Engaged in Sin

by Sharon Page

  He ignored her. One swift tug of her hand and she fell on top of him. He rolled over so they lay face-to-face on the grass. Golden sunlight bathed them; wildflowers bobbed over them.

  “Let me make it up to you, angel. Let me make this good for you.” He kissed her slowly, sensually. But even with his hot kisses ravaging her mouth and the sun beating down on her, she could not lose the icy fear that had wrapped around her heart. She knew she shouldn’t give in and let him have his way after ignoring her warnings, after putting her through hell. Even though she was his mistress and she was supposed to do as he wanted.

  But she wanted to hold him, wanted to wrap herself tightly around him and savor the fact that he was safe. “All right,” she whispered. “I’m willing.”

  Chapter Ten

  AIN SHOT UP Devon’s back as he jerked off his coat and threw it on the ground. He rolled Cerise onto her back on the coat. Of course he felt a spasm of agony through his muscles—he’d almost broken his neck. He stripped off his waistcoat, tore off his cravat, hauled his shirt over his head. His boots wouldn’t come off, so he had to shove his trousers down to his knees.

  He needed Cerise. The word slammed through him with every beat of his heart, every pulse of blood surging to his cock. Need. Need. He had vowed he wouldn’t use her to work out his anger or his frustration, but this was different. Adrenaline was racing through him because he was alive, and he was drunk on it. Drunk on wanting her.

  He reached blindly for her legs. Followed them up to the placket of her borrowed trousers. “Open them, love. Push them down.” There was no tenderness in his tone, no seduction. “I need you now.”

  He licked the smooth skin she exposed—the lovely curve of her belly. Then he slid his hands under her bottom, lifted her to his mouth, and devoured her. She’d given him spectacular performances in his bedroom over the last few days, but he knew her wild climaxes were faked.

  Maybe he could no longer race a horse and know the exhilaration of riding like wild across his fields, but he could know the victory of making Cerise truly scream.

  He suckled her lavishly, teased her with his tongue, and waited for her moans. But she didn’t make any sound. No whimpers of surrender, no groans of agony, and no cries of ecstasy—real or otherwise. He was determined to give her pleasure. So he didn’t stop.

  Something strange was happening to Anne.

  As soon as the duke put his mouth to her quim, she’d tensed as she always did. She had been ready to please him by feigning delight, taking care to make her act very convincing. But this time the lush sweeps of his tongue, the lavish suckling was … good. It wasn’t too intense.

  She relaxed all over, sinking into the heavenly scent of his coat. Her whole body was floppy, light, languorous, and she felt as if she floated above the field, lying on sunbeams.

  I need you now. She couldn’t speak. Or make any sound. All she could think of were those words. She seemed to be growing tighter inside, like clockworks wound to the breaking point. Her hips arched up to him, and she was pushing against his mouth. Seeking … something.

  Her hands clawed at the ground, tearing out chunks of grass. Her toes curled. Her body went utterly rigid, her eyes shut tight. Deep inside her, everything … exploded. She was coming apart. So much wild, fierce ecstasy washed through her like a wind-whipped wave, she feared her heart would stop—

  Stars shot in front of her closed eyes. Her climax took her; it made her body jerk and jolt, it made her eyes open wide, her head smack against the soft ground, and her brain simply cease to work. She soared as though she were flying—spinning—in graceful loops on the summer breeze. It made her heart thunder. Stole her voice with wonderment, and she could make almost no sound at all.

  Dazedly, she remembered how other women in the brothel used to whisper about this. The elusive pleasure women sometimes found. It was rare and precious, they said, a jewel that dazzled more than a diamond.

  She could see why. Dreamily, through half-closed eyes, Anne saw the duke move over her. His cock pointed at her, thick, obviously rigid. He didn’t use his hands to position himself. He was so hard, and her pleasure had left her so wet, he easily sank inside her. Her insides still pulsed, clutching at him, trying to pull him deep.

  He pressed his mouth to hers, and she tasted herself on his lips. Salty, earthy, rather ripe. She clung to him, wrapped tight around him. She sobbed with delight and shock and astonishment. How would she have known the throbbing would last so long? Leave her so spent? Make her so very sensitive that she came again after just a few of his long, slow thrusts?

  One agonized little “oh” was the only sound she could manage. Her arms slipped from his neck and she fell back.

  He suddenly grunted, low and hoarse. His groin collided with hers; he thrust as deep as he could. His lids and lashes covered his eyes, and he jerked helplessly above her.

  She held him throughout his ravaging climax. It seemed to punish his body far more than her orgasm did to hers.

  “Oh, God, angel,” he groaned, and sprawled beside her, his body obviously as spent and boneless as hers. She was too weak to move to him and lay on her back, hot and sated, loose and floppy, like a sleepy kitten curled in the sun.

  She could barely remember being angry with him. And surely he’d learned his lesson. Surely he would never take such a dangerous risk again.

  He levered up so he was leaning over her. His lashes dipped down. “You didn’t enjoy it, did you, love? You were so quiet.”

  Heavens, she had never known pleasure like that. She’d never had an orgasm before. He’d given her the very first one. “It was the most wonderful—” Abruptly, she stopped. Of course he thought she hadn’t liked it. She normally shouted to the heavens when she was faking. When she really felt it, she’d barely made any sound. If she tried to explain, he would know she had been acting all the other times she had cried out for him.

  Desperately, she sought an explanation that wouldn’t anger or hurt him. “I was afraid someone would hear us.”

  “As opposed to when we are in a house filled with servants? You must be tired from spending the afternoon leading me around, humoring my demands. After we take the horses back, your duties are done for the day, angel.” Quickly, he launched to his feet and tugged up his trousers.

  She was certain he would change his mind, but he kept his word—for the rest of the night, she was abandoned. He stayed in his study with the door locked. At midnight she knocked and called for him, but he simply told her to go to bed.

  The shouting woke her.

  Anne jerked up in her bed. It must be the duke—he must be having a nightmare. Holding the hem of her robe, she ran downstairs. She reached the study as Treadwell, with Beckett at his side, holding a candle, was fumbling to unlock the door.

  “What if he gets outside again?” Beckett whispered. “Gets into the woods? Last time he ran through there, he fell into the stream and almost drowned.”

  “He won’t get out,” Treadwell snapped. “But if we don’t get in there, he could hurt himself.”

  As if in terrifying answer, something shattered within the study. Shouts came from behind the door. Anne couldn’t understand them, but they sounded authoritative, like directions barked out in the midst of a disaster.

  Beckett shoved the light forward, almost setting Treadwell’s hair on fire. “If we go in there when His Grace is like this, he could hurt one of us. Last time, he went at you with a knife.”

  “His Grace thought I was the French. I came up behind him without warning.”

  “He’s got to be mad,” Beckett muttered. “How could he think he’s in battle, unless he’s lost his wits?”

  Treadwell’s shaking fingers dropped the key. Anne snatched up the ring. “Let me.”

  “No, miss—” Treadwell began, but she turned the key in the lock and shoved open the door. She snatched the candlestick from Beckett and ran into the room.

  “Your Grace,” she called, forcing a decisive note she didn’t fee
l into her voice. Where was he? In the absolute darkness of the room, the glow of the candle barely penetrated. It blinded her more than it helped her. She held it far out in front.

  The light fell on the floor ahead of her, and what it illuminated twisted her heart. The duke was on the carpet. He was crawling toward the windows, snapping orders and directions to men who were not there. Men who, Anne realized with sickening horror, might be dead now.

  I’m going madder by the day. His words squeezed her heart. No wonder he thought so. But she refused to believe he would have to be trapped in these nightmares forever.

  Holding the candle, she rushed to his side and crouched by him. Her hand closed around his shoulder and he flinched. Would he strike her? She shook him. “Wake up, Your Grace. You’re having a dream. You are in your study, in England. You are perfectly safe! No one is shooting at you.”

  “Get down,” he growled. “You’ll get your head blown off.”

  “It’s Anne, Your Grace.”

  “Christ, he’s only a boy. He’s going to shoot—” He grasped her wrist and pulled her down.

  In the glow of the candle, she could see that his eyes were filled with a feral fury. She had seen this look on men in the stews—it was the look of a man who would kill anyone in his way. He shoved her flat onto the rug and moved over her, as though shielding her from danger. She set the candlestick on the floor and eased it away. She was pinned beneath him, but she said firmly, “Your Grace, it is all right. This is just a dream. It’s Anne—”

  Oh, God. She’d used her real name. Done it twice. She prayed that in his condition he wouldn’t register the slip. “Your Grace, you must wake up. It’s Cerise. You’re having a nightmare. Please, Your Grace.” She shook him harder.

  Her shaking did nothing to him. He still looked haunted, and he seemed so lost. Could an embrace do anything when shoving his shoulders about had not? Could a kiss?

  Desperately, she pressed her mouth to his. He might hit or attack her, but she must reach him. She had to try anything. She kissed him slowly, sensually caressing his mouth with hers.

  He gave a low, guttural moan. His lips parted and softened against hers. To her relief, he began to return her kiss. It broke the hold of the dream, it seemed, for he suddenly pushed her back and rolled away from her. “What the—where am I? Angel, what are you doing here?”

  “You were dreaming,” she said quietly.

  “On my hands and knees, crawling for cover?” he asked drily. He rose to a sitting position, his forearms resting on his knees. Naked.

  She glanced toward the footmen. “Leave us, please.” The men hesitated, until the duke growled the same words. The moment they were alone, Anne snuggled close to the duke. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “In your dream, you spoke of a boy, a boy who was going to shoot—”

  “My mind plays mad tricks on me. I suppose I am mad.”

  “No, you aren’t,” she argued. “I had nightmares for weeks when I was first in the brothel.”

  He embraced her, drawing her to his chest. “I think you must have gone through a worse hell than I did, Cerise. We make a fine pair, don’t we? Filled with visions of hell, plagued by nightmares, staying here because we both have no place else to go.”

  “Actually, I think we do make a good pair,” she said firmly. “You’ve helped me. And I want to help you.” She kissed him again.

  He eased her away. “Not that way. Not tonight. Angel, you should go away.”

  “I won’t. I won’t leave you to endure this alone.”

  “Then let me hold you for a while, Cerise.” But his body shook and his arms trembled against her back as he embraced her.

  “Have you talked to anyone about the memories that haunt you?” she asked.

  “No. I refuse to torture someone else by describing these things just to buy me a bit of relief. Talking about them isn’t going to make it go away. There’s nothing to be done. Don’t speak of it.”

  But she hated to feel him shaking so much. She yearned to take away the blank, hunted look in his eyes. He didn’t want to make love. What else could she give him to distract him? In the past, to help her grandfather, she walked with him, read to him.…

  She slipped out of the duke’s embrace. “Wait here.” She hurried to the bookshelves—even though the library was filled with volumes, there were more here in his study. Books on the breeding of horses, on animal husbandry, and guides for the management of hunting lands. But at the very end of one shelf was a copy of Sense and Sensibility.

  It seemed an odd book for a gentleman to keep in his study, but she took it out. She turned, then she saw it. The brandy decanter, lying on the floor.

  Anne picked it up. There was enough in the bottom to fill a thimble, and the strong aroma of alcohol hit her. Frowning, she tipped the decanter and tasted. The brandy was full strength.

  Later, she would speak to his servants. For now she wanted to give the duke some peace.

  She clasped his hand and took him to the settee and sat down. “Rest your head on my lap.” Gathering as much of her robe as she could, she wrapped it around him.

  A smile flickered on his lips, and Anne’s heart gave a pang. Then she opened the book. Clearing her throat, she started to read.

  Chapter Eleven

  HE SHARP RAP at the door to the bathing room didn’t surprise Anne, but it did rouse her from drowsiness. She blinked and sat up, water sloshing around her. She had dozed off in the bathtub with her head propped on the curved rim.

  A hand landed on the door again. Not in a knock but with a hard, angry slap. “My brandy, love. What in blazes have you done with it?”

  The duke had come himself. Anne jerked up on her knees in the tub so swiftly that water splashed onto the floor. She might lose everything for this, but she knew—knew in her heart—she was doing the right thing. “I instructed your footmen not to give it to you anymore.”

  “They take orders from you, Cerise?” His voice rumbled through the closed door. “I know you were having my liquor watered down, but each night I had the stuff poured out and replaced. This time, when I insisted one of them bring a bottle to me, they all refused.”

  “Your Grace, I told them they must do that. It is not their fault—”

  “Apparently,” he barked, “they are more afraid of you than of me. I’ve never known my servants to cower like this before my mother, never mind a—” He stopped abruptly.

  Never mind a tart. He did not say it. He didn’t need to. It was what he meant. She stepped out of the tub and wrapped a thick white towel around her. She padded to the door, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the gleaming wood. With her hand on the key, she took a deep breath. He was furious. She was trembling, but she opened the door.

  The duke was leaning on the lavish molding. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The tails hung out over dark trousers. He’d left his feet bare.

  “It’s not me they are afraid of,” she said simply. “I told Treadwell it could hurt you to supply you with liquor endlessly. That’s why they are not fetching your drink. It hardly helps you.”

  “I happen to think it does.” He slumped against the frame. He didn’t look like a man preparing to hit a woman. Instead, he looked like a man at the end of his rope.

  “You don’t need it,” she insisted. “I think it makes your nightmares worse. Last night, when I read to you, you seemed happy. After, when I left you to sleep, you didn’t have a nightmare, did you? You do not need the liquor. I could read to you each night.”

  “You read for hours, Cerise. Until close to dawn. I can’t ask that of you each day.”

  “Why not? I am your mistress. It is what I am willing to do.”

  “You are my mistress. Not a slave. I will not make use of you like that.”

  With that, he pushed away from the doorframe, turned, and walked away.

  She stared after him in astonishment as he strode down the corridor, swinging his walking stick ahead
of his steps. He moved with so much more confidence now. In only a handful of days, he truly had changed.

  Last night he had relaxed enough to fall asleep in her lap. He’d stopped her reading Sense and Sensibility, though, and made her read a manual on horse breeding, which would put anyone to sleep.

  She was his mistress—she was supposed to be available anytime he wanted, for anything he desired. Yet he’d just told her he would not make use of her. Should she be pleased or worried?

  Was she right?

  Devon let one of the footmen put on his greatcoat. He could feel the weight of it dropping on his shoulders. He held out his hand for his beaver hat and drew it on ruthlessly. Once he cared about his appearance. He had no right to anymore, not when a choice he’d made had cost a good soldier his life, which meant the man’s wife and child had been thrown into grief and poverty. And now they had vanished somewhere in London’s slums.

  He needed his liquor, but Cerise’s warning kept hammering in his brain. Was the brandy hurting him more than it helped him?

  He’d thought drink would dull the pain, grief, and anger. When he didn’t soak his mind with liquor, his nightmares were soaked with blood and echoed with screams. Brandy turned them into vague and formless things he couldn’t grasp but that still tormented him. Admittedly, it had never once given him the gift of a night’s sleep.

  Perhaps she was right.

  If he couldn’t escape in liquor, he had to do it another way. There was sex, but he wasn’t in the mood for an activity that required him to act more like a human and less like a growling, guilt-ridden blackguard. Anyway, he sensed there was a wall between them, forged by his determination to drown his anger and guilt in drink and her equal insistence that he stop. Intriguingly, the only way to tear down the wall was for one of them to win.

  Instead, he was going to ride. This time he would take more care. He couldn’t throw his life away by breaking his neck.