A Talent for Sin

by Lavinia Kent

  “Isabella,” she began, “I should have told you the truth about many things a while ago. I had not realized how quickly you would grow. I must explain—”

  There was a rap on the door, and the tea she had longed for a moment ago arrived.

  “Oh dear.” Isabella sprang to her feet. “I had not realized how long I had been. I can’t stay. I know I should have said something before, but you do understand I don’t want to be missed. You’ll have to tell me your secrets next time. Maybe we can start choosing my husband then too.”

  Without even a formal farewell, Isabella spun and dashed from the room. Violet sank into her chair and let the maid pour her tea. She cradled her head in her hands and rubbed at her temple. She refused to have a headache.

  She still hadn’t decided how to deal with Peter, and now this. There must be a way to resolve both dilemmas—to get Peter back in her bed and to stop her sister from precipitously trying to trap a husband.

  She took the cup the maid offered and sipped. If only she could turn back time a week or two.

  Or a week ahead—she had forgotten Lady Smythe-Burke’s famous midsummer party by the river.

  It might present the solution to both her dilemmas.

  Chapter 4

  “This is marvelous. Thank you so much for bringing me. I don’t know how you persuaded Masters to let me come, but I am so grateful.” Isabella alighted next to her sister, spreading her skirts across the blanket. A deep bonnet shadowed her face, but glee played across her features as her eyes darted around her.

  “It’s not hard to persuade Masters if you do it before he’s made up his mind.” Once he’d made a decision it was a far different story, but Violet didn’t want to dwell on that or on the complexity that made up her brother.

  “Besides he could hardly object to your attending any function held by Lady Smythe-Burke.”

  Lady Smythe-Burke had thrown summer soirees at her late husband’s home in Richmond, only a short ride from Town, for longer than Violet could remember. The lady claimed that if she was in Town during August, she didn’t understand why anyone else wouldn’t be.

  “It is rather a wonderful afternoon. I am surprised at how many gentlemen have shown up,” Violet said, keeping her tone gay. She had chosen this venue to assure her plans unfolded in respectable society, hoping such a venue would not appeal to the younger, more thrill-seeking crowd. She’d been right on the first account, but wrong on the second.

  She peered around the edge of her bonnet at her sister. Isabella was avidly looking about, her gaze full of exhilaration—and an unmistakable desire for adventure. Maybe Violet had been overeager to see how shallow and foolish her sister’s plans were and had not considered that they might make sense.

  Why shouldn’t a sweet, young girl dream of a handsome husband? The fact that her own youthful dreams had not come to fruition was no reason to punish her sister.

  She looked around the garden with new eyes. There were several young men present who, from what she knew, would not make bad husbands. They might not be as dashing and gallant as the man in her sister’s dreams, but they were of good countenance and solid means.

  She leaned over and took Isabella’s hand. “I am glad you are here, dearest. You are right. It is time to find a husband for you.” She patted the slender fingers resting between her own. She’d never considered herself a matchmaker, but she suddenly felt a sense of purpose. “You must tell me whom you find appealing. I am sure there must be someone here who meets your fancy.”

  Isabella pushed back the brim of her bonnet so that her features could be seen; her deep gold curls burned red in the fading sunlight. “Who is that over by river’s edge? He is standing next to the table with the sandwiches.”

  Violet loosened the ties of her own hat and let it fall back. As the daylight faded many of the ladies present had already lost their headgear. Free of the encumbrance, she looked over her shoulder in the direction that Isabella pointed.

  Langdon.

  He had been involved in some unfavorable events the year before, and what little she did know did not make him husband material. Even as she watched, he grabbed four glasses of champagne and downed them two at time, not minding the amount he spilled across the hemlines of those nearest him. When one of his neighbors spoke in protest, he only laughed and called the waiter back.

  “He looks like such fun,” Isabella chimed in as she waited for Violet’s answer.

  “That is Langdon. He is the oldest son of the Earl of Linster. I don’t believe he’s entered the marriage market. He still enjoys other pursuits.” Violet had a sudden distinct remembrance of Langdon staring down the front of her dress and trying to pull her closer for a better look.

  “Well, then, we’ll have to change his mind. Is his father rich?” Isabella’s voice took on that strange quality. Once again, Violet was afraid it was calculation she saw shining deep in her sister’s gaze—but perhaps it was only the bright glow of the sinking sun.

  “I just don’t think he’s the right man for you. You don’t want a husband you are always wondering about.”

  “Wondering what about?” Isabella sounded genuinely confused.

  Her sister was still a little innocent, a fact easy to forget when Isabella’s voice rang with that manipulative tone.

  “Don’t you worry about that. Trust me. He’s not a good choice for a husband. How about the one standing before the willow in the deep blue superfine? He’s Lord Tom Wesley. I’ve heard he has wonderful manners and is always polite to his mother.”

  “Polite to his mother.” Isabella’s tone made it clear that this was not a recommendation. “He appears a little short and I’ve never been partial to blonds.” Her gaze turned back to Langdon.

  “Don’t be too hasty to judge.” Violet tried again. “He may be a third son, but his aunt has settled a fine estate upon him. I am surprised he’s not there now. I know he takes a hand at running it.”

  “I daresay that would mean spending too much time in the country. I don’t think I’d mind a house party or two, and the countryside is lovely at Christmas, but once I am away from Masters I don’t ever want to spend more than a week at a time away from the joys of Town. And I don’t like travel so it would be silly to spend more time at it than necessary.”

  Violet could not remember being young enough to care about the length of a carriage ride.

  “Oh, who’s that? Over there talking to Lady Smythe-Burke.” Isabella caught at Violet’s sleeve and gestured.

  “He’s a bit large, but his coat is wonderfully cut.”

  Violet turned and, following her sister’s gesture, looked back over her shoulder. Her stomach dropped as if she’d consumed Christmas dinner thrice over.

  Peter was here.

  She expected he would be, even looked forward to the chance to lure him back, but still her heart sped with surprise.

  She had not seen him since he’d stormed out of her chamber. She allowed herself to soak in the sight of him as he stood there, strong and vital, his dark hair waving in the soft breeze. He bent forward to catch something that Lady Smythe-Burke said, and Violet found her gaze drawn to the tight twill of his breeches as they pulled across his muscled thigh. She could see the delineation of each muscle through the fabric, almost imagine the spread of dark hairs growing thicker as she ran her hands upward. Her fingers twitched and she caught her breath deepening. It really was time—

  “So who is he? You’re staring right at him.” Isabella’s voice penetrated Violet’s thoughts. “He must be acceptable if Lady Smythe-Burke is spending so much time talking with him, although how anybody would wish to talk with her for so long I don’t know. Do you know what she said about my reticule? She described it as—”

  “He is Lord Peter St. Johns. His older brother is the Marquess of Wimberley. Surely I have mentioned him.”

  “No, I don’t believe you have, but then we haven’t had much time for talk. Even at the mantua maker’s we talked only of clothes. You have
n’t told me anything of your acquaintances. You must tell me more if I am to decide whom to wed. I do want to make the right decision.”

  “I wish that too,” Violet said

  “Well then, tell me all about Lord Peter.”

  She was here.

  He hadn’t seen her yet, but he knew. Peter tried to keep his attention on Lady Smythe-Burke as she chattered on. His foot tapped restlessly. So far she had proclaimed why the season should be held in the summer, why all girls should attend school—boys apparently should be tossed out of doors until they reached their majority—why eating French style was unhealthy, and, oh yes, why the new lighter corsets that were in fashion would lead to bad posture and sagging. Lady Smythe-Burke had shared far more details on this last than Peter cared for.

  Where was she?

  He looked over his hostess’s shoulder at the slew of bonnets covering her lawn. He spotted Violet even before she loosed the strings and let her headgear fall back. He knew those creamy shoulders anywhere. He would have noticed her sooner except that he hadn’t recognized her companion. The girl was gesturing animatedly. As he watched, the chit turned and pointed at him, or perhaps at Lady Smythe-Burke. He had only a moment to fasten his gaze back on Lady Smythe-Burke before he felt Violet’s glance lift toward him.

  Even without looking back at her he felt her eyes travel over him. He shifted as his body answered their call.

  It had always been like this. She had only to look at him and he responded. He closed his own eyes and concentrated on not embarrassing himself in public.

  How did she do this to him when he still felt the pain of her rejection?

  “Do you have a headache?” Lady Smythe-Burke asked. She must have caught his grimace. “Does the light pain you? I’ve always enjoyed a good sunset. It isn’t quite upon us yet, but there’s nothing like a good rosy glow to make the world attractive. Even an ugly girl looks good when the sky turns red…” Lady Smythe-Burke continued on, but Peter’s full attention was required to ignore Violet.

  “Large grayish spots.” Lady Smythe-Burke spoke the phrase with vehemence and then repeated it. She paused then as if waiting for a response.

  Peter didn’t have one. How did one respond to spots? And how had she gotten from sunsets to spots? Listening was clearly not his forte. He could still feel Violet’s gaze upon him. What would she do if he turned and met it head-on?

  “You’re not answering.” Lady Smythe-Burke persisted. “Either you truly do have a headache, you’re foxed, or it’s a woman. I am guessing a woman. It’s always either whiskey or women with men your age, and I’ve never known you to indulge this early in the evening. It does take whiskey with a man your size.

  “You’re still not answering. So, it is a woman. Now, which one? My eyesight is not what it was, but I’d have to be blind to miss the glow of that carrot hair.”

  “It’s not carrot,” Peter answered. “It’s sunrise and sunset and every moment of glory in between.”

  “Gads, it really is a woman. Nothing else could be responsible for such syrup. Now, which one is it?”

  Peter swallowed and turned to stare at Violet. “I thought we’d just decided that.”

  “Nonsense. There are still two of them. Is it Lady Carrington or her sister, the Masters girl? They both have red hair and your…whimsical…description does nothing to differentiate between Violet’s deep red and her sister’s more strawberry color. Hmmm.”

  Peter studied the girl who sat beside Violet. Her sister? He hadn’t been aware she had one. He’d known there was a brother, of course. He’d heard enough of the story of her first marriage to know about the brother. But a sister?

  He examined the girl with care. Lady Smythe-Burke was correct about the color of the hair, if not the shade. He would have called it ginger. That was the only resemblance he could see between the women, however.

  Where Violet was full, lush, this girl was—well, he wouldn’t say scrawny, but she lacked the padding a fellow liked. And her mouth looked pinched, not relaxed and succulent like his Violet’s.

  He couldn’t imagine the girl ever opening those lips to trail soft kisses down his belly, pausing, licking, laving, her tongue trailing back and forth in ever slower patterns, the teeth stopping to nip at his short hairs. And that final smile. She always looked up at him in mirth and power before that final lick and kiss that started it all…

  “Lord Peter, I do not know what you are thinking,” Lady Smythe-Burke interrupted, “but I can tell it is not appropriate for one of my evening entertainments. Turn away from her at once, and pull your coat forward. Disgraceful. I will have to talk to Wimberley about this.”

  Peter had a sudden vision of his brother’s face on being presented with such information by Lady Smythe-Burke. It was not pleasant. “Surely there is no need to bother—”

  “Every need, I should say. But perhaps there is another way. I will talk to the girl, give her some hint of your admiration, while being sure to warn her of your methods, inclinations, tactics—talking to the young is so difficult. But I will manage. I’ll talk to the girl, try to be gentle as I warn her of the dangers of men—and you, my lord, will take the older sister aside and tell her of your feelings. I am sure once you explain your interests to Violet she will know to keep a sufficient eye on her sister. The dear girl, Lady Carrington, that is, always did have a grasp on how to treat your sex. Now, if only it had been her you were staring at. I always did fancy finding her a good match. I might even have decided to help if it had been her you were after.”

  “But it was, it is. My affections are held by Violet,” he blurted out. God, it felt good to say the words. “I don’t even know her sister’s name.”

  “Isabella, but don’t think I don’t see through you. Come now.”

  Peter could only follow. At least she was leading him over to Violet.

  How had this happened? Violet looked at the dark shrubbery surrounding them as she followed Peter along the little-used path. It should have been stretching the bounds of all propriety for them to be walking alone here, but Lady Smythe-Burke had verbally shoved them off together and left little choice of destination. What had the lady been thinking?

  “I am supposed to reveal my lusts for your sister and promise to behave in the most honorable fashion,” Peter explained.

  As if that was an explanation.

  “Isabella? You don’t even know her.” Violet hoped her irritation didn’t show as she stepped down hard upon a sharp pebble. Her light slippers, while fine upon the lawns, were no match for roughness of the path, and Peter’s pace had left little room for care.

  “I tried to explain that to Lady Smythe-Burke, but she remained unconvinced.” Peter stopped and looked around. “Where has she sent us off to? This looks more a woodland hike than a garden stroll.”

  Violet was inclined to agree. The foliage had grown increasingly dense, and she could hardly hear the chatter of the party. “Perhaps we took a wrong turn.”

  Peter didn’t answer, but turned to continue down the path. He paused occasionally to hold back a branch for her or to kick a rock out of the path.

  This was not the meeting she had imagined. Even with her experience it was hard to be seductive when trudging over tree roots.

  “Oh, do slow, Peter. You can’t still be angry with me. It’s been over a week, almost two. I am sorry that my answer was not what you wanted. But you must have realized by now that I was right.”

  Peter remained silent, but he did slow. Perhaps he could be brought to listen to reason. She had always admired his intellect.

  Damn. It was getting dark. When her knee hit against a broken branch Peter had missed, she stopped.

  The sun was setting, the bugs were coming out, and she’d had enough of this. Marching off into the woods was not going to solve anything.

  Peter must have been listening to the rustle of her walk, because he turned and walked back to her.

  He turned toward the sun still shining low through the trees so sh
e could read his face. There were so many emotions warring over his countenance that she hardly knew what to think. There was anger in the pursing of his lips, and the tight furrow of his brow, yet a hint of humor hid at the corner of his eye and lust, yes lust, burned there too. She could see it as he let his glance trail down her body, pausing in all his favorite places.

  It grew and spread, his lips softened, and she could feel the heat of his breath as he leaned closer. He pupils grew large and dark as he stared. His mouth parted further, and she could see the tip of his tongue as it darted out to moisten dry lips.

  She drew closer in response, a moth to the flame. His gaze was focused on her own lips now. She let them part, drew a deep breath in and released it, watching it ruffle the folds of his neckwear. She pressed even farther forward, fitting under the strength of his chin, her face almost brushing his shirt.

  Almost. It was almost. They did not touch. They did not speak. She had never been so aware of another human being, of another body. She closed her eyes, inhaling his scent, leather, sandalwood, the crispness of a lemon. Why did he always smell like home, like safety? She cast the thought aside. It did not belong in this moment.

  She could feel his heart beat. Even without touching she could feel the air move with each beat, each pulse. She longed to press her lips to that spot, to lick at the linen of his shirt until it dampened and she could taste his skin though it. She longed to curl her fingers into the fabric and rub it across his finely-haired chest, feel the flickers of emotion run through him as the fabric delicately chafed.

  But she did not. She stood and breathed and waited.