Sin (9 page)

Her tongue flapped uselessly in her mouth—she took a fortifying sip of champagne.

“Magnificent artist, Rodesson.
Tales of a London Gentleman
is a masterpiece. Hope you don’t object, Trent.”

A purely lecherous laugh washed over her from the left—too close—along with the strong scent of brandy. Venetia coughed and sputtered in shock. Marcus drew her into his embrace, and she turned to the speaker—Lord Chartrand.

“Your mistress appears to be choking.” Chartrand grinned. “So, Trent, is your lady accomplished on the pianoforte?”

“I’ve never given her time to play,” Marcus returned. Venetia shivered. He was presenting her as a whore, while making it clear she wasn’t available to anyone else.

“But does the young lady possess talented hands?”

“She is very talented with her hands,” Marcus replied in a dangerous growl.

If he’d been a wolf, his hackles would be raised, his fangs bared. She felt as though her chest were being squeezed. She wanted to be in control. Yet she didn’t dare even speak in case she made a mistake.

Chartrand—even though he was bigger than Marcus—gave a cold smile and took a step back. “I only hope that my tableaux provide inspiration.”

Venetia let out her caught breath on a whoosh. Chartrand had blinked first. Then he muttered a virulent ‘bitch’, and glowered over their heads. Venetia twisted to look.

The Duke of Montberry was approaching—with Lydia Harcourt on his arm.

Venetia swallowed hard. Lydia knew that she, not Rodesson, had drawn
The Page Turner
. What would Lydia say when she saw it?

Furtively, Venetia touched her mask to reassure herself it was still there. Lydia couldn’t know who she was. Thank heaven she hadn’t revealed herself yet. Lydia could not point a finger at her and scream ‘She’s the one who painted it.’

Marcus murmured, “Don’t speak to her, Vixen. Be careful.”

Lydia’s large blue eyes shifted from Montberry’s patrician features to Marcus’ face, and a catlike smile curved her scarlet painted lips. Lydia’s coloring was magnificent—pink cheeks, rosy lips, endless dark lashes. Any portrait artist would love to capture such beauty. She wore scarlet silk, with plunging neckline and a slit up the side that showed her legs.

“Publish and be damned, Your Grace?” Lydia asked the duke in a low voice. “Indeed I shall, but I will not be the object of ridicule.”

The elegant war hero lifted his quizzing glass. “Pah, you already are, minx. Do you not know the polite world is laughing at your ridiculous aspirations to become an author? Lud, gel, can you even compose a sentence?”

“Well enough to mock you, Your Grace,” Lydia snapped. With that the courtesan spun, nose in the air, and stormed off.

Montberry drew a cheroot from his breast pocket. “Stupid, stupid tart,” he muttered.

“Oooh!”

Legs trembling, heart racing, Venetia snapped her attention back to the piano. The young lady writhed as the man beneath the piano clutched her to his face. The ‘earl’ had made her come.

The erotic moment captured her, held her spellbound. She became aware of Marcus’ heavy breaths, of his touch on her hip—so wonderfully sensitive there, even through clothes. Of the insistent push of his erection against her bottom.

She wanted him, ached for him, and reached for his hand, twined fingers, led his hand up to rest beneath her breast…

Marcus groaned as Venetia watched Trixie Jones suck a cock down her throat and grind her quim into another man’s face.

This had to be a punishment for his sins, Marcus thought.

Emeralds flashed around Venetia’s wrist as she brought his hand up to rest against her tight bodice, beneath her full breasts. His gift. The pretence that she belonged to him, his to seduce tonight.

He’d seen the condemnations in the eyes of Brude, Swansborough, Wembly, even Helen, Lady Chartrand. Each and every one thought he was playing the sort of game his father had done. Debauching a naïve girl. They wouldn’t intervene, but he hated to be considered to be that kind of blackguard. Yet to protect Venetia, he had no choice.

“He…he hasn’t got it quite right,” she mused.

“Who?” he bit out. “The one underneath or the one standing?”

The scene set his blood thrumming, as it would any breathing male, but knowing Venetia had created this fantasy made him ache with need. Even though he should be furious that it was depicting
him
, he was aroused by it. He hadn’t felt so rigid, so swollen, so close to losing control since his youth. He hurt as though he’d denied himself for months. Of course he had, but it wasn’t that. It was a few hours in Venetia’s tempting presence.

“Chartrand.” Venetia pursed plump lips. The scarlet cream made her mouth look large, wet, and tempting. But he preferred it bare. Soft, natural, and tasting of her.

“The woman is a bit too brash for the part, I think,” she continued. “I envisioned a woman caught up in deception and sin and passion against her better nature. A more tentative woman.”

“A woman like you?”

A flush bloomed in her cheeks, visible below the mask. He pressed close. Her bottom was a lush cushion for his erection. Her exotic-tinged scent swirled up and he took a deep breath. Not her usual perfume—the clever woman had realized how identifying scent could be.

Other couples strolled by and stopped to watch
The Page Turner
. Helen on Wembly’s arm. Rosalyn with Brude, who nodded in approval. “Ah, Rodesson’s latest work. Excellent choice.”

Marcus gritted his teeth as the ladies winked and sent carnal invitations with the motions of their fans. Wembly and Brude shared a bawdy laugh at his expense. But the truth was that Venetia was a remarkable artist. And she was correct—Chartrand’s copy of her work didn’t possess the arresting sensuality of the original.

Brude and Wembly bestowed kisses on Venetia’s hand, but as he turned for one moment to kiss Helen’s fingertips, both men squeezed Venetia’s bottom. She jumped. Her champagne glass tipped and spilled.

Marcus pulled her possessively to his side. “I don’t intend to share,” he growled.

Wembly quirked a brow. “Then you shouldn’t have brought her, Trent.”

Venetia’ eyes widened in shock as the couples strolled on and Marcus warned, “You see, fantasy and reality are two different things.”

She shoved her empty glass at a passing footman. “I was surprised, not offended. I do recognize the risks here.”

No, you don’t entirely. Even after a night here, your soul will never be the same.

“I’ll protect you from all risks, sweeting.” And he would, but he knew now he was on a fool’s errand. Preserving Venetia’s virginity wouldn’t save his soul.

He lured her from the growing crowd, arm tight around her waist, but he led her from
The Page Turner
, only to encounter a true Rodesson work,
The First Night
. On a large daybed, a starry-eyed debutante—a pretty auburn-haired whore who looked a convincing virgin—surrendered her innocence to a dashing rogue.

A rasping breath caught in his throat. The woman looked too much like Venetia.

The scene was in progress. Both lovers were nude. The rake parted pretty thighs, positioned his lance, then took his first thrust, sinking deep. Venetia gasped. While the woman in the tableau was doubtless not a virgin, she gave a convincing sobbing cry. It echoed though Marcus’ veins and with every pulse of blood to his groin.

He urged Venetia to move toward the doors at the end that led to a gallery. A place for sanity.

“Wait, m—my lord.” Venetia stood her ground as he tried to hurry her past the next scene. He glanced back at it. A tangle of nubile bodies, mouths at every orifice and large, erect cocks wobbling everywhere. She murmured something.

He only caught one word. Sketchpad.
Sketchpad?

Venetia twisted him in circles. When he expected shock, she acted the bohemian artist. And sometimes she was sweetly startled, his heart ached…

“What is the haste, my lord? Aren’t you intrigued by this?”

“I’ve seen it before, Vixen. Done it. What I want is to get you out of here.”

In truth, he hungered to whisk Venetia back to the bedroom. To spend the night with his head between her silky thighs, breathing her rich fragrance, reveling in her taste, making her scream…wishing he could do it with his cock…

One night. All he had to survive was one night. He’d have Lydia taken care of and he’d return Venetia to London with her virginity intact. And he would have protected the damsel in distress.

Church was a place he rarely went, except for the obligatory christenings and weddings—he had a rake’s unease about stepping onto hallowed ground—but he sent up a prayer as he steered Venetia away.
Give me the strength to resist temptation.
His father was rotting in hell for his crimes and no amount of prayer over a brandy bottle had saved him.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasped. “Look at that!”

“I
never—” Venetia stopped, lowered her voice. “I’ve never drawn anything like this. Certainly none with you—”

“I know. I know all your pictures.” Marcus stroked her bare shoulders and shivers tumbled down her spine. “You’ve drawn women together. But this scene does remind me of your
Reunion of School Chums
and he’s changed it to suit his catamites.”

Two brawny young men shared the Grecian-style daybed. One lay on his back with a muscular arm resting on the bolster. The other had his arm flung across the first man’s hips, his hand squeezing the plump sac that nestled between lean thighs.

Mouth dry, Venetia watched how an experienced hand played with a man’s balls. The ministrations were so aggressive. Surely the one being fondled must be in pain.

But they kissed passionately, with mouths wide open, tongues jabbing and tangling. Both sported erections—the swollen cocks as unique as their owners. The one lying on his back had golden curls on his head, sherry-colored ones at his crotch and a thick, straight member that jutted upward. His partner was dark, his back and chest were tanned to the color of dark clover honey, and his cock curved toward his navel. A small head peeked out of his tight foreskin.

She was shocked at herself for studying them so intently.

Merely the interest of an artist in the human form
. It was a lie and she sucked in deep, hurried breaths. “In
Chums
, the women were…daintily exploring each other. It was rather…innocent.”

The dark-haired youth trailed kisses down the ridged abdomen of the blond man…

“And these two look playfully appealing too, don’t they?”

Yes, she had to admit they did. Or she would, if she could find the breath to speak. Why she should be so aroused by two men kissing and caressing, she couldn’t imagine. But she was. As the men began grappling each other’s erections, her cunny throbbed in response.

With a shock, she realized the blond man was casting covetous looks at Marcus. He was all but fluttering his long, fair lashes. Even though his mate was kissing the nest of golden curls at the hilt of his erection, he only had eyes for Marcus.

She gave an icy glare and put her hand over Marcus’, squeezing possessively. Not only did the women want him, so did the men!

There had been one Rodesson picture involving a coupling between men. A picture of sodomy, though the man being penetrated had worn a look of shock. He’d been buried deep inside a woman and another man was taking him from the rear, obviously without consent.

What had happened after that moment? Had the man in the center forced the other to stop? Had they fought a duel? How did a gentleman name his seconds for that?

Her dress slid up at the back, up to midcalf. Startled, she tried to twist in Marcus’ arm. He let her hem drop and the ruffles skimmed over her gauzy fine stockings.

Marcus lifted her skirts again, caressing her legs with the brush of muslin and silk. She could hardly think.

“I can smell your delectable honey flowing, Vixen. The sight of two men excites you?”

She nodded.

“Intriguing.”

What did he mean by that? And why, if he wished to keep her pure, did he have to tease her by lifting her skirts? Was it just part of the game? She burned—in the most wanton way!

“My lord Trent.”

The breathy, husky voice of a woman. Lydia? Venetia managed to turn in his arms. No, this woman wore white. And a mask—a beautiful concoction of white leather and feathers. Her entire face was hidden, the holes at the mouth painted with a scarlet outline, the eyes rimmed with painted-on lashes. Floating feathers trimmed her white gown. They were all that covered her breasts, and as she moved feathers fluttered, revealing distended dark brown nipples.

“My dear Lady Yardley.”

Venetia gasped as her skirts swooshed down to her ankles once more. Marcus bowed over the woman’s fingers. His lips briefly brushed, but Lady Yardley’s breasts rose and fell, parting the feathers.

Even she, far outside London’s high society, knew Lady Yardley. The widow who did many charitable works and who actually ventured into the rough and grimy streets around Covent Garden to save prostitutes. Lady Yardley attended debauched orgies? And why do so masked, if all knew who she was?

Lady Yardley boldly stroked Marcus’s hip. “Lord Trent, I didn’t know you enjoyed the sight of a man’s cock in another man’s ass?”

Venetia coughed. Lady
Yardley
had just said that?

“My little Vixen wished to watch.”

Still shocked, Venetia turned back to the daybed. The blond youth sprawled on his belly now, legs parted and he lifted his rump until the cheeks brushed his friend’s dangling bollocks. The other licked his hand and spread his spittle over the swollen, purplish head of his cock.

A proper young lady should not see such a thing. But she wanted to watch, heaven help her. And not only to merely study for her art—

Both young men looked so agonized, so needy. A large male hand curved on one tightly clenched cheek, parting, opening. His cock dipped, forced down into the furry valley. Moans from both. A plea to hurry.

She knew the moment of penetration—the dark-haired youth gave an abrupt thrust of his hips, the blond man cried out. His friend immediately yanked back. Again and again they tried, until the thick, rigid cock slowly sank from view, until a groin dusted with dark curls slapped hard against firm buttocks.

“Yes, yes, John,” cried the blond youth. Ravaging thrusts forced him into the daybed. His fingers curled like claws, gripping plump silk cushions. The pounding rocked the chaise, yet he arched his rear up, seeking more.

“God, I love fucking your tight, tight arse, Cole.” Eyes shut tight, John plunged deep, his thrusts almost vicious. “I want to rip you apart, boy. I want to thrust me cock right through you.”

Venetia flinched at the brutality. But Cole moaned and bucked in encouragement.

Lady Yardley flicked open a white and silver fan. She wafted it before her masked face with savage strokes. Warding off a faint?

No, not that at all. Venetia gaped as her ladyship stepped up onto the dais. While the two men engaged in their savage shocking sex, Lady Yardley stroked a white glove along the bunched thigh muscles of John, the dark-haired man on top. She snapped her fan closed.

Startled, Venetia saw the ivory fan had a rounded end. Lady Yardley stroked that end between John’s clenched cheeks. He groaned, deep and harsh. “Are you going to ram that up me arse, milady?”

“Not now, dear boy. Perhaps later, and only if you please me.”

“Yes, m’am,” he answered, and even bobbed his head, suddenly becoming a proper servant in the midst of his violent thrusting.

Venetia’s head swam. Heat raged over her skin. Her legs felt weightless beneath her. Marcus’ grip on her waist tightened. “Too extreme?” he whispered.

It wasn’t shock. Or was it? Venetia watched, dumbfounded, as Lady Yardley struck John’s rear with the fan, turned, and daintily left the stage. Her ladyship smirked like a cat in the larder as she watched John pound hard enough to almost shove Cole off the bed. He was truly performing now and Cole howled with every thrust.

“I shouldn’t worry, my lady. Chartrand’s bucks are also willing to service ladies.”

Venetia jumped at the mocking female voice. It was Lydia Harcourt, of course.

“
You.
What are you doing here?” Anger burned in Lady Yardley’s eyes.

Lydia gave a careless wave of her hand. “I am here to offer you a second chance.”

“You blackmailing tart.” Lady Yardley pointed the fan at Lydia as though it were a pistol barrel. “You greedy, stupid little fool. You’ll end up throttled to death, I promise you.”

Venetia shivered at the venom behind the threat. But Lydia merely laughed. Perhaps she’d heard worse. With a curtsy, she moved on. Lady Yardley turned back to the dias, radiating fury. Venetia knew her face was flaming beneath the mask.

“Oh God, I’m coming!”

She couldn’t help but look. Cole thrust his head back and his rear upward. “Coming!”

“God, yer squeezing me so bloody tight!” John yelled back. He climaxed with his head bowed, his mouth open and gasping, his muscles tense. Yet, as she watched, a voyeur to this intimate vulnerable moment, it was Marcus she was envisioning…the way he had come in the carriage for her…

Marcus’ finger was tracing the valley between her cheeks through her skirts. Like Cole, she arched her rear back to encourage. Would he put his finger between, pushing silk inside?

He cupped her rear with both hands. Oh yes. He kept her positioned so she could watch the daybed. John collapsed on top of Cole. With surprising gentleness, he kissed his lover’s neck, just beneath the damp blond hair. The gesture was so gentle and loving, such a contrast to the raw fervor of their joining.

Marcus’ hands slid around her waist. One settled low, sliding down from her hip toward the place that throbbed and burned.

Relief. His hand would give her relief and his fingers were so very close now…

He idly stroked her bosom. Was he only acting? Other gentleman fondled their partners. Pinched nipples and bottoms. Lifted skirts or plunged their hands down low bodices.

She became aware of them all at once. Of the scent of rich perfumes and other earthy smells. Of the sighs of encouragement, the coarse words. Of the lust burning in the men’s eyes. Of Cole rolling over onto his backside and offering his soft cock to his lover’s mouth…

Marcus’ thumb spiraled over her hard nipple. Yes…yes…She reached behind. Found him and stroked her hand along his hard length.

“We should stop,” he groaned in her ear. But his breath there, hot and teasing, drove her wild. She could feel the shape of the head though his trousers. Softly she traced the rounded ridge, the cleft. She wanted him…to do what she wasn’t sure and didn’t care…but she needed to climax before she died from the pain—

“I’m not going to do this in public.”

Do what? Anticipation tingled through her, setting her skin on fire.

“I need to take you out to the gallery. Now.”

Marcus pushed his way through the crowd and it parted for him, though he didn’t hold the highest rank.

Her mask had slipped, obscuring her vision and she had no choice but to blindly follow Marcus. Male voices called out from all sides.

“Did pretty Vixen enjoy the catamites’ display?”

The deep drawl of fashionable Mr. Wembly. “Thinking of three in the bed, Trent?”

Three! Her wits whirled as Marcus escorted her forward. Her feet moved by instinct.

The clipped accents of Montberry. “Didn’t know that was your pleasure, Trent. Allow me to entertain your little Vixen, while you indulge in a strapping young male—”

The husky, jaded voice of Lord Swansborough. “You’ll end up in hell, Trent, but I can see how your little treasure would tempt you there. If you’re seeking a third, I’m willing to damn myself in some sporting debauchery—”

Venetia struggled with her mask. She didn’t tug too hard in case it came off. Mad thoughts—lurid images—spun through her mind. “Are all the men going to offer to join us?”

“To have a taste of you? I don’t doubt it.”

The cool night air spilled over him and Marcus felt as though he’d been delivered from the flames of hell. Panes rattled along the long row of windows as gusts struck them. Rain pelted against glass, and some windows were open, letting in the steady drum of the storm. Thunder boomed. Dark and quiet settled around them, and he took a deep, relieved breath.

“Do you often share women with other men?”

The blunt, matter-of-fact question wasn’t what he’d expected from Venetia. He’d expected relief at escaping that den of sin. Shock over the bold offers. Not curiosity about his sexual practices.

Bracing his arm against the cold glass of a window, Marcus lifted her hand to his lips for a chaste kiss after the excess.

She drew pictures that astonished him. She had an imagination that stunned him.

“Do you?” She tugged at her mask. It had slipped down, half-covering her mouth.

“I have no intention of sharing you.” He eased her hands away, set her mask to rights. Heard the sharp intake of her breath. He’d meant he had no intention of letting her give up her innocence.

Lightning forked, setting the room ablaze for an instant. Thunder cracked and Venetia squealed. He jumped too, but caught her hand in his. Not just a gesture of protection.

There were no candles in the gallery. No moonlight either. The brief flash had left him blinded. Only the light creeping around the double doors to the drawing room illuminated the room. “We’re alone. Stand at the window, Vixen.”

He saw her reflection in the glass. Wide eyes, parted lips.

She moaned as he whisked up her skirts from behind.

“I want you, my lord. I’ve tried not to think about how much I want you. Tried to think of Lyd—of my quest. Of art. Of the scandalous people I’ve seen here. Of anything other than you.”

The clever wench lifted her slipper-clad foot and ran it along the side of his leg. She leaned back to tuck her head against his neck, to let silky curls tease his jaw.

Her skirts poured over his arm in a waterfall of silk and lace. The faint light caressed the rounded curves of her plump bare bottom. In the cool of the night, she promised fire and forbidden delight.

“Did it work, Vixen?” he rasped. “I couldn’t stop thinking of you.”

“Why?”

Such a simple question. So direct. One that deserved an answer.

“I don’t know. Perhaps because I am your protector?” He stepped between her spread legs. “But mostly I think because you are a beautiful woman who captures my—”

Sinfully soft, her bottom brushed across his groin.

“You capture my imagination. And I very much fear you could capture my soul.” He braced his hands on the windowsill, capturing her.

“After all the women you’ve made love to?”

“You are unique.” He nibbled her lobe, the metal chain of her earbob cold against his lips, her skin hot. “You must know that.”

Her wry laugh tugged at his heart.