Sin Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 1)

by Isobel Carr

  She gripped the edge of the table, marble chilly beneath her hands. Dauntry slowly unhooked the front of her gown, one hook after another. His hands were sure. Deliberate. He spread it wide, eased it off her shoulders. The heavy moiré silk hit the floor with an audible rustle.

  George held her breath as Dauntry kissed the exposed skin just above her shoulder blade while he tugged loose the hooks that held her petticoats. Deft fingers untied the pad that held out her skirts. One hand slid around the front of her stays, settled over the soft flesh of her belly.

  Her breath escaped in a rush.

  He leaned against her. Large. Heavy. Intimidating in a way that was oddly exciting. He caught her earlobe between his teeth, traced the sensitive shell of her ear with his tongue.

  ‘Here suits me fine.’ Teeth grazed her neck. ‘But the couch—or, better yet, the bed—might be preferable.’

  George swallowed thickly. ‘The bed.’ Oh, God. Please, the bed. ‘There.’ She pointed to the connecting door, unable to say any more.

  Dauntry’s fingers snaked into the lace of her stays, tugged her backward, tipped her off balance. He swung her up into his arms, juggled her as he opened the door to her room and carried her in. Two steps and she went flying, landing in the middle of her bed with enough force that the bed gave a screech of protest.

  She fought her way up out of the layers of bedding, floundering up onto her elbows, only to fall back when Dauntry wrapped one hand about her ankle and hauled her towards him.

  ‘Dauntry, wha—’

  ‘Ivo.’

  He tugged her all the way to the edge, legs dangling over the sides, knees indecorously spread. He knelt at the side of the bed, hands pushing her legs apart, shoving her shift up.

  ‘Say it.’

  George stared at him. What the devil?

  ‘Ivo. Say it. You call that damn colonel Charles, and Brimstone is Gabe as often as not.’ He froze. Fingers digging into her calves. ‘Say it.’

  George grinned, biting her lip as she did so. Sometimes jealousy was an amazingly attractive feature.

  ‘Ivo,’ she said deliberately, a chuckle welling up inside her, ‘what the devil are you doing?’

  ‘Keeping my promise, strumpet.’ His mouth slid up her leg, from the silk stocking covering her knee to the bare flesh above it. He bit down on the tendon at the top of her thigh and she squealed. Embarrassing as it was, there was no other word for it.

  Before she could protest his tongue was slithering up the valley between her thighs, parting, probing. His hand come up to rest against her belly, pushed her onto her back as his mouth locked over the sensitive peak now exposed to his predations.

  George’s fingers wound into his hair, nails stroking his skull, palm coming to rest on his crown. A moment later she tugged, trying to dislodge him.

  Ivo smiled to himself and sucked harder, flicking his tongue over her faster, pressing in against already overly sensitive flesh.

  How was it that he hadn’t tasted her yet? He’d spent an entire night in her bed and never once gotten his mouth on her like this.

  She pulled harder, a fistful of hair steadily wrenching upward.

  She could pull his hair out if she liked. He wasn’t about to stop. Not now. She was panting. Her feet pressing against him. She got one up and pushed hard against his shoulder.

  Ivo shrugged it off, wrapped his hands around her hips, and held her down. She was making a series of inarticulate protests which he suddenly realized were his name. ‘I-Iv-Iv-oh. I-I-Iv…oh!’

  His stomach clenched while his cock swelled inside his breeches, impatient to get loose. He slid two fingers inside her, locked his mouth over her, and took her over the edge.

  Legs wrapped around his shoulders, squeezed with impressive strength, trembled with her release. When she let go, Ivo stood, thumbed open the fall of his breeches, and flipped her over with one hand.

  She twisted like a cat, amber eyes meeting his. Ivo slid his hands over her exposed bottom, gripped her hips, and leaned in until the head of his cock found the entrance to her body.

  George’s eyes widened. Her hands fisted in the sheets.

  Without preamble he thrust in, pelvis meeting derrière as she took him all, encased him in hot slick flesh. She arched up, rising to meet him, silk-clad feet scrabbling for purchase on the polished wooden floor.

  He found his rhythm. Fast. Hard. Lost himself in the simple sensation of body meeting body. There was nothing simpler. Nothing purer. Nothing truer than the understanding two people could establish in the solitude of a bed.

  When George had been reduced to a writhing wanton, Ivo stopped. He didn’t want her to finish. Not just yet.

  He leaned forward, used his weight to hold her in place, and quickly pulled loose the knot holding her stays shut. He yanked out the lace and ran his hands up her torso. There was nothing but a layer of fine linen between them.

  George twisted, the fine muscles of her back sweetly alive under his hands. She moaned as he pushed his thumbs up the line of her spine, arched and rolled. He let her pull away, roll over, shed her stays and shift.

  Naked, she curled up in the middle of her bed. A thing of beauty. ‘Do you intend to remove your coat and boots, or is the point to spend the afternoon taking me like a pirate?’

  Ivo laughed, peeled off his coat, and turned to sit on the bed while he wrestled with his boots. Much as the picture she painted appealed, that hadn’t been his intent.

  Chapter Twelve

  Whatever the truth of Lord S—’s life abroad, he is clearly not pining for any lady he may have chanced to leave behind.

  Tête-à-Tête, 25 October 1788

  Philippe ground his teeth as Mrs Exley’s carriage rolled away from the curb. The wheels rattled on the cobbles, gratingly loud. A costermonger hawked her oranges, a young shepherd ambled past, his small flock of sheep trotting gamely before him.

  The bitch was supposed to be dead, not setting off to cavort in the country with yet another of her lovers. He cracked his knuckles one at a time, enjoying the sound and the momentary hollow feeling of each joint as it popped. He leaned back against the cold stone of the building, sucked in through his teeth, and spat.

  It was bad enough to discover he’d killed the wrong woman, had, in fact, wasted his time strangling a servant. But in the past few days he’d seen that damn bitch squired about on the arm of no less than five different men.

  She was going to pay. He’d see that she paid. And he was going to enjoy it. Every delicious, overdue moment.

  When she arrived back in town, George found Brimstone, attired in full evening kit, kicking his heels in her boudoir. He was sprawled in a chair, voraciously eating shortbread while reading a gothic novel she herself had abandoned halfway through. Ghosts and imprisoned heirs had littered its pages.

  A dusting of powder dulled his hair to steely grey. Heavily ribbed silk encased long limbs. Paste glinted from his buttons and his buckles.

  She’d left the colonel at her country house to become reacquainted with his daughter, with a firm promise that the two of them would make the journey to Winsham Court in a few weeks to join the earl’s family for their Christmas celebrations.

  All she wanted tonight was to send a footman round to Dauntry’s residence with a note inviting him to a late supper. She’d been actively scheming towards that end all day while trapped in her carriage. Planning exactly what she’d do to him once she had him alone…

  Gabriel’s presence clearly made that impossible. She blew her breath out in resignation. The anticipatory lust she’d been firing with daydreams turned to ash.

  ‘There you are,’ Gabriel said, not bothering to get up. ‘This is a ghastly book.’ He tossed the offending volume away and sat up, his feet hitting the floor with a crack.

  ‘I’m sure it is, but it’s also all the rage right now. It gives me something to make small talk about with other women when we retire after dinner.’

  ‘Well, I’m not here to read your dreadful bo
ok,’ he announced, reaching for the last piece of shortbread. ‘I’ve come to escort you to the theatre. The dowager is in a great frenzy over some play or other, and so Alençon is taking her. And nothing will do for them but that I bring you along. A royal command, you might say. So hurry up, my dearling, and get cleaned up.’

  ‘I’ll hurry, but only because it’s Grandmamma. Besides, no one is ever on time for the theatre.’ George crossed the room to pull the bell rope to call for assistance and hurried into her bedroom to wash and change her gown.

  ‘The duke said to be there on time,’ Brimstone called after her. ‘Lady Glendower actually wants to see the play.’

  George shucked her carriage gown, washed her arms and face with the warm water the maid brought, and selected a gown of bronze silk, trimmed with narrow rows of mink. She dusted her face and décolletage with powder and allowed the maid to help rearrange and powder her hair.

  Tugging on her gloves, she re-entered her boudoir. ‘Ready,’ she announced, shaking her head as Gabriel rose, dusting crumbs from his coat and breeches.

  The curtain was still down as Gabe led her through the door of Drury Lane. The gallery was filled with roving gentlemen making their way from box to box, fetching refreshments for the ladies in their charge, or merely drifting about to see who was present.

  Overly warm air, reeking of sweat and hair powder, pressed in, making George take a hurried breath through her mouth as they plunged through the crowd.

  The duke and the dowager countess were already seated in the Glendower box, the countess eagerly spying on her acquaintances through her opera glasses. Candlelight reflected back from the lenses of a hundred other pairs as their fellow attendees did the same.

  ‘Georgianna, sweetheart,’ the countess exclaimed as they entered, ‘I’m so glad that scamp got you here.’

  George kissed the old woman warmly and greeted the duke with a sly smile. ‘Duke, I am shocked to find you concealed here, quite alone, with my kinswoman.’

  ‘Very good, my dear,’ the duke drawled, silently clapping his hands. ‘You play the outraged matron to a tee. I wonder, wherever did you learn that?’

  ‘You, Alençon, are a despicable beast,’ interpolated the dowager with a wink for George. ‘My granddaughter may choose to be shocked at your behaviour if she wishes.’

  ‘Our behaviour, my dear Sophia, our behaviour.’ The duke languidly straightened the lace peeking from the cuffs of his cut velvet coat.

  The dowager harrumphed and sent Brimstone scurrying off to fetch refreshments. ‘And none of that lemonade stuff either. Can’t stand the stuff.’

  George sat chatting with her husband’s grandmother and the duke until Gabriel returned just as the curtain came up. They did their best to attend to the play over the raucous behaviour of the bucks in the gallery below, but one of the more fashionable impures seated in a nearby box was slowly tossing roses to the men gathered below her, causing a near riot.

  ‘It’s a damn fine thing I know this play,’ the countess announced with one of her disdainful snorts. ‘Because I can’t hear a thing over those louts.’ And with that, she leaned out over the edge and emptied her glass onto the crowd below.

  A howl of protest erupted, followed by what was clearly a fight breaking out. The dowager settled into her chair with the air of a satisfied hen.

  On stage, Kemble chewed through his monologues as though he were addressing the troops before a forlorn hope. George drank his performance in. Hamlet had always been her favourite of Shakespeare’s plays, and no matter how it was performed, she always enjoyed it.

  The melancholy Dane. The doomed madwoman who loved him. The friends who betrayed him, and who were in their turn betrayed. It was a fascinating story.

  When the curtain went down for the intermission, George sallied forth from her box with Alençon, strolling through the crowd to visit friends. They found Lady Morpeth heartily bored by the evening’s performance, but looking forward to the farce.

  ‘I never could stomach all the ins and outs and thees and thous. It’s simply too much work.’ The countess hid a yawn behind her hand.

  George laughed at her friend and went so far as to agree that Shakespeare could certainly be hard to follow, especially when whole scenes had been cut to shorten the running time.

  ‘You mean it’s actually longer?’ Victoria shot her husband a glare when he had the temerity to laugh.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, the faintest of smiles curling his lips, ‘but it makes sense.’

  ‘I sincerely doubt that, Rupert, but I shall allow you and George to like it all the same.’

  George thanked her friend for her magnanimity and excused herself, allowing Alençon to lead her on to the Duchess of Devonshire’s box. On the way, he gave a sudden shout of surprise and pulled George to a halt.

  ‘Lady Bev’s here,’ he whispered, leading her towards a box into which an elderly woman in a deep purple sack gown had just disappeared. ‘Amelia Spence would no more come to see Hamlet on her own than she’d move to Morocco to queen it over the Bedouin hordes.’

  ‘Are you making poor Lady Beverly another of your flirts?’ George demanded, as the duke led her onward to the box in question. ‘I must warn you, sir, I shall be forced to tell Grandmamma that you are a rake.’

  ‘Your grandmother, like almost every other woman alive, prefers a rake, my dear. And Prue has been one of my flirts far longer than Sophia.’

  George grinned. The old roué was absolutely correct. Dark, dangerous, and likely to lead a lady astray? Those were attractive qualities indeed.

  Inside Lady Beverly’s box they found the Earl of Cardross ensconced amongst the ladies, his lavishly embroidered coat resplendent even among all the feminine finery. Lady Beverly was smiling at the earl, while Miss Spence looked on Friday-faced, her grey fringe all but hiding her eyes.

  At the front of the box stood a young woman about George’s age. Two middle-aged matrons sat beside her, one dressed in a fashionable gown of striped silk, the other in a gown every bit as out of date as Miss Spence’s sack gown.

  All three women turned their attention to George as Lady Beverly greeted her appearance with a happy smile, relief clear in her eyes. George pressed her lips together to keep from grinning. Entertaining country cousins had never been among Lady Bev’s favourite activities.

  ‘Get out,’ Cardross cried as the duke entered behind her, throwing up one hand, as if to ward off an evil vision. George glanced back over her shoulder to catch Alençon smiling, showing his teeth in a slightly menacing manner. The duke pushed forward and claimed Lady Beverly’s hand, bending over it with a dramatic flourish.

  ‘I warn you, Alençon, no shoving in, or I shall take this one from you.’ Cardross beckoned George over to the seat beside him.

  ‘Boys!’ George eyed them reprovingly, while Lady Beverly laughed, fluttering her fan like a girl making her debut.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Georgianna, don’t discourage them. I’ve nearly forgotten what it’s like to be fought over.’

  ‘Now, that is a clanker if I’ve ever heard one.’ George nodded to Miss Spence. ‘I seem to recall more than one story of a duel being fought over you. It makes me terribly jealous.’

  ‘Do you like men to fight over you? Like dogs with a stolen bone?’ The young woman standing at the front of the box raised her chin. Her voice was oddly hard and loud enough to carry to the boxes on either side of them. ‘I would think that something to be avoided by any lady of taste or principles.’

  George blinked, mouth falling slightly agape before she closed it with a snap. She felt a twinge of guilt. A duel had been fought over her, and the results had been anything but pleasant. A rush of anger burnt the guilt away.

  She flicked her gaze appraisingly up and down the unknown woman, taking in her less than modish gown and the gaudy garnet set that adorned her neck and ears. The woman stared right back, hardly even blinking. George knew dislike when she saw it. This unknown woman burnt with it. Why?


  ‘Perhaps so,’ Lady Beverly chimed in hastily. ‘But one can hardly deny the romance of it all. Though now that the men are more apt to attack one another with guns than swords, it all seems a little sordid. Georgianna, this is Lady William, Miss Bagshott, and her mother, Lady Bagshott. Ladies, let me make you known to one of the true sights of London, Mrs Exley, our famous Lady Corinthian.’

  George flicked her glance over the lady in striped silk again. So, this was Dauntry’s mother? She had a rounded, motherly look to her. Not at all what George would have imagined. The older woman smiled tentatively, a worried crinkle marring her brow.

  ‘Lady William. Lady Bagshott. Miss Bagshott.’ George forced a smile, refusing to acknowledge the Bagshott ladies’ frosty reception. She would not fall into the trap of playing the game. Overt dislike wasn’t an uncommon reaction from the country gentry.

  They watched their own with a hard eye for any possible misstep or transgression, and they sought to impose their mores equally upon the rest of humanity. Their small-mindedness gave her the headache.

  She was well aware that she was more likely to be held up as an example of what to avoid rather than a model to be emulated by women such as these. What on earth was Lady Bev doing with such dowdy guests? It wasn’t at all like her.

  Before anyone could reply the curtain parted and Dauntry entered, followed by his grandfather, their hands filled with champagne flutes.

  ‘Here you go, Aunt Prue…’ Dauntry began gaily enough, turning to distribute the glasses. He stopped in mid-sentence, mid-step. As his eyes met hers his face paled, then flushed, a slow bloom creeping up from his collar. Behind him the marquess stiffened, his eyes scorching her from across the box.

  George’s whole body flamed in recognition. Lust raced through her, licking every secret, intimate part of her all at once.

  ‘Mrs Exley,’ Ivo managed to get out, allowing Cardross to relieve him of the flutes and distribute them to the ladies in their charge. ‘I thought you still in the country.’