Engaged in Sin

by Sharon Page

  He let her question stand between them for a while, dissecting every rise and fall of her breath. Finally he asked, “What is it you are searching for? Confirmation of something you suspect?”

  “Heavens, no. What—what do you mean by that?”

  He had meant confirmation of what she might have figured out if she’d listened in on Wynter and him. She sounded honestly confused. They were dancing around something, but he didn’t know what. “All right, you want to know what Wynter—my investigator—and I discussed? It was nothing of import. Business in London.”

  “Oh.” She let out a sigh of relief, one he wouldn’t have heard if he hadn’t been listening closely. “I wondered if you had been asking him questions about me.”

  “Angel, he came to bring me information I requested. How could I have asked questions about you? I’d have to do it by post, and the only person who can write a letter is you.”

  “You could have sent a footman with questions.”

  Her answer came so swiftly he knew she had been working out possibilities in her head. “What are you afraid I would learn? What are you afraid of in London? The truth this time.”

  “I told you the truth. I was afraid that if you’d sent this man to inquire about me, he might have spoken to my madam and she might now know where I am.”

  With sight, he could have seen if she blushed or paled. He could see a shift of her gaze, a bite of her lip. He would know, with a lot more certainty, when she was lying. “I didn’t ask Wynter to investigate you, Cerise. I saw no reason not to trust you. What do I need to know about you that you haven’t told me?”

  “There is nothing else you need to know about me.” The sultry purr. “I missed you, Your Grace, even for just the short time I was in the village.” Her dress rustled; she gave a breathy sigh. “That’s much better. The bodice was squeezing me too tight.”

  What did that mean? Had she unfastened the buttons on her dress?

  “Did you want me to come here to make love?” Her mouth lingered over those two words. Make love. It was as though she could perform feats of magic. Levitate his erection with two enchanted words. And something fell, with a soft plop.

  “There. I managed to get out of my dress. But I can’t undo the corset by myself. Would you care to assist me, Your Grace? I think it would be so … erotic to pleasure you while I am utterly naked and you are so handsomely and completely dressed.”

  To meet Wynter, he’d forced Treadwell to play valet and help him into a silk waistcoat, a tailcoat, and polished boots. Now she was playing the mistress. He could hear it in every deliberate little breathless giggle and moan. He knew an act when he heard it.

  And it was working. He couldn’t help it. A dozen erotic scenarios exploded in his head. He could take her from behind as she leaned against the wall. Or have her wrap her legs around him and brace her back to the wall. Or lie down on the carpet and let her ride him to oblivion.

  He could imagine each scene with perfect clarity. All he had to do was give the command and she would service him in any way he wanted. Any way he needed. He could use her to pound away the guilt that sat like acid in his gut. But he had no right to do so. “No, Cerise,” he growled. “Not now.”

  No.

  Anne had gnawed her thumbnail nearly to the quick. If the duke knew about Madame’s death, knew she was suspected of murder, he would have confronted her by now. He couldn’t know. But he was angry. Was it because he’d guessed she was faking her orgasms? How had he done so? This morning he’d laughed with her in bed; now he didn’t want to touch her.

  She had been an absolute fool. His business had nothing to do with her, but her awkward questions had provoked suspicion. She’d hoped to distract him with sex; now she didn’t know what to do. What if he asked more questions and drew closer to her secret? What if she clumsily gave him a clue? She had to seduce him.

  “I can think of many ways we could make love right here,” she purred.

  “So can I, angel.”

  Did that mean she’d piqued his interest? “You look so … unhappy. You looked pleased over the last few days, when we made love all the time. I would like to make you smile.”

  “That may prove difficult, love.”

  “Oh, dear.” She feigned dismay, but real fear gnawed inside her. “Then I shall try very hard, Your Grace.” Her saucy voice rang falsely in the room.

  “No,” he snapped.

  What could she do? She gazed at the walls, which held many paintings of horses. Perhaps a dozen beautiful works stacked one atop the other, from wainscoting to soaring ceiling. For the first time she noticed that in the middle of all the pictures of horses hung a small portrait of four young women. One was seated gracefully upon a Queen Anne chair, her hair as black as the duke’s, her eyes large and the same intriguing lavender color. Her dress was a spill of ivory satin and white lace, and she wore a mischievous smile. Three young girls surrounded her, each a beauty. One was dark, and the other two had golden hair and large green eyes.

  “Are all these your horses?” The question seemed inane, but the silence pressed on her like a block of lead.

  “At one time or another. My father complained about the money I spent on my mounts.”

  “And the ladies? One looks as though she must be your sister.”

  “They all are. Of course, when I held wild parties here, I would cover their portraits.”

  “That was very noble of you.”

  His brow lifted in ducal hauteur. “Are you making fun of me, Cerise?”

  “Of course not.” Heart hammering, she moved to him. Daringly, she pressed against his chest and stroked her way up the front of his coat. She clasped his hand and coaxed it to her bosom.

  He cupped her breast and bent his head to the crook of her neck. He kissed her throat, and a tumult of emotion hit Anne—hope, uncertainty, and the fear that she might reveal more than she dared. She kept her mouth shut and let him kiss and fondle her. In some way she had conquered his resistance, but she didn’t quite know how.

  His lips followed the arch of her throat and brushed the spot where her jaw met her neck. He flicked his tongue, setting off a deep, low throb between her legs. “Do you like this? Your heart is pounding, Cerise.”

  “It always does,” she said swiftly, “when I am with you. And I do like it. Very much.”

  “I need to work off some frustration, love. What I can’t decide is whether I want to make love to you or go for a ride.”

  “A ride?” she echoed. “Do you mean on a horse?”

  His hand moved back from her breast, his lips lifted from her neck. “You assume I can’t.”

  She could have bitten her tongue. It was her goal to help him, not remind him of everything he could not do. He was already in a belligerent mood. “No, but I was told you had not gone outside, except when we walked together.”

  “I haven’t ridden since Waterloo.” His next question surprised her. “Do you ride?”

  “Yes.” She spoke before she’d thought of the wisdom of a truthful answer. Surely admitting that couldn’t give her secrets away. But she saw his brows lift with surprise.

  “Indeed? Then ride with me.”

  With no riding habit, Anne borrowed the duke’s shirt, coat, and trousers. They walked to the stables. She didn’t need to lead him, he could follow the smell—the clean smell of horses and new hay, the ripe smell of dung.

  She hadn’t ridden since Longsworth. Every moment with the duke seemed to draw her deeper into memories of the home she’d lost. Once she had owned a white Arabian. She had called her mare Midnight, because her white horse was as brilliant as the bevy of stars that glittered above her house in the middle of the night.

  She watched His Grace’s expression. Carved stone, with his jaw clamped shut. Of course—he must be remembering what it was like to ride when he had his sight. His face looked as firmly set against memories as she imagined hers must.

  The groom brought the gelding to a halt. The duke acknowledged his
servant, then turned to her. “How much experience have you had in the saddle?”

  She flushed, aware of the double meaning. But he appeared so serious, she knew he had not meant that at all. “Years and years ago, I rode every day. I rode whenever I could.”

  The duke took a step toward the nickering horse held by his groom. “That sounds like Abednigo. Give me his reins, Benson, and bring out Angelica for Miss Cerise.”

  Minutes ticked by—the groom must be saddling Angelica. The clop of hooves on the stone floor of the stable had Anne breathless with anticipation. She savored the thought of riding again. Soon a beautiful animal emerged, walking elegantly behind young Benson. Angelica was jet black, obviously a purely bred Arabian, and carefully groomed.

  Benson held the mare’s bridle. Anne mounted, swinging her leg over the horse’s back, and she settled on the saddle. It might be scandalous for a lady to ride this way, but she wasn’t a lady anymore, and she could ride faster astride. She yearned to give Angelica her head, to fly across fields and countryside. But she couldn’t, because the duke couldn’t, and she had to subdue her exhilaration. Angelica danced skittishly beneath her. They seemed to be kindred spirits, both eager to do something they loved.

  Anne held her breath as Benson helped the duke mount. She watched the duke’s gloved hand rest on the horse’s withers and saw how gently he patted the animal. He murmured something and, as though listening to an old friend, the gelding stilled. Despite his blindness, the duke mounted smoothly.

  Anne lightly spurred Angelica to walk to his side. She didn’t want to ask for the reins in front of his servant. She sidled so close to him, her thigh brushed his. He turned to her, grinning—a bigger, more dazzling smile than she’d seen in all the days she’d been here.

  He pointed ahead of them to the lawns that stretched out toward the house on the left and to the edge of the woods on the right. “You explain where we’re going. Point out the obstacles in the way and I’ll follow your every word. I’d like to head for the south fields. There is a good track to follow.”

  He wanted her to talk him through it, not lead him? Could she do this well enough so he would not get hurt? She had to try. “Then we’ll go there, Your Grace.”

  It had been so long since she’d ridden, the saddle slapped her bottom mercilessly at first. Angelica snorted her disgust. Anne knew she must describe things to the duke, but she couldn’t stop watching him carefully. Then she began to stare. At the way lines bracketed his sensual mouth, at the length of his curling eyelashes. She adored his cheekbones and the cleft in his chin.

  “You do realize I asked you to give me directions so I could hear your lovely voice,” he said.

  Her heart gave a foolish flip in her chest. He was so beautiful, it would be so easy to fall in love with his face. A clever mistress didn’t do that, so she directed her thoughts to guiding him.

  Suddenly he called out, “Stop, love.” She reined in and he tipped his face toward her. “God, this feels good. The sun beating down, having you at my side, listening to you speak.”

  His words—having you at my side—warmed her more than the sunlight. She had never ridden with a gentleman. She had never simply walked a horse along at a man’s side, chatting beneath a summer sun. It was a pleasure she would gather up and lock away.

  “I’m glad you were so stubborn, love. If I’d sent you back to London, I’d never have known the pleasure of this. But now I want more.”

  She jerked her head up. “More? More what?”

  “I want to gallop.”

  “No.” The word snapped out before she could stop it. She accidentally jerked Angelica’s reins, and the horse whinnied with indignation.

  His smile disappeared. “Angel, I need to gallop.”

  “I can’t allow that. How could I give you directions and guidance quickly enough? What if you fall? What if you break your neck?”

  “Maybe I’m not afraid of that.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I didn’t survive Waterloo because I was too stubborn to die. Or too cowardly. I survived because living through battle came down to sheer luck. On that day, my luck was in. For thousands of others, it wasn’t. Maybe I want to test my luck.”

  “Test your luck? No! For heaven’s sake, you survived! Do you have any idea how precious survival is? Why would you try to kill yourself now?”

  He rose up in the saddle, a wild grin on his face. “Is there still an old oak in the middle of this meadow? Is anything standing between that tree and me?”

  “Only me—”

  “Then let’s race, angel. First one to the tree wins. You may have a head start.”

  “I am not going to race you, Your Grace. I—”

  Before she could finish her protest, he spurred his mount’s flanks. His horse shot forward, racing around her, and galloped straight for the tree. She hadn’t proved a barrier at all. He must have used the sound of her voice to locate her, to go around her. Now he was riding on a tear toward the oak. He truly was willing to throw away survival for pride.

  She wheeled Angelica around and galloped in pursuit. “You could fall! Stop this!”

  Could he hear? The wind must be roaring past his ears. He appeared so intent on reaching the blasted tree first that he was oblivious to everything else. He certainly wasn’t obeying her.

  His beaver hat flew from his head and tumbled to the ground. His coal-black waves streamed back as he leaned forward, pressing low to the horse’s straining neck. His taut buttocks lifted, his rock-hard thighs bulged beneath his trousers.

  What was on the path? There could be anything—rocks, ruts, an animal’s hole. He could be charging right into disaster. He could be killed.

  Flicking the reins, she urged her horse faster. She had to remember how to ride and push herself to go faster than ever before to catch a man who rode like a streak of lightning. Instead of gaining, she was slipping farther behind. “Come on, Angelica. We have to stop your master from killing himself!”

  But even with the mare racing flat out, with her body laid along the straining neck, Anne knew Angelica’s strides were too short. She and Angelica were female—they couldn’t catch up to two males driven by mad pride. Suddenly her wits clicked into place. She could shout that he’d already reached the blasted tree. Make him think he’d won, and he would stop.

  She sucked in a deep breath to shout as loudly as she could. “Your Grace, you’ve passed the oak! You’ve won! The race is over!” She threw in another lie. One to make him act more quickly. “You must stop. There is a tall hedge ahead of you!”

  He reined in the instant the words left her mouth. Her shout and the horse’s thundering hooves must have startled a grouse—the bird exploded out of the grass in front of the duke’s horse with the whirring of flapping wings. The horse reared.

  The duke straightened abruptly on his saddle, pulling back on the reins, fighting for control. She could see him struggling to stay on with the strength of his powerful thighs, with a brute force that set the broad muscles of his back straining against his coat.

  He brought the horse down with a thump that shook the field beneath her. Then the black gelding suddenly bowed his head, as though remorseful over his panic, and the reins went slack. The duke clawed at the air, obviously expecting the horse’s neck to be in front of him.

  He fell, toppling headfirst over the shoulder of his horse. His bare head hit the ground before he flipped over, to land with another earth-shaking thud on his back. His body lay still.

  “Oh, my God.” It was all Anne could say. Over and over, on every frantic breath. She spurred Angelica toward him, and when she was just a yard away, she swung off her mare so swiftly she fell to her knees. She scrambled up and raced to him. “Your Grace!”

  He was still in the same position, and his eyes were shut. His long legs were splayed and relaxed, his arms flopped out at his sides. He was definitely unconscious. She dropped to her knees. She knew how to feel for a heartbeat. Holding her bre
ath, she stripped off her gloves and pressed her fingertips to his throat. She had to adjust before she felt the soft thud of his heart. A regular beat, not thready and weak.

  Relief struck her so hard she almost fell on him, her hands gripping his shoulders. “Wake up. Please wake up.” She was afraid to hurt him—and at the same time she wanted to shake him senseless. How could he be so careless about his own life …?

  His eyes flickered open. “Christ … oh, yes, I can’t see. Cerise, is that you? Where am I?”

  “You are on the field,” she gasped on a ragged breath. “Where you fell off your horse. I thought—I thought you’d been killed.”

  He grinned. “No, angel, still alive. A bit banged up and bruised, but none the worse for wear. I have to admit, flying through the air into blackness proved interesting.”

  Interesting. Anne had to grasp her right wrist to keep from thumping him on the chest. “I am glad you were entertained,” she said tightly. “I feared you were dead. Perhaps it was interesting for you, but it was horrific for me.” She scrambled back, but before she could get to her feet to stalk away, his arm wrapped around her thigh.

  “I’m sorry. Don’t go.”

  He was sorry. She had been so afraid he was badly hurt, that she’d … lost him. Tears had stung in her eyes for him—they still did, for heaven’s sake.

  He cocked his head, putting on his most endearing look. She could see him doing it.

  “I would like to make love to you here, bathed in sunlight,” he said gently. “I think it would prove spicy, with you so angry with me. Are you still willing, Cerise?”

  Willing? She wanted to smack him. Or cry. Or hug him and never let him go, never let him get on a horse again. She had wanted him distracted—he certainly was, but she felt as though she was going to fall to pieces.

  She was about to tell him she did not care if he found the idea of making love to her right now as spicy as curry from India, when he lifted her hand to his mouth. He brushed a warm kiss over her fingertips, then pursed his mouth around her index finger. And suckled.

  She desperately tried to cling to her annoyance, but it melted away like ice in the heat. Her body followed—as he sucked each finger in turn, every inch of her went hot and quivery. “Stop this,” she finally managed. “I am angry with you.”