Engaged in Sin

by Sharon Page

  His features hardened, his expression grew resolute. “Since I can’t get Caro to calm down long enough to tell me exactly what Cavendish did, I’m guessing he was unfaithful. He broke my sister’s heart. Right now what I’d like to do is kill him. Call him out and face him at forty paces on a foggy field.”

  “Heavens, no!” Panic gripped her and she squeezed his arm. “You cannot do that! You could be killed. Or, if you aren’t, you’ll kill him. What good will that do your sister?”

  “None, I agree. I could just pound some sense into his head.”

  Anne thought of her parents—they solved all problems by talking to each other. “Has your sister spoken to her husband? She must have confronted him over this.”

  “I have no idea. When she tries to explain, she either begins to cry or she gets embarrassed. I’m embarrassed every time we talk about this, so I can’t figure out what she’s trying to tell me.” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “She married for love, had her heart broken, and I’m the last person who knows how to heal from that. My solution was to go to war, and you know how well that went.” He looked up, gave a rueful, heartbreaking grin. “As best as I can tell, she wants to win the blackguard’s love, while I want to beat him senseless. I’m almost at the end of my rope. She asks my opinion, then she won’t listen to a word I say. She gets angry with me when I point out this is Cavendish’s fault, and somehow I become the villain.”

  Anne smothered a smile at his exasperation.

  “This is how I behaved with you, isn’t it, when we were arguing about my brandy? Why were you so tenacious and determined to help me, when I really deserved a kick in the backside?”

  “Because you deserved to be helped.”

  “I’m glad you were so stubborn, Cerise.” The duke shook his head. “My sister needs a woman to confide in, but there is no one.”

  There was someone—Anne shook her head. Of course she could not speak to his sister. She was a fallen woman. Besides, she knew nothing about loving husbands, and while she knew the details of her parents’ happy marriage, she had no idea how to salvage an unhappy one. “I think you must let your sister calm down; you must give her time, truly listen to her, and then try to talk to her.”

  “I’ll have to struggle through this on my own, but I don’t know if I can. Charging into battle was easier than this.”

  “You don’t have to struggle alone. You can come and talk to me whenever you need to.”

  “I need you now.” He looked up, his eyes unmistakably hot with desire. “I’ve missed you for two days, angel. Go and lock the parlor door. I’ve hungered for the taste of you.”

  She wanted him, but there was the fear of causing a scandal. “Here? In the parlor?”

  “It’s more discreet than having you lead me up to your bedchamber.” A smile curved his lips. “This time you will have to be quiet.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  He cocked his head. “I want you to call me Devon, angel. Would you do that for me?”

  Anne caught her breath. To use his Christian name was an intimacy she had not expected. Suddenly she realized she had never been so intimate with a man—she’d never had a gentleman reveal his doubts and worries to her. No man had ever let her glimpse his heart.

  As he wrapped his strong arms around her and drew her down on the settee, she whispered, “Yes, Your—Devon.”

  “Good. Now ride me, angel. Do your magic.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  T FELT ILLICIT yet special to even think of Devon’s Christian name, much less use it. Even Kat referred to lovers only by their titles.

  Anne strode up a narrow path that led to the back of the inn—she had followed it as it carved straight borders for acres of fields, then wound through the forest, until her rumbling stomach demanded she return. She had walked for miles this morning, but no amount of beautiful views or vigorous exercise could stop her from thinking about Devon.

  Her dreams used to be about freedom and independence. Now they were all about him. Over the last three days, Devon had told her a half dozen times that he missed her. Each time it both warmed her heart and gave it a sharp wrench. She had to remember it did not mean anything. She was not an innocent young lady anymore, who might take those words from a duke and spin an entire hopeful future involving matrimony and children. All protectors were fascinated with their mistresses at first, but the interest waned. If she used her wits and kept control of her heart, she could save herself.

  After stamping mud from her boots on a flagstone, Anne stepped inside the front door of the inn and took off her gloves.

  “Oh, there you are, mum!” One of the maids rushed up and bobbed a hasty curtsy. “A visitor for you. Waiting upon you in the parlor.”

  It had to be Devon. Anne’s heart soared, refusing to be controlled, but when she opened the parlor door she saw a rose-trimmed bonnet and ebony curls. Shock bolted her to the floor.

  The duke’s sister spun on her chair, revealing blushing cheeks and violet eyes. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come. I feared you would choose not to see me.”

  Anne blinked. Dimly, she remembered, through rising panic, that this lady was the Countess of Cavendish. “I cannot believe you have come to see me.” Somehow, manners had prevailed over shock, and she realized she was rising from a deep curtsy. Goodness, was it possible the duke’s sister did not know she was his mistress?

  Her pulse thundered. This could hurt Devon’s sister. The gossip, the sniggers. If Devon found out … He had agreed she should be nowhere near his sister.

  Anne swiftly closed the door. “There is something you must know. I am so very sorry, but once you know who I am, you will want to leave here—”

  “You’re Devon’s mistress. I know that. Treadwell told me Devon had a ‘lady guest’ in the house. Of course, my brother stuttered out some nonsensical lie, but his blush made it obvious.”

  “Your Ladyship, you must go. I wouldn’t want to taint you.”

  Lady Cavendish waved her hand. “I’ve discovered there are some things far more important than proper behavior. Ladylike behavior might get a woman wed, but I’ve learned it doesn’t delight a husband.” She gave a surprisingly cynical laugh, one that made Anne’s heart lurch; such a beautiful lady should not be jaded.

  The countess tipped up her chin, showing the strong, stubborn pride Anne saw in Devon. “I believe you are the only one who can help me. You must know all about seducing gentlemen. I want you to teach me.”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Ladyship—”

  “I desperately need to learn how to seduce my husband.”

  Anne must have shown her shock, for Lady Cavendish’s expression suddenly crumpled. “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” Devon’s sister covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  Forgetting propriety, Anne rushed over to the couch and wrapped her arm around the woman.

  Anne firmly pushed the teacup and saucer into the countess’s bare hands, just as she had done for Devon. “This will make you feel better.” Of course it couldn’t. But the countess took it with a small, grateful smile and sipped.

  Anne knew she should not even be in the same room with a countess, but the woman needed help. “Does your brother know you’ve come here?”

  “Of course not. But I’m desperate. It’s obvious how infatuated my brother is with you. I hoped you would teach me your arts and allurements.”

  “Teach you,” she repeated slowly, “my … my arts and allurements?” Infatuated?

  “I’ve lost my husband’s love and I can’t bear it anymore.”

  Devon didn’t know his sister was here. Would he be angry she was speaking to the countess now? “What did you tell the duke?”

  “I did not tell him anything. He was locked in his study. Treadwell confided to me that my brother does not sleep at night and that he has nightmares. Apparently they have been worse since you left.”

  Anne’s heart sank at that. Without her to read him to sleep or dis
tract him with sex, he had gone backward. He hadn’t admitted that to her when he’d come to visit.

  “I told Treadwell I was coming to the village to shop, of course.” The cup rattled in the saucer. “Perhaps I’m being foolish. Worrying about my husband’s love when Devon—”

  “You are not being foolish, Your Ladyship.” Anne now saw the lines etched in the countess’s forehead, the shadows beneath her eyes. “Your brother has nightmares about the war, and I—I was trying to help ease those for him. Or at least help him cope with them.” Her cheeks were burning, because of course she was admitting she spent nights with Devon. She was the foolish one, given that his sister was married and knew what she was. But since the day she and her mother ended up in the slums, Anne had never even spoken to a respectable lady.

  It occurred to her that, as a viscount’s daughter, she would have been very much like the duke’s sister now if Sebastian had not forced her mother and her to leave their home. Married. Perhaps expecting a child.

  The countess set down her tea so swiftly, it sloshed to the saucer, then the table. She grasped Anne’s hands. “Thank you for helping my brother. Treadwell told me what you have done for him. How you’ve helped him cope with his blindness, and how he has grown more accepting of it.”

  Admiration glowed in the countess’s eyes. Anne squirmed, a little uncomfortable. “I do not know if I have done that much, and I suspect time is responsible for much of what—”

  “Treadwell does not think so. He also admitted you wrote the letter to my mother.”

  Anne began to apologize, but Lady Cavendish squeezed her hands. “That letter gave my mother such relief and peace of mind. She has been so worried about Devon. She feared he was wounded far worse than she had heard, that he was more badly scarred than we had been told, or very ill, or perhaps that he had even lost his wits.”

  The very thing he feared was happening to him.

  “After Devon went to war, our mother barely ate or slept. She became perilously thin. Your letter cheered her so much, my sisters were able to coerce her to eat, and she stopped staying in her rooms. She had spent hours alone, writing letter after letter to Devon. Most she simply crumpled up or tore to pieces and burned. What you did was a wonderful thing.”

  “Th-thank you.” Anne’s heart lurched. Suddenly she knew she had to make him go home. He must go to his family—

  But if he did, would he allow her to stay here? Would he let her go? It didn’t matter. Reuniting him with his family, easing his pain, his mother’s pain—that was the most important thing.

  “What is it?” Lady Cavendish stared. “You look as if you are arguing with yourself.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  The genuine kindness of Lady Cavendish stunned her. A lady of the ton should be either horrified by her or utterly condescending. Lady Cavendish made her think of her mother, who had always been gracious, generous, kind.

  “Would you be willing to help me with my husband? Or is there nothing I can do, since I’m the size of a carriage and not pretty at all anymore—”

  “Rubbish!” Anne spat the word impetuously. The countess reeled back. Fumbling over her words, Anne went on, “You—you are stunningly beautiful. What gentleman could not see the sheer loveliness in a woman who is carrying his child? You absolutely glow.”

  The countess smiled wryly. “You must know what men are like. My husband may be pleased that he is going to have a child, and he is hoping for a son, of course. But he has desires, and he feels he can’t come to my bed anymore, so he … I think he has gone to someone else’s.”

  A blush washed over Lady Cavendish’s face. “There’s no one else I can speak to about this. Devon is the only other person who knows. And he became so angry he wanted to fight with my husband! I want to win my husband back—away from the clutches of that horrible widow who has snared him.”

  Anne tried to follow the countess’s impulsive words. “A widow?”

  Devon’s sister nodded, her curls bouncing. Then she suddenly tensed and put her hand to her belly. Pain racked her face.

  Anne got to her feet. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  “This … keeps … happening,” Lady Cavendish gasped. “My belly tightens. It goes so … hard.” She stared ahead, looking dumbfounded and a little fearful.

  Anne stroked her arm. “When I was younger”—she must not forget and accidentally say “in the slums”—“I saw several births.” Her mother had even helped in some labors in the lodging houses in which they had been forced to stay. “I do remember that a woman’s belly goes hard as her time comes near. One of the midwives called it ‘practice.’ Try to relax and breathe through it.”

  “Relax!” Lady Cavendish cried, smiling ruefully.

  Anne had no idea how to broach this without causing worry or saying something unseemly to a countess. And she knew, from being close to births, that the “practice” was much gentler than the real thing. “You must be very near your time,” she said carefully. She did remember that some women had spoken of the practice pains very soon before the birth happened. “One thing I learned is that no one can ever guess when a birth will happen. It can be much sooner than one suspects—”

  “But I cannot go home!” Breathing hard, Lady Cavendish launched to her feet. “When I’m there, all I can do is wonder where my husband is and whether he is with that woman—”

  “Please. You shouldn’t work yourself up.” Anne put a quelling hand on her arm. “So you want to seduce him,” she began. Her cheeks must be scarlet already. But she hoped this discussion would distract Lady Cavendish.

  “Yes. After I’ve had the baby, of course. I want to know all the tricks a courtesan would know. I must know what things I can do to please him. To keep him from straying.”

  It was on the tip of Anne’s tongue to point out that the countess was a lady. Well-bred ladies were not supposed to know a courtesan’s tricks. Perhaps this was the very reason proper ladies were supposed to avoid courtesans and fallen women—in case they were tempted to ask questions and learn about seduction. She remembered some of the naughty things the prostitutes at Madame’s had taught her. Take a man’s cockstand between your lips and he’s yours. Or let him have you from behind, and you’ll thrill him no end. They don’t get that from the fine ladies.

  She had tried everything she could think of to entice Devon into keeping her, but how did she explain this to a lady? But, really, why should ladies not know about sex? Why should women be proper and lonely while men went to brothels for carnal things they couldn’t get elsewhere?

  Lady Cavendish began to breathe hard and look frightened.

  “All right,” Anne whispered. She must be mad, but Lady Cavendish instantly stopped rubbing her belly and paid attention. “We will begin with the one your husband will love the most. You must …” Her courage almost failed as she faced the eager, inquisitive gaze. “You must take him into your mouth.”

  “Kiss him? We used to kiss passionately. Since our marriage, he seems to have lost interest in such frivolities.”

  “That is not … uncommon for men. I—I think kissing for men is a part of seduction. Once the lady becomes willing to bed them without kisses or other preliminary play, men dispense with it.” Though she remembered the wonderful kiss she’d shared with Devon in the rain. The times he’d kissed her when he didn’t expect sex at the end of it.

  “Well, that is terribly discouraging,” the countess said with a frank, gusty sigh. “Then how am I to convince him to do it?”

  There was nothing for it but the truth. “I meant that men like women to kiss their private parts.”

  “That part?” The countess gaped at her, then frowned. “You are trying to frighten me away.”

  “No, Your Ladyship, I am not. You wished to know what courtesans do, and that truly is one of the things. It’s something men enjoy a great deal, but they would never ask it of a gently bred wife.”

  A blush swept ivory cheeks. “You mean, I simply open
my mouth and let him put it inside?”

  Heavens. “Well, um … yes. Gentlemen like a lady to … suck on it. The friction and pressure pleases them. They like a woman to … move her head up and down.” She could not do this.

  There was a sudden rap upon the door—thank heaven for an interruption. Anne could imagine any number of Madame’s whores who would relish explaining a few things to a naïve lady, proud to display their abundant experience. She was not one. She swiftly called, “Come in.”

  It was a young maid, Hattie. She bobbed a curtsy and began to announce, “His Grace—” But the duke passed her, lightly sweeping his walking stick.

  “Not necessary, my dear,” he said in his cool, controlled way that warned of a storm inside. “Both of these ladies know who I am.”

  His sister had come to Cerise for instruction in carnal arts.

  Devon could not quite believe it. It was a good thing he had his walking stick to rest on, or he would have been knocked to the ground by Caro’s astounding and grudging admission. He spun on his heel toward his sister—he knew exactly where she was, because her soprano voice was protesting loudly about interfering brothers.

  “What were you thinking?” he demanded. “You cannot come here and speak with Cerise. It is not acceptable. It is not done. Do you realize there were a gaggle of maids in the corridor, straining to hear every word passing between you two?”

  His mistress did not say a word—wisely, he thought, even in his exasperation—but he had to guess his sister would not be cowed. “I had no other choice!” Caro cried, and he could picture her the way she used to be before she had married. A wild hoyden who liked to ride and fish and shoot with the men. He should have known the supposed change to demure and happy bride wasn’t real. The memory of what she used to look like, her eyes snapping, braids bouncing as she argued with him over something—usually his refusal to take her along with him and his friends—gave his heart a severe punch.