A Talent for Sin

by Lavinia Kent

  He was giving her everything she wanted—sex without marriage. Why did she resist?

  She had never been one to dream of what she couldn’t have. A flicker of her earlier anguish rose, and she forced it down.

  She would live for this moment.

  Her arms ached. She wanted them free, wanted to wrap them around him, wanted to draw him closer, wanted to push him down, to climb on top and see just how much control he had.

  Her arms ached and all it did was sensitize every other inch of her body. She’d never felt so feminine.

  She was tied to a bed.

  She should be hating this.

  His lips closed about her other nipple, while his fingers worked the first. It was wonderful. She should be hating this. She never liked giving up control.

  He drew her nipple deep into his mouth, swirling about it with his tongue. She closed her eyes and fought the sensation.

  Oh God. When had he learned to do that?

  She never begged. She clamped her lips closed to hide her scream.

  He knelt above her, all warm, hard muscle and velvet skin. She could feel the heat rising from his body. She strained up, lifting her head. He would not last much longer. She knew the signs, knew the quiver of his thighs, the drop of moisture at the crown of his arousal, even the dark glow of his eyes. He inhaled twice, before one long exhale. He couldn’t hold out more than another few minutes.

  She twisted to the side, trying to rub against him again. He pushed her back. Went back to work. She was going to die, die of pleasure, bliss.

  His mouth and hands left her breasts, and for a moment, a fraction of a second, she felt relief and loss.

  His mouth returned, but this time lower. He began a trail of kisses moving downward. When he reached her curls she knew he might not last minutes, but she’d be gone long before.

  Children. She’d dreamed of children. She never dreamed of children. Violet sat up with a shudder. Her children. Her children and Peter’s children. Children that would never exist.

  She looked down at the man snoring softly next to her. She should have told him everything—told him what the doctors said after her poor son was ripped from her body, after the bleeding was finally stopped and infection set in—told him what they said when she survived the fever no woman should have lived through. She was barren. Had he never wondered at the lack of precautions she required before inviting him to her bed?

  Damnation, but she should have told him.

  He would not have told her she’d be a wonderful mother if she’d told him, would not have ripped the heart from her chest.

  He’d understand why they couldn’t marry if only she’d told him. She laid her head back down on his chest. She listened to the steady pound of his heart.

  This was not a bad life to settle for. It was not the one she’d wanted, but it was better than most. She must remember to be grateful for all she had, not cry for what she couldn’t have.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for no more dreams.

  Peter came awake with a start. Violet still slumbered next to him. A gentle tap sounded at the door. He wrapped a sheet around his hips and, slipping from the bed, answered the door, moving the chair. A maid stood there with a heavy tray.

  “His Lordship suggested that Lady Carrington might require refreshment. He suggested she might be hungry enough for two. Should I bring it in?” the maid asked.

  “I’ll take care of it.” He reached out and took the tray from her. The scent of warm beef met his nose, and he realized how hungry he was. It had been a hardworking morning.

  He set the tray on the bed with care, and reached over to nudge Violet awake.

  “No more, no more,” she murmured.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he answered.

  She scrunched her face, wiggling her nose before opening her eyes. She was so cute. Finally she opened her eyes. She stared solemnly up at him. “I should be very mad at you. That was not playing fair.”

  “It was punishment, not fair play.”

  “I may not forgive you,” she replied. She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

  “I have food.”

  “Food. Food may make you victorious. Although we must not forget who the true winner is.” She sat, pulling a sheet about her. She looked away from him.

  He had thought she would be smug. He did not understand this quiet dignity. He pushed the tray forward, forking a bite of beef stew and holding it out to her.

  She nipped the beef from the fork. “That’s so good. I feel like I haven’t eaten for a week.”

  “You’re right.” He took a bite himself. He waited until she’d had enough to slow the first rush. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready for what? You can’t want more.”

  “Ready to talk about your son.”

  Chapter 10

  Violet had known it was coming; only the satisfaction of a night’s pleasure had delayed it. She picked up the napkin and wiped her lips. She answered matter-of-factly. “You know I was seventeen when I married Dratton, two days past seventeen, to be exact. He was afraid that he would be laughed at for taking a child bride if I were any younger. My brother seemed not to care.”

  “Good God, the man was at least seventy. Did he think waiting a few days or a month would matter?”

  “I do not know. It was never discussed with me. My brother told me what to do and I was obedient. For the first time in our lives he refused to talk to me. I did not understand it at the time. Perhaps neither did he, in retrospect. So I did as I was told. I did not realize there was another option.”

  “I cannot imagine that you were ever obedient.”

  “You didn’t know me then. It is life that changed me.” She picked up the fork and toyed with the food. “I only wanted a family of my own, a place where people loved me.”

  “And you thought marrying an old man would get you that?” Peter shifted toward her on the bed.

  “I told you I was not consulted. And even if I had been I am not sure I would have understood the problem. My grandfather was the only kindly figure I remember from my early life. I pictured my husband like that.”

  “I take it he wasn’t,” Peter said.

  “No, he was definitely not. I think he wanted to be a good husband, but he just didn’t have the way of it,” Violet answered. “Dratton was not a bad man, just one of little patience. He wanted a wife to warm his bed and manage his house. He wasn’t really interested in knowing another person, a woman.”

  “I can’t imagine you settling for that.”

  Violet dropped the fork back on the plate. “I did actually, and then I got pregnant and I thought everything would be fine.”

  Peter settled across the bed, lying on his stomach. “Ah, finally we get to your son.”

  “There is not much to say. It was a simple pregnancy. I felt well mostly, sick occasionally. Dratton was pleased, but not ecstatic. He had a grown nephew he had raised as his heir. He did not worry about succession. He was, however, proud to show he still could sire a child.” Violet swung her legs off the bed. She needed to move. Her voice might still sound normal, but memories brought with them emotion. And she had decided to tell Peter the whole story. She would not awake ever again from a dream of their children.

  “Any man would be.” Peter rolled slightly so he could watch her as she went to the bureau and splashed her face with cold water.

  “I did not mind his pride. He left me alone most often and so I was content. But then he died.” Her voice stuck a little at the end. She splashed more water trying to cover.

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It was, really. Dratton was there one morning and gone that afternoon. They said it was his heart.” Violet moved to the wardrobe and pulled on a chemise. Her maid was conspicuously absent. “I never considered how quickly my life would change. I went from the security of being a wife to having my whole world hang on the baby still in my belly. If I delivered a boy everything would be mine to control. If
I delivered a girl the nephew would inherit and I would have only a small portion, not enough to raise a child on without his benevolence.”

  “You must have prayed for a son.”

  “I should have, but I still did not realize how precarious life could be. I had always been somebody’s responsibility, and it never occurred to me that I could manage my own life.

  “Then,” she continued, “my labor began early. All I wanted was a healthy child.”

  Peter sat up on the bed. “You don’t have to continue if it pains you.”

  “It was a long time ago. I cannot deny there is still some pain when I remember how fragile he was, my baby. I had never seen anything so beautiful. He made all the pain worthwhile.” Violet closed her eyes and remembered the wonder of that small, warm body. The whole world had stopped for a few minutes.

  “I can’t believe you never told me.”

  “I never had a reason to; very few people ever knew. I put much work into never thinking about it. Life is easier when I keep thoughts of my son tucked away in the back of my mind, wrapped carefully like a treasure.” She chose a dress. She walked over to Peter and presented her back. “Our relationship was not about my past.”

  Peter paused at his task. “Then what was our relationship about? I thought we were getting to know each other and now I find you’ve hidden huge parts of yourself from me.”

  “Finish fastening my dress.” She stayed perfectly still until he was done, then turned to him. “I am sorry. I thought we understood each other. All I wanted was fun and companionship. I don’t have room in my life for more.”

  “And you complain of Dratton not being interested in knowing another person.”

  That cut. She had never considered it from that perspective. “You are right. I was not fair to you.”

  “You were not fair to either of us. It is your pain, not mine, that still stands between us. Is this why you won’t marry me? Are you scared you will lose another child?”

  “That thought does terrify me. I still remember the second that I realized he would not breathe again. I had already named him in my mind—Lyle, my grandfather’s name.” She turned from Peter and went to stand by the door. This was why she had dressed; she needed to know she could escape. She lifted the chair and moved it from beneath the handle. Her fingers wrapped around the handle and lingered for a moment.

  Then she turned back, and sat in the chair facing Peter.

  “That is not my real fear, however. I fear not having children more than I fear losing them.”

  His brow drew in, the lines heavy between his eyes. “Why would you fear such a thing? You are still young.”

  “I fear it because it is as much a truth as man can know. I was damaged internally during the birth and then caught a fever. I was not expected to survive. The physician said I would probably never be with child again. I did not believe him, but time has proved him right.”

  “Your husbands were all old; surely that could have been the problem.” Peter leaned on his elbows and faced the blankets. She could not see his face.

  “If it had only been my husbands you might have been right. But you forget that I have had lovers since then. At least one of them has fathered a child since. And us? Do you think that you cannot father a child?”

  Peter blushed brighter than a peony. “I—I never thought about it—I assumed that you—that is, I know there are things—precautions you can take.”

  “Did you ever see me take precaution? Did we ever discuss them? I should assure you that most of the ones that work involve effort from both parties.”

  Peter’s face was still red. He sat up on the bed and did not bother to pull the sheet across his lap. “I never even thought—”

  Violet smiled in kind acceptance. “I realize that. We should have talked of it before.”

  “Yes, we should have.” He sat up straighter, but let the words hang.

  “I must be going now. I am sure there’s something that I should be doing—Marguerite must need help.” Violet rushed from the room before Peter could answer. She didn’t want to see him once he’d had time to understand what she’d said.

  She’d always known they could not marry.

  She didn’t need to see him accept that knowledge.

  He should have realized what she planned. Peter cursed as he searched the floor for the trousers he’d discarded the night before. How had he let her get dressed without gathering his own clothes? Ah, there they were. He grabbed them and pulled them up his legs. Shirt. Shirt. He knew he’d had a shirt. He picked up the rumpled ball of linen. He could never be seen in this. Still swearing to himself, he pulled the shirt about his shoulders and went in search of his valet.

  It was only as a fresh shirt was being smoothed over his shoulders that Violet’s words began to fill him.

  No children.

  He’d never thought about wanting children, but he’d certainly assumed he would have them. Everybody had children. Well, perhaps not everybody, but they were definitely an established part of life.

  No children.

  The thought chilled him.

  But then another thought froze him.

  No Violet.

  He’d realized over these last weeks how much he needed her. His life was not in any way as complete when she was away. He could imagine a life without children of his own. He already had a nephew and he imagined there would be more to come. Tristan and Marguerite were not the types to do things in a small way. He could be happy being an uncle.

  He liked his current life. There would be far worse things than for it to continue as it was.

  He could not imagine a life without Violet.

  It was time he sought her out and persuaded her of that fact.

  “Oh, just make it simple,” he said to his valet. The man seemed to believe a full cascade of white froth was necessary for a day in the country. “I’ll tie it in a bow myself if you don’t finish up.”

  Where would Violet be? She’d said something about helping Marguerite, but after Violet’s revelations of the morning he couldn’t picture her cocooned with mother and baby.

  Violet must be worn out by her revelations. In adjusting to his own loss he had not stopped to consider hers. He’d heard the pain echoing in her voice with each word she spoke. She’d tried to sound calm and reasonable, but there had always been that edge.

  How had it felt to deliver Marguerite’s baby knowing she would never have one of her own? She’d been so brave, so wonderful.

  Violet pressed back against the door. Weren’t new mothers supposed to lie abed for days? Violet had felt safe as she finished the plate of cold meats that had been left out in the dining room and prepared to hide in one of the library’s large wing chairs, but there was Marguerite, and not just Marguerite, but Marguerite, Tristan, and the small swathed bundle. Even as she watched, a tiny hand wiggled free and batted back and forth in the air.

  She should go in and congratulate Tristan. He was the father of a son. Such moments deserved hearty cheers.

  She doubted Hannibal and all his elephants could have dragged her through the door.

  It hurt. She’d managed to avoid these feelings for years and now they flooded through her. Last night she had been so caught up in the miracle of the birth and then, well, Peter had certainly provided a distraction.

  Peter. It hurt to think of him as well.

  A coo echoed from the library, followed by Marguerite’s soft giggle.

  Violet pulled away from the door and eased toward the drawing room on mouse feet. She would escape to the veranda from there, and then into the gardens. If she walked far enough she would be safe for hours. The center of the maze was always solitary.

  “I wondered how long it would take for you to get here.” Peter sat on the stone bench resting back on his elbows. His long legs sprawled in front of him. He kicked idly at the pebbles on the ground before him.

  He’d watched Violet approach, her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her, her face
solemn. He timed his words with care, waiting until she was too close to flee.

  She looked up, startled. “I didn’t expect to find anyone here.”

  “I know. It’s why I came and waited.” And she thought he didn’t know her.

  He edged to the side of the bench and patted the spot beside him. For a moment he thought she would not come, but then slowly she stepped forward and sat. She stared straight ahead. He turned his body to mirror hers.

  “It was warm in the house,” she said.

  “Do you really wish to talk of the weather?” Peter answered. “I will, if that is what you want. It is amazing how quickly it has warmed after the days of rain. The fields should dry quickly for the harvest. I am sure the farmers are happy…Is this the conversation that you desire?”

  She was quiet for a moment before speaking. “It is certainly the easiest and therefore I expect most acceptable.”

  “Do you want easy?”

  “I have spent the last years of my life pursuing easy. Surely that should speak for itself?” She kept her eyes fastened straight ahead, as if not looking at him made it possible to talk.

  “Have you really? I’ve never seen it in quite that fashion. I thought you wanted comfort and security. It is there in the perfection of your house, in the air of comfort that moves about with you. Perhaps you avoided risk, but is that the same as easy?”

  “I had always thought so, but it certainly doesn’t feel easy now.”

  “What do you want for the rest of your life? Have you thought of that?” he asked.

  “You are correct that I do want comfort and security,” she answered. “I had so little as a girl and young woman. I also want control. I never want another man to tell me what to do.”

  “Do you think I would order you about?” He worked to keep his voice level and carefree. He didn’t want to reveal how much her answer mattered.

  “I don’t think you would mean to—but the man—be it father, brother, or husband—always comes first. If you wanted to go to the country, we would go to the country. If you wanted to go to your club and leave me home alone, you would. If you wanted to stay in, you would. A wife does not have the same freedom of decision.”