Seven Nights of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors

by Victoria Vane

  The second triplet in age, Delphi, glanced up from her book. “I don’t want to know them.”

  “I fear we must make an effort.” That was Dorcas, the youngest. “I intend to use our new status to do what I wish. I always wanted a yellow rose and now I may find one.”

  Any reached for her teapot. “Isn’t the yellow rose a myth?”

  “No more than the black tulip the Dutch strove for a hundred years ago.” Dorcas leaned over and shuffled through the letters and cards. “You haven’t opened this one.” She plucked out a note and handed it to her brother.

  Gerald hummed under his breath and slit the seal, scanning the note quickly. “It’s from Lady Elizabeth,” he said. “She’s sent me a list of balls we must attend when the season begins.”

  Damaris, sitting on his other side, snatched the note. “Good lord, there are dozens of them. Some are on the same night. What are we supposed to do there?”

  Gerald picked up his tea dish. “Dance, talk, be fashionable.”

  Damaris snorted. “I don’t intend for one minute to attend all these. Does Lady Elizabeth expect you to go?” Flicking back the ruffles on her sleeves, she made a determined foray for the jam pot. “Evenings and nights are the busiest times for me. I can’t break off what I’m doing to attend a ball.”

  “Even if you might meet some of the luminaries of science?” Gerald asked mildly.

  As he expected, his sister paused and gave him her attention. “Do they attend balls?”

  “If they want sponsors.” Gerald pushed his plate away as the doorbell clanged. It probably heralded another delivery of invitations and polite introductions. Just as if they had newly arrived in London, instead of having lived here for years. Instead of leaving to plough through the masses of paper piling up on his desk, he waited to collect the latest swathe of invitations and business plans.

  Despite effectively changing his name, he still felt exactly the same as always. Gerald Dersingham, man and boy. The fact that he had a new prefix and a new suffix didn’t make him different.

  And that, in a nutshell, was his problem. When someone said, “Oh, it’s the Earl of Carbrooke,” Gerald looked around, expecting to see his great-uncle standing behind him, and by his side, his sons, the equally stuffy Frederick and William.

  The College of Heralds was still confused as to whether he was the fifth, sixth or seventh earl. He settled for seventh. Out of courtesy the College would probably say that each of the sons had a few seconds’ glory as the earl. Gerald would have returned it to any one of them in a heartbeat.

  The butler, Watson, sailed through the door and presented a salver with a collection of cards. Gerald waved to the pile on the table. “Could you take those and put them all in my study, please?”

  He would do this right if the effort killed him. Which it probably would. That meant chivying his sisters to attend all those balls and getting them to the mantua-makers’ for new gowns.

  Watson harrumphed. “There’s a lady to see you, my lord.”

  Gerald dragged his watch out of his pocket and flicked open the lid. “It’s early for Lady Elizabeth. Very well. Has she brought her usual entourage?”

  “The lady is alone.”

  Gerald went on alert. Ladies like Lady Elizabeth Askew did not visit gentlemen alone. She would find it hard to shake off her myriad attendants, and if she’d done so, she’d have something in mind. Gerald could only think of one thing Lady Elizabeth could want from him alone, one thing that might make her lose her maids and chaperones. He went cold, as a chill wind blew over his soul.

  He was making this sacrifice purely for his sisters. Lady Elizabeth was gracious, well-connected and wealthy. Everything an earl could wish for in a wife. But not this earl. Her presence acted like a draught of cold water.

  “The lady is not your betrothed, sir,” Watson said, oozing unctuousness. “She is a Mrs. Cathcart.”

  Gerald frowned and turned to his sisters. Dorcas, sitting at the head of the table, frowned. “You promised to leave your women in the background, Gerald.”

  “She’s not one of my women,” he said, then closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You’re not supposed to know about those. You’re ladies.”

  His sisters laughed. At least he was good for something, he thought morosely as he got to his feet. “What kind of woman is she, Cathcart?” Perhaps she was a maid, coming for an interview, in which case Damaris could see her. If she was a woman of the night, with the effrontery to hunt him down, then he should not see her at all.

  “A respectable woman, sir, but not one of your rank.”

  Well, no, not if she was a mere Mrs. But then, it wasn’t the title, it was the family. Elizabeth had told him that over and over again for the last three months, ever since he’d agreed to marry her. Or had she agreed to marry him? He was never quite sure. He’d gone into the salon at her father’s house a single man, and come out betrothed.

  “Tell her to go away.” He could do without another hysterical female. Or any female at all, come to that.

  He had no choice, as matters turned out. After a pregnant three minutes, the door to the breakfast parlor was flung open and a young woman strode in, with Watson at her heels. She wore a plain straw hat and clothes he would designate as modest. Her gown was a dark green wool, her hoop small, and her dark hair free of powder. She reminded him of his sisters, with her practical stance and her lack of deference. No man’s mistress dressed like that. Intrigued, Gerald settled back to watch. The air positively crackled with energy. He hadn’t felt this interested in anything for a long time.

  Watson seized her arm. “I will get rid of the female, my lord.”

  Mrs. Cathcart boldly met his gaze, her head flung back. Their gazes met, clashed and sparked, her dark eyes fiery with emotion.

  Something important had just happened, but he couldn’t have said what it was. She reached into a part of him he didn’t know existed, and asked him a silent question he couldn’t define.

  “I will not be dismissed like an inopportune maid,” she said indignantly. The single feather in her straw hat quivered. “If we meet only this once, I will have my say. My lord,” she added, as if belatedly recalling his title.

  Damaris’s low purr of approval hummed through the room. “Madam, do sit down. May we know your name?”

  Gerald didn’t have three sisters for no reason. If he allowed this young woman to sit and share their breakfast, his sisters would make a firm ally. Whatever this woman had done, his sisters would support her, merely for the pleasure of seeing him squirm.

  “Come with me.” He strode to the door to the sound of his sisters’ laughter. “But stay close, Watson.”

  That only made the triplet’s merriment increase. “He needs a chaperone!” Dorcas commented.

  Gerald strode from the room, the clatter of sturdy hobnailed, leather-shod shoes following him. Outside, he took a moment to straighten his jacket and twitch his neckcloth into place. The damn woman had set him completely on edge. Her sheer presence had felled him, for no particular reason he could discern. Perhaps he’d been celibate too long, because his body had responded to her as if she was operating it like a puppet.

  His study was at the back of the hall, behind the sunny front parlor. The shelves were lined with books he had not yet got around to disposing of—sermons and texts, not his kind of reading at all. The desk surface was covered with letters, notes and pieces of pasteboard—those infernal invitations. As fast as he cleared them up, they appeared again. Light streamed through from the garden into the room, highlighting the occupant as she stood, her hands folded neatly before her. He contemplated her, fascinated, wondering what had caused her fury and enjoying the hell out of it. Mrs. Cathcart was a woman with spirit, unlike the society beauties who maddened him by their lack of honest responses and attempts at sensible conversation.

  She’d aroused him with that fiery response. A woman dressed as she was should be deferential, surely.


  At least, until she lifted her head and met his eyes. Then Gerald caught his breath, ensnared all over again.

  She was shockingly lovely. She had the kind of skin a man had to touch, and dark eyes that saw through to his soul. Her lips were plump, inviting his kiss, and her eyes sparkled.

  She seemed equally taken, staring at him, her eyes rounding, and her mouth dropping open. Her gaze passed up his body and down, lingering at his thighs—or his crotch. Oho, so she was interested too.

  With a start, she dropped a short, perfunctory curtsey. Gerald bowed.

  Could he rile her some more and see more of that entrancing spirit? “May I be of assistance, madam?” he asked smoothly.

  She hurled a piece of paper on top of the teetering pile of correspondence waiting for his attention. “Look at this! Do you not realize, my lord, that sometimes people’s livelihoods depend on your say? You ask me to wait? Why in God’s name would you do that?” She took a few agitated steps away from him, turned around and strode back. Her heavy shoes clunked on the floorboards until she hit the soft carpet in front of his desk. She glared at him. “Well, sir? I don’t ask you for compensation or an answer, but a courteous response would have helped!”

  He stood in the middle of his mundane study, his world transformed by the woman before him. He stared. “Madam,” he managed, though he couldn’t think of anything more useful to say. But every pore, every bit of him itched with need. He wanted her.

  “Do you have an answer, sir?” She stared at him, then frowned. “I dislike being impolite, but are you the earl?”

  He executed his best bow, smiling. “The Earl of Carbrooke at your service, madam. Who were you expecting?”

  Annie blinked at this stunningly handsome man. “I thought the earl was—someone else.” She’d expected a man in late middle age who was full of his own importance. Not a tall man nearer her own age with laughing blue eyes. Was he laughing at her?

  She had visited this house to call a pompous earl to account, and she’d found this—him—instead. Her body, which she had ignored except to maintain it, blossomed into life, her nipples hard against the crisp linen of her shift.

  “Read the letter.” Unable to look at him any longer, she turned her back, only belatedly recalling that she’d probably committed some kind of offense. Why should she care? She felt hemmed in on all sides. She could hardly make matters worse by an omission of etiquette. Besides, she needed the time to compose herself.

  Paper rustled, so presumably he took her advice. “You’ll have to tell me what this is about,” he said. “I cannot recall seeing anything about Bunhill Street before.”

  “I’m surprised you’ve heard of it. It is somewhat below your concern. You made that clear in your letter.” Her voice shook but she turned around again to face him.

  He rocked her. She would not admit it to anyone, but he called to her at a level she didn’t allow. He spoke to her, as if it was soul to soul, taking the direct route through privilege and protocol. This man was dangerous in a way she didn’t understand.

  Casting her gaze down at her gloved hands, she concentrated on stopping their trembling.

  “I know Bunhill Street very well,” he said. “Until recently my sisters and I lived there.”

  So far away from fashionable society? He must be joking. She’d missed something, a vital piece of information. The notion sent her into consternation, or perhaps that was his presence. She forced her mind into complying.

  This man probably knew to a precise T how to manage the people around him. She would not succumb to his will. She would have an answer.

  His remark about staying in Bunhill Street was probably a hum. “Then have you visited the coffee house on the corner, sir?”

  He raised a brow, his mouth tilting in a sardonic smile. “Jerry’s? Indeed I have.”

  So what if he knew Jerry’s? That could mean he passed by some time, not that he lived there. To persist would appear foolish, and probably annoy him, which was counter-productive to her ambitions. So she lowered her gaze, which unfortunately meant she was staring at altogether the wrong place. His waistcoat covered his privates, of course, but his thighs were firm and she’d wager he needed no padding to round out his stockings.

  When she jerked her gaze away it was to find him watching, a knowing smile on his face. A curl of heat tingled up her spine.

  He folded his arms. “Tell me why I should do—what you want me to do?”

  Did he know of her inconvenient attraction to him? “It is for my business, sir.”

  “Which is?”

  “I own a company making silver wire, sir,” she said. “It is prosperous, and something the industry needs in constant supply.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  Was he being disingenuous? She would give him the benefit of the doubt and explain. Where she came from, everyone took the requirements for granted. If they made something, there was a market for it. But perhaps someone as grand as he was had never thought about the matter. “The decoration on the edge of cutlery is silver wire, decorated and applied. Thick silver wire may be beaten out for rings and jewelry. It can be flattened to use in other forms, napkin rings and suchlike. We supply the industry, not the public. We make silver wire in plain and in simple decorations. I would like to do more.”

  That should take care of the explanation. She rather thought he was testing her. “I will have my name at the Goldsmith’s Hall as a maker soon. However I need larger premises to deal with increased demand. Without it I will not be able to develop the business. My property is on a rent, and now I have the wherewithal, I would far rather have a lease. The house you own is a couple of streets away from where I currently trade, and it is larger than the one I currently reside in.”

  He regarded her with eyes that held warmth. Or was that her imagination? “Where is your husband? Or are you a single lady?”

  She chose to interpret his impertinent question as one regarding her competence and capability. “Sir, I am not the only woman running a business in the city. We need men to help us with official matters, but we manage well enough.” She needed to stop babbling and answer his question. “I am a widow, sir. My husband died three years ago.”

  The lids drooped over his eyes, concealing his expression. “My sympathies, madam.”

  “Thank you.” She kept her face clear. She would not have him accuse her of being an emotional woman. The attitude prevailed in certain quarters, but thank the Lord, there were others who did not think that way. “I have two young children to provide for.” She stopped suddenly and bit her lip. She had not meant to appeal to his better nature. Of all things she despised women who used their femininity to achieve their objectives.

  “I see. And how desperately do you need this property?”

  His question put her in a conundrum. Should she admit this was her second line of inquiry? That her first choice would be to expand the premises she already had?

  Then he would be bound to say no. But she was disinclined to lie to him. “It would be exceedingly advantageous to me, and would enable me to grow the business. My present property doesn’t have the space I will need.” Not to mention the needs of two rapidly growing children. With the house next door, it would be more than adequate, but she wouldn’t mention that part.

  Another notion struck her. “You knew I was married before you came in. Why did you ask me just now?”

  He gave a lazy shrug and took a pace nearer to her. Or was he walking toward the decanters that were neatly lined up on a side table? “I wanted to know if you were single, ma’am. Married couples separate and I have no mind to insert myself in the middle of a marital dispute.”

  This close, the stubble on his jaw was more apparent, and the heat of his body. He became less earl, more man. He stood barely six inches away from her.

  “Why should my married status matter?”

  “Oh, it matters,” he murmured, his voice lower in tone and pitch. “How set are you on having my old house?”
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br />   “You really lived there?” The house was a large one by her standards. Nowhere near as grand as this place, but it would comfortably contain a well-to-do family. The aristocracy tended to congregate in the gracious streets and squares of Mayfair. Few ventured as far east as Bunhill Street.

  “You would make your home in the house?”

  She passed her tongue over her suddenly dry lips, deeply aware of his close scrutiny. “Yes, I’d live there for some time. That’s why I want a lease rather than paying rent. If I’m to make alterations, I want to ensure I can use them.”

  “What you say makes sense.” He didn’t move away, although his proximity was making her nervous. “However, my sister, Lady Dorcas, is a keen gardener and she might be disturbed if serious changes were made to the garden.”

  Annie hadn’t seen the gardens, only the ones of the house at the end of the row, when she’d peered through the garden gates. “I would need some of the space for workshops. They cannot all be in the house. I would need to see the house properly before I agreed to a lease,” she said, trying desperately to keep this discussion on a business level. But while he was asking her the questions she’d expected, his eyes said something else. They spoke of intimacy, of promises, of making more of this encounter.

  For the first time since John died, Annie let herself dream of something other than the business, her sons and their increased prosperity. She’d thrown herself into the challenge, subsuming all the passion in her nature into achieving it. Somewhere along the way it had become more than earning a living and keeping her family off the streets. It had grown to ambitions of creating quality items for people like her.

  But that lay in the future, although this was one step toward it.

  “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Though I would prefer to show it to you myself.” He lifted his hand, as if to touch her cheek, but held it a few inches away. What was she thinking when the urge to meet it took her? She wanted to close her eyes, lean her cheek into his palm and let him take control. Such impulses were foreign to her. To give someone else jurisdiction over her was unthinkable.