A Talent for Sin

by Lavinia Kent

  He squeezed her buttocks with his fingers, gently separating the globes. She squirmed, but gave no other indication of her desire. He pushed his erection against her. Even through the skirts of her dress he could feel her. Her legs slipped open, granting him room between. He moved forward, settling himself firmly while lifting her hips to bring her more tightly against him.

  Then he went back to her face, a rain of kisses, a flock of caresses, each one softer, but more daring than the one before. He found the corner of her jaw, a large kiss. He moved lower, nuzzling the soft spaces of her neck. He moved his mouth until he found the hard beating of her pulse and he settled there, sucking, kissing, marking. She was his. He shifted his hips again and felt the flurry of her heart beneath his lips. She was his.

  He leaned back against the wall to better take her weight. He was supporting her fully now, their cores pressed together despite the layers of clothing between them.

  He moved back to her mouth, and this time there was no question of denial. She opened beneath the onslaught of his lips. The kiss no longer gentle, but all fire. Tongues fought and danced—parting only to rejoin. She bit at him. There was still anger mixed in the passion. He tasted the salt of his own blood and it only drove him higher.

  He turned, pressing her into the wall, lifting her knees to straddle him. And still he kissed her. She twisted and turned, but each struggle only brought them closer.

  He pulled back for a moment, panting. He needed breath, breath and sanity. He could take her here, pressed against the wall, awaiting his replacement. There was no doubt of that.

  He looked down upon her upturned face. Her eyes were half closed, almost black with passion. Only the outer rim of the irises still gleamed the deep purple of a pansy. Her lips were red and swollen, her breath rapid and shallow between them. Her skin was flushed and warm. She would taste sweet and salty if he licked her.

  She was his. Only she denied that.

  He let his hands open, let her legs slide to the floor. He waited until he felt her steady herself and then stepped away. He turned to face the mirror that hung over the corner table. He walked closer, caught by his own reflection.

  His face matched hers, darkened eyes, swollen lips, sweaty flush—but in it he saw something else. Control.

  If she wanted freedom he would give it to her. He had promised not to tie her to him against her will and he would not.

  Not with marriage.

  Not with sex.

  If they were together it must be because both of them wanted it. He looked at her over his shoulder in the glass. She still leaned against the wall, her breathing heavy and her eyes glazed. She did want it. But that was only her body. He might love her body, but it was not her body he wanted, needed.

  “You say you want me to go. Do you mean for now or forever?” He spoke softly; passion had stolen all his fire.

  She pulled herself up, pushing off the wall. The heavy stick was back in her spine. She shook her skirts, brushed back her hair with her fingers, squared her shoulders. She walked toward him more steadily than he would have thought possible.

  She stopped a few feet before him. “Why did you desist? You knew my resistance was only token by the end.”

  He looked straight into her eyes. He felt an equality between them. “You did not want this, for me to take you against the wall—you said as much. I could have persuaded you. I did persuade you. But I want more than for your body to be willing. Did you wish me to continue?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know—no, that is not true. It is best that you stopped.”

  They still looked at each other. He felt so much beyond the words that were said. “That is what I thought. If what you want is for me to let you go, then that is what I must do. Just tell me that it is what you want.”

  She turned from him then, breaking the connection. He thought he saw despair in her glance, but the contact was gone. She walked to the door and held it open for him. “I am sorry, but it is what I want, what I need.”

  He willed himself not to feel. That would come later. Now all he could think was that it must be the world’s greatest irony that the only way he could prove his love and commitment to Violet was to leave her.

  He moved toward the door.

  The sound of a carriage pulling to a halt echoed through the room. There was a hard rap on the door.

  Violet turned to face him. He had never seen her look so dead, so bleak. Her lips curved up into a smile, but it reached no other part of her face. “I am afraid I must ask you to stay after all. Please do not cause a scene, Peter. Do this one last thing for me. Just stay in this room and don’t come out until I am gone.”

  She stepped through the door and prepared to shut it, halting only when an inch of space remained. “This is not how I wanted it to end. I truly am sorry for any pain I have caused you.” She let the door click behind her.

  He heard her heels tap as she crossed the marble floor of the hall. There was a brief exchange of voices and then the heavy slam of the front door.

  Against his will he moved to the window, keeping himself sheltered from view by the heavy drapes. He saw a footman helping Violet into a carriage. Whoever her caller had been, he had not even come to the door for her himself.

  The back of the carriage was black, unmarked. Peter could not make out the crest on the side as it slid back into traffic and rambled off down the street.

  “You look ravishing, or should I say ready to be ravished.” Foxworthy laughed at his own joke as he was prone to do. “You make me want to forget dinner and head straight home.”

  “If you like, we can return to my house. There is no need to pretend seduction,” Violet answered. She prayed Peter was gone. He would be gone. No man would stay after the scene they had just played out.

  She knew now why she had not considered him in these last days of planning. The pain of seeing him, of being forced to push him aside, to drive him away, was unbearable. She could never have imagined that last look of loss on his face.

  “No,” Foxworthy began again. “We will go to dinner as planned. I want all my friends to see you, to know what I have won. I do hope you will be properly adoring.” He placed a firm hand on her knee and slid across the carriage bench toward her.

  He had not bathed that day. What man intent on acquiring a new mistress would not bathe? He squeezed her knee tightly, the fingers biting through the fabric of her skirts and into her skin. He was confident of his victory.

  But then he should be—he had bought it, bought her.

  She should feel a whore.

  But she had not put herself up for sale any more this time than she had the two times her brother had sold her to the highest bidder. She refused to name herself a slut because of what men forced her to.

  “You’re being silent, my dear. I hope it’s because you’re imagining other things to do with those fine lips.” Foxworthy laughed again. “Just be sure you’re not quiet at dinner. I want it clear that you wish to be with me. Remember what rides on my satisfaction.”

  “Have you spoken to my brother?” She must remember Isabella. She would not think of Peter. Not now. Not ever.

  “We talked this morning. He was very concerned that I was reconsidering the terms of our deal. He tried hard to persuade me of Isabella’s delights.”

  Violet turned her face to the wall. She would not let Foxworthy see her distress. It did not sound quite like the brother she had always known, but she had never understood her brother. “You held strong, though, and convinced him that he would have to make other arrangements regarding…your knowledge. If you ruin my brother, my family name, it will change our agreement as well.”

  “Yes, I made it clear that we will come to some other arrangement, and now I want some reward.” Foxworthy reached over and took her hand. He brought it first to his lips and then placed it squarely in his lap. “It’s a good ten minutes until we arrive. I am sure you know some trick to pass the time.”

  She wanted to slap him across the
face. Tricks. She knew tricks, all right. She’d—

  No, she could not afford to anger him, not until she truly knew that Isabella was safe. She’d assured her sister that everything would be fine and Isabella was planning on returning to her home that very night. She could not let Isabella down.

  She ran her fingers down Foxworthy’s thigh to the knee and then back up, circling around to do the same on the other side. He tried to twist, to bring her fingers in more direct contact, but she smiled and avoided him. She leaned forward so that her breasts were displayed before him.

  “Do you like my dress? I wore it just for you.” She licked her lower lip.

  His eyes fastened on her breasts. Was that drool? When Peter had glanced down her gown earlier her toes had curled with desire. She’d wanted to undo her ties and let him examine everything in much more detail.

  Now she had to fight not to grab the coach blanket and cover herself up to her eyes. She’d have covered them too, but she didn’t trust Foxworthy. She wanted to keep him under close observation.

  Fighting her impulse, she leaned farther forward, placing a hand on each of his plump thighs. “I do know tricks, many of them. Carrington brought me beautiful books from the Orient, books with beautiful pictures. I’d be pleased to show them to you.”

  “Pictures, never cared for art.”

  “I think you’d care for these. They are quite detailed.”

  “Don’t see what difference detail should make.” Foxworthy was trying to maneuver her hands into direct contact with his—she couldn’t think of a word to describe it, she’d used them all with Peter, and what was contained in Foxworthy’s breeches bore no relation to Peter.

  For a moment she was there in bed with Peter, lying back, sated. She could see him grin as he looked down at himself. “It doesn’t look like a mighty man-o’-war now.”

  “I believe I said a cannon, an eighteen-pounder. I don’t remember ship references,” she’d replied.

  They’d moved from reference to reference, each more exaggerated than the last. She smiled to herself at the memory.

  “Oh, you like that do you?” Foxworthy had reached into her bodice and actually buried his hand there, his fingers twitching like a lost spider. “You’re not the only one with tricks.”

  She held her smile, sighed softly. “We must be getting near. I am afraid I won’t have time to demonstrate more.”

  He jerked back, looked for a moment like he would take a swing at her. “You women are all the same. You get a man all hot and bothered and then leave him with a cockstand in company. You can be sure I’ll make you sorry later.”

  “Oh, you’ll punish me, will you? I should warn you I might like that.” She stretched her smile further, then plucked his hand from her bodice. “I’d have thought you’d enjoy showing off your prowess to your friends—they’ll spend the evening imagining what you’re going to do with that fine…cockstand, did you call it?” Pleasure pencil was more like it. Her delight was almost genuine as she imagined Peter’s response to the term.

  But he was not here. He would never be here again.

  She stiffened as the realization swept through her. She was done with him, done with Peter.

  Driving him away had been the hardest thing she’d ever done, harder even than what was still to come this night.

  And he’d let her go. It was what she’d wanted, needed, what she’d forced him to, but she’d never expected him to give in, to leave her the choice. She realized now that when she’d seen him at the bottom of the stairs she’d hoped for rescue. Instead, the man finally proved he really would grant her the choice to live her life as she wanted.

  He finally proved that she could trust him to put her first, finally proved that she could trust herself to him—and this was the result.

  She had known the choice she made, but not how barren it would leave her.

  She forcefully held the look of delight as she allowed Foxworthy to hand her from the carriage.

  Barren. She’d been barren for years. She’d just never felt it quite so deeply, so hopelessly.

  Peter swung his legs up on Violet’s dainty writing desk. Ridiculous how delicate they made things for women. Yes, women were smaller than men, but not that much so.

  His heels almost covered the surface. They’d probably leave scuffs. He hoped so, a mark that he’d been here.

  He poured another glass of Violet’s finest brandy. The servants had tried to avoid bringing it to him, but in the end they knew their place. He swallowed. Felt the burn. Felt the warmth trace through his chilled limbs.

  It was August and he was freezing. Ice filled him. He was frozen from the heart out.

  He swallowed again. Ah, melodrama. At moments like this a man could almost become a poet.

  He stared blurrily at the clock. She’d been gone two hours and fifteen minutes. If they were returning here after dinner it was possible they’d arrive soon. Not likely, but possible. He knew dinner could last for hours and hours, but if he were taking Violet home, he’d cut the evening short.

  He wondered what her new beau would say to finding him here. He might have promised the woman her freedom, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t put up one last fight.

  If he’d lost already there was nothing else to lose, and if he hadn’t, well—he’d never know if he didn’t try.

  He dropped his feet to the floor and rose, swaying only slightly. He raised the glass to his lips and then placed it on the desk without taking a swallow.

  If he was going to fight, he’d better be sober. He didn’t know who Violet was with and whether the whole affair might turn physical.

  He’d fight a bloody duel for the woman if necessary. He wondered if she’d like that—two men bleeding and dying for her. If he was going to die for love he’d certainly make sure the other fellow did too.

  He walked to the door and peered out into the dark hall.

  How much longer would they be?

  What if they didn’t return here? He hadn’t considered that. Violet always brought him home, but what if she had other arrangements with this new gent? She’d mentioned she wasn’t sure where they would spend the night.

  Damnation. He didn’t even know who the competition was. If he was going to stop her, he’d need to know that. Somebody must know. Her staff would never tell him.

  He shook his head trying to clear it. If he couldn’t find out here, he’d have to go someplace else. His club. If there was talk, somebody there would know it.

  He slammed the door behind him.

  She was his. It was time to persuade her of that fact.

  He paused halfway down the walk.

  What if he was too late? What if they’d already done the deed?

  Oh, how could it possibly matter? All that mattered was that he got her back.

  Chapter 13

  This was it. Violet looked around the dark chamber. The time for reprieve was past. Foxworthy was consulting with his porter, making certain the house was locked for the night. She wasn’t sure if that showed true diligence or a lack of trust in his servants. She had complete confidence that her own windows and doors were open or locked with exact timing and precision, and she never checked that the doors had been locked for the night. But she had faith that if she ever did, each and every lock would be fastened tight.

  Why was she thinking of locks? She should be preparing herself for Foxworthy. The room was not designed for seduction. The bed was large, but rather lacking in pillows. There was no chaise that a woman could display herself upon. The fire was unlit. She walked to stand before it, staring into the clean-swept hearth. Despite the warmth of the day, the night had grown chilled, and she would have welcomed the warmth. She considered calling for a maid, then rejected the thought. She had no position here, and she doubted that Foxworthy would welcome the presence of a maid when he arrived.

  She began to pull pins from her hair, letting the cascade of auburn curls fall about her shoulders. In her experience, men liked loose hair.


  It was only as she stood there, alone, that she realized how little she actually knew. Her first husband had never demanded or wanted anything but her presence, flat in his bed. Milber, she would not even think about what he had liked. Even for Isabella she didn’t know if she could go through that again. She’d never heard any such nasty rumors about Foxworthy. And there were always rumors.

  She fluffed her hair with her fingers, bit at her lips. She had played at seduction with Carrington and the lovers she’d had since, but never had it been so cold-blooded and lacking in emotion.

  She’d never pretended desire she did not feel—no, that was not true either, she had used every wile and advantage at her disposal to maneuver men like players on a chessboard, but she’d always been clear where the boundary was.

  She shivered and wrapped her arms about her shoulders. The air felt positively frigid. She should have called for a maid. No man wanted a woman huddled and frozen.

  She forced her arms back to her sides. It couldn’t be that cold. Perhaps she was growing ill. Should she tell Foxworthy that—

  She was acting like a scared child instead of a woman. She was strong and would remain so. She walked over to the window and peered momentarily out into the darkness before turning back to the room.

  Her task tonight was not hard. Two bodies met, two bodies touched. The end. It was almost mechanical, like windup figurines.

  The door opened and Foxworthy marched in.

  He peered about the room for a moment before seeing her standing by the window. “I thought you’d be in the bed.”

  She walked forward. “Do you wish to hurry things along? I’ve always enjoyed anticipation.”

  “Six days was enough anticipation. Get in the bed.” He did not sound cruel, just demanding. It might have been easier if he’d sounded cruel.

  “I thought we’d have a drink first.” She needed a little liquid courage. Think mechanical. Her body could do this, her mind did not need to. She had left her mind behind before.