by Sharon Page
Bother. She wasn’t here to crusade.
Rutledge was leaving and she had not asked him a question. Acting on instinct, she rested her hand on the crook of his arm, stopping him. Her heart pounded. “Have you heard there is a wager—a joke to be played on the Duke of Sinclair? A woman to be brought and delivered to him?”
The earl stared in surprise. “Delivered?”
“Yes, brought by men. I heard this was to happen at this party.”
“Didn’t know that. If that were true, why did you come along?”
Drat. She had no answer for that.
He continued on, though, without caring that she’d done nothing but move her lips helplessly.
“If women are being delivered, I might order one or two. Not enough women at this event so far.”
“So you think like Lord Willoughby,” she said, her voice dripping with disapproval. She couldn’t help it. “I thought Lord Willoughby sounded greedy.”
“Pah. He likes two women in his bed. I can roger five women at once. Now that is fun. Five eager courtesans, all pleasuring me at once. After you’ve had five pretty whores, you find one or two is boring.”
She blushed fiercely. And she wanted to smack him. He was even more arrogant than Willoughby! But inside she wondered—was that how Sinclair felt now? He might have started using sex to escape memories of a tragedy, but would he now not want anything less than multiple women? Or maybe that had been the lure of brothels and orgies all along.
Why then did he say that ending their engagement was his biggest mistake?
“So . . . impressed by my endurance?” Rutledge smirked.
“I have only your word for it. You could also claim to be able to swim the English Channel.”
“I’d be more interested in plumbing the depths of your tight channel. I can fuck you better than Sinclair.”
She was still reeling at his appalling pun. “I think not. That boat will not float,” she muttered. It was time to get away.
Hastily, she turned and collided into a broad chest. Her heart just about stopped as she feared a man was about to give her another proposition, when she looked up and met Sinclair’s deep, beautiful coffee-brown eyes.
He gripped her wrist and dragged her away to one of the drawing room windows, where they were away from the gathering of other guests. His eyes blazed. They might be dark, but they were obviously burning with great emotion.
“What were you doing with him?” he growled.
“Questioning him, if you must know.” She had actually been delighted when he’d dragged her away, but she wasn’t going to admit it. It would be admitting weakness to a man who would use that as reason to lock her in a bedroom. Alone. For her own good. “Why do you look so troubled? Sandhurst’s death was tragic—”
“His heart might not have given out. He might have been poisoned.” Sinclair spoke softly, so only she heard.
She stared at him, openmouthed. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“I’ve seen it before. Just like this. But I’m not sure.”
“You have seen someone who was poisoned before? How can that be? Who?”
He started as if his thoughts were somewhere else. “It’s not important. But I believe it to be true. That note of Genvere’s . . . either he can read the future, which I doubt, or he knew someone was going to die. Which means he engineered Sandhurst’s death.”
“What?” Portia gasped. “But how?”
“I don’t know how he did it. He must actually be on the island now. But I don’t know how he got the poison to Sandhurst, if he did. How Sandhurst was poisoned and no one else. If it killed a young, healthy man, it should have killed others. So food or drink was not randomly poisoned. It had to be directed at Sandhurst. Something he alone consumed was poisoned.”
“Why would anyone want to do such a thing?”
“I don’t know, Portia.”
“But who—how do we find who did this? Should we not assess what Sandhurst ate and drank? Shouldn’t we speak to the cook?”
“If she poisoned the food, we’d all be dead. The truth is, I am likely wrong. The most likely answer is that he died of an attack of his heart or a stroke. Yes, that is what must have happened.”
“You don’t truly believe that. You are saying that to placate me.”
“No.” He met her gaze without even a look of guilt as he lied. “That is what I believe.”
She was about to argue when a loud “Bah!” interrupted.
The old viscount had spat the word, as he stood up from his seat. “I’m not letting young Sandhurst spoil my fun. We came here for carnal sport—hard, punishing sexual sport. If he was too much of a weakling to keep up, that’s not my problem. Feel sorry for the lad, but there it is.”
There was silence.
“I came here for an orgy,” his lordship snapped, “and I intend to have one.”
Portia now knew what the marquis’s name should be—the Cruel Marquis.
“There’s a diamond bracelet in it for each lady who wishes to entertain me tonight.”
At once Sadie jumped to her feet. “Cor, for a diamond bracelet, I might be tempted.”
“It would help us forget this sorrowful and tragic thing,” drawled the Elegant Incognita.
“Yes.” Sadie nodded her head, curls bobbling. “Let us have some fun. I shall give you a lot of fun, my lord.” She started toward the marquis.
But Harriet Barker, the Old Madam, jumped in front of her and reached him first, before the Elegant Incognita and the Exotic Courtesan wearing the costume could even move. “I can pleasure you in ways you don’t even know exist, my lord.”
The marquis looked doubtful, and the woman leaned over and whispered in his ear. His brows shot up under his white hair. He stamped his ornate walking stick against the floor. “Finally,” he barked. “Let the orgy begin.”
Then Humphries returned, but Sinclair told him to go.
9
“Let it begin indeed, my lord,” the Old Madam declared.
She stood up, tugged on her dress, and suddenly her gown fell away. She wore nothing but a scarlet corset beneath and scarlet-and-white-striped stockings. Her large bosom was lifted high, her waist nipped to a tiny circumference, her hips generous. She stood before them all in the middle of the ornate drawing room, glowing with confidence. Portia would have sunk through the floor if she was so undressed before strangers.
The Old Madam grabbed the white cravat of the Cruel Marquis, pulled him to her, and wrapped herself around him like a blanket as she gave him a fierce kiss.
She undid the knot in his cravat with incredible speed and skill. Portia supposed Harriet Barker must have undressed a lot of men.
The Old Madam looped the cravat around his neck. “I’m not going to let the other women here witness my rather special, private techniques.”
With that, she tossed her elegant coiffure, smirked at the other women, and, using the cravat like a leash, led the marquis away.
Sadie retreated to Portia’s side. “Wretched cow,” the girl sniffed. “What can she do that is so special? Well, let her have the old crock. I’m going to have two handsome dukes tonight!”
Sadie reached around and began to undo the fastenings of her gown, strategically placed so they swiftly fell open and more and more of the girl’s smooth, dewy, curvaceous body went on display. It didn’t fall away quite as quickly as Harriet’s. “Are you ready, Sax and Sin?” Sadie cooed.
Portia swallowed hard. Now she was going to see what an orgy was—whether it was anything like she had secretly imagined.
By seeing Sinclair take part.
She suddenly felt sick, the rich dinner curdling in her stomach. She’d been kidnapped, there might have been a murder, but the real reason for the pain in her tummy was jealousy.
Foolish, useless jealousy.
“Not tonight, Sadie,” Sinclair said.
Astonished relief flooded Portia. A silly emotion to have, when she knew this was his world, and be
fore she could respond, a hand snaked around her waist.
“I’m going to claim this little temptress,” rumbled a husky, masculine voice. A voice that didn’t belong to the Duke of Sinclair. “Tonight this luscious mystery woman is going to be shared by Sin and me.”
“The lucky cow,” Sadie whined, again bestowing a bovine comparison.
Portia was struck dumb. She couldn’t have heard that right. Portia whirled around just as Sinclair hauled the hand of the Duke of Saxonby off her hip.
“What in hell are you doing, Sax?” he rumbled. “She’s mine. Keep your hands off her.”
Saxonby moved closer to Sinclair, who had curled his black-gloved right hand into a fist. Fury emanated from his dark brown long-lashed eyes. Heavens, she hadn’t expected a fight to break out over her.
Lowering his voice so no one but the three of them could hear, Saxonby said, “You told me she’d been kidnapped and brought here. My goal was to remove her from a potentially ruinous situation. Or do you want her to take part?”
“No, I damn well do not. But it’s my duty to protect her.”
Portia did not appreciate the two tall dukes speaking over her head. “It is not anyone’s duty to do that,” she whispered, “especially when I cannot trust anyone here.”
“You don’t trust Sin?” The Duke of Saxonby frowned, black brows drawing together.
“I do not yet know, Your Grace. He tells me he had nothing to do with my kidnapping. I would like to believe him—and there is much evidence he is telling the truth. But I can’t be too trusting.”
She saw Sinclair flinch.
Bu what did he expect? He had broken her heart once, and she’d never seen it coming.
Still, the argument was strong for his innocence. If the Duke of Sinclair had nefarious plans for her innocence, wouldn’t he have done something by now?
Or would he, now the orgy was starting? Maybe when the orgy started, everything would change....
Both men had positioned themselves so she could not see past them. As she stood more in the corner of the room, she couldn’t tell what was happening. What people were doing . . .
“You can also trust Saxonby,” Sinclair said. “I’ve known him since I went to Eton.”
“I have not, Your Grace, so I must reserve judgment.”
The Duke of Saxonby inclined his head. “She’s right there, Sin. You shouldn’t trust anyone, Miss Lamb.”
“It is ‘Love,’ ” she said.
“Pardon?” asked Saxonby.
“I am going by the name of Miss Love. And it is my hope to question these guests and find out who, if anyone, knew of my kidnapping. Find out if any of these people are involved.”
Saxonby frowned. “Willoughby,” he said. “This sounds like the kind of thing he would do. Willoughby is dangerous, Sin. You need to keep her away from him. If he had some warped idea of a wager, or cruel game, he could ruin Miss Lamb’s reputation. Or worse.”
“What do you mean—?” she began, but Sinclair growled.
“I know what Will is capable of. I will protect her.”
“Why don’t you take her upstairs, lock her in your room, and pursue Willoughby?” Saxonby asked. “That seems the most logical course of action.”
She opened her mouth to protest when Sinclair said, “Miss Love wants to see what this world is about. I give her about two minutes after the rutting begins to beg me to take her away from this.”
“She wants to watch?” Saxonby’s dark brows disappeared under his silvery hair.
Oh fie. They were making fun of her. “I suppose I wanted to see the world that lured away the man I might have married.”
She could not believe she was being so blunt. Certainly, when it came to rescuing children and running the foundling home, she was direct where needed. But she didn’t quite know where her courage was coming from.
“But you are an innocent,” Saxonby protested.
She was about to protest against his protest, when Sinclair said, “I hurt her a great deal and I have since discovered I stole many things from her.”
Saxonby frowned at him. “What are you talking about, Sin?”
“If she wants a little naughty voyeurism, I will allow it—and protect her. But I know you—” Sinclair turned to her. His lips looked soft and they turned down at the edges. It reminded her of how vulnerable he had looked as a nineteen-year-old, new to London and despised by his cousin, the Duchess of Sinclair. “You will discover very quickly what I took ten years to learn. This is athletic, but not all that arousing.”
“Then why did it matter so much to you?” Her heart raced. Would he confirm any of her conjecture? Would he reveal a tragedy in his life?
He hesitated. “That I can’t explain,” he said.
Her heart sank. But did that mean he just couldn’t reveal his past to her—or did it mean there was no tragedy that had driven him to blank out his heart and soul with erotic activity?
“So you really want to see it?” he asked.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Even though she couldn’t see around or over the men to view what was happening, she realized she could hear things. The rustle of clothing. Sighs. Whimpers. Moans.
She hadn’t been focusing on them before. The sounds, even the softest ones, seemed to spear through her.
“All right. You can take a peek, angel.”
Saxonby looked shocked. “Sin, you should prevent this. Take her upstairs away from harm.”
But Sinclair shook his head. “I have no right to dictate to her.”
“Her innocence is a remarkable thing,” the other duke protested. “She joins that orgy, even watches it, and that innocence is gone forever.”
“I am tired of missing out on life to protect me and my innocence,” she threw out.
“You can’t mean that,” Saxonby sputtered. He was going to stop her, she knew, but Sinclair stopped him.
And then Sinclair moved aside. She looked, filled with confidence, until she saw—
The handsome, raven-haired Earl of Rutledge lying on his back on the floor, his trousers pushed down to his boots. His coat, waistcoat, and shirt dangled from the backs of chairs. From the side, Portia could see his long legs, splayed apart, the smooth, sculpted torso. A leaner frame than Sinclair’s, but with remarkably defined lean muscles.
He appeared to be holding a bat—
Oh. Oh dear.
That was his erection. Portia couldn’t forget his boastful words in the dining room. The thing was huge. Remarkably thick at the base, tapering to a smallish head. Thick dark hair surrounded it—
Sadie, as naked as the day she’d been born, sat over the earl’s face, and she held up her full breasts, so they plumped up like peach-colored cushions. The Elegant Incognita, also nude and displaying a curvaceous form with a nipped waist, generous hips, and a large bottom, knelt between the earl’s long, well-muscled legs and—
And half the length of his . . . thing disappeared into the Elegant Incognita’s mouth.
As Portia stood, frozen in place, the other earl, the auburn-haired one, a Sporting Corinthian type, ripped open his trousers and roughly massaged the Incognita’s dangling breasts, which were tubular shaped and topped with large brown nipples. The nipples grew startlingly long—longer than thimbles and rather closer to pinecones—as the earl played with them.
The Incognita bobbed on Rutledge’s shaft. The Corinthian grasped her hand and wrapped her fingers around his—his part, jutting out of his open trousers. Then he slid his fingers up the skirts of the Wanton Widow, moving his hand beneath the silks. The widow squealed and moaned, and the young, dark-haired courtesan in the costume moved around behind Sadie. She held something up—a long white wand. Licked it and sucked it. Then Sadie grabbed it and she slid it into her privy place. Balancing it on Rutledge’s chest, she bounced on it and smacked his face wildly with her large breasts. While the dark-haired, peacock-costumed courtesan slid her fingers into . . . into Sadie’s bottom. And touched herself wit
h her other hand.
“Oooh, yes, Nellie,” Sadie cooed. Others moaned. Some made deep, throaty sounds, some squeaky sounds.
Drugging, rich smells filled the air.
“I know where I want to shove my cock,” Willoughby said. At once, he dropped his trousers. He got behind the Incognita, behind her rounded bottom, all plumpness and smooth, lovely skin. Willoughby patted her cheeks, took his erection in hand, and pointed it at her from behind. He thrust his hips forward and the Incognita let go of Rutledge to cry out, “Oh yes, fuck me arse with your huge staff.”
Portia made a little strangled sound.
Then Willoughby looked up. He looked right at her. He grinned and crooked his finger, inviting her to join.
That was what it took to make her run.
Leaving Sinclair and Saxonby, Portia sprinted out of the room. Once she reached the hallway, she realized what she’d done.
Given herself away!
She’d run like a panicked innocent. Everyone who saw must now know that’s what she was. She didn’t even know why she had run. Those people didn’t care that she saw them. That was the point.
She had known an orgy was about people in a group doing intimate things that were supposed to be enjoyed in private by a husband and wife.
She’d never expected how it would make her feel. She had run, panicked, because of what happened to her as she’d witnessed all those people making love together. A wash of heat that melted her from within. A pounding of her heart. A pulsing, throbbing ache inside her.
“Angel, are you all right?”
She could barely breathe. She couldn’t speak. Sinclair had pursued her and she didn’t want him to know what was happening to her.
She had almost wanted to go to Willoughby when he’d crooked his finger. She wanted to be touched everywhere by women and men. She wanted fingers to caress the place between her legs that absolutely screamed with agonized need. She wanted to feel someone pounding deep inside her.
She wanted it to be Sinclair.
Oh God.
Portia hurried away from him as fast as she could, passing through the room across the corridor. She’d walked into a gallery, one devoid of paintings. Glass-paned doors lined the wall. She pushed one open and stepped outside. Into a fierce, salt-filled breeze. Her skirts whipped around her. There were no trees on the rocky outcrop that was Serenity Island and gusts blew up to the house, tugging at her hair. Water droplets blew into her face—from rain or from the sea, she didn’t know.