Never Mix Sin with Pleasure

by Renee Ann Miller

  Turning her mind away from the duke, Sara peered at her father, who stood across the ballroom engaged in conversation with another gentleman. Perhaps it was not as much a conversation as it was an argument, for Father’s face had turned the same shade of red when she’d balked at wearing the atrocious gown now draped on her person.

  Sara nibbled her lower lip and eyed the wide doorway several feet from where she stood. With Father, Ned, and Louisa preoccupied, a better opportunity to slip out of the ballroom might not present itself. She edged toward the opening. She’d heard that the Duke of Dorchester’s Richmond estate possessed an exemplary library, and she was on a mission to hide away in it for the remainder of the evening. Surely, afterward, she would garner Father’s wrath when they returned home, but she would rather absorb one of his verbal tirades than remain in the ballroom a minute longer.

  As fast as she could move, while dragging twenty pounds of silk, tulle, and faux peonies, she slipped through the archway. A sense of elation drifted through her as she made her way down the wide corridor with its red Turkish runner.

  A male servant, dressed in a tailored black suit, stepped out of a room and nearly collided with her.

  “Forgive me, madam. Are you looking for the retiring room?”

  She shifted from one foot to the other, while deciding how much of the truth to reveal. “Actually, I’m looking for the library.”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he averted his gaze. “Of course, madam, it is the next door to your left.”

  “Thank you.” As Sara moved down the wide corridor, she glanced over her shoulder. There was something unsettling about the way the footman had looked at her—as if she’d startled him—as if she was not what he’d expected.

  Well, she had gotten that look enough times in her life. She shoved her thoughts away. Perhaps it was just the guilt of sneaking off that had her overanalyzing the man’s expression. Most likely, he thought her brazen for leaving the other guests to indulge in a book.

  She opened the door he’d indicated and softly closed it behind her. Gas wall sconces set low illuminated the library, which was one of the largest she’d ever seen, and she’d seen more than her fair share since they were her solace during these gatherings.

  The scent of the leather bindings filled her nose as she scanned the soaring mahogany bookcases that lined three of the walls. Each of them had a sliding ladder so the uppermost books could be reached, and in the corner a metal spiraling staircase went to a second-story balcony with even more bookshelves.

  Unfettered joy blossomed within her. With such an extensive collection, she felt almost positive she would find something to read that would be more stimulating than the ballroom, possibly even something on entomology.

  As she made her way to the bookcases on the right side of the room, she peered up at the ceiling’s lovely mural. Puffy white clouds dotted a blue sky, while winged cherubs, wearing crowns of flowers, fluttered about. The angels held flutes and harps. Such a whimsical scene almost tempted her to lie on her back and stare at it. She tamped down such a foolish inclination and continued toward the bookcases.

  So she could read the titles more clearly, Sara removed her spectacles from the pocket sewn into the skirt of her gown. As she scanned the books, she saw titles by George Eliot, Daniel Defoe, and even spotted a book of poetry from Robert Burns. She could not envision the present duke reading the latter. From what she’d heard, he was more likely to engage in reading something more scandalous like Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure than poetry. Surely, the poet’s book had been purchased by some dead relation. Sara inwardly scolded herself for such an uncharitable thought, clearly brought about by her dislike of the Duke of Dorchester.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor, along with a man’s voice. She spun around to see the door handle being turned.

  Had father or her brother tracked her down? She didn’t wish to return to the ballroom, not when there were so many books to be explored. Shoving her glasses into her pocket, she made a mad dash for a narrow alcove between two of the bookcases and flattened her body into the space.

  The young, widowed Lady Cleary, wearing a bright yellow gown, stepped into the library with the Duke of Dorchester. He closed the door behind him.

  Sara swallowed. Why wasn’t the odious man with his guests?

  That answer came to her as soon as the widow skimmed her palms up the duke’s chest and leaned into him.

  In response, Dorchester curled his large hand around the back of the woman’s neck and brought his mouth down on hers.

  Goodness! She should have figured the womanizer would have a liaison in his library. Sara thought of the servant she’d almost bumped into in the corridor and how he’d looked at her. Had he believed she had been heading to the library for an assignation with His Grace? No wonder he had reacted so oddly. She didn’t resemble the seductive Lady Cleary, especially in this outlandish gown.

  Perhaps, hiding away had not been the most sagacious decision. She opened her mouth to say something, but the sight of Dorchester lowering the shoulder of Lady Cleary’s ball gown and kissing the pale skin caused Sara to clamp her mouth tight.

  She could close her eyes.

  Yes, that would work. She pinched them shut.

  Lady Cleary started breathing fast and making mewling sounds. “Mmm. Oh, yes, Dorchester. That feels so . . . Yes, there.”

  Though Sara fought the urge to open her eyes, curiosity got the better of her and one eyelid slowly lifted.

  Dorchester had his thigh between the woman’s gowned legs and was rocking into her, while kissing her.

  Sara opened her other eye and tilted her head to the side. She wasn’t sure why the woman was arching and purring like a cat. What Dorchester was doing to the woman looked rather uncomfortable.

  Suddenly the gentleman stilled.

  Feeling a shiver of apprehension, Sara clapped a hand over her mouth. Had she made a noise? The possibility caused her heart to pound wildly. So loud, she feared they would hear the erratic thump, thump, thump in her chest.

  The duke glanced over his shoulder. Though handsome and in possession of striking features, including dark hair, a sensual mouth, and a square jaw, she’d always thought the man possessed an aura of danger. Perhaps it was his piercing blue eyes that looked as if they could scour one’s soul to find their weakness.

  Trying to make herself invisible to his gaze, she pressed her back more firmly against the wall. One of the blasted round peonies fell off her gown and rolled out of the alcove.

  Dorchester’s dark blue eyes settled on the faux flower before narrowing in on her like a periscope. He peered at her with the same contemptuous arrogance men at the London Society of Entomologists offered her when she handed in one of her articles for publication.

  “Ian, you tease, don’t stop. I’m almost there,” Lady Cleary snapped, clearly agitated.

  He turned back to the woman. “I think it best you return to the ballroom, darling. Something’s just come up.”

  “Yes, I expected that. I can help.” Lady Cleary’s hands moved to the front of Dorchester’s trousers.

  He stepped back and out of her reach.

  “Ian, what is the matter?”

  “I believe I heard a rat.”

  The widow let out a squeak and inched up the skirt of her gown.

  He opened the door. “I think it best you return to the ballroom.”

  “It’s not fair of you to leave me in such a state. Why don’t we go into another room,” she suggested, sounding hopeful.

  “Sorry, darling, I need to deal with this.”

  “Yourself? Don’t you have legions of servants to tend to such a detestable task?”

  “I prefer to catch this one myself.”

  That statement made Sara’s heart pound even harder. She normally only laughed when a man asked her to dance, but she tightened the hand over her mouth, suddenly fearful a nervous giggle would commence.

  Lady Cleary blinked and appeared ready to q
uestion him further, but something in the duke’s expression must have halted the action.

  The widow’s skirts swished as she exited the room.

  With a heavy hand, Dorchester closed the door, leaned back against the surface, and folded his arms over his ample chest. “I’m not particularly fond of Peeping Tom who get their jollies from watching others.”

  Peeping Tom? How ridiculous. She’d not set out to watch his sexual escapade. She’d just stepped into the library to escape the ball.

  Her nervousness turned to agitation. She wiped her damp palms on her gown and stepped out from her hiding spot. “It was not my intention to spy on you, and I’m deeply offended that you would even suggest such a thing. Your unfavorable comment leaves me demanding an apology.”

  * * *

  Ian drew in a deep breath. The woman obviously belonged in a madhouse if she thought herself due an apology. “You cannot be serious, Miss. . . .”

  “Miss Elsmere. Lady Sara Elsmere.”

  Yes, that was her name. He’d seen her before. The Earl of Hampton’s daughter. The one who laughed nervously whenever a man asked her to dance, causing gentlemen to avoid her at these gatherings as if she were a leper.

  “I only stepped into the room so I might read.”

  He cocked a brow at her. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. If you think I wanted to watch you. . . .” She waved her hand toward him as she appeared to struggle with what to call what she’d witnessed.

  “What did you see?” He stepped toward the middle of the room.

  Her already rosy cheeks deepened in color, settling on a shade nearly as pink as her full bow-shaped lips.

  “You know,” she said.

  Yes, he did. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to hear her try to explain it. He had a feeling she couldn’t because she didn’t completely understand it, yet the priggish woman was clearly censuring him. He could see it in her judgmental glare. His gaze settled on her sensual mouth, which seemed incongruous with the prim woman. For the briefest of moments, he thought about asking her if she wished to be tutored in what she’d seen.

  Ian gave a slight, imperceivable shake of his head to scatter his renegade thoughts. He had no interest in a prim, hoity-toity wallflower who wore her brown hair in a taut bun, while donning a pink frilly garment that hid all her curves and made her look beyond ridiculous.

  As if he’d said the comment out loud or she’d gleaned what he’d been thinking, she stuck out her chin. “My father chose this abomination. So don’t judge me.”

  “Aren’t you rather old to be having your father dictate your clothing?”

  “I am. But if I want his benevolence, I must wear such an atrocity. Now if you will excuse me, it has gotten rather stuffy in here.” And with that said, she marched toward the door. Her gaze seemed to settle on the faux peony on the rug. For a minute, Ian thought she intended to retrieve it.

  “You may keep the peony, Your Grace. Perhaps your haberdasher could add it to one of your hats, or you could gift it to Lady Cleary for not finishing what you had set out to do.”

  Ian nearly laughed. It appeared the wallflower was not precisely what he’d thought.

  She’d nearly reached the door when a man’s panicked voice calling out her name echoed in the hallway. “Sara, where are you? Damnation.”

  Bloody hell. It wouldn’t be wise to be found alone with the woman. Ian moved into the shadows.

  Lady Sara opened the door and her brother stepped over the threshold. The man was breathing heavily. His face was ghostly pale.

  “Ned, what is the matter?” Lady Sara gripped his sleeve.

  Her brother’s Adam’s apple moved but nothing came out.

  “Ned, you’re frightening me.” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Tell me.”

  “It is Father. He collapsed.”

  “Collapsed?” Her voice trembled.

  “Yes,” her brother replied. “Dr. Trimble said he suffered apoplexy. H-he’s dead.”

  Photo courtesy of author

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Renee Ann Miller writes sexy historical romances. She’s a 2015 & 2016 finalist in the prestigious Golden Heart Contest® from Romance Writers of America®. Renee penned her first book at the tender age of seven and even drew the impressive stick figures—though clearly those characters weren’t as spicy as the ones she writes now.

  Renee loves romantic stories, excessive amounts of chocolate, and gardening. She lives in the Northeast with her wonderful husband. You can find out more about Renee and the stories she’s working on at www.Reneeannmiller.com and connect with her at Twitter @reneeannmiller.

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  Unshaken by his arrogance, not to mention impropriety,

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  like her two predecessors, she will be beholden to this

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