Sin (8 page)

“What…what are you doing, my lord?”

He turned and flashed a grin, a lock of raven hair drifting over his eyes. Her heart gave a little jump as her gaze met his vivid turquoise eyes. Then he winked. “Checking for peepholes.”

“Peepholes?” In that one word she realized that while she drew sinful pictures, she knew nothing of his world. “Goodness, people can watch us?”

“Possibly. There are some in the wall between our rooms, so I can watch what you do when you believe you are all alone.” He infused such naughtiness that her nipples tightened beneath gown and shift.

“Now that I know you are watching,” she protested, “I won’t do…things.”

“What things won’t you do?” Spoken in his deep, sinfully suggestive baritone, the simple question sounded vastly wicked.

She flushed, thinking of…not of scandalous things, but of using the chamber pot, and of other personal moments.

Venetia sank down on the edge of her enormous bed, balanced on her slipper-clad toes.

Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Why do you enjoy public sex?”

He crossed the room and leaned against the bedpost nearest her, elegant and casual all at once. “It is the nature of men to posture before other men.”

He tipped up her chin and bent down so his lips were just an inch from hers. “Imagine an audience of gentlemen watching you, all enraptured by the sight of your hands caressing your naked breasts, and all entranced by the sway of your hips as you ride your lover. You could make them all come just by the way you move your hips.”

“Why do you do this?” she cried. “You tell me that I don’t belong at an orgy. You make me promise to dally with no one else, and then you…you tempt me, you arouse me until I can’t stop thinking of wild, scandalous things!”

“Now that we know no one can see, you no longer need to be masked.” He pulled the strings, undoing the bow. Some hairs snagged and tugged at her scalp, and he whispered, “Sorry love.”

Strangely, the quick apology made her heart flip. Why did the smallest gestures he made send her heart into palpitations?

Thankful to be free of the mask, soft as it was, she watched as he laid it on the bed. It seemed a precious, beautiful gift, but it likely meant nothing to him. A mask was necessary and he would purchase the best because he expected nothing less.

“I have something for you,” he said.

She knew he would not answer her question, but she was trembling in anticipation.
Something
for her? He gave a wink, then left through the connecting door to his room. Leaving her alone on her enormous bed in her exquisite room. The bed was thoroughly decadent, a delightful confection of gleaming gilt and ivory silk, the mattress thick and soft. Above her, an elaborate canopy dripped tassels and bows. Fine ivory curtains were tied with forest green ropes. A mass of green velvet bolsters and pillows were strewn across the head.

“I hope you like it.” He leaned in the doorway, a long blue box in his hands. A box of the sort her mother received from Rodesson. Her heart leapt into her throat.

Marcus crossed the room in long, elegant strides. Struck dumb, she looked from his handsome face to the box and back. He looked pleased with himself. He yanked off the lid as he reached her.

Green glittered at her. Emeralds. Dear heaven,
emeralds
. A necklace of a million winking stones and one magnificent pear-shaped one at the center. Within the loop of the necklace sat a matching bracelet and earbobs.

“You may touch them. They are yours.”

“M—mine?”

“No one will believe you are my lover unless you wear a flamboyant token of my desire.” A grin widened his sensual lips. “Allow me.”

He draped the cool necklace around her neck. At the brush of his fingers on her nape, she felt her legs quiver. “Emeralds to match the green in your eyes. And they look spectacular with your auburn hair. They are yours to keep.”

And she thought his apology had sent her heart careening in her chest? “No…no, that would not be right.” She turned to gaze solemnly at him. “I haven’t earned them.”

“Perhaps you have.” He stroked her cheek. He began to open the buttons of his dress coat. “So what did you think of Lydia?” he asked casually. “Do you still believe she can be convinced to spare you?”

Startled, Venetia watched him undress. She was sitting on a bed. He had fastened the most gorgeous, heavy,
expensive
necklace around her neck. What did he plan to do?

Lydia
. He had spoken of Lydia. “I—I don’t know what to think,” she admitted. “Why did we not speak to her? We could have had the business finished in the foyer.”

“If you want to keep your identity a secret, you must leave Lydia to me.” He stroked a fingertip along the length of her throat, caught it in the necklace, brushing both the beautiful stones and her skin. Her legs dissolved like sugar in tea.

He shrugged off his coat. Laid it on her bed.

“What are you doing?”

“We must dress for dinner, love.” He opened his waistcoat while she stared, her mouth gaping. “I would pay her off for you…”

He would pay Lydia for her? But she didn’t want that. She didn’t want him to rescue her. She wanted to be independent! To be in control.

“I visited my father last night. To ask him to write an apology about that picture—” She was embarrassed to admit this.

“Good God, he knows you came here with me?”

She shook her head. “Of course not! I wouldn’t reveal that. But I couldn’t find the courage to ask him to write the note. He, at least, was in much better health.”

He stripped off his waistcoat and was working on his shirt. “I doubt your apology would work, sweeting. I know Lydia Harcourt. She has expensive tastes. She wants blunt.”

Venetia couldn’t help the surge of jealousy that sent her stomach plummeting to her toes. “You’ve had an affair with Lydia Harcourt, haven’t you?” The instant the sour-sounding words spilled out, she regretted them.

“No.” He undid the buttons of his shirt, then reached for the first one on his trousers.

“I don’t believe you!” She looked up, into his eyes, but her gaze strayed back to his crotch “Downstairs, she was offering herself to you.”

He paused, with trousers half open. “Actually she was offering to have sex with you for my amusement. And no, on my honor, I’ve never bedded Lydia Harcourt. She’s ten years older than I am. By the time I was a randy young man visiting orgies, she was a favorite and she refused to fuck anything less than a marquess. It’s only now, when her charms are waning, that a mere earl looks much more appealing.”

That sounded…cruel. Hard. Something flashed in his blue-green eyes. Anger? “You sound like a rejected suitor.”

“No, hardly that. But Lydia likes to cause trouble. And I’m not bloody impressed that she’s blackmailing you. You’ve worked hard, taken great risks for the welfare of your family. Lydia has no bloody right to threaten you.”

No one had ever championed her before.
Don’t let it go to your head.
It meant nothing. Merely kindness. After all, a man could forsake the woman who bore his children.

“Now, have you taken a look at your other gifts?”

Startled, she glanced where he pointed, but at first she could only see his hand. His beautiful hand—tanned, patterned with veins, with large, graceful fingers. He pointed at the gilt escritoire that stood by the window, framed by open drapes of deep green velvet. Beyond, rain slashed down in the gardens. “Other gifts?” she asked.

“Specially selected by our thoughtful host, Lord Chartrand. You will have to look and see.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t keep teasing me!”

“I am delighted to see that even emeralds do not quell your spirit. Why don’t you go and have a look?”

Chastised, she stomped over—she especially disliked being teased—and lifted the card from the top of the box. It bore two words, in a woman’s beautiful handwriting.
A Gift.

Cautiously, she flipped open the lid. The most curious items lay within. Two gold balls attached to a fine gold chain. She reached in and touched a long ivory wand, tapered and rounded at the end, but attached to leather straps. There were two other such wands, carved to look like cocks—perfect replicas, right down to the veins. They were attached at the hilts, hinged. Small rubies encircled their bases.

“What is it?” he asked, behind her.

He must think her embarrassed. She knew that people used devices for pleasure—the art of Rodesson and Belzique included many pictures of women sliding such things inside them.

“Sex toys, I assume?”

“Yes.” A giggle bubbled up. She held one member around its thick shaft, let the other dangle. “What is this supposed to do?” With her other hand she held up the two balls. “And these? Tell me, oh rakish guide.”

He prowled to her with his shirt open. “The balls are for your pleasure. Shall I show you?”

Yes. Yes, she wanted this. Wanted to learn. He was the master and she was the student and he had an illicit game he wanted to teach her.

She held the balls in her hand, heating them. Soft and fine, her shift teased her thighs as he drew her skirts up.

“Now I make you moist, vixen.” His thick fingers parted the lips of her quim. She moaned as her wetness flowed onto his fingers. She couldn’t help but squeal as he eased the first ball between her nether lips. Oh, how she wanted it but she tensed at the pressure.

“The balls move inside you, pleasuring you. You leave the chain out, to withdraw them. If you move with them inside—walk, dance—you bring yourself to orgasm. And if you are quiet, it can be your own naughty secret.”

“Will the other women have these…inside?”

“Yes. But you cannot use them, sweetheart. Not without breaking your barrier.”

“I don’t mind doing that.”

“You might regret that choice later. You might want to marry.” He slipped the first ball just inside her cunny.

“I don’t want to marry—” She gasped at being filled. What did she care about marriage? All she wanted was to breath in his male scent, gaze at his lust-heated eyes, hear his deep, seductive baritone, and rub her clit against the toy he held in his powerful hand.

“Do you pleasure yourself?”

Mute with passion, she nodded, grabbed his hand, and held it tight to her cunny.

“How?” he whispered.

“I touch my bud. Stroke it. It brings my release swiftly—” Venetia understood what he was making her reveal—even though she’d decided never to marry, she had preserved her barrier. Why? “The first time,” she admitted, “The first time I touched my fingers to it, the release came almost immediately and I thought I might die. I was young…” Why did she feel she could tell him such things. Because he had shared such things with her?
I was eight when he gave me my first volume.
“Fourteen. I’d been painting a picture of the village smithy’s muscular son.”

Marcus groaned, dropped the ball, and thrust his fingers between her curls. The rough tips stroked, teased, and then he caught her abraded clit between two fingers. “It arouses me to think of you bringing yourself to climax. It doesn’t surprise me that you took control of your own pleasure.”

Yes, but she couldn’t take control of her own life. But stroking her pearl was more fun when shared, she realized, and then he rubbed with his big fingers, and she couldn’t think at all.

“Yes, yes, yes!” She rocked violently against his hand as the orgasm streaked through her. Still climaxing, she grabbed naughtily for his cock—she wanted him coming too!—but to her surprise, he drew her hand away. “But you’re hard,” she managed between pants, “Huge! Don’t you want release?”

“God yes, sweeting, I do. But I will have to wait.”

S
tanding at the top of the gallery, Venetia surveyed the elegantly dressed peers and courtesans who strolled below. Chandeliers dazzled. Jewels sparkled on powdered bosoms. She let her fingers stray to her own magnificent necklace. Every woman was beautiful, every man breathtaking.

“This early in the evening it looks like a tedious ton ball,” Marcus advised, bending to let his voice tease her ear. “When I was young, the contrast used to amuse me. Knowing that the party would degrade into unfettered, wild sex.”

Her hand tightened on her necklace and the cool edges of the stones tickled her palm, damp inside her glove.

“But tonight,” Marcus admitted, “it sets my teeth on edge. Tonight, leave Lydia to me and tomorrow we will return to London.”

One look at his intense turquoise eyes told her he would brook no argument. One night only. One night for adventure.

“Now paste a pretty smile on your face,” he said, “It is time to meet your host and hostess.”

That startled. “
Lady
Chartrand is here?”

“In the flesh.” He nodded toward the foot of the stairs, to where a voluptuous blonde stood, flashing a coquettish smile at the Duke of Montberry. Even Venetia recognized His Grace, the famed hero of war. A man with gray in his thick ash-blond hair, he exuded a potent sensuality that made her instinctively lick her lips. As for Lady Chartrand, she was tall and curvaceous, with elegantly dressed curls of gold. Paint gave color to her beautiful face but beneath the artificial bloom, she was deathly pale—as though gripped by despair, or shock.

Venetia followed Marcus’ lead to the top of the steps.

“Lady Chartrand is a submissive. Her back, beneath that gown, bears the scars of many whippings and beatings.”

Beatings. He must mean like those in the Belzique paintings. “Have you ever—”

“Only a few spankings.” He stared down at her hands. “She loved it, but eventually begged for it harder, and that I couldn’t do for her. She loved pain—I hated giving it out. I’ve never wanted to whip a woman.”

“I can’t…I can’t imagine what woman would want to be whipped and hurt by a man!”

“Many do, my sweet.”

She lifted her satin skirts as they descended the stairs—it was like casually walking into a demon’s lair. She felt the curious gazes the way she would feel the heat of a fire. Voices rose in a furious buzz of speculation.

No one could know her. She wore the mask and a low cut ivory satin gown, the most beautiful one she possessed. Her fingers lifted to her mask and she touched the sides, the strings, felt for the snug bow at the back of her head.

He squeezed her hand. “Confidence, my dear. We’re in this together.”

They were at the bottom of the stairs, close to Lady Chartrand and Montberry. Her ladyship watched them, head cocked, curiosity blatant in her enormous blue eyes. Venetia felt her cheeks prickle with heat behind the mask. She pasted a confident smile on her painted lips.

“Trent!” A booming voice carried through the elegant hall.

“Our host.”

Venetia saw a huge gentleman charging up, with a voluptuous henna-haired jade clinging to his arm. Who else but a jade would be poured into a tight gown of black lace—with holes cut out to expose her scarlet nipples? As for the gentleman, he possessed the brawn and bulk of a Corinthian. He gave a broad grin, flashing missing teeth, yet his hawklike brow, large nose, and wide lips were compellingly sensual.

Lord Chartrand clapped Marcus’ shoulder. “Pleased to see you here, Trent. Heard some rubbish that you’ve been practicing abstinence.”

Abstinence?
But before Venetia could think more on that—and the fact he had most definitely not done so with her—Lord Chartrand’s gaze raked over her. He leered at her breasts, then studied her masked face. “Who is your lovely companion, who has her secrets to keep?” He shrugged off the courtesan’s hand. Venetia had no choice but to let him lift her fingers to his lips.

Her body was as stiff as a board and heat flared behind her eyes, as though she might faint. All her bold courage fled at the lascivious hunger in Lord Chartrand’s eyes.

“It amuses me to call her ‘Vixen’,” Marcus drawled.

“Vixen, indeed. I do hope you plan to share, Trent.”

Share!
But that was exactly what happened at an orgy.

“Not this time, Char,” Marcus said, “She’s new to this.”

“All the more reason to introduce her to all the carnal delights on offer.”

“I plan a slow seduction, Char.”

Chartrand licked his lips—as though contemplating feasting on her. “You don’t mean to say that she’s a virgin?”

“Not a maiden, just a lass who hasn’t been exposed to more inventive sexual practices.”

She remembered his words—
do you have any idea what Chartand would do with you the moment he discovered a virgin had come to his party?

Chatrand smirked. “She might resist at first, Trent, but I guess she’d heat up quickly. You might discover she has a taste for rough sex.”

Her head buzzed like a beehive. She’d enjoyed the pleasures she’d shared with Marcus, but she didn’t want Chartrand to touch her.

Marcus rested his hand on the small of her back. He stroked, and she remembered, at his side, she had nothing to fear. She could relax and pretend to be an intrepid explorer.

Chartrand gripped the redheaded woman’s wrist, and dragged her forward. She dropped into a graceful curtsy. Chartrand’s voice was a rough growl. “Miss Vixen, may I present to you Miss Rosalyn Rose.”

Vixen? Venetia bobbed down in return but her nerves showed in a slight wobble. She wasn’t certain she liked the name Marcus had bestowed to protect her identity. She raised her head to see Lord Chartrand squeeze Rosalyn Rose’s large breast, then bend and sink his teeth into the upper swell. Miss Rose squeaked but endured without defending herself. The red indent of Chartrand’s teeth showed plainly on the jade’s smooth flesh as he straightened.

“Take your pretty Vixen to the drawing room,” Chartrand advised with a wink, and with that he and Rosalyn Rose moved on.

“Enjoying yourself?” Marcus asked.

They were alone. It was safe to speak.

She tipped up her chin. “I’m not afraid.”

“You should be.”

She refused to quake at his low, dangerous tone, but she certainly would never leave his side.

Seminude girls wandered among the guests—lovely girls wrapped in transparent robes with loose, shimmering hair that reached to their bums. Men grabbed at their breasts and cunnies, kissed lips and scarlet nipples, slapped their bottoms. She was supposed to be like one of those girls.

“Men won’t paw at you like that.” Marcus slipped an arm around her waist and drew her close. “They are aware that you are my property. Even in this game, a man doesn’t poach on another’s preserve. Definitely not on the preserve of a crack shot.”

“You mean duels?” Horror echoed in her whisper. “But they’re illegal.”

Splaying his gloved hand over her bottom, he nudged her to move her along.

“You can’t kill a man over me!”

“Don’t show your claws in public. Wise harlots keep them sheathed.”

“But I’m supposed to be untutored,” she returned. “Please, you
must
promise you won’t call anyone out.”

But before he could answer, a dark-haired man bowed before her. Dressed head to toe in black—even his cravat was dyed the color of coal—this gentleman quirked his full, sensual lips in a sardonic smile. Long lashes brushed his black brows and he possessed beautifully sculpted cheekbones. He was the gentleman who had been with Miss Harcourt.

The man dropped into a careless, theatrical bow. “Viscount Swansborough at your service, my lady.” Instead of pressing a kiss to her fingertips, the viscount tipped her fingers back to present the flat of her palm, which he kissed with his mouth open. He even dabbed his tongue into the sensitive center and she bit back a squeal. Of surprise, of forbidden enjoyment.

“Back off, Swansborough,” Marcus warned. His chest seemed larger, his spine ramrod straight, his eyes glittered like a predator’s. She recognized male posturing and gulped.

Lord Swansborough released her hand, but not before caressing her fingers. “A private treasure. Does your jewel have a name, Trent?”

“Vixen,” Venetia breathed. Both men drew in sharp breaths at the husky melody her nervous voice played.

But as they moved to pass, Swansborough caught Marcus’ shoulder. His expression twisted. “Who is she, Trent?” He spoke in a jaded drawl but with lethal sharpness beneath. “What in hell have you brought a woman like that here for?”

With a self-mocking grin, Marcus said, “She’s a jade entertaining me by playing the novice. Fancies a future on the stage.”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Venetia felt as helpless as a witness to a carriage accident as Marcus seethed at the remark, his hands fisted, his teeth gritted. All she could do was clap her hands to her mouth and pray.

Swansborough turned to a pair of almost-nude courtesans, both blondes. He grabbed both round derrieres and nuzzled each set of pert breasts in turn. Venetia began to fear that if she became any more shocked, she would turn to stone. But at least the viscount’s insult to Marcus was lost to lusty passion.

Marcus clamped his hand over hers and dragged her away. Venetia scurried to keep up with his pace. “What is wrong?”

They’d reached a set of open gilded doors before he stopped. He stroked her cheek. “You’re going to have to act a more convincing whore, sweeting,” he murmured. “One look at you and a man knows you’re innocent.”

Venetia felt a stare on her back and glanced around to meet Lady Chartrand’s thoughtful gaze. She managed a smile. Her ladyship stood between two men she recognized from the gossip sheets and her father’s books. Lord Brude, the dreamy poet, and Mr. Wembly, the arbitrator of men’s fashion, the king of the Bow Window Set.

“How do you wish me to act like a whore?” she asked.

“Grope me, flirt with me, and make lewd suggestions.”

She snuggled close and laid her hands on his steely thighs. She slid her hands up and up the insides of his thighs, until she reached his delicate balls—a large bulge within his trousers. She cupped them with both hands. Warm. Soft. Large. They overflowed her palm.

His breath hitched. “Sweeting,” he groaned, “Your act doesn’t need to be quite so convincing. Your touch there is sweet torture. Heaven help me for encouraging you.”

Someone passed—Swansborough and the two ladybirds. “Do you wish to…fuck, my lord?” She asked like a bold strumpet, trying to be as opposite to her true self as she could be.

Marcus’ brow jerked up. The instant they were alone again, he warned, “You cannot use words like fuck.”

“Why not? You do!”

“Because hearing an angel like you say such a crude word makes me hunger to fuck you until neither of us can walk. And that I can’t let myself do.”

Why not?
she screamed within.

“You are tempting me to sin, dear angel.” He drew her hand away from his crotch, shook his head as though fighting the haziness of lust. “You make me forget why I’m here. To rescue you from Lydia and not to watch you learn a harlot’s skills.”

“She’s not out here.” She glanced behind, around the quieter foyer. Lydia’s dark curls—or enormous breasts—were nowhere to be seen.

“She’ll be in the blasted drawing room.”

Why did he sound so reluctant to go in? She could see only fashionable guests strolling inside, drinking champagne and sharing heated glances. “What is in there?”

“Fucking.” His wry laugh rippled down her spine.

Just the naughty word sent heat coursing through her. “I’ve drawn such things. I want to see everything.”

Venetia feared her eyes might pop out of her head. She clutched her champagne flute.

By the pianoforte in the drawing room, a young man held a candelabrum and turned the pages while a pretty young woman with golden ringlets played. The strapping young buck’s pants were open and he pushed down on his rigid cock, forcing it down toward the girl’s pink-lipped mouth. In the shadows beneath the instrument, a dark-haired man had his head between the young lady’s legs.

“It’s
The Page Turner
! He’s copied my picture.” She gulped in shock. The dark-haired man was supposed to be the Earl of Trent, indulging in some illicit fun with an eager virginal daughter at a house party. Marcus would be furious.

“Apparently Chartrand admires your work.” Marcus’ hard, ironic tone made her shiver.

“Oh dear God,” she groaned.

“But—” His deep murmur surprised even as it set her on fire. “He hasn’t quite captured the remarkable flavor of your exquisite work, my love.”

My
love. So much more intimate than ‘love’, or was it a mocking address, one that hid great fury?

“Now that you have met me, now that I’ve made you come, do I live up to your fantasy of the Earl of Trent?” His erection brushed her bottom and robbed her of words.

What did he mean? She could tell nothing from his seductive tone—was he truly feeling playful or was he hiding dark anger? She stared at her picture come to life, at the elegance of the erotic action. But there was no secret story here. Only artifice.

Marcus slid his warm, powerful hand up her spine. He was real. His scent. His warmth. Strangely, even though she was certain he was angry, his touch gave her courage in this foreign world. Nor was that the cold caress of an angry man.

“You are more seductive than I could have ever imagined,” she whispered. It was true.

Unlike her picture, this scene was not a moment trapped in time. The fake earl’s tongue lapped hungrily at the woman, who made pretty moans. Venetia’s quim ached in response to each cry. The man with his member exposed moved closer to the woman’s mouth and she stuck out her tongue. They drew together, inexorably, until the tongue and cock touched and the woman’s tongue slid over the swollen head in a wet caress.

The man moaned but it was Marcus’ groan that electrified her every nerve.

His teeth grazed the top of her ear, sending honey flowing in her cunny. “Do you think I would be a better fuck than your fantasy man? Am I better at eating cunny?”