Engaged in Sin

by Sharon Page

  Guilt twisted his gut hard at how close he had come to killing himself. Thousands of men had died in war. Likely all of them would trade positions with him in a heartbeat. Besides, his mother would expect him to produce an heir before accidentally killing himself—

  “Yer Grace.” The puffing voice was Treadwell’s. “Another letter has arrived from Her Grace, yer mother. Should I give it to you or to Miss Cerise?”

  “To me, damn it.” It was as though Treadwell had read his mind, had known he was thinking of his family. Devon stuffed the letter in his pocket. No doubt it would be another entreaty for him to fall in love and marry.

  Hell.

  He knew where he was. Probably.

  Devon braced his hand against the rough bark of a tree, while Abednigo danced beneath him. As he soothed the horse, he tasted late afternoon in the heavy sweetness of the air, felt it in the heat of the sun beating across his face. Even blind, he knew the woods around him were drenched in the gold of the dropping sun. He would likely never see it again.

  Though there was a chance he would. He’d been to specialists in London, and no doctor could tell him exactly why he was blind. They had explained that a nerve ran from behind his eyes into his brain. He’d suffered a blow to his head. The doctors believed something was pressing on the optic nerve. A knot of blood, they speculated, or a splinter of bone broken off when a young soldier’s bayonet had slammed into his skull. His sight could come back, the doctors had told him, if the thing moved. But if it did move, it could also slice its way through his brain. It could kill him.

  “Your Grace!”

  Devon turned in the saddle toward the anxious voice that fell over him in a breathless rush. Skirts swished and boots crunched over fallen twigs. “You followed me on foot, Cerise?”

  “Yes.” She let out her breath in a whoosh. “In a corset, no less. I can barely breathe. Why are you out here alone?”

  Holding the reins, he dismounted. “I didn’t want you to run after me.”

  “I wanted to ensure …” She hesitated, and her pretty voice died away.

  “I can guess what you’re thinking, love. You’re wondering if I know where I am but you don’t want to hurt my tender feelings by asking me.”

  “Your Grace, I thought I’d already proved I am not very mindful of your feelings.” Her tone was so wry it made him smile. Then she paused. “Do you know where you are?”

  “Yes. I can smell apples. Behind me, the stream is rippling softly, not splashing noisily. Given those clues, I would say I’m in the woods, south of the apple orchard, near the path that heads down to the village. Where the stream is at its deepest.”

  Her silence landed on him like a slap across the head.

  There was only one reason she wouldn’t say anything. “All right. Where am I?”

  “At the northern end of the orchard, I believe.”

  He’d been completely wrong. “Damnation,” he muttered.

  “You did excellently,” she said loyally.

  “I don’t need false praise to make me feel better,” he said grimly. “I wanted to map out my property in my thick head, and I need to get it right—”

  “You lost your sight. That hardly means you have a thick head. Let us work on this together. I will describe things to you as we walk along. Where do you wish to begin?”

  Her crisp tones brought out guilt with an acrid twinge in his heart. He hadn’t expected her to leap so vehemently to his defense. But that was what she did, wasn’t it? She insisted he wasn’t mad, no matter how much evidence he gave her to the contrary. She risked injury to help him, risked his wrath to take his brandy away. Last night she had gone without sleep for hours so she could read to him, keeping him from falling into another nightmare.

  Cerise was unlike any courtesan he’d ever known. Most would have run screaming. None would have worked so hard to help him. She deserved better than his bad temper.

  He took a deep breath. “Angel, I apologize for my stupidity. Not about being lost, but for snapping at you. I don’t deserve you, but I need you.”

  This time he didn’t know what to make of her silence.

  He coaxed her to mount Abednigo and he swung up behind her. To fit on the saddle, he lifted her so she sat on his lap. Then they explored the woods.

  Her descriptions amazed him. She explained how the path meandered through the trees, giving him details of every twist and turn. She pointed out where the oldest trees stood, their bark drenched in lichen. They reached the stream again and she gasped in pleasure.

  “It is so … mystical,” she whispered. God, how he was aroused by her, by every squirm she made on his lap, by every ingenuous, luscious sound that fell from her lips.

  “How is it mystical?” he asked, mainly to keep her talking.

  “It makes me think of a fairy grotto, as though fey creatures must live within.” She described to him how the branches of ancient willows trailed in the water, how long grass waved along the edge of the stream and patches of silvery ferns carpeted the forest floor. She told him of the rocks in the stream, smoothed by the flow, that made a natural but slippery path across. Every word she said had his heart pounding.

  “I used to leap across stones like this. Once I fell in. I was in terrible trouble, for it was just before church, and I was wearing my best dress—” She stopped and went stiff against him.

  Why? What had she feared she was going to reveal? He slid his hand higher, and he could feel her heart pound. “You said you grew up as a housekeeper’s daughter in a house in the country, then you lived in London’s stews. But your manners, your accent, the way you treat me, as if you’re a woman accustomed to managing—your story doesn’t ring true. You behave more like a lady than a servant.”

  “I—I did work as a governess for the family before we went to London. I suppose I learned to manage then. But it doesn’t matter, does it? It was such a long time ago.”

  How nervous she sounded. “Couldn’t you have become a governess again, Cerise, after your mother died?”

  “I—no, I couldn’t. When we were living in the stews, my mother became ill. I knew I had to earn money, but my choices were thieving or prostitution, and she made me vow I would not do either. But my mother needed laudanum for pain. A great deal of it. So I … I had to break that vow to get money.”

  This had to be the truth. She sounded as he had after battle—emotionless, almost distant.

  “Was that when you went to work in the brothel?”

  “Not then. It was after my mother died, as I said before. I hoped to become a gentleman’s mistress. I thought that would be the best way to survive, but I ended up in the brothel instead. Yet now I have become exactly what I dreamed of becoming. And we have reached the lawns, Your Grace. I can see the house. Come, we should go in.”

  She didn’t wish to speak any more about it. It didn’t take brilliance to decipher that in her brisk tones. He understood why she would not want to think about the past, but he wanted to know more. Where was her family? Why had they not helped her? But he didn’t want to push her.

  “I—I hope I did a good job of describing your woods to you,” she said shakily.

  “You did, angel,” he murmured. He wrapped his arm around her waist. His heart ached for what she’d endured. He leaned forward until he felt the tickle of wayward strands of hair, then he kissed her bare neck. “Your descriptions were so lovely, so vivid, you almost made me see it.”

  “Truly?” Her voice was rich, irresistible. “I am glad.”

  There was one more thing he needed her to do for him. Fumbling, he found the pocket of his greatcoat and drew out the letter. “Another from my mother. Would you read it?”

  She hated having to lie to him. Anne glanced at the duke’s face as she took the letter. His smile had vanished and the corners of his generous mouth were cranked down. He might be resisting his mother’s entreaties, but she saw how much it hurt him to do so.

  “ ‘My dearest Devon,’ ” she began. Her gaze
slid down the page, rapidly reading ahead. The duchess had poured all her worry for her son into the letter. Bewildered pain leapt from every word. “ ‘I cannot understand why you do not send any response to my letters, why you do not come home. Or why you do not at least go out into Society, so your friends could write me assurances and tell me you are healthy and well. I wish, I dearly wish, you would consider opening your heart to the idea of courting a bride. If Lady Rosalind had lived, she would have made a wonderful wife for you. She would have helped you heal. But you cannot shut yourself away from love because you have known loss. It has been three years—’ ”

  “That’s enough, angel.” He put his hand on her wrist.

  She stopped, as he requested, but she hated to think of the poor woman worrying about her son. For the three years the duke was at war, the duchess must have been terrified. Anne would have been. She remembered how she had felt when her mother was slowly fading away. She eventually forgot to eat or bathe, change her clothes, or care about herself. “I could write a reply to your mother, Your Grace. You tell me what you wish to say, and I will write it and have it sent to her.”

  “I don’t know what to say to her. You’re a female. Would you be happy to get a reply that tells you I’m not going to do any of the things you want me to do? Do you think that would set her heart and mind at ease?”

  “I suppose not,” she had to admit. “But perhaps your mother is right. About a wife, I mean.”

  “Angel, I don’t need a harping mistress—” To her surprise, he stopped then and smiled—a hard, bitter twist of a smile. “All right, love, you’ve wanted me to confide in you. On this, I will. Do you remember the book you read to me last night?”

  She frowned. “A Noble Treatise on Equine Breeding?”

  “No, the other book.”

  “You mean Sense and Sensibility.”

  “Yes, angel. You see, that book wasn’t mine. It belonged to Lady Rosalind Marchant.”

  “The woman your mother mentioned in the letter. You were … engaged to her?”

  “Not quite. I fell in love with Rosalind, I stole her away from a very good friend, and I intended to marry her. But she died of a fever before I made my proposal of marriage. I fell in love, I betrayed a good man to get her because I couldn’t live without her, then I waited too long. And I lost her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sense and Sensibility was her favorite book. I used to watch her read it when we went on picnics. I read it myself—it was one more weapon with which to seduce her and win her away from my friend. When she fell ill and couldn’t leave her bed, I bought her that copy. Her mother gave it to her, since I wasn’t allowed to see her while she was ill. They would not even let me go into her room when she passed away. I barged in after she died, and that was when I got down on one knee and told her how much I loved her. I held her limp hand and poured out everything I felt, in the desperate hope she would somehow hear. Maybe I believed I could bring her back if I made her know how much I loved her. But I was too damned late. All the while, her mother was shrieking about the impropriety of it. Her father finally summoned servants to drag me out of the bedroom.”

  “He did? Even though you were—”

  “A duke’s son?”

  “—so very much in love.”

  “I understood. They were racked with grief. They blamed me—I’d created a huge scandal by coaxing Rosalind to break her engagement to my friend. Within a month, I’d met her, tempted her away, and convinced her to jilt him. She had never been strong, and her parents believed the scandal had made her ill again. Perhaps they were right. I used to be a wild rake, but once I saw Rosalind, I didn’t desire any other woman. I thought only about what I wanted. Even when she died, that was what I did—I took what I wanted.” He breathed deeply. “The book was in her hand and I grabbed it just before they hauled me out. I wanted to keep the last thing she’d touched.”

  Anne’s heart stuttered as his lashes lowered and a regretful smile touched his mouth.

  “She used to become so absorbed in a book,” he murmured, “she didn’t even notice the rest of the world around her.”

  There was no doubt he had been deeply in love. She could see it in the way his eyes shut and he lowered his head, as though grief was weighing on him all over again. “I’m so sorry. When I read from the book, it must have reminded you of all that—oh, goodness! When you asked me to read from a horse-breeding book, it was to stop the pain of remembering, wasn’t it?” She had been so determined to do what she thought was best. “How stupid I was not to ask you what you wanted.” She had brought back all his sorrow over the woman he loved, then she’d taken away his brandy so he couldn’t find any solace. “You must be furious with me.”

  “I’m not. It hurt at first when you started reading. I went to war right after Rosalind died. I did it so I could escape the pain. I thought with all the action and risk, I’d have no place for grief. That was a stupid mistake. When I made you stop reading Sense and Sensibility, I realized I’d made another mistake. I didn’t want to hide anymore—I wanted to remember her.”

  Anne twisted in the saddle and cupped his face. His horse shifted beneath them, but the duke’s arm tightened around her waist. “Perhaps I shouldn’t do this,” she murmured. “Push me away if you want. But I need to kiss you, Your Grace.”

  He pulled her to him until their lips almost touched and they shared the same swift breaths. “I loved Rosalind deeply, but no woman has ever treated me as you do, angel.” He moved that one last hairbreadth and kissed her.

  The kiss in the rain had been dazzling, but this one …

  His mouth touched hers gently, so tenderly that she had to close her eyes, had to grip his shoulders to keep from melting into a puddle and sliding off the horse. She had never been kissed like this. She’d never known what it was like to want to cry over the caress of a man’s mouth. Now she did. It was so wonderfully sweet she wanted to weep.

  Slowly he drew back. “Read to me again tonight, love? Would you promise?”

  “Of course,” she whispered.

  No wonder the duke wanted to hide away here. No wonder he had nightmares and drank too much brandy. Anne paced in her bedchamber—the room that should be his bedchamber. She ached to help him, but she didn’t know what to do.

  How terrible it must have been for him. He went to war to escape grief, only to end up surrounded by pain, violence, and death. He had not given himself time to mourn the woman he loved. It must haunt him now. Grief for Lady Rosalind must be in his heart, along with sorrow over his memories of war and the loss of his sight.

  How could she help him overcome it? She didn’t know how to stop the pain. She still felt it for her parents, for her lost home. She’d refused to even think of Longsworth.

  She couldn’t help but think about his mother. In her mind’s eye, Anne could picture her as a silver-haired woman bent over an escritoire, writing a letter to her son, brushing at tears as some dropped to the page. She could picture an untouched tray of food and a woman consuming herself with worry. Was his mother forgoing food, forgetting sleep, as Anne had done?

  She didn’t know how to help the duke get over the pain of losing Lady Rosalind, but she did know what she could do for his mother. The duke would never have to know.

  Two days later, as Anne finished her breakfast in the dining room, Treadwell approached. He waited respectfully, twisting his hands in front of him. She knew by now that the butler cared deeply for his master. His look of confusion instantly speared her with worry.

  “Is something wrong with His Grace?” She was off her seat, ready to run.

  “No, miss. Everything is … right with him. I came to tell ye that His Grace has not asked for brandy for the last two nights. Not before he retired for the night. Not after his dreams. I even … well, I was worried about him and thought a little nip couldn’t hurt him. I offered to bring him some, on the quiet, so ye wouldn’t find out, miss. But he turned it down.”

 
She lifted her brow at the butler’s admission, but she couldn’t help but echo, “He turned it down?”

  “Indeed. He told me he believed ye would not approve.”

  She blinked. She hadn’t quite believed she could convince him to give up brandy. He’d been so obstinate. Yet somehow she had touched him, she had made him see sense, she had helped.

  “His Grace also wishes ye to join him this morning. It is his plan to make an excursion into the village, and he has asked for ye to accompany him.”

  Her teacup hit the saucer with a clatter. “He wishes to go into the village?”

  “Aye.” Treadwell grinned, his lips opening wide to reveal missing teeth. He winked. “His Grace has not been into the village once since he came here. This is a grand thing, miss. All of us—the staff—we’re all very pleased.”

  She stood up from the table. “I’m very pleased,” she repeated, before she followed the butler to the front foyer, where she found the duke pulling on black gloves. Already he was dressed immaculately in a tailcoat, his beaver hat perfectly placed on his head, his snow-white collar points framing his handsome face.

  “Where did you wish to go, Your Grace?” she asked.

  He grinned so beautifully, her heart almost fractured. “You will soon see, angel.”

  The duke’s carriage stopped in the narrow street in front of the dressmaker’s shop. Anne froze. She had never told him of her disastrous visit. “Why have we come here?”

  “Treadwell informed me that no gowns have arrived for you and there have been no bills for clothes and bonnets. I assume you did not come here when I instructed you to?”

  Embarrassment turned her cheeks to flame. “I did, but I could not stay. Respectable ladies were in the shop, and they guessed at once I am your mistress. The modiste was terribly nervous, but she made it clear I was making her patrons uncomfortable. So I left.”

  “Indeed. Well, it is my duty as your noble protector to buy you gowns, my dear. I intend to see it through.”