Engaged in Sin

by Sharon Page

  “Come here, angel.”

  She stood, surprised. Why did he want her close? Did he want to grab her, then give her to the magistrate? Her heart stuttered. If he did, she supposed they would keep her in jail here, then eventually transport her to London.

  As she came near to him, he settled his hands on her waist. He moved her between his open legs. “Who are you, Anne Beddington?”

  She almost lost her balance. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean where do you come from? Where were you born? How did you end up in the stews? In the brothel?” One last tug of his hands brought her against him, so his chin pressed to her belly. “I don’t know if anything you told me before is the truth, angel.”

  “I didn’t lie exactly,” she admitted numbly. “I tried to hide everything I could. It was because I feared I had killed Madame. In truth, I was a gentleman’s daughter, but my father died and my mother and I were forced to leave our house.” She swallowed hard. “What are you going to do to me? Do you believe I’m innocent?”

  He didn’t answer that question. Thoughtfully, he said, “Since Taylor knew you were innocent, he had no reason to bring you to justice. Why did he really want you?”

  To her surprise, he pulled her down, depositing her on his right leg. His thigh was tensed and rock-hard beneath her bottom. “No secrets, love. If you want help.”

  Help. Goodness, he was going to help her. But there was something harsh in his face—and suddenly she understood. “Oh, God, you don’t think Mick and I … I despised Mick Taylor. He did not come after me for revenge. He hunted me down because my cousin paid him to find me.”

  Devon’s hand tightened on her waist. “All right. Who is your cousin?”

  “His name is Sebastian Beddington. When my father died, he became Viscount Norbrook.”

  His brows arched. “A viscount’s daughter? It explains why you speak and behave like a lady.” He frowned. “Your cousin forced you out of your home? I don’t understand. Your mother would have dower rights.”

  His voice was so cool and logical. Did it mean he didn’t believe her? She told him of her father’s sudden death when she was fifteen and the arrival of his heir, her cousin Sebastian. “Sebastian promised we would always have a home, that my mother need not move into the dower house. Within a month he had explained we could stay only if he was allowed to … to marry me. He gloated—he was certain we were in his power. And when Mama refused, he spread vicious lies about her character. He made up stories of love affairs, intrigues, and scandalous orgies. Sebastian could appear to be the most charming gentleman, and he turned my father’s family against her.”

  “What of your mother’s family?”

  She shook her head. “I never knew them. My mother’s father had married against his parents’ wishes. He was disowned, and my mother never met her grandparents or her aunts.”

  “Your cousin was desperate to marry you—at any cost?”

  “Yes. It seems mad, doesn’t it? I’m sure he doesn’t want to marry me now. Though Mick said he still … wants me.” She shuddered.

  His mouth tugged down at the corners. “He sounds like a blackguard, but you couldn’t have known that when you first refused his proposal. Why did you?”

  She took a huge gulp of brandy, despite all her warnings to him about drink. She’d promised the truth, but she didn’t want to speak of this. “I didn’t … like him. When my mother continued to refuse, he finally became furious and he … he tried to force a marriage between us. Physically.”

  Devon’s arms tightened around her and a vein in his temple twitched. “He raped you?”

  “No. I threw my chamber pot at him and got his immaculate shirt and trousers wet. And my scream brought my mother and servants running.”

  “You saved yourself with a chamber pot.” He tried to pull her closer, but she was tense and rigid, remembering. “That night, my mother decided we must leave. We ran away. We went to London. Mama found work as a seamstress, and she toiled there until she became ill. Then she wasted away.”

  How inadequately words expressed her pain and sorrow. How could she describe the way she’d ached with pain, watching her mother massage her cramped hands? Her rage when her mother’s eyesight had failed from sewing by meager candlelight? The guilt she’d felt when her mother had tried to protect her from grueling work, or thievery, or prostitution.

  “And the brothel—how did you end up there?”

  “A gentleman took me there and gave me to the madam as payment of his outstanding bills.”

  “Who?” he growled. “What was his name?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I—I thought he wanted to be my protector, but I was naïve and foolish. He did look after me for a few weeks. With that money, I helped my mother as best I could.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Old enough that I should not have trusted him.”

  “Your age,” he demanded.

  “I was seventeen.”

  “I have four sisters, and I know how naïve and sweet a girl is at that age. Give me his name, angel. Never in my life have I wanted to beat a man and destroy him.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. He died years ago, of an illness.” She added impetuously, to defuse his anger, “I met you, five years ago.”

  “When? At a ball? In Society?”

  “Heavens, no. The first night I decided to become a prostitute. You were the first man I approached.”

  He jerked his head down. “Are you saying I was your first? Did I take your virginity, without knowing it?”

  “No. You told me not to sell my body. You gave me two gold sovereigns for nothing, told me I was pretty, and sent me away.”

  His heart thudded by her ear. “I’m pleased to know I didn’t … hurt you, love.”

  “You—you were a hero to me. In the end, I had to go back to the Drury Lane theatre.”

  “Was that when you met this other man? I don’t sound as though I was much of a savior.”

  “But in the end—” It was hard to speak. “You did save me. I understand if you can’t now.”

  “Enough, Cerise. You’ve been through hell, and I understand how that feels.”

  “Are you going to turn me in?” For she would have to go to trial and attempt to prove her innocence, wouldn’t she? Bow Street wouldn’t believe her unless Mick told the truth.

  “I’m not sending you anywhere tonight.”

  You can spend the night. He said that on the first night she’d come here. She had temporary safety again, her life was in his hands, and she had no idea what he planned to do with her.

  Devon paced his study. The scent of brandy was a hellish temptation. But he resisted.

  In so many ways, Cerise—no, Anne—had given him the ability to cope with his blindness. She’d opened up senses he had believed could never be enough.

  He had deposited her in his bedchamber and left two footmen guarding the door. He didn’t know if she would try to run again. And what was he going to do with her? Did he keep her hidden here, harbor her, or take her to the magistrate so they could argue her innocence? She would still be arrested and held until a trial.

  Was she innocent? She admitted to hitting the madam. How plausible was it that someone else came on the same night and murdered the woman? She claimed Mick Taylor had told her Mrs. Meadows survived her attack. If she was lying, why would she not simply deny she had hit the woman?

  But without Taylor’s evidence, would Bow Street believe her story? Would a jury?

  He didn’t blame her for hitting the woman. He understood why she had to do it. He knew what it was like to have to make brutal decisions. Just as when he was at Waterloo and had suddenly realized, in the middle of battle, he was aiming his rifle at a young French boy. And if he didn’t pull the trigger, one of his men would die.…

  One thought hammered in his head: He couldn’t keep her as his mistress anymore, could he? She’d been forced into this life. She had been born a lady, taken to the brothel ag
ainst her will. The truth was that a life as his mistress was better than any alternative she had now. But he felt too guilty.

  A fist rapped at the door. “Yer Grace,” called Treadwell. “A bloke named Taylor is here.”

  Bloody hell. Taylor had the audacity to come to his house? “What does he want?” If it was Anne Beddington, Taylor wasn’t going to get her.

  “To speak to ye about the murderess, he said.”

  He sorely wanted to slam his fists into Taylor. But what he needed was the man’s evidence to help Anne.

  Again he was thankful for the way Anne had helped him learn to stride with confidence through his house. Devon stalked into his study to confront Mick Taylor. He couldn’t see the man, but he’d had Treadwell give him a description: bald, hooked nose, sharp eyes, and thickset, muscled body. A typical bruiser who roughed up men and women alike.

  Devon heard clothing rustle near the fireplace. He made his way to his desk, counting paces in his head. In his walking stick, he carried a blade. He should be able to fight Taylor by sound if necessary. But he had to play this carefully. “If you came for Anne Beddington, Taylor, I will not surrender her. As you are aware, she is innocent.”

  “Your Grace, this is madness. The gel is a killer. She should be hauled to Bow Street in chains.” Taylor’s gravelly voice held a sneering note of disrespect.

  “That will not happen. Miss Beddington told me her story, including the fact that you admitted to her the madam was alive. She didn’t kill the woman.”

  Mick Taylor snorted. “Madame Sin was dead. I saw Annie slam that poker into Madame’s head. I checked her pulse before I went in pursuit of Annie. There wasn’t one. She was dead. I was a witness and I’d swear to it.”

  “And the story you told Miss Beddington? That her blow had not killed the woman?”

  “An outright lie. I never said that to her. And I would tell Bow Street Annie did it.”

  Devon understood. No doubt Taylor had given Anne the truth to coerce her into going with him. Now he was denying it. Taylor was giving him a warning: There was no point in taking him captive or threatening him, as Taylor would tell a story that would ensure Anne was hanged.

  Damn. He really wanted to pound Mick Taylor, but he needed information from the blackguard. “I believe you came to retrieve Miss Beddington for her cousin Viscount Norbrook.”

  “For Norbrook? She said that? Hell, no.” The denial came swift and loud. Too quickly.

  “I know for a fact Norbrook is involved,” Devon bluffed calmly.

  “L-Lord Norbrook came looking for Annie at the brothel. She’d run away from home. When he found out she’s a whore and a killer, he left in disgust.”

  The implication was clear: He was a misguided fool if he harbored Anne Beddington, a ruined woman. Devon’s anger snapped. “Get the hell out, Taylor. Now. Before I pull the sword from my stick and gore you so I don’t have to listen to your filthy mouth anymore.”

  “But—”

  He drew the sword with a swish and brought it down to rest on his desk. “I can take you to the magistrate and have you arrested for kidnapping Miss Beddington. I doubt questions would be asked about what condition you arrived in. And if I catch you on my grounds again, I will beat you to a pulp and drag your arse to jail.”

  He heard the scramble of Taylor’s boots over his floor as the man backed away. “Remember, Your Grace,” Taylor spat, “if I were to tell Bow Street what I was witness to, Annie would hang.”

  In a sharp bark, Devon demanded his footmen come in to drag Taylor out.

  “I’ll leave. But you’re mad, Your Grace, if you keep a murderess in your house. She’ll try to kill you to save her arse! You should hand her over to me for your own sake.”

  “Oh, my goodness! Mick Taylor came back? What did he want?”

  The sheer terror in Miss Beddington’s voice touched his heart, though Devon knew she would also be afraid if she was guilty, if what Taylor said he witnessed was true. “You, my dear.”

  “Wh-what did he say?”

  Following her panicked tones, he crossed the room. He found the bed by using his walking stick, then sat down on it at her side.

  “He said he witnessed you hit your madam, that he checked for the woman’s pulse and found none before pursuing you.”

  “That can’t be true. He told me she was alive!”

  “I won’t surrender you to him.” War had honed his senses—he’d had to learn to know when an enemy was bluffing. That instinct told him she was telling the truth. How could he not trust Anne, who had helped him, helped his sister, because of the word of a brute like Taylor?

  “How can I prove I’m innocent? I have no proof. No witnesses except Mick, who will lie.”

  He slid his arms around her, but she didn’t fall into his embrace. She stiffened, just as she had earlier. He dropped his arms. After all, he now knew she’d never been a willing whore.

  She would be arrested and charged. As a duke, he had power and influence. But would it be enough to save her? “You did have witnesses. You had the girls.”

  “They wouldn’t know whether Madame was still alive. They were already out the window.”

  “At least they could prove you struck the woman to defend one of them.”

  “I can’t bring them back to London to tell their stories. It would ruin them.”

  “You’d risk hanging to protect them?”

  There was a pause. Then she whispered, “Yes.”

  In that moment, Devon admired her more than he had any other woman. “The way to prove your innocence is to find the real murderer. Cerise—” He stopped. “Which name do you prefer? Cerise or Anne?”

  “I don’t know. I made up the name Cerise. Anne is who I have always been.” Cerise was to have been a new name for a new life. She’d been a fool to think she could escape her old one.

  “Anne, then. I’ll have to get used to that.”

  Anne wished he would put his arms around her again. She had tensed before because she was thinking of Mick … and Sebastian. Now the need for his embrace was overwhelming.

  His hand cupped her cheek. He turned her face and she saw his mouth come to hers. For a moment, he waited and they traded fierce breaths. Then he drew back. “Now that I know your story, I know you came to me out of desperation. I’ve never forced or coerced a woman.”

  She blinked. He leaned against the bedpost, put his hands above his head, and gripped the solid column. He’d told her he had been to brothels. Had he really thought those women were happy to trade their favors for money? But then, faced with the choice of bedding a handsome young peer like Devon or an aging roué with odd tastes, they probably were.

  “It wouldn’t be forcing me. You never forced me. I always wanted you.” It hadn’t been quite true at the beginning. She hadn’t wanted any man. She’d seen Devon merely as an escape, not as desirable. Panic hit her. If he didn’t want to be intimate with her anymore, he would no longer be her protector and he would have no reason at all to help her.

  She moved to him and splayed her hands on his chest. “I always wanted you. From the very first moment I saw you,” she whispered. She skimmed her hands up to his shoulders. Her heart pounded fiercely. As she ran her fingers up and cradled the firm muscles of his neck, she knew she did truly want this. She wanted to feel close to him again. Her heart ached for it.

  She didn’t want to feel completely alone, as she had in Madame’s brothel.

  Gently, she kissed his chest. He wore only his linen shirt and trousers. No cravat, and the throat of his shirt lay open. Her lips touched his warm skin. She stroked her mouth over him. Tingling leapt from her lips to flood her body. This was the way it was with Devon. She couldn’t make herself not feel anymore.

  His neck tasted salty with sweat, from the exertion of hunting her down and rescuing her.

  He drew back. “Love, I can’t stand to think of you being so desperate that you sold your body. I hate to think of what it must have been like. You must hate men li
ke me.”

  “I don’t,” she whispered desperately. “Ever since that first time I went to Drury Lane and you told me I deserved better, I—I liked you. I had no idea who you were, but I held your words in my heart, along with my parents’ love for me, and it helped me survive.”

  What she said was the truth. She had replayed that moment over and over in the brothel—when the dazzlingly handsome black-haired gentleman had tipped up her chin and told her she was pretty. When he had told her she was worth more. Eventually, she’d seen his likeness drawn in news sheets because he was a hero of battles, and she’d discovered he was the Duke of March.

  She moved onto his lap, straddling him. With her legs spread wide, she settled on his erection. Relief struck her. He still wanted her, just as she wanted him.

  He had been holding back, barely responding to her. Now he tangled his hand in her hair and he held her to his mouth. His lips parted wide and his kiss ravished her. He growled hungrily as he did. There was none of his usual melting skill—it was dizzying and stunning and wonderful. This was raw desire, and it left her reeling on his lap.

  With his right hand, he gave a ruthless tug of her bodice. Enough to pull seams open, ruining the poor seamstress’s work. His mouth went to her breast, covered only by her shift. If his wild, hungry kisses had made her light-headed, his mouth on her nipple made her soar. He suckled deep and hard, until she was a limp puddle of whimpers and moans.

  He caught her around the waist and lifted her with astonishing ease. Then he tossed her onto the bed, and before she’d finished bouncing, he climbed on top.

  She was going to burst with desire. He was fully dressed and so was she, and she fumbled with the falls of his trousers. He tried to push her skirts up, but the fabric was trapped between them. She managed to get her hand into his linens, then wrapped her fingers around his hot, rigid shaft. She moaned with need; he groaned in delight.

  Freeing her skirts, he bunched them at her waist. He stroked between her thighs, teasing her, as she swept her palm up and down his cock. It swelled larger and larger, until her fingers could barely reach around it. “Goodness,” she whispered. “You’re huge.”