and his father had insisted he look at every one. For his sixteenth birthday, his father enacted his favorite at a brothel. A bloody wretched night it had been, he reflected. Six young ladybirds had sprained their ankles, three of his father’s friends were laid up for a month, and he’d spent the entire occasion fucking one woman with his eyes shut, embarrassed by the wild, heaving display—

Venetia Hamilton’s orgy scene was unique, set amongst gods and goddesses in a temple in the clouds. She had succeeded in turning a tangle of naked human bodies into something playful and undeniably romantic.

He looked away from her picture and sighed. “My dear, you have a very starry-eyed view of an orgy.”

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I am well aware that reality does not sell books, my lord. After all, when is the hero of a romantic story ever balding, pot-bellied, and riddled with gout?”

He laughed. God, she was enchanting. And mulishly stubborn.

“Besides.” She stuck out her chin. “Some Rodesson paintings are more humorous than erotic. A set of plump buttocks sticking up, a gentleman’s tilted sword, a lady tumbled on her back with legs waving in the air. All very silly.”

His throat tightened. His cock began to rise. “At the orgy, would you announce to your host that he has a virgin in his midst, one who has delivered herself willingly to the wolves? Do you have any idea what Chartrand would do with you the moment he discovered a virgin had come to his party?”

Hazel eyes wide, she licked her full lips.

“He would introduce you to the darkest pleasures but first he would make you compliant by stripping you naked before his guests and spanking your nude derriere with a riding crop to teach you obedience. He would be the one to plunder your virginity, likely in public—”

He wanted to frighten her—to protect her—but she stood with a straight spine and a fiercely determined expression.

“I would pretend to be a jade,” she said, “I would go masked. And if you will not escort me, I can hire a bodyguard to do so.”