by Sharon Page
Sharon Page
Sinful
“A rising star” –Romantic Times BOOKreviews
This is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, characters, and places are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Copyright 2011 by Edith E. Bruce
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Croco Designs
Cover photo by Hot Damn Stock
www.SharonPage.com
Excerpt from Engaged in Sin Copyright 2011 by Edith E. Bruce
Engaged in Sin is a Dell Mass Market Original. Published in the United States by Dell, an imprint of the Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Engaged in Sin
ISBN 978-0-440-24491-2 (mass market)
ISBN 978-0-440-33886-4 (electronic edition)
* * * * * * * * *
Chapter One
London, March 1817
He had caught gangs of murderers in the stews off Whitechapel High Street. Arrested opium dealers in seedy brothels near the London docks. But in all the years he had worked for Bow Street as a Runner, Trevelyan Foxton had never been required to investigate in a more foreign and intimidating place.
He stood in a shadowy, narrow passage between two buildings on Bond Street and watched the front of the shop across the street. He drew deeply on his cheroot and slowly let the smoke out of his lungs, but the gentle rhythm of smoking did nothing to ease the tightness around his heart.
Each time the door to the modiste’s shop opened, a silver bell tinkled delicately. Ladies flowed in and out continuously, ladies of every age and every description. Slender, giggling girls with bright eyes and bouncing curls, along with their mamas, the formidable matrons of the ton. From within, all he could hear was incessant feminine chatter.
Trevelyan glanced up at the name above the shop, painted in burgundy and ivory on a large sign, glimmering with gilt.
No longer was she plain Sally Thomas. She was now Estelle Desjardins. The last time the door had opened, he’d caught a glimpse of her. A severe black gown clung to her slender figure. Her whiskey-brown hair was drawn ruthlessly back into a smooth chignon. Silver pins stuck out of her mouth, and she ordered a bevy of seamstresses about with a wave of her hand. Tapping her chin, she surveyed a girl who stood on a raised podium—a thin, sallow girl who looked miserable in an ivory dress. At the same time, she lectured the mother, a blonde, high-in-the-instep matron Lyan recognized as the Duchess of St. Ives.
A soft smile had tugged at his lips, lifting his cigar. That was the Sally he remembered.
She’d been the toughest, hardest, and fiercest woman he had ever known. All of the lads he had grown up with—the pickpockets, the mudlarks, the thieves—had been afraid of her. Except for him. He knew the one thing that frightened Sally. When he wanted her to shut her mouth, all he had to do was kiss her. Or show her he cared about her.
That had been a long time ago. Back in the days when he never would have dreamed he’d end up on the good side of the law as a Bow Street Runner. Back when he had promised Sally he would protect her forever. When he had pledged his heart to her and had even given up his virginity to her on a tattered mattress in his seedy rooms in the stews—on the night that had been their makeshift wedding night.
That had also been the night she had run away, vanishing from his life.
Lyan tossed away his cheroot and ground it into the cobblestones of the street.
Sally had done well for herself. It was a shame he was going to have to destroy her.
* * *
Estelle froze. All thoughts of what exact shade of ivory the daughter of the Duchess of St. Ives should wear vanished from her head. It no longer mattered that the fashion was now for long sleeves. Or that she could brighten Lady Amelia’s complexion, even make her bosom look more ample, with the clever use of color, pattern, and strategic pleating.
He stood in the doorway, the proverbial bull in the china shop. At once, her lavender sachets were overwhelmed by the rich, masculine scent of him. He smelled of smoke from the stews, sandalwood and a cheroot, and even shaving soap and warm skin. His straight shoulders filled the entrance. His gaze was sharp, intelligent. She had never forgotten how brilliantly green his eyes were, and how beautifully his thick, black lashes framed them. Those unforgettable eyes now glinted with an amusement that made her shoulders quake as he fastened his gaze on her.
She had just argued with a duchess over a gown, yet after one look at Lyan, she could not force a word from her dry throat.
As a young man, Lyan had been bold and daring. Sinfully handsome, with a wild, wicked grin that had made her ache for his touch, dream of his kiss, yearn to capture his heart. Ten years had increased both his size and the lines on his face, and changed him from a rebellious-looking boy into a compelling, confident man.
Ten years had not lessened the way her wits seemed to flee when he looked at her.
She’d wondered if he would ever come and find her. And now that he was about to invade her shop, what did he intend to do? It would be so easy for Lyan to get his revenge, the revenge he must surely want. All he had to do was tell every lady in her shop exactly where she had come from and who she really was.
A pin jabbed her tongue. Estelle spat them all into her hand. The attention of every woman in her salon was riveted on Lyan, but he had eyes only for her as he slowly stepped into her shop. He took off his beaver hat as he ducked under the doorway, revealing his striking coal-black hair and the one streak of white that began at his temple and followed the sweep of his unfashionably long tresses to his shoulder.
“Madame Desjardins,” he said, with a perfunctory bow. He straightened, then ensured he closed the door behind him. A sardonic smile lifted his lips as the bell tinkled. “Is it intended to mean ‘Star of the Gardens’? I like that very much.”
Her stomach almost dropped away. What did Lyan want? “May I help you, Mr. Foxton?”
The buzz began.
“Goodness, Mr. Foxton is a Bow Street Runner,” whispered Lady Amelia to her bosom-bow, Lady Caroline Trent.
Lady Caroline put her gloved hand to her mouth and her blue eyes glittered with thrilled delight. “What is he doing here? Do you think there’s been a crime here?”
“Other than the prices?” muttered Lady Caroline’s mother.
“Have you heard?” one young lady whispered. “It is said that Mr. Foxton is the heir to the Earl of Delamore.”
Estelle froze. She took care to know the gossip of the ton. How could she not have known this? Yet if there was any ordinary man who possessed the autocratic beauty of a gentleman of the ton, it was Lyan.
“That cannot be true,” declared the voluptuous Countess of Bournemouth. “I heard that he grew up in the East End stews. It is rumored he has a very sordid past.” She said it in a breathy purr, as though “sordid” was a commendable thing.
“I think he is trying to look down Lady Armitage’s bodice!”
That would not surprise her. L
yan had always enjoyed playing the rogue. At this very moment, he appeared to be enjoying shocking her clients. “Madame Desjardins,” he began, in a voice that had deepened and roughened and grown even more magnetic in ten years. “I hate to trouble you, but I would like a private word.”
The ladies gasped, for that meant he must walk through her shop, past the curtained rooms in which women stood in various states of undress. Estelle squared her shoulders and banished her quivers. She had learned to be strong to survive in London’s stews. She would not let Lyan’s presence make her feel like an uncertain girl again.
“Miss Sims, advise the ladies to keep their curtains closed,” she instructed her best seamstress. With brow raised and what she hoped was a cool, placid expression firmly fixed in place, she turned to Lyan. “Mr. Foxton, you may come to my office. I assume a respectable representative of Bow Street will keep his eyes averted.”
* * * * * * * * *
Chapter Two
In her pastel-colored, daintily decorated salon, Lyan had appeared large, muscular, and forbidding. In her small, comfortable, and private office, he seemed to fill the entire space. His rock-solid chest brushed along her shoulder as he squeezed past her to enter.
Estelle refused to flinch, tremble, or show any reaction that might reveal how nervous she was. This shop, and especially this office, was her sanctuary. She was not prepared for this—for his invasion of her private rooms. She had hurt him once, it was true, but she refused to cower. It had been a long time ago. Surely his heart had healed by now. She did not have to tolerate his sharp tones and cold demeanor.
Then a disturbing thought came to her: if he had healed, if he wasn’t here for revenge, it meant he was here for something else entirely. He must have found out what she had been doing.
She pressed back against the doorframe to let him pass. His hip grazed past her belly, he apologized curtly, and she managed to suck in a breath without making a sound. He strode toward her desk and she followed in his wake. That was one place he could not invade at will. He would soon find he couldn’t search her desk just because he wanted to.
When he reached it, he stopped and looked around. His gaze flicked over the patterned ivory wallpaper, the shelves filled with books, the inviting leather chairs that looked as though they belonged in front of a roaring fire in a gentleman’s club. Tersely, he muttered, “Cozy.”
“Thank you,” she said calmly, as though they had last spoken yesterday, not ten years ago before she vanished. “It was what I strove to achieve.”
“You succeeded admirably. This is a most inviting, albeit small, room.” He said the last as he turned and discovered her standing right behind him. She stepped quickly back before her breasts smacked against his wall of a chest.
He went behind her desk and tried the drawers. “The key, please, Sal.”
That name. She had not heard it for ten years. It was not her name anymore. “Why on earth would I give you that, when you have not told me what you want? Anyway, if you want my help in some matter, do not call me that. My name is now Mrs. Desjardins, and if you really want to be familiar, you can call me Estelle.”
“I will call you by the name I know. I think I’m entitled to that, at least.”
Ten years had apparently not eased his anger at all. Bother. Why in heaven’s name would he hold a grudge for so long?
She had held onto guilt for ten years, but that was because guilt was something that could last a lifetime.
This was her establishment, the place where she had finally wrested some control of her life, some hope for a future, and she was retreating from him.
The only other time she’d been tongue-tied with Lyan had been on their “wedding” night. After trading jibes with him for years, after sparking argument after argument with him, she’d found that once she’d finally admitted she loved him—and what else would agreeing to marriage mean?—she’d suddenly been unable to speak to him.
It happened the moment he started to undress. As his shirt came off and his trousers fell down, she realized he was hers. Hers to touch. Hers to pleasure and to cherish.
Hers to obey.
She didn’t marry him. They shared one night that he said was just like a wedding night. That was the reason for the way he glowered at her now—the reason that tension seemed to fill her small office, pressing her further back toward the wall.
But since she had run out on him instead of taking vows, she did not have to obey him now.
Instead, she stiffened her spine and marched back to her desk. When only the polished mahogany surface and well-used blotter separated them, she asked crisply, “What is it you want? Do you wish to see my book of accounts? You are free to review it, if you are interested to what a satin ball gown costs these days. If it’s the measurements of my clients that interest you, I will not help you there. That information resides only in my head.”
“Yes, Madame Desjardins, why don’t we begin with your accounts?” He held out his gloved palm.
“Until I know why you wish to peruse my private information, the keys stay where they are.” She touched her skirt. She carried her keys in a pocket skillfully sewn into her dress, one designed to not be bulky or ruin the line of the smooth-flowing gown.
His dark brow lifted. “If I wanted, I could get those keys out of your skirt and you could do nothing to stop me. However, that is not the way I do business. I want your help, Estelle. I need it. I am here about Lady Maryanne Bryght.”
A shudder of apprehension slid down her spine, but she didn’t dare reveal that to him. “Lady Maryanne?” She frowned as she spoke and tapped her lips as though dredging up inconsequential memories. “I do believe she was a client of mine. But why—?”
“The keys.”
Heart pounding, Estelle tried again. “Why are you here about Lady Maryanne?”
When he didn’t answer, she seethed with frustration. She knew exactly why he was here. Her appointment book would reveal that Lady Maryanne had come to see her five days before. But she had to pretend to be innocent, which meant she should be cooperative and let him look at the book.
There was no crime in giving a dress fitting to a young woman, after all.
Or she could attempt to distract him. Lyan’s large body was planted behind her desk. She could attempt to slip into the space herself and fetch her own book. She would have to press very closely against him. In the past, that used to distract Lyan.
No. She simply couldn’t do it. She couldn’t use seduction to manipulate him. It hurt to face him as an adversary. But she’d known, when she’d left, that they would never be anything but enemies. She had never intended to see him again. She had behaved cruelly to him. She could not deny it. But she could not bear making him think that she was so callous she would use sex to distract him.
Taking a deep breath, Estelle removed her few keys from her pocket and dropped them into his hand. “The shortest one will work.”
“Indeed.” He opened the top drawer and pulled out her ledger. A moment later, he planted his trouser-clad rump on the edge of her desk and flipped open the book.
“She had an appointment for a gown, Lyan. But, for heaven’s sake, why is that of interest to—?”
Thud.
Her book of accounts landed, closed, on her desk. The slap of it echoed like a pistol shot and she knew she had jumped when her feet touched the carpet again. He lifted his head to level his gaze at her. His green eyes had narrowed, and he looked so expressionless that she couldn’t contain a shiver. Her shoulders jerked with it. The Lyan she remembered had never looked so cold.
You did this to him. You made him so icy and hard and angry.
The guilty thought burst into her head from nowhere. But she pushed it away firmly. Of course not. He had been a Bow Street Runner for years. He had pursued murderers, kidnappers, opium smugglers. Surely she had not been the one to take away the roguish lightheartedness she had once loved to see sparkle in his eyes.
“You’re lying to me, S
al. That’s why I haven’t come to see you before. I knew all you’d give me was a pack of lies.”
“Perhaps you should explain why you are here first, before assuming that’s all I will do.” She tipped up her chin and spoke with the bravado she’d cultivated in the Whitechapel stews. She had to stall for time, force her frightened wits to invent a story. She had always anticipated some gentleman might learn what she was doing. But she had never dreamed the man who would confront her would be Lyan.
Estelle watched his large hands slowly clench. How much had he changed? How much was he willing to hurt her in revenge for how deeply she must have wounded him?
Gently, he rested his fists on top of her ledger and leaned closer to her. Relief made her shoulders sag. Of course he would not hurt her physically. In the past, Lyan had beaten other men who hurt women. Injuring someone weaker was something he could not forgive.
She stared at the way the leather of his gloves stretched over his bent knuckles, but her foolish mind remembered how his strong hands had proved surprisingly gentle when they had cupped her breasts on that glorious, heart-wrenching night ten years ago—
She shook her head, swiftly dismissing the scalding vision. But her skin had become terribly hot beneath her stays and shift and muslin petticoats. Her breasts had responded to her wayward thoughts and felt plumper beneath her gown. The bodice felt like an over-tightened vise against her suddenly sensitive skin.
He watched her, and the silence stretched between them. Just when she was about to break it, because she couldn’t stand the sound of her pounding heart echoing in her ears, he said softly, “At first, I suspected Lady Maryanne did not come to see you. I assumed she had used your appointment as an excuse to leave her house so early in the morning. I believed she had headed to Gretna Green instead.”