Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  He had neglected to strike Jasmine Norton’s name from the guest list because the arrival of the Cameron sisters had driven plans for this party out of his mind. Now she was in the salon, giving herself to another man, no doubt expecting Ewan to sulk with jealousy.

  He did not give a damn about that. If Abernathy and others wanted to think that was why he played with cards instead of women, however, that was fine with him.

  The truth for his mood was much more serious and alarming than the tedious presence of Mrs. Norton.

  He was bored.

  This party would be the talk of the town, but he did not care. He had reclaimed his place as a prince of pleasure tonight, but the excitements so abundantly offered to others could not raise any enthusiasm in him.

  He could not ignore the implications of his reactions.

  The recent changes in his life had ruined him after all. He was becoming as dull as he feared he would. Worse, the doings in the second drawing room struck him as vaguely . . . unseemly.

  He resented that impression. He fought it. But there it was, returning again and again, heralding the end of his carefree, outrageous, thoroughly enjoyable youth.

  Hell, yes, he was out of sorts.

  “Perhaps you are vexed because none of the ladies appeal to you,” Colin said.

  “One woman is much the same as another,” Ewan snapped.

  “Normally with you that is true. However, you have been numbing my mind the last fortnight with unceasing complaints about one in particular, and she is not here.”

  No, she wasn’t. She was up above.

  He suddenly realized he wished he were up there with her.

  He tried to muster a witty retort to Colin’s insinuation, but his mind would not cooperate.

  He was very glad she was up above, and not here. He wanted her worse every day, but he did not want to take her on a sofa in a candlelit drawing room while others cavorted nearby.

  He wanted to make love to her privately, for years on end, where no man’s eyes but his could see her body, and no man’s lust would dare dishonor her.

  The cards blurred in front of him as he dwelled on the unexpected insight. He blinked himself alert, but that did not shake how stunned he was at the extraordinary ideas and possessive feelings blotting out all thoughts of the party.

  Damnation, this was all her fault. She was the reason his life was ruined.

  Suddenly a body warmed his shoulder. A blond head dipped down to his ear. “Best you come with me, my lord. We have a problem in the next chamber,” Michael whispered.

  Ewan threw in his cards. Probably Mrs. Norton was making a scene.

  “The younger one tried to slip in a while ago,” Michael muttered as they headed for the doors. “I caught her, though, and sent her away.”

  “Younger one. What are you talking about?”

  “Mary tried to enter.”

  Jesus. “Where did she go?”

  “Down below, toward the kitchen. I expect her to try and get in again, but I’ll stop it, do not worry. Unfortunately, while I followed to make sure she kept walking, this one slipped in through the side door.”

  This one?

  Michael opened the drawing room door to reveal which one this one was. She wore a crudely cut ivory silk mask over her eyes, but it did nothing to obscure her beauty.

  Bride stood in the middle of the chamber. Unlike its other denizens, she was completely clothed in respectable British garments.

  She wore the evening dress he had bought her and its deep sea-foam color and wide skirt and sleeves gave her a regal appearance. She had tucked her curls into an evening headdress decked with one modest plume, but a few naughty curls dangled along her cheeks and brow. No jewelry decorated the perfect skin of her neck and deep, wide décolletage, but she looked like a queen.

  He had to stop and just look at her. She was so lovely and perfect. And so still. Not a hair or limb moved. She gazed into a corner of the chamber, an exquisite statue frozen for his admiration.

  “Should I ask her to leave?” Michael said.

  “I will do it. See to the others, and continue guarding for Mary. If that child tries to enter again, tell her I will send her to a convent in France until she is thirty.”

  Ewan walked over to Bride.

  She was oblivious to the male interest she garnered. She did not even notice him. Her attention remained fixed on the corner.

  When he sidled up alongside, he saw what had mesmerized her.

  A man and woman were entwined on a chaise longue in the shadows. Unlike the other couples dotting the drawing room’s cushions, these two had removed most of their clothes and were well on their way to ecstasy. The woman was masked, but he recognized the man. A discarded tunic draping their hips hid their union.

  “You should not be here,” he said quietly.

  She barely glanced at him. “I came to find Mary.”

  “She was discovered before entering. She has gone to the kitchen.”

  “She is not there. We looked.”

  “Then no doubt she is sulking in the morning room and plans to glimpse the guests as they leave.”

  “At least she did not see—”

  “No.”

  But Bride was seeing. She was watching intently, with her head slightly cocked.

  “They are beautiful,” she said. “The lighting, their bodies— It is like a painting come to life. I thought it would be vulgar and shocking, not elegant.”

  He looked over. The scene was beautiful. But then, he knew it could be. He did not own his collection only to shock or titillate.

  If he had any doubts about her, they disappeared as she stood gazing at that couple so honestly and openly. An insane notion had entered his head in the card room, but now it seemed the most logical decision in his life.

  He took her hand. “Come with me.”

  He led her out the side door and up the back stairs. His grasp on her hand remained gentle but firm. It allowed no resistance.

  Not that she could muster much. She was still absorbing what she had seen in that drawing room. Not debauchery and sin. There had been an innocence and joy filling the room when she entered. It had not been what she expected at all.

  Her senses righted as he led her down the corridor. She had to smile at his garments. They did not appear nearly as silly as they should. He cut a fine figure as a centurion. His broad shoulders and taut, muscular legs fit the fantasy too well.

  As they neared her bedroom door, she began angling toward it while she sought to remove her hand from his.

  He just kept walking, yanking her back in line behind him. “Do not object, Bride. Do not dare. A woman who can view an orgy with the calm you just displayed, should not be shocked visiting a man’s room.”

  “That would depend on the reason for doing so.”

  He all but dragged her the last few yards. “I must say something to you, and I do not want one of your sisters finding me in your bedroom as I do so.”

  He opened his door and pulled her inside with a sweeping swing. She retrieved her balance, removed her make-do mask, and looked around.

  They were in a sitting room, much the size of her own. It was a man’s chamber, however, and a little cluttered with some books on the floor and papers on the writing table. The chairs and rug were not new. After buying luxuries for the entire house, he had been spare with himself.

  “Damned nuisance,” he muttered.

  She turned. He stood by the door, unbuckling the bronze breastplate. He lifted it off and let it drop to the floor with a thud.

  That left him in a dark red, short-sleeved, thigh-length tunic belted at his waist. It revealed most of his body and hinted at the form of the rest. He looked indescribably wonderful. Strong and handsome and almost naked. And male. Very, very male.

  Her mouth dried. A flush warmed her.

  Still cursing his discomfort, he sat on a chair and began unlacing the high sandals on his legs.

  “I think you and I should get marr
ied, Bride.”

  He did not even look up as he said it. He merely continued working on the long, crossing laces on his other shin.

  She stared at him, dumbstruck.

  A brittle silence formed while her stunned senses struggled to arrange themselves. When they finally did, she blurted the only sensible conclusion she could muster. “You are drunk.”

  “Not even half so.”

  “Then you are mocking me. Toying with me.”

  He cast aside the footwear and stood. “I would never take such a rash step solely to mock a woman. There are easier ways to do that. Why would you think such a thing?”

  “Because I can find no other explanation for such an unexpected declaration.”

  “There are many. For one, I need a wife. The whole world is saying so.”

  “They are not saying you need a wife like me.”

  “To hell with that. I am not going to tie myself to one of the simpering, vain, greedy females they do say I need. You have never wanted a penny from me, and I admire that.”

  She still experienced a light-headed amazement, as if this were not happening. A very peculiar sensation spread inside her chest, however. It produced an aching fullness that she dared not allow to rise.

  “With time, one of them will not be so greedy and vain. You will settle on a fine match.”

  “I have concluded that you are as fine as I will ever do.” He grimaced as soon as it came out. “That did not sound as I intended. I meant that I will never find a finer match than you.”

  She tried to find some objectivity. She sought to see the humor in this proposal, with her in abundant evening attire and he in a red tunic that barely covered his body.

  The situation was not only ridiculous, but bizarre. Despite his claim to the contrary, he had no doubt imbibed too much at his party. She tried to piece together a response that would return this man to his senses.

  Instead, that fullness just swelled and swelled, tightening her throat. It caused an odd trembling below her jaw.

  He came closer. He gazed at her with eyes lit with humor and . . . something else. Something deep and . . . vulnerable.

  “You look about to swoon, but not with happiness.”

  She gripped the chair she stood beside. Hard. She would not swoon. Or cry. “I am flattered, of course—”

  “I am no prize in this area, I know that. However, you and your sisters will never be in want. You will no longer spend your days and years scraping to feed and protect them. Also, we have much in common, Bride. I can tolerate your company far longer than I can most women’s.”

  She almost laughed, but another emotion also wanted to surge through the break in her composure. “You are forgetting that you are not expected to marry for company, but for progeny. For the next earl.”

  “And you will give me one. You are certainly sturdy enough.” He looked away, scowled, and muttered a curse. “That came out badly, too. I should have practiced, but the impulse was rather sudden and I thought I should— See, here. You are no girl, but you are hardly ancient. I do not doubt you will give me an heir. And you are a Scot. I have been thinking that I should marry one. My father did, and so did my uncle. There was probably a very good reason for that. I have decided to follow the tradition.”

  She looked at him. Her heart was aching, breaking, and fit to burst. His proposal touched her profoundly.

  She would forever be grateful for this offer, even if she dared not accept it.

  She would always remember that this astonishing man had thought enough of her to propose, even if it was a passing impulse that he would later be grateful she refused.

  He took her hand in his. “Do you hesitate because of my reputation? I am sure Lady Mardenford filled your ears, and this night your eyes saw enough, too.”

  “No, it is not your reputation. Not entirely.” Not the way he meant, although that might matter if she could allow herself to consider his offer seriously.

  His thumb caressed the back of her hand, much as it had in the carriage the other day. He looked down at the slow strokes. “Is it because of him? Your old love? The obligations you said you feel to him?”

  She gritted her teeth, but tears blurred her sight anyway. “In part.” And obligations to you, Lyndale.

  She could not marry this man, even if he were sober and serious and had weighed this offer for a month, which he had not. She could not repay his kindness with betrayal. She could not allow him to face the compromise to his honor if it were discovered his wife was the source of those plates.

  He looked in her eyes, and she knew she would indeed have to say it. He would not retreat unless the words were spoken.

  “I am honored, sir. So honored you will never know. I cannot accept, however.”

  He paced away, his body tense with exasperation. He stood with his back to her and with his arms crossed during a terrible silence.

  Finally he turned to her, visibly angry. “I do not understand anything anymore. What is the world coming to when women do not want to marry earls?”

  “I am grieved if I have hurt you, but I have no choice.”

  “You are honored, but you say no. You are grieved, but you say no. It makes no sense.”

  “I say no in part because you really do not want to do this.”

  “You believe that you know my mind better than I do?”

  “You admit it was an impulse.”

  “Not an irrational one. I am decisive. Women are supposed to admire that in a man.”

  She had to smile. It felt good. So did the poignant warmth in her heart. The tears would come later, but they no longer threatened to pour out now.

  “You do not want to marry me, Lyndale. You only want to have me in bed. Since you could not have what you desired through seduction, you proposed. Maybe you thought I resisted you to encourage just such a development.”

  “Actually, that never entered my mind.”

  That was even more flattering than the proposal. She wished . . . well, it did not count what she wished. “When your desire passes, you will wonder why you acted so rashly.”

  His expression tightened. “I am not completely ruled by pleasure, woman. I am not made stupid by it.”

  “Can you deny it is desire that moves you?”

  “Why should I deny it?” He strode back to her and stuck his face down at hers. “Nor were your own desire and passion removed from the decision. I am of the mind that desire between a husband and wife is a good thing. God save me from a marriage with a woman who thinks joining her husband in bed is an indelicate duty. If I marry one of the acceptable, fresh, witless young beauties being thrown in my path, that is what I may get. Where is it written that I have to be bored with my wife?”

  “In a month, you would probably be as bored with me as with any woman. I doubt the enthusiasm that you expect of me would make a difference for long.”

  “So, it is my reputation that gives you cause to say no.”

  “I said it was, in part.”

  “Then give me the month and let us find out if my interest wanes, damn it. It is stupid of you to pass up a life of security on a guess.”

  She realized he had her in a very tight corner.

  She also realized she did not mind being there.

  If he had not softened her heart so much with this proposal, she might have found the strength to refuse once again. Only she did want him, badly, if only for a while. She could not deny that just standing here, so close, caused a thrilling liveliness in all her most sensitive places.

  One kiss from him, one touch, and she would be helpless.

  He just looked at her, waiting. His gaze and aura, his face and body, were seduction enough. She could not stop looking at him. An inescapable meeting of minds and desire occurred in their locked gazes.

  There were good reasons to refuse.

  She ceased caring about any reasons for anything except the ones making her tremble.

  “Not here. Not now, while I live under your roof. My sist
ers and I will find a house and move there, and once we are gone, I will—”

  “Yes, here. Yes, now. If you are willing, I’ll be damned if I am going to wait.”

  Decision burned in his eyes. He firmly pulled her close and kissed her.

  She offered no resistance. She met his hard kiss with an aggressive response and their small joining instantly became impatient and tempestuous.

  He loosened their clutching embrace, swept her up in his arms, and carried her into the bedroom.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  He had made love to her a hundred times in his imagination. In the most alluring fantasies the seduction had been slow and luscious and endless.

  As he carried her to the bed, he knew it would not be like that. Eventually he would live that dream, but not this time. Desire raged so dangerously it was all he could do not to rip off her gown and ram himself into her.

  She did nothing to calm matters. When he put her on the bed she rose to her knees and pulled him to her in a long, savage kiss.

  Somehow they removed the gown and petticoats and headdress. The sight of her kneeling on his bed in stays and chemise awed him. Proud and tall, she watched as he thrust the billowing garments away. Her disheveled hair, still bound but loosened, looked like that of a woman who had already been well pleasured. Her expression welcomed more. Demanded it.

  With a deliberation that hid the power ripping in him, he stood beside the bed and unlaced her stays. Her breaths shortened with every sly release. The garment finally fell away. Bold now, confident in her decision, she removed the chemise herself.

  She was incredibly beautiful. Her breasts rose high, their tips hard and tight. Her eyes glistened. Her lips parted, inviting more kisses and anticipating the delirium to come.

  He pushed her shoulders, and she fell back on the bed. As he stripped off her drawers and hose, she gazed into the canopy above.

  “Oh, my.” She moved so that she lay lengthwise on the bed, her shoulders propped on a mound of pillows. While he looked down at her naked body, she studied the canopy. “You really are bad, aren’t you?”