Lord of Sin

by Susan Krinard

Erskine glanced the way she had been looking. “May I escort you, Nuala?”

  She took his offered arm with a deliberation meant to defy Sinjin’s glare. When Erskine returned her to her chair, Sinjin had vanished.

  Her disappointment made no sense at all. She was glad to see him gone. When she looked for Deborah, she found the young woman standing at the landing, gazing down at the cavernous entrance hall.

  “Where is Mr. Melbyrne?” Nuala asked.

  Deborah glanced up, her usually open expression unreadable. “He has left,” she said, “along with Lord Donnington.”

  “Did the earl compel Mr. Melbyrne to leave?”

  “He…he respects Lord Donnington a great deal.”

  In other words, yes. Nuala could picture the scene all too clearly. She closed her eyes and silenced her almost violent thoughts. “Was he in any way discourteous to you?”

  “No. Not to me.”

  Of course not. He was a “gentleman,” at least where some women were concerned. He would have been coldly but quite properly polite as he wrenched the two young lovers apart. “I am sorry, Deborah. I could see that you were enjoying your time together.”

  When Lady Orwell didn’t answer, Nuala opened her eyes and searched the young, guileless face. “You will see him again,” she said, placing a comforting hand on Deborah’s arm. “The earl will not always be present to…inhibit your conversations with Mr. Melbyrne.”

  “Oh, but I…You must not think…” Deborah’s cheeks flamed, and she appeared genuinely distressed.

  “You need not hide your feelings from me, whatever they may be,” Nuala said.

  Deborah’s pretty mouth opened, but she thought better of whatever she had been about to say. “It is nearly time for supper,” she said at last, “but I am not hungry. Mightn’t we leave early?”

  “I should be glad to,” Deborah said, accepting the change of subject. She asked a footman to summon their carriage. She and Deborah took their leave of Lady Oxenham, with thanks for the lovely evening, and then set out for home.

  They were both too preoccupied to talk when they arrived. Deborah went up to her room. Nuala followed more slowly, considering everything she had observed that evening.

  There was no doubt that Donnington was a formidable opponent, but Deborah was a girl of considerable spirit despite her reticence. Had she been more conventional, she would never have insisted on accompanying Nuala and Frances to Whitechapel. And she would not have spent so much time talking with Melbyrne in a public venue. Surely she was capable of ignoring Lord Donnington’s disapproval where her heart was engaged.

  But she could not do it alone.

  Unable to quell her speculation, Nuala allowed Booth to undress her. But as she stood half-naked in her stays and drawers, her imagination was at pains to prevent any consideration of sleep.

  Curse the man. There, she could say the words without any fear that they might take real shape and form, could she not? She could rationally calculate how best to counteract his interference without breaking her promise to use magic she was not even certain she possessed.

  She rubbed at her bare arms while Booth slipped from the room to fetch a light supper. Nuala’s reflection in the mirror seemed to belong to some other woman: generously curved, full of bosom and hips, thick auburn hair falling to her waist. But her body had not really changed. Only her perception of it.

  It was as if she were seeing it through Sinjin’s eyes. Sinjin, here in this very room, gazing at her with naked lust, his strong hands ready to strip the remaining clothing from her body.

  Nuala laughed in chagrin. Patently ridiculous. Though she had not been able to help but notice that some men in Society did seem to admire her appearance, Sinjin did not, could not want her. Nor could she want a man like him, no matter how long it had been since she had experienced a man’s intimate touch.

  She felt a gush of wetness between her thighs, an ache of desire, treacherous sensations so overwhelming that she feared she might actually swoon. Until very recently—until she had come to London, in fact—she had nearly forgotten that her body had its own demands, too long neglected.

  Charles, of course, had been unable to engage in physical intimacies; when she had agreed to marry him, after months of living at his estate as his nurse, she had known there would be no sexual aspect to their union.

  Christian had been different. He had been a sensitive, gentle lover, generous with his own magical gifts, working alongside her for the brief time they had been married—so long before Donbridge, before Charles had come into her life. And he had been a truly good man, not like—

  She tried not to think at all as Booth relieved her of her corset and left her to put on her nightdress. But now that the floodgates had opened, it was impossible not to imagine what it might mean to become a woman again, in every sense.

  The bed creaked under her weight as she sat on the edge of the mattress. It wasn’t as if she had never experienced sexual pleasure since her marriage to Christian. There had been that one time, a century ago, when she had sought and given comfort, without guilt or regret, and known that Christian would not have disapproved.

  A century ago. That single encounter had seemed enough for so long. Close involvement with any man would have compromised her work, and so she had simply shut down that part of herself. Charles had certainly demanded nothing of her, had been quite unable to do so. She could have gone another century quite happily devoid of any sexual feelings whatsoever. But that was no longer possible.

  Nuala crawled under the sheets, returned Booth’s murmured good-night and drew the counterpane up to her chin. If her body’s arousal was becoming an annoying distraction, surely she could find a way to dispose of it. London society was certainly not devoid of opportunities to do so.

  True, she thought little of the Forties and their determination to use women as mere objects of pleasure; she might even look askance at those women, already possessed of husbands and children, who chose to ignore their vows of fidelity. But she was no prude. She had witnessed sexual congress in all its variations, and she knew that human nature could not always be constrained by law or custom.

  No…she had no rational objection to giving her body what it demanded, if such an act would permit her to think clearly again. The trick was to do so without emotional entanglements beyond those of mutual pleasure and goodwill. There were certainly decent men who didn’t share Sinjin’s contempt for women. Mr. Erskine, for one.

  Leo. A gentleman, frank and honest. Could he be interested in such a liaison? She had not thought so before, but if she were to make the approach…Would it ruin their new friendship? That was a prospect Nuala couldn’t bear to contemplate. And she simply could not think of him in that sense, even if he might find her desirable.

  That sense. Once again Sinjin leaped into her mind: the feel of his strong body pressed to hers, the grip of his hand, the heat of his dark gaze…

  She cast desperately about for another candidate. Lord Manwaring, who had seemed to enjoy her company so much at the ball? Would she shock him with such a proposal, and would he broadcast it about? She didn’t know him at all. And it was the same with every other man of her brief acquaintance she considered.

  The counterpane became uncomfortably warm. She shed it, only to become even more aware of the shape of her body beneath the thin lawn of her nightdress. The solution would come to her eventually, and until then she would simply have to bear with the discomfort. She had certainly endured much worse in the past.

  Nevertheless, her sleep was restless and her dreams, formless as they were upon her awakening, no little disturbing. She was up early, downstairs before Cook had done more than light the stove in preparation for breakfast.

  DEBORAH DIDN’T MAKE an appearance until breakfast was ready, and remained preoccupied after the usual exchange of pleasantries. Despite her desire to draw the girl out, Nuala kept her own council. She bent her mind to considering the day’s obligations: the social calls to be made,
consultation with Frances over the new scheme for Whitechapel, the engagement of skilled workmen to install modern plumbing in the upstairs lavatory.

  And if that didn’t keep her busy enough, she could shop in Regent Street, or ride in Hyde Park or indulge herself in any number of the frivolities necessary to maintain her position as Lord Charles would have wished.

  Deborah assured her that she had her own plans for the morning, and would see Nuala that evening at Lady Selfridge’s house. After the girl had left, Nuala asked Booth to help her dress in a modest morning gown and dashed out of the house with almost feverish eagerness.

  Nevertheless, when she returned from her errands, she did not feel in the least refreshed. In spite of her best intentions, resentment still seethed in her chest. Resentment against the man so bent on ruining Deborah’s chances out of his own selfish spite.

  How dare he. How dare he believe Nuala to be a liar. How dare he play these foolish games with the innocent hearts of others.

  She came to a halt halfway down the stairs. Did he think he could defeat her so easily? Did he actually believe that this petty revenge for what he perceived as her past sins would go unchallenged? Did he want a war?

  She gripped the banister. A war? Was that how low she had sunk?

  It is not about my feelings. It is not.

  A little dizzy, she continued into her study to read the morning mail. There were a few bills, and the usual invitations. But there was also a letter marked only with her direction. She opened it with an odd start of anticipation.

  My dear Lady Charles,

  Having become aware of your keen interest in the friendship of Mr. Melbyrne and Lady Orwell, I thought it prudent to inform you that Lord Donnington intends to keep young Melbyrne away from London as long as required to end any partiality he might hold for the lady.

  The note was not signed, but Nuala immediately guessed who might have sent it.

  Leo Erskine. Perceptive, observant, well aware of the earl’s scheming nature. Clearly he, in addition to proving himself a true friend, did not feel obliged to abet his other friend’s interference in a promising relationship between two good-hearted people.

  Then again, perhaps he only intended to suggest that Nuala warn Deborah away from any hopes of a lasting connection with Felix Melbyrne. But if that were the case, why tell Nuala at all? The boy’s extended absence would speak for itself.

  Nuala considered going to Leo for further details and decided against it. There was but one logical place Sinjin would go, a place he would scarcely expect Nuala to follow even were she inclined to pursue the matter.

  To Donbridge, of course. The very house where Nuala had brought Mariah and Ash together. Where she had seen her most devastating failure.

  She set the note down on her secretary and stood very still. He would get away with it. He would bet on her fear of confronting him where she would be forced to relive her mistakes.

  And she was afraid. The very idea of returning to Donbridge made her mouth go dry and her hands tremble. But she would not retreat, even knowing her resources to be more limited than at any other time of her life. She’d been a fool not to demand some concession from Sinjin when they’d struck their “bargain” at the garden party. Now Melbyrne had only the devil’s voice to persuade him of the proper course, without an angel to show him an alternative path.

  Nuala laughed at the idea that she was or ever had been an angel. But Sinjin was attempting to stop what was in essence an act of nature. In doing so, he was no better than she, with her magic and matchmaking.

  The fulfillment of Deborah’s love required no magic whatsoever. Only steadfast friendship, and a little courage. No less than the courage she had demanded from those she had guided through the centuries.

  She locked Erskine’s note in a drawer and sent immediately for Harold.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MRS. TISSIER SPARKLED UP at Melbyrne with the most delicious look in her eye, lifted her glass of champagne and saluted her new conquest.

  “To Mr. Felix Melbyrne,” she said, sipping the champagne with a coquettishness as unconvincing as a tiger’s smile. “Many happy returns of the day!”

  Everyone followed her lead, though Melbyrne’s answering salute was annoyingly halfhearted. By all the gods, Sinjin thought…the boy ought to be grateful for such a present on his twenty-third birthday. One of the loveliest courtesans in London had just been thrown in his lap, ready and willing, and he couldn’t even muster more than a polite interest, let alone healthy lust.

  Sinjin wasn’t the only one of the Forties who had noticed Felix’s inexplicable reticence. Achilles Nash regarded him with a satirical eye, Sir Harry Ferrer was sneering, Lord Peter Breakspear looked from the boy to Jennie with a raised brow and Lords Waybury and Reddick had been engaged in a low-voiced conversation almost since Mrs. Tissier’s “unexpected” arrival.

  Even Jennie was puzzled, though not yet put out. She turned her smile on Sinjin, rustled to the sideboard and asked him to refill her glass.

  “Are you quite certain the boy is up to this?” she asked in a low voice. “You assured me that he would be…eager to begin his education.”

  “He is,” Sinjin said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “This will be his first time, Jennie.”

  “Astonishing.” She twirled the stem of her glass in her fingers. “Such a personable young man, and he has never…” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Still, I do like the young ones. Their naive enthusiasm is so very gratifying.”

  “I have no doubt that he will prove most satisfactory.”

  “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t prefer to take his place?” Jennie purred, leaning into him so that her ample breasts filled the crook of his arm. “We did have such good times together.”

  “You will remember that I am otherwise engaged,” Sinjin said gruffly.

  “As if that ever stopped you!” She glanced back at Felix and raised her glass. “There has never been one like you, Sin. You fill a woman in a way she can’t forget. A night or two…and I wouldn’t ask for anything but your company.”

  Remarkably, in spite of the heat of Jennie’s body and the suggestive dart of her tongue between her rosy lips, Sinjin felt no stirring. His body was usually eager to respond to any offer of sex, or even the hint of a possibility, but it lay dormant now.

  It’s Adele I need. It had been too long, and he required…

  Bloody hell. He didn’t need a reminder of his manhood. It was Melbyrne who seemed to have forgotten he had parts other than a pair of mooncalf eyes.

  Parts. Breasts with nipples erect, round thighs parted, the moist pinkness of lips never meant for speech—

  Unaccountably and without warning, Sinjin’s cock began to swell. It had nothing to do with Jennie’s nearness, and everything to do with the dreams.

  The dreams that had only grown stronger since the night of the ball. The dreams of fire, and lust and hatred. They had come nearly every night, and in each one of them Nuala had appeared, naked and shameless, offering herself to him when he would have taken her in violence.

  And there was the voice. Disembodied, alien, urging him to vanquish the witch, to humiliate her, to destroy…

  I am going mad.

  “Sinjin?”

  Jennie’s voice was laced with concern, and he snapped out of the false memories, feeling the heaviness of the perspiration beaded on his forehead and the weight of his aching cock. He pushed Jennie away gently, but with a firmness she could not mistake.

  “You should return to Mr. Melbyrne, madam,” he said hoarsely, “and work your considerable charms on him.”

  Her gaze dropped to his trousers, and her eyes narrowed. “If you insist,” she said, mockery ringing in her words. She flounced away and took Felix’s arm, as rosy-cheeked and adoring as any debutante. Melbyrne flushed.

  “You may have pushed a little too hard this time, Sin,” Breakspear said in Sinjin’s ear. “The boy seems paralyzed. Jennie’s too experienced by half
for a lad of his…modesty.”

  Sinjin uttered a soft expletive, as much at himself as at the situation with Melbyrne. “He was perfectly fine until—” He broke off, but Breakspear was ahead of him.

  “Lady Orwell.” Breakspear chuckled. “From what I’ve been hearing, it appears that she is no more committed to the Widows’ creed than Melbyrne is to ours.”

  It was just as Sinjin had feared. The gossip mills were already hard at work speculating over the excessive time Felix and Lady Orwell had spent together at the ball. The damage would not easily be undone, but now that Melbyrne was away…

  “I’ve also heard it said that you and Lady Charles have been seen in company on more than one occasion.”

  “Lady Charles!” Sinjin turned his immediate scowl into a scornful smile. “I spoke with her at the dowager duchess’s garden party and danced with her at Lady Oxenham’s ball. It was no more than a matter of common courtesy. I have no liking for the woman, nor her for me.”

  “Such vehemence, Sin. One might almost think—”

  Hedley all but burst into the room, his air of dignity spoiled by the strands of gray hair askew on his head and the slight breathlessness with which he spoke.

  “My lord,” he said, hastily straightening his coat, “there is a caller at the door. I have attempted to detain her, but I fear…”

  A chill caught hold of Sinjin and shook him as a dog shakes a rat. “Who is it, Hedley?”

  The poor man had no chance to answer. Lady Charles Parkhill swept into the room, elegant in a deep green carriage dress and a smart velvet toque. She stopped just inside the doorway to the drawing room, glanced from face to startled face—lingering on an astonished Mrs. Tissier—and settled her stare on Sinjin. She performed a brief and very shallow curtsey.

  “Lord Donnington,” she said. “I pray you will forgive this intrusion. I had not realized you had company.”

  Sinjin was thunderstruck. His tongue refused to move. He saw her not as she was now, respectably and unremarkably dressed, but as she had been in the dream…naked, glistening with power, opening herself to him. Threatening to suck him down into her very depths. Lust and rage took hold of him again, and he spent the next minute battling it to a standstill.